#the bruise never really healed

[julie-loves-cake]

So I made some more for the rest of the cast

[sergle]

something that I'm excited for is that my surgeon seems to be something of a fucked up Freak, and his incisions / stitching is so clean that the early "after" photos already look healed as hell

[lostbabybunno]

Am I a masochist for enjoying the painful process of tattoo healing?

[valtsv]

self destruction really is such a fascinating human response to various factors both external and internal. what if sisyphus could leave at any time but kept rolling the boulder up the hill just to watch it roll back down anyway. what if he kept pushing it even as the rock cut into his palms and his legs began to ache with the desire to rest for even a moment and his body became a canvas of bruises and cuts that never have time to heal. what if he did it because it's the only thing he knows how to do. the only thing that gives him a sense of certainty and control in a world that takes both and offers neither.

[kiss-dumbbunnies]

sorry for using it without permission

[dawnwriterimagines]

The Guilty Plea

SIMON 'GHOST' RILEY x FEM!READER TASK FORCE 141 x FEM!READER

Traitors Among Us (Part 1) and Innocents Among You (Part 2)

Verdict Due (Part 4) Clear Skies (Part 5)

Summary: As you're discharged from the infirmary, under watchful eye, you head to Laswell to talk on the rest of your now ruined military career. Of course, you're forced to confront your team as it happens, the last people on earth you'd like to see.

If you liked this would you Buy me a Coffee?

---

Running your fingers along the raised, pink scar across you cheek, the feeling of it...it really looked terrible. A part of you thought it would disappear, hoped it would, but it didn't. It just became severely more noticeable. Looking at this, you knew you'd always have to think of it. You'd sport this reminder for the rest of your life.

Looking away from it, you find your own tired eyes in the mirror, you haven't been sleeping well. Or at all. You can't remember the last time you got 4 hours, let alone 8. Dark circles still surrounded them but at least the bruising and the swelling had gone down.

You couldn't recognize yourself. Not really.

This woman looked so exhausted, so frail and so goddamn angry. It was accurate, it was how you felt. All of it. So, you supposed that the mirror's reflection was the truth, this was you indeed.

"If you need another day or two, no one will ask questions."

You glance over towards your psychologist, your fucking therapist, a nice little 'gift' sent over by the bureau to check in on your mental state after your ordeal. Glaring at him through the reflection of your mirror, he sighs, putting down his pen that slaps against his notepad, "I can't help you if you don't talk to me."

"I'm going to Laswell." Ignoring his statement, you speak. "I'm ready. I'll pack up. Get back to base. Vera had me discharged from the infirmary. I can start ov--"

"Vera?"

"My nurse. You met her," you continued, annoyance spiking at the interruption. Your wrist brace squeaking quietly under the pressure of your fist tightening beneath the table.

"Right..."

"Do you listen to a word I say outside of...my 'trauma'?" You wonder, bluntly.

Your psychologist blinks, surprised, before clearing his throat, appalled. "If you feel I can be more attentive to your state of well-being throughout our process, than by all means--"

"Oh, so 'no'?" you lean back into your seat, a strained laugh leaving you. His lips press together and you continue before he can find the words. "Because whenever I mention leaving this fucking team, you either adjust our schedule for another two weeks or suggest hypnotic therapy, as if I need anyone else digging around to fuck up my mental state."

"I never meant to imply--"

"Oh, you implied it," you interrupted, gritting your teeth. "I know what I want. And I want off Task Force 141."

He taps at the leather of his notebook. "Scars heal, just remember that, Ms. (L/n). The reminders of your experience shouldn't have to haunt you."

"It's not the scars, I've had my share way before this," you admitted, rising to your feet. You exhale deeply that tells to the effort of it, the steel gear hinges along your leg braces shift with your change of position. Still getting use to them. "It's the person."

"Has she changed, you think?" the psychologist begins to write, getting somewhere.

"She doesn't exist anymore."

Finally, placing the mirror down and onto the side table, you pushed off of the table, rolling your IV pole along with you. Passing the chair your psychologist sits on, he closes his notebook with a frustrated huff, looking over his shoulder. "Session over for you already, Ms. (L/n)?" he sighs. "We've still got the hour."

"I'm done," you take the knob in your hand. Turning.

In more ways than one.

"You understand that, informing your captain on your leave is required of you. Have you spoken to any of them, in the last few weeks?" he spoke up, quickly. "I'm sure giving them a space to open up, share from their view--"

"Why should I care--"

"--will give you better understanding, better clarity of the situation they were in--

Appalled. "What the fuck?" Jamming the door closed with a loud, shuttering thud, you whip around. "IT'S NOT ABOUT THEM!" you could just rip your hair out. "Who--who says that to someone?!"

Your psychologist sits there, eyes wide in confusion. "What--"

"Christ, can you hear me? Can you--can you see me? I've got metal plates in my spine, braces holding my knees in place and nerve damage that'll never heal! Who gives a fuck about them!" your skin feels red hot, your face twisted in rage. "I gave my life! My life to this! And then I'm tortured, I'm threatened, drugged and beaten by my own team, my f--my family for eight fucking years..."

You continue with a heavy chest. "And I'm supposed to invite them for dinner to talk and listen them bitch and moan about why they thought it was necessary to beat me to death for two weeks?! Fuck you!" you spat. "I don't owe them anything!"

"That's not what I was trying to say, Ms. (L/N). I apologize, I overstepped. Come sit down--"

"Of course you meant it," you interrupted, mock humor. "Don't be a pussy, own up to it. Revel in your truth. Be tter yet--" you snatch a journal from the cabinet. Tossing it his way. "Make a note of it."

Turning the knob, you leave the room with a slam of the metal door.

---

You were officially famous. On the base, you were now a legend.

A story that would be mentioned and told at lunch for months. Probably years.

First, you were a rat. Next, you were innocent. This was the most gossip any of those in service had ever seen in their years of service.

An interesting reminder to those in service that you weren't safe off duty either.

You learned a few days ago that there was an update put into the interrogational unit, something about how to properly go about dissecting evidence and being on the lookout for enemy spies in the militia.

You guessed you had been told about it in an effort to be appeased by the thought that the head of control paid attention to anything beyond their own noses for once. But, you had little to no faith in a system that's nearly killed you on and off the field by now, so it didn't matter.

You doubted the new rules would be followed though, there was a plethora of things they'd done to you in that cell that were both illegal and unsanctioned. Most of all, that were expected towards an enemy, a prisoner of war at best, and not a fellow marine.

You arrive at the housing quarters, swiping your key card, pulling the handle and entering the wing. Immediately, you're greeted by a dozen eyes, conversations stopping short and clothes ruffling to silence, suddenly whispers fill the space and eyes turn away.

"Oh, god, it's her..." says one man in the far corner.

"Shut the fuck up, man!" came a harsh whisper back.

"I didn't know it was that bad..."

All those eyes on you, makes you pause in your step, looking around at all of your fellow soldiers, the men and women you've served with for years. Many you recognized, ate with, fought beside that turned their backs to you now. Out of respect? Out of distaste, morale, nerves, pity, it all didn't matter. It all felt the same.

The wheels attached to your IV pole suddenly sounded much too loud on the polished flooring, as you walked down the hall as fast as you were able to.

Breathing out deeply, you get to an elevator, pushing on the button, once, twice, three times, just open goddamn it.

With a ding, the metal doors open, and suddenly you're aware that people could be in the elevator, they could be in this elevator, he could be in this elevator. Your eyes flicker down to the floor, your grip on the pole of your iv tightens, your shoulders stiffen, waiting for a blow that will never come.

You stand there as the doors open up, the small space empty, the metal walls reflect only her and a streak of lighting from the ceiling.

Looking up slowly, finally taking a breath, before sliding the iv up and onto the elevator, following it as you press your floor number along the way.

The ride up is fast, a little rumble as it stops, and then the doors open. Faster than you were prepared for.

Peeking out down the hallway, luckily no one to bump into, which you were thankful for. But, it didn't make this hall any less haunting. You'd been cornered in this same hall, you could recall being hauled out of the room after the solid handle of a knife hits your temple.

You don't go down fast enough, whipping around as you stumble to take the wrist of your attacker, mostly for balance, it's Price. In shock, you're unprepared as Johnny's arm encircle your neck, locking you into position as you both stumble backwards onto the floor. He blocks your airways, hushing you harshly as you struggle, feet kicking out and your vision blurring as your team surrounds you. Your family.

That was quite the headache to wakeup with afterwards.

You hadn't quite remembered until now. Being back served as a hell of a kickstart to your memory.

Just a few more reasons to get the fuck off of 141.

Getting off the elevators, the metal doors sliding closed behind you, you make your way down the hall. The polished flooring creates a subtle squeak through the wheels of your iv pole, your hand absently running over the fading stitches along your side.

Passing the shadows of your tortured memory, the doorway of the office was closed, locked.

You pass Kyle's room.

Johnny's.

Finally, you rush up to the next room on the left, grabbing the handle, before beginning to twist, but then you're yanking your hand back as if the metal had burned you. Your back ramming into the back wall, catching yourself, this wasn't your room.

It was Simon's.

You'd spent hours, days, in that room. More than your own.

Why wouldn't you? You were about to get married to the man. You had more in this room than you had in yours.

Sharp breaths leave you, shivering in your effort to keep yourself together, your head goes back into the wall, swallowing down the ache in your chest.

You wait, muscles tensed and your body pressing back into the wall, hoping it'd absorb you if that door opens. Listening for every sound, any pin drop, even an exhale from beyond that doorway. Luckily, Simon seemed to be out for the day.

Hurriedly, nearly running, you steady yourself against the wall as you rush down to the corner of the hallway, finally finding your room.

Turning the handle, it's not locked, it's broken. It opens with ease.

Entering the room slowly, pushing the doorway aside, the crackle of glass beneath your boots as you step forwards, clothes and picture frames laying scattered.

The mattress flipped and ripped open, springs and cotton cut from it. Your wall of metals and certificates, from acts of bravery and mementos of valor, discarded, later you'd find them in the trash, one with a bullet lodged into the gold.

Sniffling as you leaned down, picking a specific frame off the ground, the only one that hadn't been broken. Laying along the ruined rug, with no care for the glass digging through your jeans, you stare at the still shot of your family.

The only family you had outside of Task Force 141, your father and his sister, military brats themselves, until their retirement. Your mother had passed, or just up and left, days after your 5th birthday, you weren't completely sure, the story kept changing every year. But, these two were the only family you've ever known, ever had, until you joined the military, following in their footsteps.

They'd been so proud when you arrived back after your first assignment, in truth you were heavily traumatized, but seeing them, you just had to smile. Having a family that understood the harsh toll on the line of a trooper, now a lieutenant, it was always easier to bring your troubles to them. But, they were also military nuts so "suck it up" was also a quick go to answer from your aunt, while your father was the smoother talker.

They had met Simon, loved him, his rank, his love for you, his seriousness. They trusted him completely with your heart.

So, when he called them, after the evidence leaked...

They believed him.

"What're you talking about?" You took the handle of the chair in your grip, easing you down into it as your legs do weak at what you were hearing. "I didn't...I didn't do it, Dad."

"Do you know how humiliating and disappointing--how it felt to hear him say that to me, hm?" he says, static crackles on the reciever. "My daughter...my own flesh and blood...working with terrorists--"

"I'm not working with anyone! Are you-" you huff out a breath of disbelief. "Are you even listening to me? I've never betrayed the code. How can you think that way of me?"

For a moment, he's silent. "Alright, then," he began. "Than, what'd you do? huh?"

"What--what..."

"Oh, come on, (Y/n)!" your father yells. "What did you do?! What could they possibly have had on you that made you the most likely target? You had to have had done something, been somewhere, were with somebody you weren't supposed to be with! They didn't just get that information from anywhere."

"What the fuck--" Your expression twists with frustration and misery, running your hand through your hair, pulling at it. "I've sacrificed every part of myself for this job, for this team, what do I have to gain from throwing that all away? They send me everywhere, places you've never heard of, places you'll never hear about and people you'll never have to meet, because of me! Why would you just believe Simon? Why couldn't you just wait to talk to me?!"

Hearing your father scoff at your words was painful. "What reason do I have not to believe him? He knows you, maybe even better than any of us. Besides, he was going to be my son in law--"

"I'm your daughter! Fuck Simon, what about me? You'd believe him instead?"

He sighs. "Listen, you're upsetting Cass. We didn't expect your call. I gotta make this brief..."

"You're upset?" pulling at your hair, sucking in sharply. "I'm the one who's permanently fucking altered here. What do either of you have to be upset about?!"

"Watch your fucking mouth!" he seethes. The anger in his voice isn't new, but the way he spits it at you is. "You did this to yourself, I didn't. Maybe that's what your nightmares were about, am I right? Your guilt?"

Wiping the streaks of tears that had fallen down your face, lips quivering and chest aching with sobs you frustratedly shoved down. "Why don't you believe me?"

"I don't deserve the disgrace that will come with you as my kin, I've lived my part of this war. No daughter of mine should even be in this fucking position," your father spat, disgusted into the receiver. Suddenly, he was the cruel, bitter old man your mother had always known him to be, you wished she had stayed to at least remind you of that. Maybe it wouldn't have hurt as much. "You should be ashamed of yourself, but at least you got yourself out it. The least you could do for us."

"Well--what does that mean?" you spoke, quietly.

"Don't call again..."

"Dad, no--" you break this time, a sob escaping you.

"Me and your Aunt Cass..."

"Daddy please, don't do this--"

"..We've decided to cut ties. We're not taking any heat from this, you're on your own," he finishes, clearing his throat, waiting a moment, listening to the pleads and cries of his only daughter, his once pride. "You take care of yourself. Goodbye, kid."

"Why can't you just believe me? Why?!" you cried.

"Don't come to the house."

"No, no,--" the line goes dead. And staring down at your phone, his caller id going blank and the call disconnecting.

Your phone all of a sudden feels heavy, the device and your hand falling down to your thigh, before the phone slips out of your grip and onto the floor. You sit there silently, until your tears drop up and even after.

Staring at the photo now was haunting in its own way, it was just another painful reminder.

Using the bed frame to stand to your feet, your grip on the frame is painful as you squeeze it, the glass cracks audibly.

"Bonnie..."

Whipping around at the sound of John MacTavish's voice, you back up a few steps at the sight of him, your back hitting the edge of your desk.

He reaches out as you stumble, before his fingers curl back into his palm as you find your balance, his hands receding back to his sides. He doesn't enter the room, just lingering just beyond the doorway, his eyes flickering around the room, guiltily.

"I didn't know--we didn't know you were out," he speaks quietly, as opposed prideful personality that translated into his voice usually.

You say nothing.

In the dark, your eyes are wide and your shoulders are tensed up, he can see the glint of your leg braces, the iv pole at the side, the scar beneath your eye. You looked terrified to see him.

"We were coming back to clean up today, just got back from...from a mission..." he stutters on his words, shifting his feet.

"It's been a week."

His lips press together hearing your voice. "I know..." Johnny glances around at the room he'd let those officers destroy, it hadn't been them, but they might as well had done it. "I know...we just...didn't know it was so bad."

"Really?" your voice is mockingly sweet, drawing out the word. "You didn't know? Well look..." you hold up your family photo, the light in the hallway catching on the glass. "You missed one."

Your hand dropping, the heavy frame comes down just as fast, ramming into the ground, the glass practically exploding on impact.

Johnny flinches, the photo of your family...He looks back to you, surprised. "Bonnie..."

Snatching the next closest thing from your desk, a ceramic cup. "Oh, wow, can't believe you guys missed this one," you chuck it into the wall. It breaks on impact, the remains scatter along the flipped mattress and onto the floor. "That used to be my favorite mug by the way."

The Scotsman worriedly steps forwards, 'Lass, I'm sorry--"

"FUCK YOU!" you spat, coming into the light. You're sure you look deranged, and you didn't care. You could've wrapped your hands around his throat, killed him right on the floor and you wouldn't have blinked. "It doesn't mean anything! 'I'm sorry', 'I'm sorry', 'I'm sorry', over and over and over again! As if you shouldn't be! Your apologies mean fuck all."

"I know...I know," he breathes. "But, I've gotta say it anyway, bonnie. I should've believed you, there was no reason not to. I know that now. I just--"

"Believe me!" you cut him off with a yell. "Trust me! Fucking 'HELP ME'!" you screamed with the same fever as your days in the interrogation room, that terrible cell, the cold, the burn and pain. "I cried it all to you, to all of you, and nobody came. Nobody came for me," you breathe in sharply. "It doesn't matter what you should've done. You didn't do it!"

Johnny's eyes are red, he opens his mouth, closes it and then swallows down whatever chokes him up as he looks at you. "I should've came for you. I wish I did. I wanted to, Bonnie..." he steps forwards, and you recede back away from him, your eyes narrowed with violence. "I'll never forgive myself for not listening to you. For not coming to help you. For laying a hand on you. I'm so sorry, (Y/n). I'm sorry..."

I'll never forgive myself... "That makes two of us," you assured.

Johnny's eyes widen, before they close, his guilt ever consuming. He can't help but understand, to respect your decision, to know things can never be ok again. "(Y/n)...."

Grabbing hold of the nearest thing, a pencil cup, you hurl it at Johnny. He doesn't put his hands up, flinching as it hits him, the metal clinking against his kevlar, eyes closing then opening, he stands still. "I don't forgive. I don't accept your apology. I don't fucking care about it!" with each sentence you throw something else his way, a broken frame, the trash bin, a pillow, the CD player.

His hand has to come up for the knife you unsheathe, a memento from one of your missions, it's rusted, ancient probably. But, you hadn't given it up to a museum or to pawn, you had nearly died on this mission, saving Johnny ironically. You had to keep it.

Seeing the weapon, his defensive position is instinctive but his hands drop just as fast, he understands, you need this. You deserve this. "If you need to..." he speaks. Your eyes flicker up to him, away from the knife. "If you need to, I get it..."

And you need to. You really fucking do.

Your grip on the knife is dangerously hard, it hurts.

Looking at Johnny, he'd been your brother in more than a few ways on and off the field, he had been your comfort, your friend, your family. You had bled with him, held onto him as he carried you from the battlefield, joked, laughed, screamed and cried. You've loved him for years.

He'd had a rough few nights you could see that. He was quieter, reserved. Almost as terrified to see you, as you had been of him.

And you could kill him right now and never bat an eye.

And so, throwing that knife was so fucking easy.

Johnny's eyes close as you do just that, fists clenching and teeth biting down on his tongue to prepare for the pain.

The ancient weapon whiz's through the air, the sound is sharp and he knows it will cut through him like butter.

The thud rings in the room, and Johnny's eyes blow open wide, holding his breath as he collapses to his knees, before turning to you.

You dig into the pile of clothes that had been cast aside, a pair of sneakers and a new shirt. You don't look at him a single time as you take it all, stuffing them in a bag, and leaving the room, passing him completely, a limp in your step.

Johnny releases a pained breath, tears finally leaving him as he looks up, the knife lodged into the frame of the doorway, just barely missing him. The sleeve of his uniform ripped open.

He sits there in the quiet, destroyed room. A testimony to the relationship he's destroyed between you.

Part 4!! OUT NOW

[ruruumin]

“ah, you got into another fight? really, rin?” carefully wiping the blood from his nose, you shake your head in disappointment, “you can’t be doing this. it’s a bad habit.” 

this invokes a scoff from him, “shit for brains had it coming though.” was shit for brains a new nickname for shidou? this man never ceases to impress you with his genius. 

sighing, you pat the side of rin’s cheek with a cotton swab, soaking up the rest of the blood. you suppose it was wishful thinking that the two of them could get along just for one game. you had even asked him to play nicely this time around. shidou was kind enough to at least reassure you that he won’t do anything (unless a certain someone makes the first move), but trying to convince rin was like talking to a rock sometimes. 

every time the ball flies out of someones foot, these guys are the first to scramble for it. it’s definitely a dog-eat-dog world out there. 

“what are you going to do when he cracks your nose and it heals sideways? you’ll lose your pretty looks.” 

“so what? i’ll still be able to play football.” 

“yeah well your lover over here sure doesn’t appreciate you coming home with a busted nose and bruised forehead.” flicking the top of his head, he roll his eyes, your words going in one ear and out the other rather quickly, “if you come home from another fight looking this bad, you’ll end up sleeping on the couch until your face heals.”

“…and don’t even ask for kisses.” 

now that catches his attention.

the next time he comes home, his face certainly wasn’t bruised but his knuckles have long turned purple and blue. it seems like he took your threat quite seriously. promising not to kiss him was definitely the final straw that broke the camel’s back for him. he adores any sort of attention he can get from you and would rather die than have shidou out of all people take that away from him. even if he is the one at fault for starting majority of the fights.

[princessbellecerise]

You Kiss Their Scars

Summary ✩ How your lover reacts to you kissing their scars

Warnings ✩ Mentions of violence and blood

Jacaerys Velaryon

You were amused as your lips pressed against the teeth shaped scars, in the shape of tiny little bite marks that Jace explained were from Vermax

“He used to bite me plenty when we shared a crib,” Your husband told you. “He was a nasty little thing. Mother was afraid he’d take a chunk out of my arm—but he never did. He stopped doing it when I bit him back,” He revealed

You giggled as you imagined baby Jace and baby Vermax—both the same size at one point—going at it while Rhaenyra tried to separate them. “So I suppose you’ve both always been temperamental then,” You said

It was no surprise that your husband, who also had quite the temper, related so much to his dragon. The two were one of the same, and you guessed that’s why they got along so well

“Yes,” Jacaerys agreed, a fond smile on his face as he recalled the memories. “We were quite a menacing pair indeed.”

Aegon Targaryen

“She did it again,” Is the only thing Aegon had to tell you in order for you to pull him into your arms, kissing the spot where a nasty red bruise was forming

It was no secret that your husband and his mother did not get along, but never did you think that she would have the audacity to strike him after an argument

It was appalling to you every time it happened, and you wanted nothing more than to march towards her and give the same treatment, Queen be damned

It wasn’t fair that she took out her anger out on Aegon but he begged you, no pleaded with you to not do anything

“It won’t do any good,” He’d tell you sadly, and your heart would ache as you saw the brokenness, the sadness on his face. “She’ll just hate me even more if you act.”

Aemond Targaryen

“Hold still.”

You jutted your tounge out in concentration as you cleaned Aemond’s scar, making sure that it was sanitized properly for the day

Your husband trusting you with such a thing was an act of love itself. The fact that he trusted you to see his deepest insecurity meant alot to you, and all you could do to repay him and hopefully bring up his spirits was pepper light kisses on the skin surrounding it

“There, all done.”

“Thank you, my love,” Aemond smiled slightly as he touched the spots were your lips touched, still wondering how he got so lucky as to find someone like you

Cregan Stark

“Ow! Be gentle, woman,” Cregan said playfully, wincing as you brushed over his ‘scar’ with a wet cloth

Somehow, for some reason, your dear husband thought it would be funny to wrestle with his dire wolf and then he had the nerve to come crawling to you, asking you to patch up his wounds after the beast had bitten him

Of course, it wasn’t really that big of a deal and Cregan wasn’t really hurt, but you still smirked as you pressed a kiss to it like it was a real wound

“There. That should ease some of the pain, you big baby,” You teased, rolling your eyes

Cregan chuckled as he checked your work, looking at the bandage you had placed over some ointment

“What do you suppose it’ll look like when it heals?” He asked you seriously

“It’ll look like you simply have a freckle, Creagn,” You responded sarcastically, and then you giggled as he grabbed your waist and pulled you onto his lap

“Don’t make fun me, wife. You should be proud,” He said, flexing the arm where the bite was. “How many men do you know have taken on such a beast and lived to tell the tale?”

“Only you, husband. Only you.” You snorted at his dramatics, wondering just what you were going to do with your silly, drama queen of a husband

Benjicot Blackwood

There was reason they called your husband ‘Bloody Ben’

You found this out when one day, he came limping home after solving a conflict in the Riverlands, covered in wounds and blood—so much blood

Thankfully, most of it wasn’t his but Benji still did have a few wounds that needed looking after

The Maester was busy, having been sent by your husband to tend to the other men, so you got the pleasure of dragging him to your chambers, making sure that he was clean before you began to stitch him up

The entire time you worked, Benji barely even flinched which amazed you

By the time that you were done with his top half, he’d barely said a word or complained which led to you kissing over a few of his stitches as a reward

“What was that for?” He asked in wonder, a small blush on his cheeks while you grinned

“That, my love, is for being such a good patient,” You told him cheekily, and you did not expect what Benji did next

Standing up, he loosened his trousers and then he grinned as he pointed at the area beneath his small clothes

“Well in that case, I’ll need plenty of kisses here, too. No promises that I won’t move if you touch me there though.”

“Benji!”

[flangore]

❥ scarlet plumes

feat.: Valentino/f!reader

warnings: nsfw content, noncon, physical + psychological abuse, unhealthy relationships, violence, drugging, rough sex, choking, punishments, manipulation, Valentino is his own warning

You were not the type to get into trouble.

Being confrontational, at least attempting to have things go your way through protests and complaints, had never seemed worth it; not when the one you were up against was Valentino, who always got what he wanted in the end, one way or another.

All too often, you had seen the way he punished disobedient whores; all too often, you had watched the way they were still limping days after, bruises blooming on skin if they had been lucky, bullet wounds trying to heal, oozing blood, if they had been less so.

There was no reason to willingly go through the struggle of disobeying when simply giving in, caving to Val's wishes and orders, was so much easier.

When Valentino told you to bend over, you did so readily, spreading your thighs apart in offering; when Valentino ordered you down onto your knees, you went obediently, lips dropping open, praying he wasn't in a bad mood, unpredictable as his sudden bursts of anger often made him.

You were not the type to get into trouble, and yet you currently found yourself on the floor, crumpled in front of Valentino's boots, cheek warm and stinging.

“Now, why don't you tell me what happened, baby?” His tone was a low coo, almost gentle enough to soothe your sobs. “You've never acted out like this before. What happened to my well-behaved girl, hm?”

In your defense, it really hadn't been your fault — you hadn't meant to do it.

Your night shift had been supposed to be a simple session for a well-known client, consisting of some lap dancing and a blow job; that was what he had paid for, at least. Your surprise when he had begun ripping your skimpy panties off you, forcing your legs apart, hands greedy, mouth drooling, high on some drug, was therefore understandable in your eyes; as was the way you, in your shock, had lashed out, claws scratching at his chest in order to push him off you. A split second later, the side of your face had ached with pain, his flat palm having met your cheek before he had stormed out of the room, screaming and spitting.

Valentino had been with you after barely any time at all.

“I didn't—”, you choked out, voice trembling, “I didn't mean to do it, sir, I swear, he just startled me, and, I mean, he didn't pay for more, he wanted to —, he wanted to—”

One hand of his cupped your cheek, golden claw gently tracing over your jaw. Even with him crouched down in front of you, he seemed ridiculously tall. “Hey—, relax, sweetheart.” At an exhale, red smoke coiled around you, assaulting your senses. Instinctively, your raised shoulders fell as tension bled from your muscles. “I get it. I understand.”

With how utterly merciless Valentino was known to be, it took a few moments for you to actually understand the meaning of his words. Even then, you barely dared to let go of the dreadful fear curled in your stomach. “You do?”

“Of course I do”, he said, eyes half-lidded behind heart-shaped glasses. His voice was soft enough to cause more tears, now of relief, to drip down your cheeks. “You know, I was really surprised when that patron came up to me, demanding to have you fired, if not killed for your disobedience. You're usually such an obedient girl — I was wondering what actually happened. Good job for being honest with me.”

Hope bloomed in your chest, your eyes widening. Streaks of mascara and eyeshadow, black and colourful, ran down your wet cheeks. “So you're not upset with me?”

“Upset with you? Of course not, amorcito. You were scared, that's alright. It happens, yeah?”

“Yeah.” Your breath hitched in a stifled sob, lips, the gloss now smudged, curling up into a pitiful mockery of a smile. “Yeah. Thank you, Val.”

This could have gone much worse. Your hands were still shaking, anxiety thrumming underneath your skin, and yet Valentino didn't even seem particularly upset. Some higher being — whether that was Lucifer or God, you didn't really care — must have blessed you, somehow.

“Of course, baby.” The moment Valentino stood once more, he towered over you, his shadow swallowing you up. “Now, follow me, yeah?”

Your legs struggled to support your weight, knees feeling weak as you trailed behind him through corridors you didn't recognise. Your steps were unsure, the heels, ridiculously high, only adding to your troubles. You have half a mind to stop yourself from asking where you're going.

It's entirely unnecessary, either way.

You arrive but a moment later, the noise of a heavy door falling shut causing you to flinch; where Valentino was in front of you just a second ago, he was now behind you, a looming presence at your back.

It was a studio; not the fancy kind actual stars like Angel Dust filmed in, but a smaller one, the light bulb flickering, the sheets on the bed stained. Voxtech cameras were pointed at the mattress.

“Val—?”

“Bend over, baby.”

“You said you're not angry with me.” The words tumbled out of your mouth without your permission, a panicked high-pitched tone. “You said you're not—”

“And I'm not, as long as you hurry the fuck up and do what I tell you to.” His voice was sharp. Instinctively, you obeyed, bending over the edge of the bed, nausea churning in your stomach. “See, that guy you were a bitch to was a regular. Good money. I gotta show him you're sorry, sweetheart. You understand that, right?”

For a moment, you didn't get a word out, throat tight as tears spilled past your lashes. Eventually, you managed a shaky; “Yes, Valentino.”

“There we go. Knew you'd get why I have to do this.”

Large hands settled on your thighs, the touch making you flinch; his claws, all too sharp, teased at your skin, leaving faint scratch marks, before they prodded at your folds.

This, by now, should have been routine. It was; and yet, the idea of this being a punishment had you tensing, muscles locking up while Valentino thrust one claw into you, only to grunt, irritated.

“Ungrateful bitch”, he spat, one hand settling on your lower back, pinning you to the bed while another fumbled with his belt, metal clinking. “That's what I get for tryin' to be nice and preparing you — tightest cunt I've ever seen. Loosen the fuck up or deal with it.”

“I'm sorry.” Your voice shook, though the threat of violence, of pain, didn't help with relaxing in the slightest. Instead, you instinctively clenched around the digit, only to whimper when he yanked it back out.

“Sure doesn't seem like it.”

The fat head of his cock, pierced, the metal cold, pressed against you, then pushed inside; you were unable to stop yourself from letting out a pitiful noise, sounding more like a wounded animal than a practiced porn star.

Valentino didn't seem to mind it one bit.

Your vision blackened out for a moment when he bottomed out inside of you, the pain agonising. For a moment, you were certain he was tearing you from the inside out. His hips slapped against your plush ones, building up a steady rhythm; one set of his hands grabbed onto your hips, claws digging into your skin, using his grip for leverage to pull you back against him

“Some wetness would help us out here, y'know”, Valentino mumbled, complaining, bitching, like this was your fault. It probably was.

The only response you were able to come up with was a choked out sob, a dull ache steadily present in your abdomen, only interrupted by sharp stabbing pain whenever Valentino's tip hit an impossibly deep spot inside of you.

This couldn't have possibly gotten worse — or so you thought, tears dripping down your face, your claws ripping the sheets as you scrambled for purchase, only for it to get so much more agonising when, all of a sudden, his hand closed around your throat, squeezing.

You weren't able to breathe.

Instinctively, you clenched around him, thighs shaking. If he wasn't still holding you up, you would have collapsed.

“Fuck, you're so damn tight.” Valentino groaned, low and raspy. His tongue lapped at your neck, leaving trails of pink saliva to drip down your shoulders, your chest. “We could've had such a pleasant time together, baby, if only you hadn't been such a disobedient slut. Hate that you're making me do this.”

His pace was unforgiving, the metal of his belt buckle hitting your hip with every other thrust, surely leaving bruises. Not that it mattered — Valentino did provide you with full coverage makeup, after all.

Out of the corner of your eye, you focused on the red dots of the many cameras, blinking, recording. By now, numbness spread through you, a small blessing. You weren't certain just how long it went on; only that, eventually, Valentino came with a groan, filling you up, making you whimper.

When his grip on your throat loosened for a split second, allowing you to suck a burning breath into your lungs, it felt like Heaven.

“Use your words, baby. Talk to me.”

“Val, 'm sorry—”

“Yeah?”

“I'm sorry”, you repeated, the words barely audible through sobs, “I'm sorry, Val, I'm sorry—”

Suddenly, his hand, still on your throat, yanked your head up, his lips clashing against yours; the very moment you opened your mouth, pliant with submission, with exhaustion, smoke flooded it, you choking on it.

Your mind felt muddled, mouth dry even as saliva trickled out of your lips, jaw slack.

Faintly, you were able to feel his cum drip out of your cunt and down your thighs, sticky.

“Now”, Valentino said, voice a sultry purr, “Why don't you wait here, I'll send you your client and you apologise properly to him?”

Mind filled with scarlet plumes, you barely knew what you were agreeing to, nodding mindlessly. “Yes, Valentino.”

“That's what I like to hear. Good girl.”

When multiple pairs of footsteps echoed through the room, you, even in your hazy state, had the bad feeling that you were going to be having a long night.

i won't lie i didn't proofread this yet.. tomorrow... ALSO FIRST POST YIPPEEE

[hadersversion]

having really impure thoughts about old man! logan.

his healing abilities aren’t the same as they used to be. he bleeds, he bruises, he scars. he’s slowly becoming human. at first, he was scared and felt weak. but then he realized, it’s what he wanted. but somedays, it was a tough pill to swallow.

until, he was fucking you in missionary. his favorite position because he gets to stare at your beautiful face! and he loves to see it when he makes you cum… sure, he’s not as agile and rough as he used to be. but he’s still james logan howlett and he fucks like an animal. he was fucking you so hard into the mattress, practically leaving an indent of your body on your shared bed. your hands were resting on his hairy, puffed chest. until he hit your g spot. your eyes rolled into the back of your head and your hands made claws, finger nails digging deep into his chest. he let out a deep hiss, causing you to look up in worry. he stops his pace.

“a-are you okay?” you say, your breathe panting. you quickly move your hands down.

logan looks down at himself and sees the fresh marks on his chest, oozing a bit of blood. he’s bleeding. you made him bleed. you marked him. he loved doing it to you, having you show off who got to make you cum all the time. who you basically belonged to.

but this? this was different.

something dark came over his eyes as he slowly looked up at you. “do it again.”

“w-what?” you say in a giggle.

“you heard me, kid. fucking mark me up. show me how good i make you feel.” he grunts, drilling back into you like it was his job.

his wish was your command. you fucking marked his whole body. you scratched him, you sucked his skin until he bruised, you even bit his shoulder. sure, you probably should’ve taken it down a notch. but with logan in your ear, praising you and begging you to keep doing it. rewarding you with the pleasure only he could give you. who were you to stop?

you laid on his chest once you two were done. “are you sure you’re okay? you look like a wild animal attacked you.” you kissed his battle wounds you gave him.

“princess, if i wanted you to stop, i wouldn’t be bleeding right now.” he kissed your forehead, rubbing his hand across your bare back. “i liked it. this…this has never happened to me before.”

“i guess somethings do come with old age.” you joke.

“you’re such an ass.” he playfully but your ear.

“hey! keep talking like that and i’ll make sure every inch of you is marked.”

“is that a promise?”

oh, it definitely is.

🎀🦢💓kaila🎀🦢💓

[disgustingtwitches]

141 as clients for sexworker reader!

//König and Nikto are here too//

MDNI

Ghost

You rarely see him, but you look forward to hearing from him. He always books multiple hours, sometimes even overnights. It's just hour after hour of pounding. Every hole you can take it. You tell him not to leave marks, but you don't really mean it. You know it. He knows it. Bitemarks and bruises are on your skin for days afterwards, he pays for you to send pictures of them healing. Thank God your regulars don't give a shit about the marks. Even if they did you wouldn't stop him from leaving them. Can't really stop him from leaving them. He asks you to wear makeup so he can fuck it off your face. You recently found out he's been stealing your fake eyelashes when they fall off, he collects them like trophies(???) Only praises you when he's felt you've earned it, which was rare. Never said I love you. Don't think he knows those words.

Gaz

Ugh, perfect client. Always a gentleman and really hot. Like "why are you hiring me when you can fuck anybody?" hot. Such a pretty dick too, has a little beauty mark on his shaft you like to kiss. He books three hours every other week just to cuddle and fuck. Really big on pleasing you, so he'll request you not to wear underwear just so he can pull your pants down as soon as you walk through his door and start eating you out. Sometimes when he really wants the "girlfriend experience" he'll slide into you while your spooning and watching Netflix. Has accidently said "I love you" once while ploughing into you, his lips pressed right up to your ear. You don't bring it up.

Price

One of the older clients. Big pussy eater. Huge. Likes to hire you to do stuff around his flat in a skirt and g-string so he can pull it to the side and eat you out while you're doing whatever he asks you to do. Watching TV? Cleaning the windows? Folding laundry? Sometimes he just straight up wants you to sit on his face, holding the skirt up so he can still see your face. When he's finally satiated, he'll get his. Sitting you on his lap and helping you bounce up and down, still in that skirt. Says I love you, but not to you. To your pussy. Literally looks at your pussy and says it.

Soap

So, so weird. Likes to act out scenes he sees in porn. Seriously. Like "help me I'm stuck in the washing machine" or "did you order a pizza with extra sausage". He'll buy outfits for the scenes; cheerleader, nurse, maid, even has a oddly realistic army uniform, right down to the boots. You get the point. One day he wanted to "try ass stuff", because he thought it "looked cool". He said I love you as soon as you stuck the tip of your strap-on in him and continues to do so every time you fuck him in the ass.

König

Yeah... Sorry to be basic but he's a bondage guy through and through. He likes to switch it up sometimes but he's mostly the dominating party. Not the kind to care about fancy shibari, really just hogties and knots that will keep you in your place. Taught you a few moves to take him down when he wants that. Wants you to use him for your pleasure when you're dominating, just like he uses you for his own. Doesn't say I love you. But he does teach you to say "I am yours" in German. So whenever he asks you a question in German, your line is always "Ja, Ich bin dein, Oberst."

Nikto

Very clingy. He was odd off rip. You were kind of uncomfortable with him because you didn't really understand him. Then he became endearing when you finally "get" him. He's sweet. Doesn't want to be alone. He'll pay anything just to have you sit next to him. Watching TV. He sits on the floor between your legs while you sit on the couch and play with his hair. He tells you lame jokes while eating whatever you wanted that day. One day you decide to tell him a corny joke too.

"We... don't think that is very funny."

Of course, he has needs. It depends on the day, but he's always changing the dynamics. Very much a switch at heart. He'll have you bent over the table while holding your jaw to look up into his eyes. Making you say thank you everytime he strokes into you. Other days he'll want to be rode while you hold him, "handsome man," you say between every kiss, "love you so much," while he whimpers under you, "you deserve to feel good." He says I love you. A lot. You say it back. Whether it's because you want to continue getting paid or you actually care about him, you're not too sure at this point.

[girl-bateman]

Ok I'm like 90% sure I've given myself a metacarpal fucking fracture 😀👊 and its on my right hand too 😭

most idiotic thing I've ever done god bless 🙌

[leaawrites]

Flowers

Percy Jackson x Daughter of Apollo reader

Warnings: mentions of blood, mentions of fighting, jealous Percy, mention of Y/n

Wordcount: 2k (this is a long one)

Summary: To get her attenion Percy would even get into fights just to be healed by her.

Masterlist

Percy has been watching her for some time since he came to Camp Half-Blood. Always finding her in a crowd of people. Always letting his eyes drift over heads he couldn’t care less about until his eyes found her face, or her back, or her hair.

Y/n, daughter of Apollo, savior of people’s life. It wasn’t that dramatic, at least for her. Y/n was never given the damaged, just the hurt. A little cut here, a bruise that had to be cooled there, a kid that had to be cared about because it had gotten sick. Never the deep cuts, the bleeding face, the broken bones. It was never that. Not after she asked to take care of those in need of it a thousand times.

Percy knew that. He saw it. At first, he thought his eyes betrayed him, that it wanted to make her look small in his eyes, so that he could save her. But it wasn’t that. His eyes didn’t betray him. It were the people that betrayed her. They didn’t care about how soft her fingers were and how gentle she would take care of the hurt. They knew she was soft, she was sweet, perfect for the small things in life in their eyes.

• • • • • • • •

All eyes turned to him, as he stepped into the infirmary. There were cuts on his face, his knuckles bruised and split open. Blood dripped down from his lips on his orange shirt. It stained the fabric, leaving a mark of the actions he made for people to believe in her.

The sun was already slowly disappearing, leading to most campers be in their cabins already.

“Oh gods, what happened to you?” Laura, a sister of Y/n, asked him, pulling him by his arm to sit him down on one of the cots.

“Nothing bad, just another fight with Clarisse,” the boy shrugged absentmindedly, his gaze searching for a certain someone.

“This girl really has to get herself together,” the red head scoffs as Percy tells her what happened.

After searching for a little longer, his eyes found her body. He smiled as she smiled. His eyes lit up seeing her this happy, a flower twirling in between her fingers. A pink lovely flower, freshly picked from the boy in front of her. A son of Demeter. Percy’s gaze went sour as he saw that she was smiling at him. The red of her cheeks made him want to paint her face in a different color.

“They’re not dating,” Laura spoke, as she saw Percy watching Y/n. It wasn’t a surprise to her that he liked her. Laura knew her sister, she was amazing.

“I don’t care.” The boy quickly covered his jealous eyes with a nonchalant lie. Still they betrayed him, as his gaze found her again.

“Sure, you don’t.” She chuckled.

A loud whistle was heard from Laura’s mouth, making the whole room look at her. Percy saw her hand call for someone across the room and before he could process what she was doing, a bundle of sunshine appeared in front of him.

“What is it?” Y/n smiled at Laura, the flower steady in her hands.

“Can you take care of Percy here? I’ve got to go, Will just called me over,” Laura explained, pointing to a direction where Will apparently was.

“Sure,” she said back and then Laura was gone. Leaving the two alone, Percy cursed and thanked her at the same time. “What have you done to get in such trouble again?” Y/n was well aware of Percy’s reputation around camp. She knew that he was always on the lookout for danger.

“I haven’t done anything, first of all,” Percy defended himself.

Y/n hummed in sarcastic agreement, before her voice got lower and a sweet tone escaped from her lungs. The feeling of her skin against his made me Percy shiver in his bones. A sweet laugh appeared in between the humming when she felt Percy’s body shake as she brushed her hand against his face.

The cuts were healed, but the dried blood still decorated his face like a stamp of shame. When he was attacked by Clarisse, after he provoked her to do it, he didn’t fight back. When Poseidon wanted to rescue him he told him off. Running from the water, not wanting to be healed by a simple touch of water on his skin. Y/n took a cloth from one of the stacks, wetting it under the water to wash his shame away.

When Y/n approached Percy again, she couldn’t get a good look at his face. His eyes were fixed on his fidgeting hands, one finger tapping against his leg. A small touch and his face shot up to her. Y/n was laying her finger and his chin, softly touching his jaw to keep him in place as she brushed the cloth over his face, like he was her most precious painting that she still had to finish.

The silence between the two laid over them like a blanket over a child that tried to hide from the monster under his bed. The air around them was warm and comforting, they were wrapped in each others presence, but they couldn’t breath normally. It was stuffy, and suppressing them from being able to breath in properly. Her breath was warm against his face.

“That’s a nice flower,” Percy noticed, cutting the tension between them.

“It’s really nice,” the girl agreed with him, smiling at the memory of receiving it. It wasn’t about the boy who gave it to her, but rather about the gesture as it. She liked that someone cared.

“Do you like him?” His questions got bolder, as well as his tone. Percy Jackson would never admit that he was wrong. He would never agree that someone actually had him wrapped around their finger.

“I don’t know. Maybe sometime in the future,” she answered, not wanting to keep talking about it.

But Percy kept going. “Well, he certainly likes you. He cares about your happiness as it seems.”

“Why do you care?” Y/n stopped moving her hand, but held it in place to hold on to the possibility of touching him.

“I don’t.” Percy shrugged it off, his eyes going over to Laura who was watching the pair in anticipation.

Laura knew about Y/n’s slight crush on the son of Poseidon. She knew about how Y/n always wished that she could take care of the troublemaker for once. But she also knew, that the girl started to lose hope of ever being noticed by the demigod. She wanted to move on, so when a boy asked her out and later brought her a flower, she couldn’t deny his offer. Not if it meant that she showed Laura in the process of rejecting him, how she still liked the same guy for too long.

“Okay.” Percy looked back at her when the cloth moved again, a bit harsher this time. She didn’t hurt him. Percy was convinced that she could never hurt anyone. Not even her worst enemy. He saw a glistening shimmer in her eyes and the more focused look in them now that she actually looked at the task at hand and not the boy in front of her.

“What are your favorite flowers?” His question surprised her. His whole presence and interest surprised her.

“Why does it matter?” She asked back, finishing up with cleaning his face.

“What are your favorite flowers?” He asked again, a shimmer of something flickered in her eyes.

“I like Carnations,” the girl answered. She smiled at his question. Nobody asked her before, just if she liked flowers or not, or what flowers she would suggest to get someone on a first date. All these questions. But never what her favorite was.

“But these are roses,” Percy pointed out, motioning to the flower that now laid beside him. When she didn’t answer his statement, unsure of what to answer at all, he continued. “Didn’t that guy ask you about it before getting you one?”

“No,” she answered truthfully. “He only asked if I liked them and I said yes. I guess, it’s just because they aren’t that easy to get around here.”

“If a guy wouldn’t move mountains to get you even only a flower, he won’t move rocks to save your life,” Percy said, making the girl laugh at his quote. She liked the look on his face, like he was actually confused and embarrassed for that guy.

“That’s very sweet,” she said. Percy’s face turned red after he noticed how corny that sounded.

“I’m a very sweet guy,” Percy answered, holding his chin up in pride.

Y/n furrowed her eyebrows in amusement of his sudden confidence. “Oh, is that so?” She tried to play his game, but just one look into his green eyes made her swallow back the rest of her words.

“Yeah, you should go out with me instead.”

All of her assumptions about what he would say were thrown out the window after he said that. Her eyes widened a bit, her heart stopped before beating rapidly. Percy saw the color draining from her face and jumped from the cot, ignoring the pain in his ankle as he landed.

“What’s wrong?” He asked concerned, thinking something might took over her body. His hands found her waist to stabilize her body. He didn’t want her to fall to the ground inside the infirmary, like he did something to her.

“Are you playing with me?” She whispered, blinking her surprise away. Her head felt dizzy and patterns started to appear on the walls and everywhere else around her. In fear of blacking out, Y/n put her hands on Percy’s arms, tapping her finger against his skin to keep her mind occupied.

“What? No.” The boy was more worried than shocked at her assumption. Noticing her state, he called Laura over. The red head looked concerned at her friend.

“I will handle her, you should probably go,” she told Percy. He knew better than arguing in this moment, so he nodded and slowly bagged out of the big house.

When Y/n woke up the next day, Laura was already by her side. Waiting with breakfast next to her.

“Oh gods, finally, you’re awake.” Laura threw her arms around the girls body, knocking her back down on the pillow.

The morning was filled with the two girls talking about what happened after she blacked out. Laura was telling her how Percy used to look at her when he came into the infirmary, when a knock on the door sounded. Laura wandered over to the door, opening it. Her eyes lit up when she saw who was stood in the doorway.

“I’ll leave you to it,” she said to the person in front of her.

Y/n looked confused at first, not knowing who was at the door. Until a blonde teenage boy with a lanky figure was pushed into the room. Percy stood in front of her for a moment, remembering every little thing in her cabin. Her body found his gaze again and they softened for a second when he saw her messy hair and exhausted posture.

“You brought me flowers?” Y/n asked the boy, noticing the flowers in his hand.

“I did, yeah.” He walked over to her, standing beside her bed, handing the Carnations over to her.

“Thank you.” Tears began to prickle in her eyes again. She mostly hated how easily it was to get her to tear up and cry.

“Look, I’m sorry if I did anything to you or something, I don’t know. If I did, please let me know so I can change that.” Percy stopped talking when Y/n moved up to hug the boy in front of her.

“You did nothing wrong, Percy,” she assured him with her head on his shoulder. When she lifted her head up, she pecked his cheek before pulling him down to sit onto her bed.

They sat beside each other the whole day, talking and becoming closer over time. The flowers shining beside them.

[anika-ann]

The (Un)Expected - S.R.

Type: one-shot, soulmate AU, good ol' meet-cute (soulmates meeting for the first time prompt)

Pairing: Steve Rogers x reader   Word Count: 8k

Summary: 

A soulmark shows the first words your soulmate will speak to you. A soulmark tells you there is the person for you out there. A soulmark tells you what to expect.

For that, Steve’s is a source of comfort and anxiety to him. You always had a complicated relationship with yours.

But maybe they will teach you a lesson in the end – that the only thing one should really expect, is the unexpected.

Warnings: brief angst, mention of cancer (not reader), canon-typical violence, mention of death (no major character), blood and injuries, language, FLUFF so take it easy on sugar before reading

A/N: written for the Community Revival Extravaganza hosted by the wonderful @stargazingfangirl18 and @labella420 . Thank you both so much for hosting and stirring life in the fandom! I loved seeing the traffic and positivity on my dash - you're doing god's work 💕

A/N 2: DIVIDER by @firefly-graphics; enjoy y'all 🥰

Steve Rogers was a sickly child.

He spent too much time to his liking in his bed – and even more time outside of it despite feeling sick for he couldn’t bear resting anymore, craving to explore the world instead – and was sneaked into a doctor’s office by his mother quite often as well. She only got him in as a favour, courtesy of her own good name – a nurse working double shifts and lending a helping hand wherever she could, a single mother working herself to a bone to take care of and set example to her only son.

A single mother, a nurse, a good person – a beautiful soul. She left this world too soon, but she left an imprint on Steve’s heart larger than any other person, perhaps besides Bucky, ever could.

All that told him, even as indirectly, that his soulmate would be one special dame. She would be kind, she would be brilliant and for that alone, he knew she would be beautiful.

Steve knew that as soon as he could read, as soon as he could decipher the words on his skinny forearm.

In a world where first words your soulmate would tell you were laced into your skin for you and your soulmate’s eyes to see only, his words told him his soulmate was a little miracle.

'I’m not a doctor yet.'

Steve had spent a fair amount of time around nurses and doctors to know that all nurses were women and the overwhelming majority of doctors were men – by the time he was ten, barely a few women were allowed to attend medical schools, let alone graduate. But you, you would be on your way to reach that. Brilliant. Driven. Desiring to help people, to heal.

It was only when other children, other guys and girls alike, began laughing at him for being too little, too weak, too bony, when his heart began to ache for a different reason than illness. If you were to be all these amazing things he had dreamed of, what were you to do with a sickly fella like him? With your words to him being these, it was a fair assumption to make that you would meet due to his health issues, perhaps a smart dame taken under a more experienced doctor’s wing during your studies. How disappointed you would be when your soulmate, the one person meant for you and chosen by destiny itself, would be… that?

That upsetting idea haunted him, hurting more than the bruises that had formed under fists of bullies Steve kept trying to save those even weaker than him from, more than stick and stones and words alike.

Then again… there was a little silver of hope in his heart, a little shy voice in his head. If you were to be his true love, then certainly you’d accept him, yes? If he tried, if he tried hard enough to be a good man, the best possible version of himself, if he worked hard to protect and feed his future family, set a good example for your future children as his mother had, worked towards making a better world, you’d accept him? If he could live with not being as great as others but never stopped trying, you would respect him and perhaps even loved him for what he was?

Then, of course, war came and those thoughts were pushed aside.

Then, he grabbed at his chance to fight that war, to do his part, to help – and incidentally, he also earned his chance to literally grow. Healthy. Strong. More worthy; but remaining good, because that was the one part of him he wanted to hold on to no matter what, that one part he would wish his love, wherever she was, would love him for, even if he suddenly shrank back into the back of skin and bones he used to be.

Then, he lost his best friend Turned into a failure.

And then… then he died.

One of his last thoughts were of you, a beautiful woman with vague appearance but strikingly kind heart and sharp mind. He prayed you’d get a new soulmate somehow, even as those cases weren’t heard of. He prayed you’d live a happy healthy life without him, at least as good as he would have tried his best to give you, to build with you, even as his own heart was breaking to pieces, regret veiling his body as water and snow and icy wind would, regret for missing his chance to meet the most special person in his world.

When he closed his eyes and still saw the white of ice and the blue of the deep sea, he’d swear he saw your face, crystal clear, for the first time – and the last time – in his life.

Seeing you, a stunning mirage, his last thought was that you were an angel gently leading him into afterlife.

When he woke up to a new millennium, one of the first things he did was checking his forearm; he words still sat there, taunting, mocking and heartbreaking, another screaming reminder of him not belonging here.

As years passed by, the sense of alienation subdued. Steve Rogers learned to belong, even as a piece of his heart was missing, longing for the past life – and the life he had never got to have – always humming in his chest quietly.

The mark on his forearm remained, a sad memento to a soulmate he had never met, turning him into a martyr.

But many people had rejected the idea of soulmates in this time, rebelling against their so-called fate, taking off on a path of searching love on their own. Steve learned they did so for various reasons – a sense of adventure before they’d truly find their one true love, a quest to choose the fortune and love on their own terms, a fuck-you to the universe when their soulmate turned out to be less than they imagined and hoped.

His own reasons, as he reluctantly started to look for a person to share his life with, were rather unique, but no one looked at him through their fingers for that. If anything, those who cared about him encouraged him, wishing for his happiness.

It was only when he got Bucky back – one of his greatest regrets not erased, not lessened since Bucky had endured unimaginable pain, but transformed, a piece of Steve’s past brought back to life – that he began to wonder about the almost blasphemous thought he had forbid himself from entertaining when he had been first brought back to life from ice.

Were you still there somewhere?

And then, a shier thought:

Is there still a chance for me to find my true soulmate?

And then, the shiest one of them all:

Is there a chance for me to find happiness with you?

When he had thought of that before, he was certain that since you were still alive – he had read reports of people claiming their soulmark changed colours if their loved one died – he had thought of you as an old lady who had hopefully lived her life as he had genuinely wished for her.

But what if fate, that little minx who had taken his best friend for life from him only to give him back, had somehow blessed Steve with a soulmark decades before you were even born? What he hadn’t lost his chance, what if you were still young enough to build a life with him? Was that even possible? There were aliens, flying suits of armour, other realms, downright magical weapons… he had been given a second chance at life. There were things happening Steve would have never thought possible before. So was there a chance…?

The idea of you being a doctor became much more plausible too – in this century, female doctors were a much more common occurrence. That, naturally, did not diminish your brilliance whatsoever, the fundamental idea of who you’d be never changing in Steve’s mind. The image only became less surreal in one way and a whole lot more surreal in another.

For his own sake, he didn’t give in into that hope fully; at least he told himself that despite lying awake at night, a ghost of a woman he had never met lying next to him, radiating non-existent warmth he wished with his whole being he could touch.

He wasn’t chasing after the ghost, didn’t allow himself that – there was no way to do so to his knowledge anyway – for the chances of success were rather slim.

But there was always hope, wasn’t there?

And the longing for love, whether it was in the hands of fate or in his own to find it, remained, built into his very body; etched into his bones, flowing through his veins, laced into his skin beyond the words on his forearm, always humming quietly in his heart.

In the age of information and science, the concept of having your ideal partner for life chosen by some mysterious abstract entity called Fate was literally otherworldly. Alien. Absurd even.

And yet, it still ruled the lives of many.

Which, in all honesty, was almost even more fascinating than the existence of soulmarks itself – the belief people had for them despite being no logic to them at all.

Perhaps it was the little piece of human soul, an inner child people so desperately wanted to cling to for its own beauty and purity, a child who never wanted to stop believing in magic, fate, dragons, mighty knights and kind-hearted ladies, in all things of fairytales and happy-endings the most. Because to a point, that was what soulmarks were – and little fairytale-like book of destiny.

One that not even science seemed capable of beating.

And you should know; you were somewhat of a scientist yourself. And despite how unfathomable the nature of soulmates was, you could not say that you rejected the idea of them, of someone who was born to belong with you, someone you could share your life with, the right partner in the crime of life. Basic bodily needs aside, wasn’t that the most fundamental need of all? To love and be loved; to belong?

Who wouldn’t wish for that reassurance that they could have that, that some strange force of universe itself created a person like that for them? They were the god’s strongest soldiers you supposed; because you were certainly not immune to that tempting comfort.

But you weren’t obsessed – and you prided yourself in the fact. Mostly because the sheer fanaticism of the world over soulmarks, the one thing that kept defying science – besides alien portals, magical blue cubes, demigods walking the Earth and things alike – was dialled up ad absurdum.

There could be billions of dollars poured into research of curing cancer. Cure autoimmune diseases. Helping the homeless. Slowing down global warming. Erasing poverty and famine. Protecting nature, endangered species. Discovering new worlds, exploring space.

But no. Governments poured billions of dollars into researching soulmarks. How was it they existed? How was it you could cut through skin, you could cut off skin and the mark would reappear somewhere else? What was the grand scheme of them? Why was it that only two people who belonged together could see them and the person speaking the words could only see it on their soulmate’s skin after they spoke the words, almost like a fail-safe that couldn’t seem to be broken with any tricks?

It wasn’t a question of physics as far as people knew; they had tried to build sets-up of various optics, thermovision cameras and complex sets of lenses and mirrors, and none of the reports you had ever heard of claimed success. It wasn’t genetic markers either; no one had discovered a sequence of DNA responsible for soulmarks, let alone turned whatever discovery they would have made into a tool of reading anyone’s but their own and their soulmate’s mark. It didn’t seem to be chemistry either; no one had made a groundbreaking discovery or at least they hadn’t informed the scientific or any other community so far.

But by gods, forget the space race. Attempting to be the first one to somehow read everyone’s soulmark and then create an algorithm to monetize it as the one and only soulmate dating app, now that was a competition overflowing with cutthroat madmen. Not to mention the crowds looking to temper with soulmarks, to make another one appear on someone’s body; or worse, to erase the original soulmark and instead design one capable of manipulating the outcome of a soulmate match.

You found the force of that obsession insane – and frankly, all the attempts morally wrong. While dedicated to science and loyal to discovery, you found soulmarks to be something sacred, one of the things that should not be touched by filthy human hands; god knew humanity, while doing a lot of good, had mucked up about just as much.

You were not alone in that belief. There were, in fact, numerous demonstrations against scientists experimenting with soulmarks, people protesting against anyone creating such tool and using it to temper with natural course of things no one fully understood, not for the lack of trying. However – as expected everywhere where politics and money were involved – these protests were in vain.

They were as vain and futile as the research of the marks itself.

As for your own soulmark, you had a rather complicated relationship with it.

On one hand, it gave you a sense of peace – there was someone for you, even as sometimes it did not feel plausible at all. You had time too – because based on those words, you would not meet your soulmate until in your twenties at least. You had plenty of time to become who you were meant to be before a man could turn your life upside down, even as that was not supposed to be what soulmates did, at least not in a bad sense of the word.  

On the other hand, it was a ball and chain. You would not find you soulmate sooner than in your twenties and sometimes, you missed them despite not having met yet. When imagining what your meeting could be like based on their first words etched into your skin, you feared they might be a little disappointed – even as you did not let that stop you from pursuing the life you wanted. And despite you wanting to choose the career either way, it felt like someone – be it god, fate or another cosmic entity humanity was yet to discover – had chosen the path for you the moment you had been born if not before.

'Doctor, are you alright?'

Four simple words that couldn’t be more ordinary and yet extraordinary for they represented one of the most meaningful encounters of your life. The source of as much comfort as anxiety.

You couldn’t stand hospitals ever since you were a child. The cold environment reminded you of the strange icy feeling that had settled in your chest over the months you had been visiting your dying father, your naïve eyes watching cancer bite off his energy and smiles first, before it swallowed his whole body and soul. He had been a ghost long before he passed; and in your mind, despite all rationality even years after, that ghost haunted any hospital you visited.

Learning what your soulmark was as a child, you had spent countless nights crying, soul torn into pieces, pushed and pulled between the visceral desire to live up to your soulmark and the crippling nausea at the mere thought of dealing with people drowned in misery caused by any illness in the cold institution they called a hospital.

However, the curious kid you had been, you had fallen in love with science itself.

And that one day at school, when a classmate of yours had brought their father to the class to talk about his job as a doctor, you had burst into tears. You began to sob in the middle of him explaining to third-graders that he was not a medical doctor, but a physicist with a doctorate earning him the degree of a doctor as well. You remembered your teacher leading you outside of class, concerned and absolutely baffled, trying to sooth you helplessly even as you were completely inconsolable – because you did not need consolation.

You were crying the happiest, most relieved tears of your life.

You could still be a ‘doctor’. And you genuinely wanted to be one, not just because of what your soulmark read. You had always wished to help people indirectly, even as you looked back at your life now. Sure, your soulmark could have been adding fuel to your drive when your motivation had been running low, but this was who you desired and was meant to become.

A molecular biologist. A doctor in making. Researching the effects of medicinal drugs with hopes to improve them.

A scientist not researching soulmarks, thank you very much.

And yes, there was the lingering feeling of missing a person you hadn’t even met yet – especially when Doctor Simmons’ face lit up like fluorodeoxyglucose in PET scans whenever she saw Doctor Fitz – but you had other things to focus on. And you had time. There was no pressure.

You were not a doctor yet, after all.

Naturally, just because you dodged the joys and sorrows of being a medical student and later on, a medical doctor, it did not mean that you had it easy. No one working on their doctorate did. But when you decided to pursue your degree and work in research, you signed up for that.

You signed up for a lot of things.

It was a little peculiar for you to be on the SHIELD campus in the science division without a doctorate. It was a known fact that SHIELD only recruited best of the best, this Science ad Technology in particular: you needed at least one doctorate to even walk through the door, which was something you were reminded a lot because you did not meet that requirement and here you were.

But SHELD owned the best equipment and you were fortunate enough to get in by the lovely game of fate, being good and driven enough and having met the right people at the right time. SHIELD Academy’s Science & Tech division had the unique equipment you often needed for your research. Your research was interesting enough for people who had perhaps more power over your little life than fate itself. Stars aligned.

It was no walk in a parc, but you were no fool; jumping after that opportunity after having one too many doors shut into your face was a no-brainer. Even though it meant signing up for a whole extra load of shit.

You signed up to be the weird girl. The privileged girl. Hell, even the stupider than local average girl, because you were only an engineer at this point.

You signed up for being the young girl, even as you had met a few people there who had started younger, having actually earned their first PhD at age 17 or less.

You signed up for mockery and misogyny, for as you were aware the level was blissfully low here compared to other workplaces, especially where science was concerned; in exact science, you observed, more than anywhere you ever heard of, it was customary to keep that one insufferable employee, because they were simply that good at their job, no matter that they had cost the department a few other employees.

You signed up for living on campus with other SHIELD recruits, which meant living in close quarters with other divisions; as a result, some days the whole area seemed to swim in testosterone emitted by the hulking special agents in making from Operations.  

But that was okay. You could do it.

There were bright sides too, many of them. Like pursuing your dream career. Being among like-minded people whose brain, to a large point, ran on the same wavelength. Hooking up with a handsome but notbrainless recruit from Operations or Communication here and there, some flings, some relationships, because if you were to wait for the love of your life, you might as well not wither completely. You were only human and you had needs along with your lifegoals.

You more than willingly signed up for working with Agent slash Doctor Jemma Simmons.  With her two PhDs and rich experience from the field, she had left the action behind in order to work on her third PhD and help humanity without having her life on the line every day. She was hard-working, with no-nonsense approach and lovely sense of humour with plenty of stories to back it up; she was overall pleasant person to work and be friends with and despite having been through amazing and terrifying experiences other people couldn’t even imagine, she remained surprisingly down-to-Earth.

Sure, she had her quirks like insisting on having a gun at hand at all times and stashing a few small vials of altered Molotov cocktail, a mixture of chemicals which would ignite upon the vial breaking, in one of the nearby cabinets – but you supposed there were worst things to get used to than that in a coworker or a friend. She used to be an active agent after all; in fact, unofficially, she remained one. Much like anyone, you knew that certain habits died hard and being through what she had been – she confessed to you that she once spent months on a nearly deserted ancient planet, among other things – left a mark. If this made her feel safer, you’d take it.

Another great thing about Jemma, Doctor Simmons, was that she was adorably English and was in dedicated relationship with Doctor Fitz who was a Scotsman, so that was the spice of long workdays at times; especially if you agreed to play Scrabble with them and a few friends in the evening.

But there were things you had not signed up for when following the alluring promise of a prestigious spot and unique equipment.

And one of them was a damn Nazi revival group in the form of fucking HYDRA attacking the lab while you were in the peaceful process of waiting for your PCR to finally be finished.

Influx of men in full tactical gear interrupting Jemma updating you the vacation plans, Fiji and all the rare species of fishes that could be observed there when scuba diving.

When you heard the first shouts, breaking of glass and dull echoes of gunshots from afar, your immediate thought was that you had been having a good day and that the experiment had been coming along nicely – and that whatever mess was happening was for sure about to ruin all your progress.

By the time panic settled in, Jemma was practically tackling you down, hand over your mouth to muffle your startled squeak at the sudden movement, her eyes alert and serious, screaming at you to keep quiet.

The sickening shouts of HAIL HYDRA, COOPERATE AND YOU’LL GET HURT LESS was what sent your brain crashing into reality; that and the distant agonized cries of people, coworkers and recruits you knew and met in the hallways every day, following the sounds of gunshots growing in volume and frequency.

You could hear Jemma shuffling next to you further.

You yourself were unable to move beyond stifling a cry behind your suddenly sweaty palm as another female voice wailed in pain.

Blood seemed to freeze in your veins despite your heart thundering in your ribcage and your temples and it helped you shit at all that you were aware that was such thing was literally impossible. By the time Jemma’s hand grabbed yours again and squeezed hard, you realized you were shaking – half in anger, half in paralyzing fear, half in utter shock. It didn’t matter it didn’t add up.

What mattered was the gun in Jemma’s hand. She was holding a gun, ready to shoot, because there were enemy agents, fucking HYDRA burst through the door, guns blazing. And killing people.

You were whispering with exasperation worth of a shout before you knew what you were doing.

“Why?! Why the fuck-“

“Probably the samples they brought in today, precious cargo,” Jemma whispered back frantically, loading the gun and reaching into another cabinet behind her. You only stared at her in utter confusion and mute horror, rapid heavy footsteps approaching and sending your already racing heart into a madness. “Gun or cocktails?”

“I can’t shoot a-!”

Before you could finish, the familiar sound of the sliding door opening and a horrifying echo of tactical boots reached your ears, a set of vials pressed into your palm.

You gulped, pulse thundering in your temples.

Those goddamn Simmons’ cocktails as you named them since she had insisted on keeping around.

You couldn’t believe the moment was here that you were actually grateful for them, even as they seemed to burn in your hand even with the vials themselves intact.

Your eyes snapped to Jemma’s face to question it wordlessly at least, but she wasn’t looking at you; she was listening intently, lying in wake as if she was the predator and not the prey you felt like.

Your own breathing seemed too loud as you allowed yourself to squeeze your eyes shut for but a moment, a desperate attempt to wake up from the nightmare; but the morning didn’t come.

Instead, a gunshot rang in the room, glass shattering somewhere above your head to your right, sending a waterfall of shards flying next to you.

And causing you to cry out in fright.

Which revealed your position to the agents flowing into the lab.

Without a thought you snapped your eyes opened, jumped to your feet and threw two vials in the direction of a black blur with a shockingly clear red patch of the mythical Hydra monster in the middle; peripherally, you saw Jemma attacking as well, deafening noise of gunshot nearly blowing your eardrum.

You crouched back behind the counter so fast you felt vertigo swing you to the left, sharp pain erupting from your palm. It was pure miracle your right hand didn’t clench in instinct and shatter the two remaining vials, setting yourself on fire as well.

As well.

Someone was screaming – a man, you realized – the acid smell of burned flesh and plastic and various chemicals punching your nose and your stomach hard. You had hit someone with the vial. They screamed because of what you had done. You had-

You had no time to feel sorry. You had no time to properly think fucking serves them right.

More steps, more gunshots, movements you weren’t sure how happened or came to you in the first place, flashes of light and crimson and noise and godawful smell--- and pain erupting in the back of your head and suddenly you were barely catching yourself on the counter with your slippery palm--- your fingers brushed metal, knees weak but hands grabbing with all your might, lifting and swinging, a sickening crack on your right before you were falling, landing on your wrist, back hitting the cabinet door and making even more noise as you sent equipment clattering around.

However, the loudest sound was another gunshot; but the strangest sound was unfamiliar whizzing and metal hitting metal and someone most definitely shouting “clear!” that sounded as distant as a whisper over the ringing in your ears.

Instinctively, your head snapped to the voice as you tried to prop up on your hands to see; the world swam in front of your eyes, dizziness forcing you to fall back on your ass and squeeze your eyes shut in hopes to stop the world from spinning, a sting in your palm drawing a hiss from your lips.

You could hear Jemma’s talking to someone, her words blurred into a mumble despite her voice sounding firm and methodical; footsteps, quick and heavy but somewhat soft, accompanied by a brush of air against your skin, making you open your eyes again just as navy blue with speckles of silvery grey glinting in a flickering light filled your vision.

Then, a face; an extremely handsome face even as a helmet made of blue similar to the rest of his suit covered the upper half of it, framing a pair of the dreamiest blue eyes you had ever seen, as beautiful as blurry as a dream indeed.

Somewhere in the back of your brain it started clicking into place – that the man in front of you looked a whole lot like Captain America and he was there to kick HYDRA’s ass; he was hunk and looked righteous and unfairly pretty, the cut of his jaw sharp enough to appear as if sculpted by ancient masters of art and it might be softened by the leather strap holding his helmet in place but that only brought out the sheer beauty of his lips even with a small bloody split on them.

And he was talking to you, his leather-clad hand gently grasping your arm as you involuntarily swayed to side when moving your head to take in the entirety of his large figure.

“Doctor, are you alright?” he asked slowly, velvety voice sweet and heavy with concern at once, the gentle but firm hold on your arm growing stronger when you blinked owlishly, the connection between the meaning of his words and his apparent intention to talk to you slow and fragile.

Your tongue felt as if made of lead even as it tasted of bitterness of adrenalin, but you willed yourself to answer, a knee-jerk reaction more than anything else.

“’mm… not a doctor yet.”

As you responded, you brain began to clear; and it occurred to you that it was a fair assumption for him to make.

You had grown used to clarifying, but hadn’t done so in months, because everyone already knew. However, he was an outsider to this lab and he couldn’t know you were the exception to the local rule. And you were wearing a lab coat, one that now had to be covered in mixture of chemicals you did not wish to identify, but perhaps you should try, because your forearm was beginning to burn.

The beautiful man kneeling in front of you silently observed you for what seemed like an eternity and half, surprise written all over his face. You couldn’t blame him; you were the weirdo of the lab. The fact the person who had purposely stacked explosives at hand was less of an anomaly than that was a thing to consider, but your head hurt too much to think about that and your heart was still beating unhealthily fast and his error seemed so insignificant in the grand scheme of things of HYDRA having attacked your lab and Captain America being right in front of you, holding onto your arm.

His soft baffled smile as he hung his head and shook it a bit with a breathless chuckle, and then lifted his downright shining gaze back to you, well that certainly made for a spectacular distraction from such unimportant thoughts.

Did his thumb just brush your arm as he still held you up a bit?

And had anyone ever told him he had a stunning smile that could melt hearts even if it was barely there and it was certainly melting yours?

“Apologies, miss. I’m going to help you get to medical, alright?” he suggested, those damn gorgeous eyes roaming your face with what almost seemed like wonder, even as his voice sounded all kinds of reassuring. “You’re safe now, I promise.”

Safe. You were safe. Because there had been HYDRA agents, but Captain America and actual SHIELD operatives had come to the rescue. And because Jemma was-

Jemma. Your straightened, dull ache pounding in your back as you did so, vision clearing a fraction with the sudden realization that you couldn’t hear your friend anymore. Your friend whom you owed your life very likely, but even if you didn’t, you would have-

You craned your neck over Captain America’s impressive frame, head snapping from left to right, nausea rising with the movement, but that didn’t matter, you had to-

You turned your alarmed gaze back to the man who was still holding you, an urgent question on your lips.

“Jemma? Is she--- Doctor Simmons, brunet, lab coat-“ you paused, realizing bitterly that you had just described half of the Science and Technology. “Female. She’s a doctor and an agent too, she was with me had a gu-“

A warm squeeze on your arm, the concern which had grown even more evident on Captain’s face melting away and giving way to a soothing smile.

“She’s alright. She’s already left to be checked up and to give her statement.”

Your shoulders sagged, your head dropping a bit; the violent vertigo that seized your body at that was not pleasant and you tried to blink it away, gaze catching the reflection of the still-blinking fluorescent lamp on the Captain’s shield.

Oh. That was probably what had made the whizzing sound before. As your brain conjured an image of that, a spinning shield flying through the air, you cursed yourself mentally for letting your mind even go there since you had already felt like you were the flying piece of metal and the thing you’d hit eventually would be the floor.

“My head is spinning,” you muttered absently as you attempted to refocus your gaze, praying to gods of religion and science alike you wouldn’t throw up on the poor caring man.

Why was he still sitting here with you? Surely there were much more important things to tend to than one little post-grad? How was he so kind and gentle? Wasn’t he known for inspiring speeches in a deep serious voice and for beating up villains with both his physical strength and brains?

So many questions and no answer in those pretty blue eyes.

In fact, the number of your questions grew exponentially when the hand on your arm released the pressure and gently rubbed your elbow instead; his free hand carefully cradled the back of your other hand, the contrast of leather and his warm skin surprisingly sensual, suddenly making you understand why so many regency era literature spoke of hand-holding as indecent even as it was barely Fifty Shades of Grey level of filth.  

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Captain Rogers said, snapping you from your thoughts. “Let me help you up and they’ll check you up too, including this nasty cut, okay?”

Huh?

Purposely slowly as not to make the vertigo worse, you glanced at your hand in his, feeling a fresh sting just by looking at your palm, your gaze instantly snapping away.

And falling straight onto two intact vials full of liquid of a distinct colour, lying carelessly about two feet away from Steve Rogers’ tactical boots. Your heart jumped in your chest, your hazy mind finally growing aware of your surroundings.

“Shoot! Careful around those, they’re highly flammable!” you warned him swiftly, his gaze snapping to the vials in question, while ours slowly trailed over the utter, utter messthe lab had become.

The sheer amount of broken glass, spilled chemicals, broken pipettes, torn papers and unidentifiable piles of junk was staggering and it was actually a miracle nothing had exploded yet – and as a cherry on top, a few feet away, a relatively small portable PCR machine, the very equipment you had been using, downright murdered along with your experiment and a smudge of blood around it. Jesus.

“Okay, that’s good to know. More the reason to get out,” Captain Rogers remarked, slight amusement lacing his voice, only growing stronger as he continued. “Keep a lot of these around?”

You could have scoffed, but you didn’t. You have no idea, pal.

“My friend is paranoid…” you explained, still staring at them, even as you mentally added ‘or not’, since those little things might have very well saved your life. As your gaze returned to Captain Rogers, your eyes caught on something else, having you sit up straighter in sheer horror. “Is that a stab wound?!”

You gulped at the sight, even as your uninjured hand instinctively reached out towards it – as if you could fix it. The already dark suit, a lovely navy blue, appeared downright black at left his side, right where it seemed to be singed by a flame.

Had that injury been there the whole damn time he had been sitting here with you, eternally patient with your slowed brain, Simmons’ cocktails lying around in one huge chemical dump in risk of exploding any damn minute?

You logically knew the answer had to be yes, but it made zero sense – and his answer made even less sense.

“Bullet, actually. Some sort of chemical damaged the Kevlar lining and they got a lucky hit. It’s just a graze.”

“A gra-“ you choked on the word, spit stuck in your throat causing you to cough and a groan escape past your lips as the sudden rapid movement sent your head pounding again.

“Hey, you-“

“You’ve been shot and you called my cut nasty?” you questioned through the tears, earning a smile worth giving up a career for – painfully warm, kind and… almost fond.

You truly must have hit your head hard.

…as if it hadn’t been evident before.

“I heal fast. You don’t need to worry about me. I’ll be alright, doc.”

A knee-jerk reaction – again. What was it with him? Had he hit his head, forgetting you had already explained – you had, you hadn’t imagined that, right? – and now he called you a doctor again, turned into a familiar nickname, no less.

“I’m not a doct---- holy shit.”

It slammed into you like a train, struck you like a lightning, even as neither of those things had ever happened to you – yet, you imagined it had to feel like this.

A massive force, a force of nature, realization as bright and as unexpected as a lightning from a clear sky.

Doctor, are you alright?

He had asked that. He had asked that. He had said your words. He had said your goddamn soulmate’s first words to you, what must have been minutes ago, and only now it hit you.

You were left staring at him with wide eyes, myriad of emotions written all over his face, including  slight amusement and what you had earlier inexplicably identified as fondness, because the reason why he was still sitting here with you – though perhaps that was what he always did when rescuing, what did you know, you didn’t, this was your first meeting, that was why he had said the words – was that unlike you, he had realized you were his soulmate right away.

He kept watching you, silently letting you process the crucial revelation, a tight but no less kind smile on his lips.

“You said my words,” you said oh so intelligently. “You--- what… what did I—say?”

It was perhaps the stupidest question of all you could have come up on the spot, but you genuinely couldn’t remember – and wanted to know what words he had been looking at his whole life.

…this part of life? Or before the ice too? How did he feel about that? How did he feel about you? Was he disappointed? He didn’t look like he was, but didn’t even know what you had said—

What you did know and remember was that you were supposed to be smart and yet it had taken you an eternity to even notice you were facing your soulmate you had been probably spewing complete nonsense, you were now stammering like an idiot and for someone who had been worried, always, even if in the back of their mind, if their soulmate would find them good enough, you were generally making a bloody awful first impression.

But seriously, what had been your first words-

“You said you weren’t a doctor yet,” Captain Rogers reminded you, voice soft with affection of someone who had imagined hearing those words at least as many times as you had wondered about yours, hoping they would be pronounced by someone who’d respect you and cared about what kind of person you were, and would hopefully, eventually care for you. Loved you even. The tender way the syllables rolled of his tongue, spoken as if they tasted of honey, nearly chased fresh tears to your eyes. Alright, perhaps your first impression hadn’t been as bad as it appeared in your – albeit injured – head.  “But if you really don’t remember saying that, that’s not a good sign. We need to get you medical attention. Come on. Hold on.”

Blinking slowly, still processing the light and yet suffocating feeling that found residence in your chest as it was starting to truly settle that this man, this painfully beautiful and criminally gentle man, was your soulmate, he was leaning closer to you, his hands guiding yours to wrap around his neck, a wordless order you had obediently followed, and then one of his arms was sliding under your knees and his other wrapping around the middle of your back.

And then your vertigo hit you anew because you were suddenly up in the air, hands gripping hard at anything you could reach – conveniently, the only thing was him, because he had lifted you upin his arms, some of your weight resting against his chest – despite the pain that shot up your left hand.

“Whoa-“ And then, because your memory did serve you at least a little: “You--- have been stabbed.”

“Shot,” he repeated patiently, fondly almost, and you did recall he had said that.

You recalled despite the scent of pleasant aftershave and peak man suddenly enveloping you as much as his arms and the firm armour – or perhaps that was the muscles underneath? And those pretty blue eyes were watching you with a glint of amusement and a surprising amount of affection for a guy saying he had been hit by a bullet, while effortlessly carrying the girl he had just met in his-- very, very strong, muscly arms and perhaps your head was not only spinning because of the sudden height you found yourself at.

…amusement? How was he amused? Was that-- was that a joke? Was he making fun of his bullet wound, playing it down? 

“That’s… really not better.”

He grinned down at you as he made his way to the exit.

Walking. Watching you. Grinning and not even really looking where he was stepping.

Oh no.

Oh no, he was one of those people. You had met men like him at Operations, except for some reason – perhaps some sort of a soulmate telepathy – you had a feeling in him, that the peculiar recklessness many people from suffered, the disregard for their safety, because they could handle it, was dialled up to eleven in him. On a one to five scale. Because scaling mattered; you were a scientist. You’d know.

However, he did make it out of the laboratory without blowing anything up – perhaps at least that recklessness was balanced up by enhanced senses of a supersoldier and indeed, healing fast. And you hoped with your whole heart that walking out unscathed was a conscious effort, be it for him (somehow you doubted that) or for the cargo he was carrying (you had no doubt about that, not when he was looking at you like that). At least he had kept the helmet on; you were thankful for that, even as you’d love to see him without it.

See your soulmate.

You knew what he looked like everyone knew what he looked like. If they had missed the WW II. ed, they could barely miss the news about an alien invasion he had had a hand in stopping, the fall of majority of SHIELD, and other exciting horrifying news.

“I’ll be fine, doc. Now let’s get you away from exploding vials and lab equipment you could knock me out with. I’d rather be safe when I ask you out for dinner.”

You gulped, gripping him a bit tighter as a memory hit you – literally.

The PCR machine. You had done that. You had grabbed it and used it to smash into a HYDRA agent’s face, using the nearest improvised tool of defence. Jesus.

I really did that?

“You… saw that?” was what you asked instead, a few second ticking by as the rest of his words registered in your brain – and god, you really hoped your cognitive abilities would restore soon and the head injury had not caused permanent damage. “Oh.”

As much as your heart started pounding at that, a pleasant somersault in your stomach for a change, it was a little unfair to sort-of ask you when you were in your current predicament. Being carried like that, so close to him, so gentlemanly and tenderly handled despite your weight no doubt straining him, especially since he had been shot – grazed –, yoursenses wrapped in everything that was him and pulling you in, you were fairly certain you might say yes to just about anything he’d ask.

And not just because he was your soulmate.

Your soulmate carrying you in his arms, while wearing a very flattering suit of armour.

“If you’d like, of course,” he added with slight hesitance that only made your heart race further, because he was laying out his own heart for you already, expressive, genuine, and maybe sweetly handsy but not pushy despite his title and rank technically giving him every right to do whatever the hell he wanted. “But either way, I’ll save the real question for when I know you’re not suffering from a concussion. That sounds good?”

“Yes, Captain,” you replied dutifully. It did sound good, his consideration warming you from inside out. His voice sounded good too. “Sounds good to me.”

His smile was bright as the sun itself and basking in its light and warmth felt just as precious. Except he was to be your private sun forever shared with other to a point, but yours. Chosen by fate itself, defying all you had ever believed, beating time by decades, only so you could find each other.

“Looking forward to it, doc. Maybe I’ll get to know your name too while we’ll be at it,” he teased lightly, but without malice. “My name is Steve.”

Steve.

You knew that. You liked that.

Hand trembling a little, but not because you worried he’d drop you as you partly let go of his shoulders, you reached for the clasp on his helmet, a fluttery feeling in your chest eager to indeed see Steve rather than the Captain.

You felt your lips curl up and mirror his when he gave a tiny nod at your brief hesitation, your fingers finally undoing the strap and revealing his face with his help.

His hair was adorably ruffled, a slight shade of dust on his cheeks whispering of where the protective gear had been; but scientifically speaking, as well as speaking directly from heart, he was absolutely beautiful, his tender smile telling you he thought the very same about you.

He was meant to be yours; as you were meant to be his.

And you couldn’t wait to get to know him.

You could tell there were people around you and they were probably staring; but for the moment, you didn’t care at all. You had just met your soulmate.

And you weren’t even a doctor yet.

“It’s really nice to meet you, Steve. But I have to admit…” you said, teasing him with a pause, rewarded by his eyes earning a curious glint, “that the Doc nickname is kinda growing on me.”

Complete masterlist

Steve Rogers masterlist

Oh this feels like coming back to my roots 🤭 but hey, this challenge is a revival of all thigs good of the past, so why not go with the good old-fashioned soulmate meet-cute with a little angst beforehand, right?

AND BEHOLD I WROTE SOMETHING SHORTER THAN 10K. SHORTER THAN 8K ACTUALLY! It’s an extravaganza miracle 😂

Also. There might be some unrelated smut in the works, but I will not finish that today so... won't be part of the cum together extravaganza... ah well 🤭

Thank you for reading and potential feedback 💕

May the Fourth be with you and the rest of May be kind ✨

[betweenstorms]

Part One of Where We Part (next chapter) (masterlist) Childhood Friend!Simon x fem!Reader

Before he was Ghost, he was Simon Riley.

A quiet boy with eyes too old for his young face, always watching, always listening, always alone.

You had known him for as long as you could remember.

He was the lanky boy next door, the one with too much burden in his eyes, the one who never talked about the bruises or the shouting that came from his house at night. Even as kids, there was something about him that set him apart, something that made you want to protect him, even though he never let you. But you’d always notice the new bruises on his arms, the way his hazel eyes would darken whenever Tommy, his younger brother dragged him into trouble and the way he seemed to flinch at loud noises, at sudden movements.

Tommy Riley was loud, rude, and as wild as a storm untethered.

He was a real troublemaker, you never trusted his cruel grin and his rude words, never felt safe near the sharp edges of his temper. He thrived on chaos, a force of destruction that couldn’t be tamed, while Simon stood in his shadow, as if he existed solely as an apology—for his brother’s recklessness, for his family’s dysfunctionality and even for his own existence.

You were the neighbour’s only child, the one who never quite understood why Simon kept so much distance between you.

Something about him tugged at you—a quiet pull that made you want to reach into the cold and offer him the warmth of your world. You felt a strange protectiveness over him, as if it was your duty as someone older than him, some unspoken responsibility you carried without question. Through your school years, you kept watch over him, whether he knew it or not. When the students mocked him you were there, standing up for him, silencing the cruel whispers, even when it cost you friendships. The rumours about the Rileys circled like vultures, but you shut them down, defending a boy who never asked for it, who seemed more annoyed by your efforts than grateful.

You weren’t friends, after all, not really.

He never showed any sign that he wanted your help. But still, you couldn’t stop yourself. Something deep inside told you it was the right thing to do, even if Simon would never see it.

However, your parents, like most of the neighbourhood, kept their distance from the Rileys. It wasn’t something openly discussed, only whispered behind cupped hands at the local market, murmured in the pews of the church, or exchanged in knowing glances at school gates. Yet those looks exchanged between the adults made it clear—people didn’t want to get involved. The Rileys were trouble, everyone said, and it was best to leave them to their own devices.

You were forbidden from playing with Simon or Tommy, even though they were the only children near your age on the street.

It was an unspoken rule, one you didn’t quite understand as a kid but followed anyway, wishing things could be different. You were young then, far too young and innocent to grasp the weight of the shadows that lingered in the Riley household.

You didn’t know why Mr. Riley’s shouts echoed through the night, why Mrs. Riley wore bruises like secret confessions beneath her smile, why Simon’s silence felt heavy, like a wound too deep to heal. Their world felt so different from yours, a place of suffering you couldn’t quite touch. But as the years slipped by, as childhood faded into adolescence, the picture began to sharpen. With it, your protectiveness over Simon deepened, as the reality of what his father was doing became impossible to ignore. Understanding bloomed where innocence once was, and with it, the weight of knowing.

You couldn’t fathom how your parents, with their kind hearts and warm smiles, could do nothing.

How they could turn their backs on Mrs. Riley, her frail form draped in sorrow, and her two children, who so clearly needed help. You didn’t understand why they never returned Mrs. Riley’s weak greetings, why they closed themselves off from her suffering. It baffled you how they could step over Tommy, sprawled on their porch, drunk or worse, as if he were just another mess to be swept away.

But what haunted you most was their indifference to Simon—the boy your age, thin as a whisper, burdened with bruises no child should carry. How could they look at him and not see? How could they not feel the silent plea in his eyes? Where was their empathy for a child, for a boy who wore his misery like a second skin?

Oh, Simon.

His hazel eyes stayed with you, always, like shadows that linger long after the sun sets. There was something far too ancient in them, like he’d seen too much for someone who hadn’t yet grown into his own skin. They held a weariness that made you wonder what horrors had carved their marks so deeply into him. The whispers followed him everywhere, rumours circling like vultures over carrion. You didn’t know where they came from, Tommy’s careless tongue, or maybe the other nosy students who relished the cruelty of gossip, but they stained everything, leaving you wondering what was real.

You heard that Mr. Riley brought all kinds of dangerous animals into their home, taunting Simon with them, forcing him to kiss a snake, like it was some twisted game, some kind of sick power move. And then there were the stories of his father dragging him to those grim concerts, where violence blurred into spectacle.

They said he’d made Simon laugh at the overdose of a prostitute, made him witness things no child should ever see. You didn’t know if it was all true, but it didn’t matter. The shadow of those stories lingered over him, heavy and unshakable, and you could see it in the way the boy carried himself, in the haunted quiet of his presence.

There was a summer day, thick with heat and sorrow, that still clung to you like a forgotten song.

You had just turned nineteen that July, on the cusp of leaving behind the life you knew, ready to escape to the vastness of London and its promise of university, independence, and everything adulthood might hold. It was one of those warm, languid August evenings, where the sky blushed pink and gold, and the air was alive with the buzz of cicadas and the scent of overripe grass. You were out with your dear friends from high school, celebrating the end of an era. There was laughter, careless and sweet, the kind that only comes after a few too many drinks. A can of cheap beer was cradled in your hand as you leaned back in the passenger seat of your friend’s car, music pulsing around you like a heartbeat as you drove aimlessly through the familiar streets of your suburban neighbourhood.

The night felt like a farewell, a last taste of youth before everything shifted into the unknown. You giggled at something absurd, head dizzy and spinning, when suddenly, through the haze of the moment, you saw him.

Simon Riley.

There was something achingly bittersweet in seeing him there, swallowed by the dusk, his figure hunched as always.

Something inside you shifted, a strange ache that mingled with the buzz of the celebration—a mixture of nostalgia and sorrow that you couldn’t quite place. The guilt of childhoods lived on parallel tracks, always near, but never close enough.

Maybe it was the booze loosening your thoughts, making everything softer and hazier, or maybe it was the looming departure that made everything feel both fleeting and too permanent at once.

“Slow down,” you blurted out, your voice almost drowned out by the music. Your friend gave you a puzzled look, but complied, easing the car to a crawl. 

Simon walked on, dull eyes cast down like he had grown used to the world pretending not to see him.

“Riley,” you called out, your voice weak and unsure. “Fancy a ride?”

Your friends hissed, their voices sharp with confusion and disbelief. “What are you doin’?” one of them asked, eyes wide in the rearview mirror. “Girl, you’re mental!” another laughed, but their words were just background noise to you.

Your gaze stayed locked on Simon Riley, unwavering, even as embarrassment burned at the back of your neck.

For a moment, it felt as though time stretched impossibly thin, the space between you and him suspended in something fragile and delicate. And then, slowly, Simon stopped.

His hazel eyes caught yours beneath the dim glow of the streetlights.

He furrowed his brows when he recognized you, the corners of his lips tightening in that way that told you he was already annoyed.

You flashed him a drunken smile, but it was crooked, empty, a weak imitation of your usual confidence. You leaned your chin on your palm, trying to ignore the sudden flood of emotions rising in your chest. You studied him, trying to find traces of the boy you once knew under the young man he’d become.

“So?” You asked, feeling exposed, a little too vulnerable under his gaze. Embarrassment and sadness twined together like vines around your ribs, squeezing tightly.

Simon’s response was cold, clipped, dismissive. “Don’t need a ride.”

His voice was deeper, rougher than you remembered, gruff with the weight of years that had passed since you last spoke. Had it really been that long? Long enough that you had forgotten what he even sounded like?

“Oh, you sure? We're headin’ that way anyway,” you hummed, trying to keep your tone light, though something in you was desperate, like this fleeting encounter needed to mean more than it did. But Simon just scoffed, a sound that cut through the night like a blade.

He turned away, resuming his walk down the pavement.

Your friends erupted into giggles, snickering at the awkwardness of the situation, their teasing only deepening the strange ache in your chest. But you tuned them out. With a sigh, you made up your mind. Fueled by guilt, nostalgia, and a bit of reckless drunkenness, you reached for the door handle.

“See y'all tomorrow,” you muttered, stepping out of the car before any of them could protest. One of your friends called, but you didn’t look back and didn't offer any explanation.

Without another thought, you hurried after Simon, your footsteps quickening as if you could somehow close the long years of distance in a single stride.

He didn’t stop for you.

He didn’t even turn to acknowledge you as you caught up, breathing rapidly, walking beside him. Meanwhile, the car pulled away, loud music fading into the distance, leaving you two in suffocating silence. His head was bent low, gaze fixed on the cracked pavement beneath his feet, but you kept your eyes on him—on his broad shoulders that seemed too tense compared to yours.

For what felt like an eternity, neither of you spoke.

The night pressed down on you, the air too warm for comfort. Your face was flushed, whether from the alcohol coursing through your veins or the embarrassment of trailing after Simon, you couldn’t be sure. Each step felt heavier than the last, the awkwardness between you building with every inch you walked together, the distance between you palpable even though you two were side by side.

It was hard to keep your balance, the world around you tilting ever so slightly with each step. You stumbled once, your foot catching the edge of the pavement, and cursed under your breath as you regained your footing. You could have sworn you heard Simon sigh, a quiet, annoyed sound, barely more than a breath, but it stung nonetheless.

“So,” you chuckled awkwardly, desperate to fill the growing silence. Your voice sounded too loud, too false against the quiet of the neighbourhood. “Workin’ late, huh? Mum told me you got a job at the butcher’s. The one near the market, right?”

Simon didn’t answer immediately.

His gaze remained fixed ahead. For a fleeting second, you thought that he might ignore you entirely. But then, in that low, gravelly tone, he muttered, “Yeah. S’what I do.”

His response was clipped, offering no room for conversation, but you pressed on, ignoring the tension tightening around you like a noose. “Must be rough, that. The long shifts, I mean. Can’t be easy workin’ with knives and saws all day.”

Simon glanced at you from the corner of his eye, his expression unreadable in the dim glow of the streetlights.

“It pays the bills,” he muttered, his voice flat. There was no hint of the boy you once knew, just a hardened young man who had learned long ago not to rely on anyone.

The conversation died again, leaving only the sound of your footsteps against the pavement. You swallowed hard, guilt rising again like a tide, mingling with the familiar ache of melancholy that always seemed to creep in when you thought of him.

Simon Riley had always been on the edge of your life, a shadow lingering just out of reach. You had never really known him, not truly. He was a figure cast in half-light, always present but never close enough to collide with. You had always watched him from afar, tried to stand up for him when the world became too cruel, but what had any of it meant? He never asked for your help, never even hinted that he needed it. So why bother now?

Simon hadn’t asked for your company—he never had.

And now, standing next to him, you felt that distance more acutely than ever. His silence was loud, louder than anything he could have said, and it left you feeling small, foolish.

The streetlights cast long shadows over the cracked pavement, the distant hum of the city the only sound filling the void. The warm summer night, which had felt so light and carefree only moments ago, now seemed oppressive, weighing down on your shoulders like an invisible burden. Before you could open your mouth to say something uncomfortable again, Simon’s voice cut through the air, sharp and laced with irritation.

“You don’t need to do this.”

You blinked, the alcohol making your thoughts slow to catch up. “Do what?”

Simon glanced at you, his hazel eyes dark and distant, a flicker of something hard lingering just beneath the surface.

“This,” he gestured vaguely between the two of you. “Pity. Guilt. Or whatever it is that’s makin’ you follow me right now.”

Pity? Guilt? That wasn’t what this was—was it? No, of course not. You opened your mouth to protest, to tell him he was wrong, that you weren’t here out of some misguided sense of obligation. But the look on his face stopped you. It was a look of exhaustion, of someone who had heard this all before, someone who had learned not to trust the intentions of others.

“I’m not—” you started, your voice shaky, but he cut you off again.

“I know you’re leavin’,” Simon murmured, his tone dry, as if stating an obvious fact. “Heard your folks talkin’ about it. You’re off to London, right? So, whatever this is, don’t bother.”

The embarrassment burned hot and heavy in your chest, spreading to your cheeks and ears.

“Look, I’m not tryin’ to—” you began again, your voice softer, almost pleading.

Simon shook his head, his expression hardening. “Don’t. I don’t need your bloody charity, alright? I mean it. I don’t need your… whatever the fuck this is.”

The words struck you like a fist to the chest, stealing the air from your lungs.

You halted in your tracks, and to your surprise, he did the same. The space between you felt heavier now, like it carried the weight of all the years that had passed, thick with everything unsaid. You bit down on your lower lip, your gaze lifting slowly, hesitantly, to meet his.

He towered over you now, though once you’d been the taller one. Despite the age gap, the few years between you, despite the fact that you were older than him, Simon seemed like someone who had long since outgrown you, both physically and mentally.

Funny, how time had stretched and twisted between you both, long enough to turn everything unfamiliar. It had been so long, too long, hadn’t it? Since you’d last spoken to him properly. Long enough that you couldn’t quite place when the shift had happened, when Simon had become a stranger to you, a distant figure in your memory rather than the boy next door.

“I don’t wanna leave like this,” you whispered, dropping your gaze to your feet, your voice barely louder than the rustle of leaves in the warm night air. Your hands itched with nervous energy, and you scratched your elbow awkwardly, trying to anchor yourself. “I know we weren’t exactly friends, but that doesn’t mean I never cared. About you, I mean. And I—” you paused, the words tangling on your tongue, too clumsy, too inadequate for the heaviness in your chest. “But you’re right. It doesn’t matter now.”

Simon sighed again.

He ran a hand over his face, rubbing at the corners of his eyes like he was too tired for this, too tired for you. The way he looked at you, it was like you were the one out of place, like he was the older one, the wiser one. There was something in his gaze that cut deeper than any words ever could, something that said he didn’t know what to do with you. Not now, not then, maybe not ever.

For a long moment, he said nothing, just stared, as if deciding whether it was even worth responding.

“The only advice I can give you,” he said, each word deliberate, like he was choosing them with care, “is to live your life. ‘Cause that’s exactly what I’m gonna do. And if we’re lucky, we’ll never have to think about each other ever again.”

The deadpan delivery should’ve stung, should’ve hurt more than it did, instead, you found yourself chuckling softly, soft and bitter at the same time. The absurdity of it, of this whole encounter, made you want to cry and laugh in equal measure. Somehow, he’d managed to diffuse the tension in the most Simon way possible.

But still, it felt like it had always been there, hadn’t it? Unsaid words, missed chances, a history that never was.

You looked up at him, your lips twitching into a small, fragile smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Is that your idea of a pep talk?” you said, trying to make light of the ache that had settled deep in your bones.

Simon tilted his head slightly, watching you with those unreadable hazel eyes. “Not really my strong suit, is it?” he muttered, his voice low and hoarse.

“No, not at all.”

He looked at you, his eyes still guarded, as though he was searching for something in your expression that he couldn’t quite find. Yet he didn’t flinch, didn’t soften. Didn’t return the smile either. Instead, he shrugged with a kind of finality that made your heart sink.

Simon nodded towards the road ahead.

“It’s late. I’ll walk you home.”

The offer was simple, but it carried an underlying meaning, like it was both a farewell and an acknowledgment that, despite everything, you had once meant something to him, even if only in passing.

There was something about his detachment, his unwillingness to engage with the past, that hurt more than you expected. Maybe you had wanted some closure, some understanding from him, a sign that what you felt wasn’t one-sided all these years. But Simon wasn’t offering that. He wasn’t offering anything at all.

You didn’t argue.

You didn’t even protest that you were fine on your own, that you didn’t need his protection. Instead, you forced a weak smile onto your face and started walking, hoping the darkness would hide the tears pricking at your eyes. The sound of your footsteps seemed louder now, echoing against the stillness of the night, as if you were both walking away from something you couldn’t quite name.

“Y’know, not too long ago, I used to walk you home after church on Sundays. When your mum went to the market. Remember?”

Simon didn’t say anything. You thought maybe he hadn’t heard you, but then he hummed, a low, almost noncommittal sound. He wasn’t the boy who needed walking home anymore, and you weren’t the one who could offer him safety.

The walk was silent. But what had you expected? That he’d thank you for some half-hearted attempt at connection after all these years? That he’d open up, that there would be a cathartic moment where you’d both acknowledge the traumatic childhood you shared with him and walk away with some semblance of peace?

Still, it was strange, walking side by side with someone who felt like a stranger, yet also someone you had known your entire life.

The short walk to your parents' house felt longer than it should have. As you approached the familiar gate, the scent of roses hit you, your mother’s prized bush blooming full and red next to the fence.

Simon stopped just outside your childhood home, as if some invisible boundary had been set between him and you. His eyes glanced at the rose bush, then back at you, his expression unreadable, that same distant mask he had worn for years.

“Thanks for walkin’ me home,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper, though you weren’t sure why you felt the need to lower it. It wasn’t likely that your parents would be waiting behind the curtains, watching this uncomfortable farewell.

They never cared much for Simon anyway.

His face was unreadable, shadowed by the dim light that illuminated the porch, but you could see his hazel eyes flicker as they scanned your features, taking you in like he was committing this moment to memory. And for a fleeting second, it was as if you weren’t standing on the cusp of goodbye, as if you were still those two awkward kids, stuck in a world neither of you could quite escape.

You did the same. Your eyes traced the sharp lines of his face, his sandy blonde hair, his broad shoulders, the faint stubble along his jawline that he hadn’t had when you last saw him. There was something fragile about this moment, a shared understanding that neither of you would speak of, but it was there all the same.

Before you could second-guess yourself, before you could let the fear of rejection stop you, you took a step forward and wrapped your arms around him. The contact was sudden, your body instinctively pulling him into a hug that neither of you expected.

It was an impulsive decision, a desperate, clumsy attempt to offer some comfort, to bridge the gap between the boy you once knew and the man standing before you. You pulled him into you, your blushed face pressing against his hard chest. For a heartbeat, he froze, stiff beneath your touch, and you immediately regretted it.

You didn’t know why you did it.

Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was the lingering guilt, the sense that you had never done enough, never said enough. But as soon as you felt the warmth of his body against yours, the solidness of him, you realised your mistake. This wasn’t the kind of goodbye Simon wanted. You pulled away quickly, your cheeks burning with embarrassment, your heart racing.

“Take care, Si,” you mumbled, your voice barely above a whisper.

You didn’t wait for him to respond, didn’t dare look at his face to gauge his reaction. Instead, you turned on your heel, practically fleeing up the path to your front door, leaving him standing there beneath the roses—roses that were as red as your cheeks, blooming in the quiet of the night.

[suhkusa]

HELL OF A WOMAN.

PAIRING. Bakugou Katsuki x f!Reader

CW. slight enemies-to-lovers, some angst but not heavy, fluff, you're both snarky (romantic), ~4k words, slice of life, reader has a healing quirk

A/N. i'd say slowburn but it's only slowburn because i barely ever write fics this long lol

Throughout your time in the nurse’s office as Recovery Girl’s student apprentice, you’ve met many different students. They all varied– whether it be their quirk, their grade, or even the injury they had come in for. 

Students from the general education, support and management departments rarely ever made their rounds to the nurse’s office, only coming in for a simple cut or bruise. 

That left you with those in the hero department.

You got along well with nearly all of them, even going as far as becoming friends with a few. And while that was true, of course there were gonna be some who you couldn’t get along with. But, there was specifically one student you could not stand. And he’d probably say the same thing for you as well. 

It was none other than Bakugou Katsuki.

———

The first time you really interacted with Bakugou Katsuki was within the first month of your apprenticeship. It was in your 3rd year, and you had already been managing well. 

Your day had started off fantastic. Recovery Girl had left you to run the office by yourself, thoroughly trusting your working and communication skills, so that she could run errands out of town. 

The office hadn’t been too busy, allowing you time to finish a bit of your homework at your own little desk next to hers. A few people came and left, just needing a simple healing of their arm or leg. 

You had been lost in thought when he slammed the door open, practically huffing as he walked in. Putting your pencil down, your wide eyes looked up and met his own. It felt as though he was burning a hole straight through your skull with the way he stared you down.

You didn’t even have to ask to know who he was. In your first and second year, his face was plastered nearly everywhere throughout the media. Bakugou Katsuki. But you’d never talked to him. Well, until now.

Assuming he’d be like every other person who walked through that door, stating their business then quietly leaving, you broke the deafening silence.

“Uh, yes?” you let out, cringing internally at the way the words came out.

Bakugou looked around the room before back at you, “Where the hell is the old woman at?” he spat.

You were seemingly surprised at his not-so-subtle entrance and dirty language. 

“If you meant Recovery Lady by “old woman”, then she’s out of town for some errands. I can help you if–”

“And who the hell are you?” he snapped before you finished, impatience laced in the way he spoke and stood before you.

You could practically feel how your jaw dropped and eyebrows furrowed at his blunt question. If he didn’t hold back, then why should you?

“I’m Y/N L/N, I’m Recovery Lady’s helper. Now,” you put on the most calm and collected voice you could manage, “what the hell do you want?”

The day was going well, before now at least, and you were not going to let some egoistic, cocky guy ruin it for you. Tug of war is a game with two different sides, and you weren’t gonna let him win victoriously. 

Bakugou’s face scrunched up at the words you spat right back at him, opening his mouth to retort something– probably an insult– before letting it fall shut with a grunt. 

“What the– Just put a bandage on this shit,” he held his arm out for you to see a scrape wound running up the length of it.

You raised an eyebrow as you glanced between the injury and his eyes that looked down at you expectantly. And waited.

“The fuck you staring at?” he spoke– yelled, really– before stepping a bit closer.

A smirk tugged up at the corner of your lips before you sat back in your spinning chair, crossing a leg over the other. Like you were the one expecting something.

“You–”

“Please.” you cut him off, lifting a hand to inspect your nails nonchalantly. Hm, maybe you should get them done.

“Like hell I’m saying that, do something about–”

“Please.”  you repeated, emphasizing the word in a louder tone. You looked at him from behind your lifted hand, the smirk that once teased at your mouth now sitting there fully– mocking him.

“Fine! Fuckin’ fine!”  Bakugou snarled, his pearly whites peeking from under his lips. “Will you please do something about this?”

Satisfied, you responded, “‘Kay,”

———

Perhaps you should’ve bit your tongue before you spoke to the oh so great Bakugou Katsuki. In your defense, you didn’t know he’d hold it against you. You were joking, obviously. It was obvious. Right?

And so, everytime he walked into the nurse’s office, he’d send you the same nasty glare, practically seething through his teeth as he made eye contact with you. You knew exactly why he did the gesture every time he came in, but how long did this guy hold grudges for? It wasn’t like you publicly humiliated him or anything. 

“Why are you always looking at me like that?” you asked him one day as the Recovery Lady escorted him to one of the vacant cots, leg stretched out as you leaned back in your chair. 

“Hah? Like what?” he grunted in your direction as he took a seat, an eyebrow raised in curiosity? Irritation? Probably both.

“Mm,” you looked up to the roof as if you were thinking, “Like you like me or something, I mean it’s really flattering but you don’t have to sta—”

“As if. I’d rather watch an elephant take a dump than stare at your face any day,” Bakugou inputted as he lifted his arm to allow Recovery Lady to heal the injury along his bicep.

“Oh really? I didn’t know you were into that kind of stuff, Bakugou,” 

You fidgeted with the pen in your hand as you watched his face scrunch up. 

“You know what—”

Just as he was about to rise and stand from his spot, Recovery Lady quickly and gently pushed him to sit back down. 

“Y/N,” she emphasized your name with a familiar tone, “I think we’re running low on bandages, could you go get some from the storage room?” 

Even though her words were anything but hostile, you and Bakugou could tell she was scolding you. You let out a sigh. 

“Yeah, I can,” 

Getting up from your seat, you set your things down before making your way to the door. Not before stealing one more glance at Bakugou. He was also staring back at you, but this time there was a bit of cockiness in his eyes. Getting the last word never hurt anybody.

You slid the door open, eyes still locked with his, “You know, you’d probably look cute as well if you didn’t look like you were constipated 24/7,” 

“The fuck—”

Quickly sticking your tongue out at him, you shut the door before he was able to finish his sentence.

———

The nurse’s office had been particularly quiet today. The slow day in the office gave you more free time to yourself, which allowed you to catch up on a couple past assignments. Only two or three people came in before the lunch bell rang. After packing your bag, you waved off Recovery Lady as you excused yourself to the cafeteria.

And when you returned, it was still quiet. You quickly noticed that it was also void of Recovery Lady, the short woman nowhere to be seen. As you slid the door shut behind you, you heard a hushed groan come from one of the beds. Your head snapped to the source of the noise, quietly stepping closer to the person. 

Almost naturally, you recognized the disheveled blonde hair. Bakugou. 

But this was different. New. He was quiet for once, and the eyes that almost always were glaring at you were closed shut. Your body relaxed at the unusual sight of him. And maybe if you were crazy, you would’ve thought he was cute. 

As you got closer, you noticed the slight crease in his eyebrows, as well as the bandage that was wrapped around his torso. 

Perhaps you got too caught up in the moment, though. Too caught up in the way his chest slowly rose with each breath, the way his skin seemed to glow under the sun’s filtered light. So caught up that you didn’t realize those familiar crimson eyes were staring back up at you.

“You a pervert now?” his voice cut through silence, causing you to tense and step back. “The hell are you looking at?”

For a moment, it felt like your voice was caught in your throat. You caught yourself trying to find something to look at. Something other than him.

“Looks like you’re in quite a predicament,” you commented with a breathy laugh, not really knowing what else to say. Stupid joke.

“No, really?” sarcasm was laced in his tone, but you could hear the struggle as he grunted quietly afterwards.

Maybe you’d spare him for the day.

“Recovery Lady hasn’t gotten to you, yet?” you asked as you slowly made your way to your desk, setting down your bag.

“Nah,” he let out a huff as he sat up, “Shit— she wasn’t here when I got here,”

Letting out a hum in response, “Do… Do you want me to help you then?” you asked, even though you already knew the likely answer.

“What the hell do you think—” 

“You know, on second thought I have some homework—”

He let out an exasperated sigh before surrendering once again, “Yes. Yes, please. Help me,”

Biting back a small smile, you turned back around to make your way back to the injured man. You pulled up a chair next to the bed, sliding in closer. After gesturing him to lay back down, your hands carefully peeled back the bandages that covered the wound. You’d never get used to the sight of blood. 

You could feel the way his body tensed every time your hand neared his injury, though you tried your best not to touch it at all. 

“Sorry if it hurts a little,” you said, lifting your hands over the gash, “Just do your best to relax,”

“Whatever,” Bakugou responded as he turned his head away from you. 

It happened in a flash. From his peripheral view, he saw your hands glow, and the next thing he knew: he was fine again. Not a scar, scratch, or wound in sight. Like it wasn’t even there. 

Though you enjoyed the perplexed look in his eyes, you could feel yourself becoming rather light-headed. You took a deep breath before standing up and going back to your desk to get your water bottle. 

As you took a sip of your water, you watched as he sat up in the cot, lifting up his shirt to examine the skin. 

“Never seen a quirk before?” you laughed at his amusement.

His face quickly snapped back to his normal grouchy look, “No, just didn’t know you had a quirk at all, you usually just bandage my injuries up. Plus healing quirks are rare,”

“Mm, I get that a lot,” you mused, twisting the cap back onto your water, “It’s just a normal healing quirk though. I’ve been working with Recovery Lady to train it’s capabilities,”

Bakugou grunted in response. Silence filled the room for a moment before he decided to speak up. 

“Gonna head back to class,” he stated curtly, swiftly putting his blazer back on before stepping towards the door, “Thanks, I guess,” 

With one last glance back at you, he was gone. Leaving you and the rapid thumping of your heart alone in the room once again. 

———

“Is anyone sitting here?” a gruff voice came from above.

With the rest of the noise in the cafeteria, you nearly didn’t hear him. Your eyes gazed up from your food toward him, eyebrow shooting up in question.

“Uhm,” you swallowed the food in your mouth before responding, “what does it look like to you?” 

You gestured to the empty seats around you before going back to poking at your lunch.

“Tch, just asking,” Bakugou murmured under his breath as he tugged a chair out from under the table and took a seat.

As you ate, you couldn’t help but sneak a couple of glances his way. Just why was he sitting with you? Was this his own silent way of tormenting you?

“So,” you started before clearing your throat, “what do you want?”

You could see him freeze mid-bite, eyes shooting up to you.

“To eat? What else?” he grunted nonchalantly.

Well no shit.

“Oh really? Didn’t know that,” you rolled your eyes, “why not eat with your friends?”

“Don’t wanna,”

Your lips pulled into a thin line before you gave up. You dismissed him as you continued to finish your lunch. After this you’d probably have enough time to take a nap in the nurse’s office. In an attempt to finish your food without starting some random argument with the blonde next to you, you kept the interactions to a minimum.

After you finished, you debated your options. Did you say goodbye or just… leave? Just leaving would be rude, wouldn’t it? Well who cares, you sure don’t–

“Hold on,” he called out, catching your attention.

You watched as he quickly finished the rest of his lunch, gathering his stuff before standing up. 

“What–”

“Alright, let’s go,” he said as he walked past you towards the garbage can.

“Uh,” you followed shortly after him with your trash, “go where?”

Stacking his tray with the others, he sent you a glare with a rough, “Where else?” 

When you didn’t respond with a word but instead with a confused look, Bakugou sighed and continued. 

“The nurse’s office,” 

Your mouth dropped open in a silent “Ohh”. You tugged your bag over your shoulder as you walked up next to him.

 The walk through the halls was rather silent other than the couple of students that walked past the two of you. But not a word was said between the two of you. At least until he opened his mouth. 

“So, what are your plans after graduating?” he asked, hands in his pocket as he continued to walk by you. 

You let your eyes scan the exterior through the wide UA windows when you responded, “Hm, I think I’ll find a job in a hospital? I think I wanna work in some field with heroes, but I’m not quite sure yet… And you?”

“Obviously I’m gonna a hero,” Bakugou scoffed with a smirk, “Gonna be the best one, at that,” 

“I see,” you let a light laugh slip out at his confidence.

“What’s funny, huh?” he asked, voice suddenly scarily serious. 

Your eyes widened, “Nothing, nothing– It’s just we barely have normal conversations like this. I guess,” you quickly added.

Bakugou hummed in response, coming to a quick stop as the two of you reached the nurse’s office’s door. 

“Well,” you step closer to the door, “Thank you for walking me here, Bakugou,” you smiled.

“Katsuki,”

“Hm?”

He rolled his eyes, “Just call me Katsuki,” he turned the other way quickly before waving you off, “Later, nerd,” 

A laugh escaped you as you watched him walk away, waiting a couple of more moments before walking into the office.

Maybe if you stared for a little longer you would’ve seen the way his ears reddened at your smile.

———

“Oh! Good afternoon Bakugou and Kirishima!” the voice of the elderly woman snapped you awake, causing you to jump in your seat.

You could hear a snicker come from a certain person as you turned to see the two who entered the room.

Your eyes were met with a seemingly beaten up Kirishima and Bakugou, the two having scruffs, scratches and bruises on their skin.

“What were you guys doing this time?” Recovery Lady escorted the two to their own beds, tending to Bakugou’s injuries and gesturing to you to help Kirishima.

“Ah, just training, same as always,” the red head responded with a smile, “Oh, hey Y/N,”

You could feel the ends of your mouth tug upwards at his greeting, “Hey,”

“How’s everything been?” 

As you continued your chatter with Kirishima and helped him with his injuries, you didn’t seem to see or feel the daggers of stares that Bakugou sent in your direction.

On the other hand, Bakugou didn’t even know why he felt like this. 

What was he pissed about? It’s not like the two of you are friends. Did you consider him a friend? Yet why did it feel so utterly annoying to watch you interact with some other guy? 

That was beyond Bakugou. 

Maybe he already knew the answer. And maybe he didn’t want to come to terms with what that answer held.

Either way he couldn’t take another second of this.

“Bakugou? Where are you going—”

The sound of Recovery Lady’s frantic voice caught the attention of you and Kirishima. Your eyebrow raised in confusion as the blonde made his way to the door with the little lady following him.

“You’re not fully healed yet,” the old woman claimed.

“It’s fine,” 

“Let him,” Kirishima said after Bakugou slammed the door shut. “He’s been a little off lately,”

You wrapped a bandage around Kirishima’s elbow, “Off? How?”

Kirishima’s eyes looked up in thought, “He’s been kinda closed off lately; barely comes to our hangouts,”

“Ooh,” you sighed as you continued helping the guy in front of you.

There was a seedling of worry planted in your stomach, and you barely had any clue why. It’s not like you guys were close. He was just some guy who came to the nurse’s office like every other student. Maybe those late nights staying up were finally catching up to you. 

After cleaning up and sending Kirishima off, you were finally left alone. Recovery Lady had left a while ago to fetch some supplies from the storage room. And so that left you and your thoughts alone in the office.

———

A week had gone by.

A week had gone by, and there had been radio silence from Bakugou.

Either training had slowed down or he was completely avoiding you. And either way, it still made you a bit sad. Only a bit. 

Days in the nurse’s office were slow and lonely. You never made a real connection with anyone. People came and people left. They come to get healed and leave. No side talk, albeit a few exceptions. Bakugou being one of those.

 There were times where you thought you saw him entering the nurse’s office when you were leaving, but the glimpses were so small that you chalked it up to your imagination.

It felt like he was consuming your every thought, so you had no choice but to accept the fact that maybe you had a crush on Bakugou. Maybe.

But so what? That was normal, everyone had a crush on him at one point. Too bad you fell victim along with the rest of them, though.

Admitting to yourself that you liked Bakugou was hard, but having to actually deal with the feelings you had was harder. One, because you’ve never really had a serious crush. And two, he was nowhere to be seen. Having a crush on him made your heart beat so quick that you’d use your quirk on yourself to make sure you weren’t having heart problems.

Soon, one week turned into two.

And it seemed like the office was only getting busier as the third years prepared for their finals. Everyone was in and out as they practiced their hand to hand combat more vigorously and more often.

The first couple of days, it was easy. But towards the end of the week, you began to fatigue. Having to balance your own finals and running around the office having to use your quirk over and over was doing a number on you. 

The injuries were becoming worse, the amount was increasing. At times, you were dizzy with how many times you’d have to keep turning around from bed to bed to help someone new. 

Then there was a calm. You barely noticed a full week of finals had swung by, leaving the clinic empty and quiet. 

“Is it alright if I nap during the passing period?” you turn in your chair to Recovery Lady, who is stocking up the medicine cabinets.

“Of course, you should be fine, if anything I can handle anyone who comes in,” she tells you.

You sigh in relief as you walk to the nearest bed on weak legs, basically melting into it as soon as your body hits the cushion. You knock out on the spot, letting your well-deserved slumber overcome you.

———

 Your slumber is interrupted by a slight jolt to the bed frame you’re lying on. You groan as you flip onto your other side. The light escapes through your lashes, creating a blurred light illusion with a silhouette. Your eyes shot open, a silhouette? 

You become conscious of yourself as soon as you realize the one before you is none other than Bakugou Katsuki. There’s a stupid grin on his face which makes you want to slap it right off of him. You sneakily nudge at the drool on the side of your mouth and adjust your clothing and appearance.

“Finally awake, sleeping beauty?” he says from the seat beside you, and it feels like forever since you’ve last heard that voice of his.

“Yeah, because of someone,” you grumbled, eyebrows scrunching up. He laughs, laughs, as his eyes focus on you.

“It’s getting late,” is all he says.

You have half a mind to respond, until you remember that he’s been avoiding you. Your eyebrows tighten together impossibly closer, as you flip to face away from him.

“You’re a dick,” you say matter-of-factly. “You’ve been avoiding me, I’m not stupid,”

Your eyes are jittery as they look everywhere. Trying to focus on something in the room to distract yourself from all of the possibilities of what might come out of his mouth.

“Why do you care?”

His words cause you to sit up, facing him once more. “What do you even mean, why? I used to see you everyday, then suddenly you just walked out and I never saw you again,”

Bakugou’s eyes slightly roll at your words, and it kind of hurts.

“I just thought maybe we were…” your words trail off causing Bakugou to stare at you more intently.

“Were what?”

“I don’t know, friends, or some shit,” you bury your head in your hands out of embarrassment.

“Did I say we weren’t?”

“Well, you never said we were,”

“Didn’t think I had to,” he says, “Thought you were smarter than that, doc,”

You smile at the nickname. “You can leave now, I’m awake, I just have to close up the clinic. Why were you here in the first place?”

“Had to make sure you weren’t dead or something,”

Laughing, you get up to fix the bed sheets. The words that fly out of your mouth come out on their own. 

“What, do you like me or something?”

“Probably,”

His careless response didn’t register in your mind at first, but when it did, you could feel the heat rush from the back of your neck up to the tips of your ears. 

“W-What? You can’t just say that… weirdo,” your eyes flick up at him then back down to the sheets, fluffing up the already neat pillows. 

Silence filters through the room, the only noise filling your ears being the noise of cotton and linen being moved around. Along with the sound of your heartbeat thumping in your ears. It felt so loud, that you swear he could probably hear it as well. You didn’t know what to do, was this real life?

Did those words really just come out of his mouth?

His head tilted and you could feel his gaze on you. It was nerve-wracking, and you were just hoping and praying he’d say something that’d clear your mind. A small, “just kidding,” would be nice right about now. The hurt you’d feel from that would be better than the anxiety you felt at this instant. 

“Say what?” he mocks, and it causes your eye to twitch.

You decide you’re not playing these games with Katsuki Bakugou today, “Oh nothing, must’ve been the wind,” you flutter your eyes before turning the other direction to fix up another bed that looks like it’d been used.

A hand on your wrist puts a stop to your motions, and it immediately makes your head turn back to meet his eyes. 

“B- Katsuki–”

You’d usually be able to come up with something snarky, but right now all your words were caught in your throat. You were actually scared to say the wrong thing for once.

“You were joking right?” you ask him, nervous for what his answer might be.

Bakugou is quick to retort, “Depends, were you?”

You gulp down your anxiety before giving him a response, “N-No,”

“Then? Use that smart little brain of yours, doc,”

“Say it,” you demand, “I’m not playing this little game with you, so say it,”

His ruby eyes roll before connecting gazes with yours once again, “I like you, or something,” he mimics your words from earlier.

You can feel yourself fluster. The dizziness in your head almost made you convince yourself that you were dreaming. If this was a dream, you wanted All Might himself to pop out and punch you across the face.

“Why don’t you say something now, hm?” his grip around your wrist loosens to a more gentle grasp.

His face closens to yours, the distance between the two of you is only breaths-length. 

“Since you’re so smart, you tell me,” you sass, “Take a guess, smartass,” 

A smile quirks at the corner of his mouth, “You’re such a dick,” he whispers under his breath before closing the distance completely, his lips locking with yours. 

Your eyes widen at the pure shock, but you ultimately melt into the kiss. It’s sweet and you can feel the two of you smiling into it. 

When the two of you part, you can feel slight embarrassment wash over you. “You’re an ass, you didn’t even let me confess, my high school sweetheart experience is ruined forever, 

Bakugou lets out a breathy laugh at your words, “Thought you wanted me to take a guess,” 

“And if you were wrong?” 

“Hah, as if,”

© all writings belongs to suhkusa 2024. do not repost or change.