Round 4 is coming to an end on July 31st and Round 5 is around the corner so we wanted to give everyone a head's up that wanted to sign up for a new round that Round 5 is coming in August!
If you are still working on your card from this round and any previous round and want to keep working on it, that's completely fine as you're always welcome to carry over your card/prompts from any of the previous rounds, but for those looking for a fresh start with a new card or a new sign up or a new round, we invite you to sign up for Round 5 at Sign Ups: https://docs.google.com/forms/d/17CTQgSRi_hJH6xmJvTso-bUeHswNnfMj5VUDonoBGoc/
Square: B1 “Speaking 3 languages and being fluent in none”.
Rating: Teen.
Summary: There are days when communication seems simple. And then… There are days with Steve Rogers and Groot… Days when speaking three languages is absolutely useless.
Major Tags: Fluff.
Additional tags: My entry for the @marvelrarepairs Marvel Rare Pairs Round 5. Card MRP-127.
Links: Wattpad, Ao3, Spanish version.
@saiyanprincessswanie
My native language is Spanish, so I wanna improve my English writing skills. Please let me know if you notice any mistakes, and I will correct them.
I don’t grant permission for my fics to be posted on other platforms or in different languages (I personally translate my work) or for the use of my graphics (my dividers are included in this. I created them exclusively for my fics; please respect my work and refrain from stealing it. Some people here create dividers that anyone can use; mine is not of this type, so please look for the dividers created by others. The only exceptions are those I gifted 'cuz now belong to someone else. Please let me know if you find any of my works on a different platform and are not one of my accounts. Reblogs and comments are always welcome.
DISCLAIMER: I don't own Marvel's characters (unfortunately), except for the original characters and the story.
Add yourself to my taglist here.
My other media where I publish: Ao3, Wattpad, ffnet, TikTok, Instagram, Twitter.
If you like it, please vote, comment, and provide feedback to help me improve my skills. Consider reblogging as well.
Summary: The problem with memory isn't just what you forget.
Major Tags: Angst, amnesia.
Additional tags: My entry for the @marvelrarepairs Marvel Rare Pairs Round 5. Card MRP-127.
Links: Wattpad, Ao3, Spanish version.
@saiyanprincessswanie
My native language is Spanish, so I wanna improve my English writing skills. Please let me know if you notice any mistakes, and I will correct them.
I don’t grant permission for my fics to be posted on other platforms or in different languages (I personally translate my work) or for the use of my graphics (my dividers are included in this. I created them exclusively for my fics; please respect my work and refrain from stealing it. Some people here create dividers that anyone can use; mine is not of this type, so please look for the dividers created by others. The only exceptions are those I gifted 'cuz now belong to someone else. Please let me know if you find any of my works on a different platform and are not one of my accounts. Reblogs and comments are always welcome.
DISCLAIMER: I don't own Marvel's characters (unfortunately), except for the original characters and the story.
Add yourself to my taglist here.
My other media where I publish: Ao3, Wattpad, ffnet, TikTok, Instagram, Twitter.
If you like it, please vote, comment, and provide feedback to help me improve my skills. Consider reblogging as well.
Summary: Steve’s emotional, physical, and psychological shock… and on how Phil Coulson becomes that strange hybrid of fan, agent, and anchor.
Major Tags: Angst, new era.
Additional tags: My entry for the @marvelrarepairs Marvel Rare Pairs Round 5. Card MRP-127.
Links: Wattpad, Ao3, Spanish version.
@saiyanprincessswanie
My native language is Spanish, so I wanna improve my English writing skills. Please let me know if you notice any mistakes, and I will correct them.
I don’t grant permission for my fics to be posted on other platforms or in different languages (I personally translate my work) or for the use of my graphics (my dividers are included in this. I created them exclusively for my fics; please respect my work and refrain from stealing it. Some people here create dividers that anyone can use; mine is not of this type, so please look for the dividers created by others. The only exceptions are those I gifted 'cuz now belong to someone else. Please let me know if you find any of my works on a different platform and are not one of my accounts. Reblogs and comments are always welcome.
DISCLAIMER: I don't own Marvel's characters (unfortunately), except for the original characters and the story.
Add yourself to my taglist here.
My other media where I publish: Ao3, Wattpad, ffnet, TikTok, Instagram, Twitter.
If you like it, please vote, comment, and provide feedback to help me improve my skills. Consider reblogging as well.
He sat up in bed, straight, awake, waiting for something that never came.
An attack.
An explosion.
Orders.
Nothing.
Just that hum.
The door opened at six o’clock sharp.
Exactly.
Not a second before. Not a second after.
And there was Phil Coulson.
A folder in his hand.
“Good morning, Captain Rogers.”
Steve didn’t respond right away. He just looked at him.
“Do you always walk in without knocking?”
Coulson blinked.
“I can do that if you prefer.”
“I prefer to know when someone enters my room.”
“Understood.”
He wrote it down.
Literally.
That was weird.
Coulson stepped inside.
“We have a light schedule today. Medical evaluations, basic orientation, and… a cultural update.”
“Update?”
“Yes, sir.”
Silence.
“How long was I…?”
“Approximately seventy years.”
“I see.”
He didn’t see it.
But he said it anyway.
Coulson knew it.
And he didn’t correct him.
The next day, the screens were the problem.
Too much information.
Too fast.
Brighter colors.
Louder sounds.
Everything is more immediate.
Steve leaned forward.
“This is live.”
“Yes. Real-time broadcast,” Coulson replied.
Steve shook his head slightly. He didn’t like that.
“Can everyone see this?”
“In theory, yes.”
“That’s not safe.”
“No, it isn’t.”
On the third day, Coulson changed the routine.
It wasn’t on the agenda.
“This wasn’t part of the plan.”
“I thought it would be useful.”
The museum was empty.
Soft lighting. Still air.
And there was Steve.
But not him.
A uniform.
A shield.
Photographs.
“The First Avenger,” he read softly.
He didn’t sound proud.
He sounded detached.
Coulson approached the exhibit.
“There’s an entire section dedicated to his missions.”
“Have you read them all?”
Coulson stood still.
“Yes. More than once.”
Steve glanced at him sideways.
“You’re a fan.”
Coulson tensed slightly.
“I’m a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent.”
“Uh-huh.”
He didn’t press the issue. But he understood.
By the fifth day, the exhaustion wasn’t physical anymore. It was something else—maybe more emotional or mental; he couldn’t quite describe it. There were simply too many questions, too few answers, and too much information—but that didn’t mean it was all useful.
“I don’t belong here.”
They were in a training room. Steve was already done, but he wasn’t leaving.
“That’s normal,” Coulson replied.
“No. It’s not normal. Everything’s faster. Louder. More…”
“Different.”
“Wrong.”
Coulson frowned slightly.
“Wrong?”
“Like I’m in the wrong place.”
“The world has changed, but that doesn’t mean you’re out of place.”
Steve looked at him.
“That sounds like something you were told to say.”
Summary: Steve and Brock are in trouble after a failed mission.
Major Tags: Angst, blood loss.
Additional tags: My entry for the @marvelrarepairs Marvel Rare Pairs Round 5. Card MRP-127.
Links: Wattpad, Ao3, Spanish version.
@saiyanprincessswanie
My native language is Spanish, so I wanna improve my English writing skills. Please let me know if you notice any mistakes, and I will correct them.
I don’t grant permission for my fics to be posted on other platforms or in different languages (I personally translate my work) or for the use of my graphics (my dividers are included in this. I created them exclusively for my fics; please respect my work and refrain from stealing it. Some people here create dividers that anyone can use; mine is not of this type, so please look for the dividers created by others. The only exceptions are those I gifted 'cuz now belong to someone else. Please let me know if you find any of my work on a different platform that is not one of my accounts. Reblogs and comments are always welcome.
DISCLAIMER: I don't own Marvel's characters (unfortunately), except for the original characters and the story.
Add yourself to my taglist here.
My other media where I publish: Ao3, Wattpad, ffnet, TikTok, Instagram, Twitter.
If you like it, please vote, comment, and provide feedback to help me improve my skills. Consider reblogging as well.
Just that thick, metallic smell, clinging to his throat as if the air itself had turned to blood.
Steve Rogers recognized it before opening his eyes.
And when he did, it came in fragments.
The cold concrete beneath his back. The gray sky was barely visible between collapsed structures. A persistent ringing in his ears, as if everything were happening underwater.
And then… movement.
A few meters away. A silhouette.
“…Rogers.”
The voice was unmistakable.
Steve blinked several times, straining his eyes until the face took shape.
Brock Rumlow.
Covered in dust.
In blood.
Too much blood.
The memory came flooding back.
The explosion.
The collapse.
The impact.
Steve tried to sit up, but the world tilted dangerously. A violent dizziness forced him to stay where he was, bracing himself with one hand.
Bad idea.
The pain in his side responded immediately.
“Don’t move,” Brock growled from the ground.
Steve ignored the order. He always did, especially when they came from Rumlow.
“How long…?” he tried to say, but his voice came out weaker than he expected.
“Minutes,” Brock replied. “Maybe.”
He didn’t sound convinced.
Steve managed to sit up, taking a deep breath as he assessed his condition. Bruises, cuts—but nothing he couldn’t handle.
Then he looked at Brock.
And he understood.
The blood wasn’t just superficial.
It wasn’t a minor injury.
“No,” Steve murmured, moving immediately.
The dizziness returned, stronger, but he ignored it. He crawled over to him.
“Hey,” Brock’s voice tightened. “Take it easy, Captain. You don’t look any better than I do.”
Steve didn’t answer.
He was already assessing the wound.
Side entry.
Deep.
Irregular.
It wasn’t just a cut.
It was internal damage.
“We need to stop this,” he said, more to himself than to Brock.
“Good luck.”
The reply was curt, but there was no mockery in it.
Just… reality.
Steve took off his gloves, his hands steady despite the slight tremor that was beginning to set in.
He pressed on the wound.
Brock exhaled sharply, his body tensing under the touch.
“That’s not going to be pleasant,” he murmured.
“It doesn’t have to be.”
“Always so optimistic.”
The blood wouldn’t stop.
It seeped through his fingers, warm and steady.
Too steady.
Steve increased the pressure.
“Look at me,” he ordered.
Brock didn’t respond immediately.
His gaze was fixed on some undefined point.
“Rumlow.”
That made him react.
He turned his head slightly.
“I’m still here.”
“Then stay.”
A small curve appeared at the corner of Brock’s lips.
A sort of faint smile.
“I wasn’t planning on leaving… yet.”
Time began to warp.
Every second stretched out.
Every breath became more conscious.
Steve could feel Brock’s pulse beneath his hands.
Irregular.
Slower than it should be.
“You’re losing too much blood,” he said.
“Yeah, that usually happens when you get stabbed.”
“Shut up.”
“Not my style.”
But his voice no longer had the same strength.
It was fading.
And Steve knew it.
“Listen to me,” he said, leaning in a little closer. “I need you to stay awake.”
“Always giving orders.”
“It’s not a suggestion.”
Brock let out a breath that was almost a laugh.
“You know… I always thought that if this happened… it would be more… dramatic.”
“Don’t talk.”
Steve clenched his teeth.
He didn’t say anything.
But he didn’t stop pressing.
The blood was starting to cool in his hands.
That was worse… Much worse.
“Hey,” Brock murmured.
Steve looked up.
“What?”
“You look… worried.”
“I am.”
“Interesting.”
“It isn’t.”
Silence.
Just breathing.
Irregular.
Fragile.
“I never thought it would be you,” Brock added, more quietly.
“What?”
“The last person I’d see.”
Steve didn’t answer.
Because there was no right answer for that.
The surroundings remained unstable.
Structures creaked.
Dust fell in small cascades from above.
“Don’t fall asleep,” Steve said.
“I’m not sleepy.”
He was lying. It was obvious. His eyes were no longer focusing properly. His body was losing the fight.
“Brock.”
“Yes, Rogers.”
“Stay with me.”
Another small smile.
Weaker.
“Always so convincing.”
Steve shifted the position of his hands slightly, trying to slow the flow.
It wasn’t working enough.
He needed more.
But there was nothing.
Just debris.
Silence.
And time is running out.
“This isn’t enough,” he murmured.
“You’re trying.”
“It’s not enough.”
“It never is.”
Steve shook his head.
“No.”
“Yes.”
Brock closed his eyes for a second. Just one, but it was enough for Steve to react.
“No.”
He shook him gently.
“Look at me.”
The eyes opened again.
With effort.
“I’m still here.”
“Then stay.”
The rain started suddenly.
Light at first.
Falling between the cracks in the concrete, mixing with the blood, diluting it, dragging it away in tiny red threads.
Additional tags: My entry for the @marvelrarepairs Marvel Rare Pairs Round 5. Card MRP-127.
Links: Wattpad, Ao3, Spanish version.
@saiyanprincessswanie
My native language is Spanish, so I wanna improve my English writing skills. Please let me know if you notice any mistakes, and I will correct them.
I don’t grant permission for my fics to be posted on other platforms or in different languages (I personally translate my work) or for the use of my graphics (my dividers are included in this. I created them exclusively for my fics; please respect my work and refrain from stealing it. Some people here create dividers that anyone can use; mine is not of this type, so please look for the dividers created by others. The only exceptions are those I gifted 'cuz now belong to someone else. Please let me know if you find any of my work on a different platform that is not one of my accounts. Reblogs and comments are always welcome.
DISCLAIMER: I don't own Marvel's characters (unfortunately), except for the original characters and the story.
Add yourself to my taglist here.
My other media where I publish: Ao3, Wattpad, ffnet, TikTok, Instagram, Twitter.
If you like it, please vote, comment, and provide feedback to help me improve my skills. Consider reblogging as well.
The air was cold, controlled, almost sterile, with that metallic smell that stuck in your throat and wouldn’t go away. The walls were smooth, gray, and unmarked… except for the chair.
The chair in the center.
Anchored to the floor.
Waiting.
Bucky Barnes didn’t move.
Not because he couldn’t.
But because there was no reason to.
His hands rested at his sides, held fast by sturdy straps. The metal on his left arm reflected the white light from the ceiling, motionless, silent… like everything else.
His eyes were open.
But they weren’t looking at anything.
Empty.
Absent.
The door opened with a sharp click.
Footsteps.
Firm.
Unhurried.
Brock Rumlow entered.
He was never in a hurry in that place. There was no need. In their time, it didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was the result.
He stopped a few steps away from Bucky.
He looked him over.
From head to toe.
Assessing him.
As always.
“Look at you,” he murmured, with a barely visible half-smile. “The perfect weapon… and yet they still have to keep tweaking you.”
Bucky didn’t react.
Not a blink.
Not a change in his breathing.
Nothing.
Rumlow tilted his head slightly.
“That’s what I like best,” he continued. “That you don’t argue.”
He moved a little closer. The sound of his boots echoed on the floor, breaking the absolute silence of the room.
“But we’re not here for that today, are we?”
Silence. Rumlow turned his neck ever so slightly, giving an almost imperceptible signal.
The door opened again. Two technicians entered.
They avoided looking directly at Bucky.
They always did.
As if looking at him for too long might make them question something they shouldn’t.
They began adjusting the devices around the chair.
Cables.
Electrodes.
A metal helmet that descended slowly until it was millimeters from his head.
Rumlow watched them work.
Without intervening.
Without helping.
“Begin,” he finally ordered.
One of the technicians nodded. A button was pressed. And then… everything changed.
The sound wasn’t exactly audible.
It was more like… a vibration.
A low hum that seemed to penetrate directly into his skull.
Bucky’s muscles tensed ever so slightly.
A minimal movement.
“There you are,” Rumlow whispered.
The lights flickered once.
And then… the words began.
They weren’t shouts.
They weren’t simple commands.
One after another.
In a language Bucky knew.
And didn’t know.
Words that didn’t ask for permission.
That didn’t explain anything.
That just… entered.
They repeated.
Over and over.
Over and over.
Over and over.
The rhythm was constant.
Relentless.
Designed to wear down.
To erase.
To replace.
Bucky’s eyes shifted slightly.
A flicker.
Minimal.
As if something inside him had tried to break the surface.
Rumlow saw it.
And he smiled.
“Yes…” he murmured, moving closer. “Fight. Come on.”
Another word.
Another pulse.
Another repetition.
The flicker disappeared.
His eyes went blank again.
Empty.
“That’s it,” Rumlow said. “It’s easier this way for everyone.”
One of the technicians checked a screen.
“Minimal resistance.”
“Increase it,” Rumlow ordered without hesitation.
The hum grew.
Deeper.
More invasive.
Bucky’s body reacted this time.
A slight twitch.
The fingers of his right hand tensed.
The metal in his arm vibrated slightly.
And then… an image.
Quick.
Violent.
A memory.
Not complete.
Not clear.
But enough.
A train.
Cold.
Snow.
An outstretched hand.
A voice.
“Bucky…”
His breathing changed.
A second.
Just one.
But it was real.
Rumlow leaned closer.
“Do you hear him?” he whispered. “Do you recognize him?”
Bucky’s eyes fluttered. A blink.
“It doesn’t matter,” Rumlow continued. “Because it isn’t real.”
Another word.
Louder.
More direct.
The memory shattered.
It vanished.
Rumlow exhaled slowly.
“That’s what I thought.”
He sat up straight.
“Again.”
The technicians didn’t hesitate.
They restarted the sequence.
From the beginning.
Word for word.
Without pause.
Without mercy.
The process wasn’t quick.
It never was.
Because it wasn’t just about erasing.
It was about making sure nothing came back.
And Rumlow was there to watch.
To make sure.
To push when necessary.
To stop when it was enough.
Or when he thought it was.
“Tell me who you are,” he said at one point, his voice firm and clear.
Additional tags: My entry for the @marvelrarepairs Marvel Rare Pairs Round 5. Card MRP-127.
Links: Wattpad, Ao3, Spanish version.
@saiyanprincessswanie
My native language is Spanish, so I wanna improve my English writing skills. Please let me know if you notice any mistakes, and I will correct them.
I don’t grant permission for my fics to be posted on other platforms or in different languages (I personally translate my work) or for the use of my graphics (my dividers are included in this. I created them exclusively for my fics; please respect my work and refrain from stealing it. Some people here create dividers that anyone can use; mine is not of this type, so please look for the dividers created by others. The only exceptions are those I gifted 'cuz now belong to someone else. Please let me know if you find any of my work on a different platform that is not one of my accounts. Reblogs and comments are always welcome.
DISCLAIMER: I don't own Marvel's characters (unfortunately), except for the original characters and the story.
Add yourself to my taglist here.
My other media where I publish: Ao3, Wattpad, ffnet, TikTok, Instagram, Twitter.
If you like it, please vote, comment, and provide feedback to help me improve my skills. Consider reblogging as well.
Bucky Barnes lay in the darkness of the room, eyes open, staring at a nonexistent spot on the ceiling. His breathing was controlled, too controlled, as if even the act of breathing had to be supervised.
He wasn’t asleep.
He couldn’t be.
Because when he closed his eyes… it all came back.
Not like normal memories.
Not like something distant.
But as if it were happening all over again.
The white lights.
The faceless voices.
The hands holding him down.
The cold.
Always the cold.
His left hand tensed slightly on the sheet, his flesh fingers responding stiffly, while his metal arm remained motionless.
A sound.
Faint.
But enough.
Bucky reacted instantly.
He sat up silently, his body tense, his senses sharp as if the war had never ended.
The door.
A faint brush.
Footsteps.
Familiar.
Bucky didn’t relax.
But he didn’t attack either.
“If you keep this up, you’re going to break something,” said the voice on the other side.
Brock.
The door swung open without permission.
He never asked for permission.
Light from the hallway seeped in faintly, outlining Brock Rumlow’s silhouette in the doorway.
“Again?” he asked, leaning against the wall as if it were the most normal thing in the world.
Bucky didn’t answer right away.
His eyes were still assessing.
“No,” Bucky replied finally.
Dry.
Flat.
Brock took a couple of steps forward.
“Nightmares?”
Silence.
Bucky looked away.
That was enough of an answer.
Brock exhaled through his nose.
It wasn’t mockery.
Not exactly.
“Yeah… I thought so.”
He sat down in a nearby chair, turning it backward and resting his arms on the backrest.
Watching him.
As if he were assessing a damaged piece of equipment.
“Want to talk about it?”
Bucky looked at him.
The question sounded… wrong coming from his mouth.
“No.”
“Okay.”
Pause.
“Because I wasn’t going to push it anyway.”
But he didn’t leave.
He stayed there.
Which was worse… or better?
Hard to say.
“It doesn’t stop,” Bucky said.
His voice was low.
Almost detached.
Brock didn’t answer right away.
“What doesn’t?”
“Everything.”
One word.
Brock tilted his head slightly.
“Yeah… that’s how it works.”
Bucky frowned.
“It shouldn’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s over.”
Brock let out a small, humorless laugh.
“No,” he leaned forward slightly. “It’s over for them.” A slight nod. “For you… It’s just beginning.”
Bucky clenched his jaw.
“You don’t understand.”
“I understand enough.”
“When I close my eyes…” Bucky continued, "It's not a memory.”
He swallowed.
“I’m there.”
Again.
The lights.
The voices.
The orders.
“You can’t move.”
“You can’t think.”
“Just… obey.”
His hands tensed.
“And when I wake up…”
A pause.
“I don’t know if I really got out.”
Brock watched him more closely now.
Without sarcasm.
Without irony.
“Yes, you did get out.”
“How do you know?”
The question came immediately.
“Because now you can question it.”
Silence.
“You couldn’t before.”
Bucky looked down.
“It’s still there,” he murmured.
“Of course it is.”
Bucky looked at him again.
“It’s not going away.”
The statement hit hard.
“So, what do I do?”
It was a dangerous question.
Because it implied something.
Need.
Brock leaned back a little in his chair.
Thinking.
“You learn to live with it.”
“I don’t want to.”
“You have no choice.”
Another pause.
“But you can stop it from controlling you.”
Bucky watched him.
“And how am I supposed to do that?”
Brock stared at him.
“You stop running from it.”
“I’m not running.”
“Of course you are.”
“I’m surviving.”
“Same thing.”
Bucky shook his head.
“No.”
“Yes.”
Brock leaned forward again.
“Listen… what’s in your head isn’t going to go away just because you ignore it.”
Square: I2 “Damned if you do, damned if you don’t”.
Rating: Teen.
Summary: Steve has a dilemma, and Brock helps him.
Major Tags: Angst, tough decisions, dilemma.
Additional tags: My entry for the @marvelrarepairs Marvel Rare Pairs Round 5. Card MRP-127.
Links: Wattpad, Ao3, Spanish version.
@saiyanprincessswanie
My native language is Spanish, so I wanna improve my English writing skills. Please let me know if you notice any mistakes, and I will correct them.
I don’t grant permission for my fics to be posted on other platforms or in different languages (I personally translate my work) or for the use of my graphics (my dividers are included in this. I created them exclusively for my fics; please respect my work and refrain from stealing it. Some people here create dividers that anyone can use; mine is not of this type, so please look for the dividers created by others. The only exceptions are those I gifted 'cuz now belong to someone else. Please let me know if you find any of my work on a different platform that is not one of my accounts. Reblogs and comments are always welcome.
DISCLAIMER: I don't own Marvel's characters (unfortunately), except for the original characters and the story.
Add yourself to my taglist here.
My other media where I publish: Ao3, Wattpad, ffnet, TikTok, Instagram, Twitter.
If you like it, please vote, comment, and provide feedback to help me improve my skills. Consider reblogging as well.
Like the kind of decisions that, no matter how you make them… always turn out wrong.
Steve Rogers stood in front of the window, watching the raindrops slide down the glass in irregular lines. His reflection distorted with every movement of the water, as if not even his own image could hold steady.
He held the file in his hand.
Crumpled at the edges from the force with which he’d been clutching it.
He hadn’t opened it again.
He didn’t need to.
He already knew what it said.
He already knew what it meant.
The door swung open without warning.
“You’re getting wet without even being outside.”
Brock Rumlow’s voice filled the room.
Steve didn’t turn around.
“No.”
“Of course you are.”
Brock shut the door with his foot, letting the sharp thud announce his presence.
“That kind of look…” he continued, stepping closer, “always means the same thing.”
Steve clenched his jaw.
“I don’t need an analysis.”
“No, but you’re getting one.”
Silence.
Brock stood beside him, looking out the window too.
“What is it?”
Steve hesitated.
A split second.
Long enough for Brock to notice.
“It’s serious.”
“Yes.”
“And you’re overthinking it?”
“Yes.”
Brock let out a small laugh.
“Then it’s definitely serious.”
Steve finally turned around.
He handed him the file.
Brock took it without haste, opening it with an uncomfortable familiarity.
His eyes scanned the pages quickly.
Data.
Locations.
Targets.
Estimated collateral damage.
And then, he paused.
A slight raise of an eyebrow.
“Wow.”
He closed the file with a soft thud.
“Yeah… this is ugly.”
Steve crossed his arms.
“If we act, civilians die.”
“And if you don’t act?”
“The target moves.”
“And does something worse.”
Steve didn’t answer.
He didn’t need to.
Brock tilted his head.
“So, we’re in a classic scenario.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
He tapped the file lightly.
“Whatever you do… You lose.”
“There has to be another option,” Steve said finally.
Brock looked at him.
“Sure.”
“What is it?”
“Accepting that there isn’t one.”
The answer was immediate.
Cutting.
Steve shook his head.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“It doesn’t work that way.”
“It works exactly that way.”
Brock took a step closer.
“The world isn’t clean, Rogers.”
“I didn’t say it was.”
“But you act like it is.”
Steve held his gaze.
“I act as if it could be better.”
“And that’s what gets you into these kinds of situations.”
A pause.
“Because you want to save everyone.”
“Because it’s the right thing to do.”
Brock let out a brief laugh.
Without humor.
“There’s no such thing as ‘right’ here.”
“Of course there is.”
“Not on this page.”
He held up the file.
“There are only consequences here.”
Steve clenched his fists.
“Then we choose the lesser one.”
“And you decide which one that is?”
“Someone has to.”
“Yes.”
Brock took a step back, studying him more closely.
“And that someone is you.”
It wasn’t a question.
It was an accusation.
Steve didn’t defend himself.
Because he couldn’t.
Because deep down… it was true.
“If we attack,” Steve said, “innocents die.”
“Yes.”
“If we don’t attack, the target escapes and could cause something worse.”
“That’s true, too.”
“Then tell me,” Steve looked him straight in the eye, “what would you do?”
Brock held his gaze.
One second.
Two.
“I attack.”
The answer was immediate.
Without a doubt.
“Without thinking.”
Steve frowned.
“Of course I’d think about it.”
“Not enough to stop me.”
He stepped closer again.
“Because I understand something you’re still trying to avoid.”
“What is it?”
“That sometimes there’s no way to win.”
“So, you just… choose?”
“Yes.”
“And you live with that?”
Brock shrugged.
“Or you ignore it.”
“I can’t do that.”
“I know.
“If you do, Brock continued, it’s going to haunt you.
“I know.
“And if you don’t…
“It will too.
Brock nodded.
“Exactly.
He pointed to the space between them.
“There you are.
Trapped.
Steve closed his eyes for a second.
The rain kept falling.
Constant.
Unrelenting.
“I don’t want to choose who lives and who dies.”
“No one does.”
“You don’t seem to have a problem with it.”
Brock let out a small laugh.
“Oh, I do.”
“It doesn’t seem like it.”
“Because I don’t stop.”
Steve opened his eyes.
“I do.”
“And that makes you better.”
A pause.
“But it also makes you slower.”
“And sometimes,” Brock added, “slowness kills more people.”
The words hung in the air.
Hard to ignore.
Steve looked at the file again.
Then at the window.
Then at Brock.
“If I do this…”
“Yes.”
“There’s no turning back.”
“There never is.”
“And if I don’t…”
“Neither.”
Silence.
The rain.
Steve took a deep breath.
“I hate this.”
Brock nodded.
“Good.”
“Good?”
“Yes.”
He crossed his arms.
“If one day you stop caring… then we really have a problem.”
Steve exhaled slowly.
He looked at the file one last time.
And made a decision.
“I’m going to give the order.”
Brock watched him.
Assessing.
“Yeah… that’s what I thought.”
Steve didn’t smile.
There was nothing to celebrate.
“And I’m going to take the heat for this.”
“I thought so too.”
There was one last silence.
“Hey, Rogers,” Brock said before turning toward the door.
Steve looked up.
“What?”
Brock glanced at him over his shoulder.
“Welcome to the point where no matter what you do…”
Additional tags: My entry for the @marvelrarepairs Marvel Rare Pairs Round 5. Card MRP-127.
Links: Wattpad, Ao3, Spanish version.
@saiyanprincessswanie
My native language is Spanish, so I wanna improve my English writing skills. Please let me know if you notice any mistakes, and I will correct them.
I don’t grant permission for my fics to be posted on other platforms or in different languages (I personally translate my work) or for the use of my graphics (my dividers are included in this. I created them exclusively for my fics; please respect my work and refrain from stealing it. Some people here create dividers that anyone can use; mine is not of this type, so please look for the dividers created by others. The only exceptions are those I gifted 'cuz now belong to someone else. Please let me know if you find any of my work on a different platform that is not one of my accounts. Reblogs and comments are always welcome.
DISCLAIMER: I don't own Marvel's characters (unfortunately), except for the original characters and the story.
Add yourself to my taglist here.
My other media where I publish: Ao3, Wattpad, ffnet, TikTok, Instagram, Twitter.
If you like it, please vote, comment, and provide feedback to help me improve my skills. Consider reblogging as well.
He could feel it in his skin, in the guards’ posture, in the way the air seemed heavier than usual, as if the place were holding its breath against its will.
At his side, Brock Rumlow walked with the calmness of someone who had already decided what to do if everything went wrong.
Or rather… when it went wrong.
“I don’t like this place,” Rumlow muttered without looking at Bucky.
“Nobody does,” Bucky replied.
“No. I like places with an exit.”
Bucky glanced at him out of the corner of his eye.
Rumlow let out a brief, humorless laugh.
They kept moving forward.
White hallways.
Lighting that was too sterile.
Doors locked with biometric systems that seemed more military than the building wanted to admit.
And at the center of it all…
A name.
The name was not spoken aloud, but it was present in every corner, in every protocol, and in every encrypted file Bucky had seen minutes earlier.
Steve Rogers.
Rumlow noticed.
“Him again,” he said, this time with a sharper edge to his voice.
Bucky didn’t respond right away.
Because “again” was a simplified way of saying too many things.
Too many missions.
Too many decisions.
Too many versions of the same thing.
“We’re not here for him,” Bucky finally said.
Rumlow looked at him, this time directly.
“Everything always ends up being about him.”
The comment hung in the air.
It wasn’t a complaint.
It was an observation.
An uncomfortable truth.
Bucky didn’t deny it.
Because deep down… he knew it was true.
The archive room was protected by three levels of security.
Rumlow opened it as if it were routine.
Because for him, almost everything was.
For Bucky, on the other hand, every layer of security was a warning.
Not of danger.
But of importance.
“Here,” said Rumlow, connecting the device to the central panel.
The screen flickered.
Then it lit up.
And then the file appeared.
“PROJECT: LEGACY”
Bucky frowned.
“That wasn’t in the summary.”
“Not everything that matters is in the summary,” Rumlow replied.
Lines of code began to scroll.
Data.
Images.
Records.
And names.
Many names.
But all revolved around one.
Steve Rogers.
Bucky felt something inside him tense.
As if a part of him had already expected to find the truth sooner or later.
“They’re using his image,” Rumlow murmured.
Bucky shook his head slowly.
“No.”
He stepped closer to the screen.
Looking more closely.
“It’s not just his image.”
Rumlow raised an eyebrow.
“Explain.”
Bucky pointed to a line in the file.
“They’re using his history. His decisions. His response patterns.”
Rumlow let out a breath.
“That sounds like a copy.”
“It sounds like a replacement,” Bucky corrected.
The silence that followed was heavier than any alarm.
In another section of the building, the system shifted.
Not by mistake.
By activation.
Red lights began to flash in sequence.
Rumlow noticed it first.
“We’ve been detected.”
Bucky was already moving.
“No.”
He paused for a second.
Listening.
Analyzing.
“They let us in on purpose.”
Rumlow looked at him in disbelief.
“That’s worse.”
“Yes.”
There was no argument.
Because they both understood.
A trap wasn’t just a trap when it closed doors.
It was worse when it let you advance far enough to believe you were in control.
The doors sealed shut behind them.
An automated voice filled the hallway.
“LEGACY PROTOCOL ACTIVATED.”
Rumlow clicked his tongue.
“Great.”
Bucky was already assessing routes.
“It’s not a defensive protocol.”
“Then what is it?”
Bucky looked at him.
“It’s a simulation.”
Rumlow frowned.
“A simulation of what?”
Bucky didn’t answer right away.
Because the answer wasn’t technical.
It was personal.
Then they understood.
The sound of footsteps echoed at the end of the hallway.
Uniforms.
Shields.
Coordinated movements.
They weren’t generic soldiers.
They were patterns.
Strategies.
Replicas.
Rumlow raised his weapon.
“Tell me I’m not seeing what I think I’m seeing.”
Bucky exhaled slowly.
“You’re seeing a version of him.”
And then he appeared.
Not Steve.
Not really.
But enough.
A figure mimicking his posture.
His way of moving.
His manner of advancing as if every step were already calculated to protect something invisible.
Rumlow gripped his weapon.
“This is a joke.”
“No,” said Bucky. “It’s a rehearsal.”
The simulated “Steve” raised his shield.
And attacked.
The clash was immediate.
Rumlow fired first, but the simulation was already in motion before the sound of the trigger.
Bucky reacted with pure speed, intercepting the attack before it reached the critical point.
“It’s not real,” Rumlow growled as he stepped back.
It wasn’t Steve.
But it was built on him.
On everything he would do.
On everything he had done.
Every move was predictable… precisely because it was based on someone who had been analyzed down to the last detail.
Rumlow fired again.
“Who builds something like this?”
Bucky spun, dodging a blow.
“Someone who wants to control it.”
Rumlow let out a short laugh.
“Good luck with that.”
The fake “Steve” advanced again.
“He’s learning,” said Bucky.
Rumlow looked at him.
“That’s not good.”
“No.”
And this time… there was something different in Bucky’s voice.
Additional tags: My entry for the @marvelrarepairs Marvel Rare Pairs Round 5. Card MRP-127.
Links: Wattpad, Ao3, Spanish version.
@saiyanprincessswanie
My native language is Spanish, so I wanna improve my English writing skills. Please let me know if you notice any mistakes, and I will correct them.
I don’t grant permission for my fics to be posted on other platforms or in different languages (I personally translate my work) or for the use of my graphics (my dividers are included in this. I created them exclusively for my fics; please respect my work and refrain from stealing it. Some people here create dividers that anyone can use; mine is not of this type, so please look for the dividers created by others. The only exceptions are those I gifted 'cuz now belong to someone else. Please let me know if you find any of my work on a different platform that is not one of my accounts. Reblogs and comments are always welcome.
DISCLAIMER: I don't own Marvel's characters (unfortunately), except for the original characters and the story.
Add yourself to my taglist here.
My other media where I publish: Ao3, Wattpad, ffnet, TikTok, Instagram, Twitter.
If you like it, please vote, comment, and provide feedback to help me improve my skills. Consider reblogging as well.
Not clean. Not peaceful, either. White in a way that hurt the eyes, as if trying to erase any trace of humanity. The lights on the ceiling didn’t flicker or hum: they were constant, relentless, and designed to offer no respite.
Bucky Barnes wasn’t there.
The soldier was.
Standing in the center of the room, motionless, back straight, arms relaxed at his sides.
Programming.
The metal door opened with a sharp click.
Brock Rumlow entered unhurriedly.
His boots echoed against the floor with firm steps; his gaze swept the room in a second before settling on him.
On the Soldier.
“Always so obedient,” he murmured, crossing his arms.
Rumlow tilted his head slightly, sizing him up as if he were a tool he was about to use.
“I have a job for you.”
Silence.
But the soldier was listening. He always listened.
Rumlow took a couple more steps toward him, closing the distance until he was barely a meter away. He looked him straight in the eye, searching for something.
“It’s not a routine mission,” he continued. “No shooting required. No complicated infiltration. But you’re going to have to do something… interesting.”
The soldier didn’t react. Rumlow smiled faintly.
“Bring him in.”
The door opened again.
Two officers entered, holding a third man between them. He was conscious, but barely. His feet dragged; his breathing was ragged. His face was bruised, his lips split, his clothes stained with dried blood. When they set him down on the floor, he fell to his knees. It took him a few seconds to lift his head.
And when he did… He looked straight at the soldier. Something in his eyes changed.
“…James…” he whispered, his voice breaking.
The soldier didn’t react.
Rumlow watched the scene with genuine interest, as if it were an experiment about to unfold.
“Look at him,” he said, pointing at the man on the floor. “I want you to get a good look at him.”
The soldier obeyed.
His eyes fixed on the target.
The man swallowed hard, holding himself up as best he could.
“No… it’s not you…” he murmured, shaking his head slightly. “It can’t be…”
Rumlow took a step back, creating space between them.
“He knows who you are,” he remarked, almost amused. “That’s the interesting part.”
He turned to the soldier.
“New order.”
The word “order” changed something.
Subtly.
“You’re going to make him talk,” Rumlow continued. “And I don’t want quick methods. I want… precision.”
The man on the floor let out a weak, broken laugh.
“I’m not going to say anything…”
Rumlow didn’t even look at him.
“I’m not asking you.”
The soldier took a step forward.
Slowly.
Controlled.
The man looked up again, more desperate this time.
“Bucky…” he insisted, more forcefully, as if saying the name could save him. “You know me… you…
The blow came before he could finish.
It was precise.
The soldier's fist struck his face with just enough force to break, not to kill. The sound was sharp and decisive. The man fell to his side, groaning.
Rumlow smiled.
“That.”
The soldier crouched down in front of him.
His movements were mechanical, but not clumsy. He grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and lifted him slightly, forcing him to stay conscious.
“Speak,” he said.
The man was breathing with difficulty, blood trickling from his nose.
“I… I won’t…”
Another blow.
The man’s body shook.
“No…” he gasped. “You’re not like this…”
Silence.
The soldier blinked.
Once.
Rumlow noticed.
His expression changed slightly, becoming more alert.
“Continue,” he ordered, in a firmer tone.
The soldier refocused.
He gripped the man more tightly.
“Speak.”
“No…” he whispered, almost voiceless. “I won’t betray you…”
The next movement was slower.
By design.
The soldier took the man’s hand.
And bent it.
The scream filled the room.
The soldier didn’t react.
But deep down…
Rumlow watched, completely motionless, as if analyzing every microsecond of the process.
“That’s it,” he murmured. “Keep going.”
The man was crying now.
Not just from pain.
From despair.
“Please…” he pleaded. “Please, James…”
The name hung in the air again.
The soldier paused.
A second.
Two.
His fingers still held the man’s hand, ready to snap it completely.
But he didn’t.
Not right away.
His eyes remained fixed on him.
Rumlow took a step forward.
“Don’t stop.”
It was a direct order.
“Finish it.”
The soldier clenched his jaw.
And then…
He did it.
The sound was clean.
Definitive.
The scream broke into a choked sob.
The man collapsed completely to the ground, trembling, unable to support himself.
The soldier rose slowly.
He took a step back.
And stood still again.
Rumlow watched him for a few more seconds.
Assessing.
Weighing.
Then he nodded.
“It works,” he said simply.
He turned toward the door.
“Take him away. It doesn’t matter anymore if he talks.”
The agents entered again, picking up the man who could barely move.
Before they took him out, he looked up one last time.
Additional tags: My entry for the @marvelrarepairs Marvel Rare Pairs Round 5. Card MRP-127.
Links: Wattpad, Ao3, Spanish version.
@saiyanprincessswanie
My native language is Spanish, so I wanna improve my English writing skills. Please let me know if you notice any mistakes, and I will correct them.
I don’t grant permission for my fics to be posted on other platforms or in different languages (I personally translate my work) or for the use of my graphics (my dividers are included in this. I created them exclusively for my fics; please respect my work and refrain from stealing it. Some people here create dividers that anyone can use; mine is not of this type, so please look for the dividers created by others. The only exceptions are those I gifted 'cuz now belong to someone else. Please let me know if you find any of my work on a different platform that is not one of my accounts. Reblogs and comments are always welcome.
DISCLAIMER: I don't own Marvel's characters (unfortunately), except for the original characters and the story.
Add yourself to my taglist here.
My other media where I publish: Ao3, Wattpad, ffnet, TikTok, Instagram, Twitter.
If you like it, please vote, comment, and provide feedback to help me improve my skills. Consider reblogging as well.
The building was silent, but it wasn’t an empty silence.
One of those silences that don’t exist because of the absence of noise, but because everyone is waiting for something. The air itself seemed to stand still inside that old, abandoned industrial complex, with its cracked concrete walls and tall, dust-covered windows. The afternoon light barely filtered in as pale streaks, casting long shadows on the floor.
In the center of the room, a group of people sat on the floor.
Hands bound.
Tense stares.
Some were trying not to cry. Others couldn’t even lift their heads. There was fear, of course… but there was also confusion. None of them understood exactly why they were there.
That was what made it all more effective.
Brock Rumlow was leaning against one of the columns, watching them with an almost unsettling calm. He wasn’t holding a weapon at that moment; he didn’t need one to impose control. His mere presence was enough. Jack Rollins, on the other hand, was moving about.
He paced back and forth, checking the restraints, adjusting positions, and keeping an eye on the details. He was meticulous. Each rope was tight enough to prevent movement, but not so tight as to cut off circulation. Each hostage was positioned strategically.
“The perimeter is clear,” he said finally, stopping near Brock. “No one has approached.”
Brock didn’t take his eyes off the group.
“Not yet.”
A woman raised her voice, trembling.
“What do they want from us?”
Silence fell again for a moment.
Rollins turned his head toward her, sizing her up quickly. Brock stepped away from the column and began walking toward the group.
His footsteps echoed clearly in the empty space.
He stopped in front of them.
“You’re not the target,” he said in a firm voice, without raising his tone. “You’re the message.”
The words didn’t reassure anyone.
On the contrary.
A younger man, his hands tied behind his back, frowned.
“A message for whom?”
Brock looked him straight in the eye.
“For whoever needs to receive it.”
Rollins let out a small exhalation, almost a stifled laugh, but didn’t intervene. He knew Brock handled this his own way.
And his way… worked.
“And what if no one comes?” the man insisted.
Brock tilted his head slightly.
“Someone always comes.”
He turned, walking back to where he had been standing.
Rollins followed him a couple of steps, speaking in a lower voice.
“How long do you plan to wait?”
“As long as it takes.”
“You know that increases the risk.”
Brock glanced at him out of the corner of his eye.
“This whole thing is a risk.”
Rollins nodded.
For a few minutes, nothing happened.
Just bated breaths.
Eyes that avoided meeting.
The distant sound of the wind seeping through the cracks in the building.
Until…
A noise.
Faint.
But enough.
Rollins tensed immediately, turning toward one of the side entrances.
“We’ve got company.”
Brock showed no surprise.
“Take up positions.”
Rollins acted fast.
He moved toward an elevated metal structure, from where he had a better view of the entrance. He drew his weapon, checking automatically to make sure everything was in order.
Brock, on the other hand, stayed where he was.
The hostages began to get agitated, some turning as best they could to try to see what was happening.
“Freeze,” Rollins ordered from above, without needing to shout.
Footsteps.
Outside.
Getting closer.
They weren’t hurried.
They were cautious.
They entered.
Two agents.
Armed.
Moving in formation.
Assessing the surroundings.
When their eyes took in the full scene… they stopped.
The hostages.
Brock.
The silence.
“Don’t take another step,” one of them said.
Brock smiled slightly.
“You got here faster than I expected.”
“Let them go,” the officer replied firmly.
Rollins already had them in his sights from his elevated position.
Brock raised a hand slightly, not in surrender, but as a gesture of control.
“It’s not that simple.”
One of the hostages began to sob.
“This doesn’t have to escalate,” the agent continued. “We can work this out.”
Brock watched him as if analyzing every word.
“It’s already escalated.”
One second.
Two.
No one moved.
Rollins didn’t take her eyes off them.
The agents didn’t lower their weapons.
The hostages barely breathed.
“What do you want?” the second agent finally asked.
Brock took a step forward.
“Attention.”
The officer frowned.
“You have it.”
Brock shook his head slightly.
“Not enough.”
And then…
Everything moved at once.
One of the officers tried to advance.
Rollins fired.
The impact forced him to take cover.
The other returned fire.
The echo of gunshots filled the building.
The hostages screamed.
Brock moved with precision, taking cover only as needed, maintaining control of the space.
Rollins dropped from his position as soon as the situation changed, quickly repositioning himself to cover another angle.
Additional tags: My entry for the @marvelrarepairs Marvel Rare Pairs Round 5. Card MRP-127.
Links: Wattpad, Ao3, Spanish version.
@saiyanprincessswanie
My native language is Spanish, so I wanna improve my English writing skills. Please let me know if you notice any mistakes, and I will correct them.
I don’t grant permission for my fics to be posted on other platforms or in different languages (I personally translate my work) or for the use of my graphics (my dividers are included in this. I created them exclusively for my fics; please respect my work and refrain from stealing it. Some people here create dividers that anyone can use; mine is not of this type, so please look for the dividers created by others. The only exceptions are those I gifted 'cuz now belong to someone else. Please let me know if you find any of my work on a different platform that is not one of my accounts. Reblogs and comments are always welcome.
DISCLAIMER: I don't own Marvel's characters (unfortunately), except for the original characters and the story.
Add yourself to my taglist here.
My other media where I publish: Ao3, Wattpad, ffnet, TikTok, Instagram, Twitter.
If you like it, please vote, comment, and provide feedback to help me improve my skills. Consider reblogging as well.
The air didn’t feel any lighter the first time Natasha Romanoff and Bucky Barnes were in the same room without trying to kill each other.
It felt more dangerous.
Because there were no raised weapons.
Because there were no screams.
The room was small, underground, and lit by white lights too stark to be comfortable. A metal table in the center. Two chairs. An open report that no one seemed to want to touch.
Steve stood to one side, silent, watching as if any word might set something off.
And between them all…
Natasha and Bucky.
Face to face.
Motionless.
Not speaking at first.
Just looking at each other.
Natasha was the first to break the silence.
“I didn’t think they’d let you into this kind of meeting,” she said, with studied calm.
Bucky tilted his head ever so slightly.
“I didn’t think you’d be here either. And without handcuffs,” he added.
Natasha smiled faintly.
“I earned them.”
Silence.
Steve tensed slightly but didn’t intervene.
He knew he shouldn’t.
Natasha took a step towards the table.
Bucky didn’t back away.
That was already a change.
He used to.
Before, every time she got close, he’d react as if the space between them were a minefield.
“Do you remember the last time we were in a closed space together?” Natasha asked.
Bucky looked her straight in the eye.
“Yes.”
“Me too.”
Another pause.
“You tried to snap my neck,” she continued, as if she were talking about the weather.
“You tried to shoot me first,” he replied.
Natasha nodded slowly.
“Fair enough.”
Silence again.
Steve crossed his arms, clearly uncomfortable with the casual nature of the exchange.
“We’re not here to relive that,” he said finally.
Natasha glanced at him out of the corner of her eye.
“Well, a little bit.”
Bucky exhaled through his nose.
Something like a laugh, but without any amusement.
"Not 'a little bit.' 'It's always like that.”
Natasha watched him in silence.
“You weren’t easy to forget,” she said.
Bucky looked at her warily.
“Neither were you.”
Steve took a step towards the table.
“HYDRA pitted you against each other indirectly many times,” he said. “But the two of you…”
Natasha leant slightly against the edge of the table.
“We crossed paths more than we should have.”
Bucky looked down for a second.
“It was always the same feeling,” he said slowly. “As if I already knew you… but didn’t know from where.”
Natasha didn’t answer right away.
When she did, her voice was softer.
“Similar training.”
Bucky shook his head slightly.
“That’s not it.”
Silence.
Natasha studied him.
“You stopped me once.”
That sentence changed something in the room.
Steve looked up.
“So did you.”
Bucky tensed slightly.
“No,” he replied.
Natasha didn’t look away.
“Yes.”
A long silence. Bucky clenched his jaw.
“I don’t remember that.”
“I do,” she said.
Natasha crossed her arms.
“You were on a mission in Berlin. Extraction order. Secondary target eliminated. I was the primary target.”
Bucky didn’t speak.
“You had a direct line,” she continued. “You could have finished the job in seconds. But you didn’t.”
Steve frowned.
“Nat…”
“Leave her alone,” he said without looking at him.
“I didn’t finish the mission as I should have.”
Natasha watched him closely.
“That’s not what they do to you,” she said finally.
Bucky looked at her.
“I know,” he replied.
Silence.
Steve looked back and forth between them, as if unsure whether to intervene or let the past resolve itself.
Natasha sat up straight.
“They taught us not to hesitate,” she said. “Not to stop.”
Bucky looked at her.
“But you did it too,” he replied.
Natasha held his gaze.
And for a moment… there were no defenses.
Just the truth.
“Yes,” she admitted.
Then Bucky spoke, more softly:
“Why?”
Natasha looked at him without blinking.
“Because I survived.”
It wasn’t a complete answer.
But it was honest.
Bucky took a step towards the table.
Natasha didn’t move.
“I didn’t always hate you,” he said suddenly.
Natasha looked at him intently.
“Just most of the time,” he added.
That made Natasha let out a brief laugh for the first time.
Additional tags: My entry for the @marvelrarepairs Marvel Rare Pairs Round 5. Card MRP-127.
Links: Wattpad, Ao3, Spanish version.
@saiyanprincessswanie
My native language is Spanish, so I wanna improve my English writing skills. Please let me know if you notice any mistakes, and I will correct them.
I don’t grant permission for my fics to be posted on other platforms or in different languages (I personally translate my work) or for the use of my graphics (my dividers are included in this. I created them exclusively for my fics; please respect my work and refrain from stealing it. Some people here create dividers that anyone can use; mine is not of this type, so please look for the dividers created by others. The only exceptions are those I gifted 'cuz now belong to someone else. Please let me know if you find any of my work on a different platform that is not one of my accounts. Reblogs and comments are always welcome.
DISCLAIMER: I don't own Marvel's characters (unfortunately), except for the original characters and the story.
Add yourself to my taglist here.
My other media where I publish: Ao3, Wattpad, ffnet, TikTok, Instagram, Twitter.
If you like it, please vote, comment, and provide feedback to help me improve my skills. Consider reblogging as well.
It seeped through every crack in the ruined building as if it had a will of its own, as if it wanted to rip the heat from their bones. The snow fell diagonally, driven by gusts that made the exposed metal structures vibrate. The mission had gone wrong.
That was the only clear thing.
Steve Rogers moved slowly through the ruins of what had once been a HYDRA facility. His shield was on his arm, but not raised. There were no visible enemies now. Just cold. Too cold.
Each breath was heavier than the last.
And he wasn’t alone.
“Don’t tell me you’re slowing down, Rogers,” Brock Rumlow’s voice cut through the wind from behind.
Steve didn’t turn around immediately.
Not because he hadn’t heard him.
But because turning around took more effort than he wanted to admit.
“I’m not slowing down,” he replied at last.
Rumlow emerged from the snow like a solid shadow, armed, his uniform partially covered in ice. “Sure,” Rumlow muttered. “You’re just walking like half your body’s been drained.”
Steve exhaled through his nose.
“We’re in hostile territory. This is no time for jokes.”
“I’m not joking.”
Silence.
They both kept moving forward.
But something wasn’t right.
Steve felt it first as a discomfort on his skin.
Hypothermia.
His mind registered it before his body would admit it.
Rumlow noticed it, too.
“Hey,” he said suddenly, more seriously. “You’re turning pale.”
“I’m fine.”
The response was automatic.
Too automatic.
Rumlow let out a brief, humorless laugh.
“Yeah, sure.”
Steve took another step.
And he felt something strange.
His balance… faltered just a little.
He didn’t fall.
But he felt it.
That was worse.
"Rogers," Rumlow’s voice dropped a notch, "look at me.”
Steve ignored him.
He kept walking.
But more slowly.
More stiffly.
The cold was no longer external.
It was internal.
As if it had crept under his skin and was now working from within.
“We don’t need two frozen corpses,” Rumlow continued.
Steve clenched his jaw.
“We’re not going to stop now.”
“That’s not an answer.”
The wind picked up.
The snow stung like needles.
Steve took another step… And this time his leg responded too late.
Way too late.
He stopped.
Just for a second.
But it was enough.
Rumlow saw it.
And he didn’t argue anymore.
He came over immediately.
“Okay,” he said, more matter-of-factly now. “That wasn’t normal.”
Steve gripped his shield tighter.
“I’m fine.”
Rumlow stared at him.
“No, you’re not.”
Silence.
Steve tried to keep moving forward.
But his body wouldn’t quite cooperate.
“You’re falling,” Rumlow said.
“No.”
But the “no” came out weakly.
Rumlow grabbed him by the arm.
“Listen to me,” he said. “This isn’t an argument.”
Steve tried to pull away.
But the movement was incomplete.
Unsteady.
Rumlow steadied him without hesitation.
“You have hypothermia,” he said bluntly.
Silence.
Steve knew it.
But admitting it was another matter.
“We have to get out of here,” Rumlow added. “Now.”
Steve took a moment to respond.
When he did, his voice was more strained.
“The target…”
“The target is either gone or already dead,” Rumlow interrupted. “There’s nothing here worth freezing your life away for.”
The wind blew harder.
Steve closed his eyes for a second.
Too long.
Rumlow noticed.
“Hey,” he said, his voice lower now. “Rogers.”
Steve opened his eyes slowly.
The world felt… distant.
As if he weren’t fully inside his own body.
“Focus on me,” Rumlow ordered.
Steve looked at him.
But not fully focused.
Rumlow held him more firmly.
“Let’s keep moving,” he said. “Step by step.”
Steve tried to nod.
But the movement was minimal.
They both began to move forward again.
Slower now.
Rumlow was practically guiding him.
The cold kept seeping in.
“Don’t fall asleep,” Rumlow said suddenly.
Steve frowned slightly.
“I’m not…”
“Yes, you are,” Rumlow interrupted. “Don’t close your eyes.”
Steve blinked.
The world was becoming… blurry around the edges.
“I can’t…” he murmured.
Rumlow turned him slightly towards him.
“Yes, you can. Look at me,” Rumlow ordered.
Steve did.
With difficulty.
Rumlow held his gaze.
“You’re still here,” he said. “Understood?”
It took Steve a moment to process it.
“Yes…”
“No, not 'yes,'" Rumlow corrected him. “Understood.”
Additional tags: My entry for the @marvelrarepairs Marvel Rare Pairs Round 5. Card MRP-127.
Links: Wattpad, Ao3, Spanish version.
@saiyanprincessswanie
My native language is Spanish, so I wanna improve my English writing skills. Please let me know if you notice any mistakes, and I will correct them.
I don’t grant permission for my fics to be posted on other platforms or in different languages (I personally translate my work) or for the use of my graphics (my dividers are included in this. I created them exclusively for my fics; please respect my work and refrain from stealing it. Some people here create dividers that anyone can use; mine is not of this type, so please look for the dividers created by others. The only exceptions are those I gifted 'cuz now belong to someone else. Please let me know if you find any of my work on a different platform that is not one of my accounts. Reblogs and comments are always welcome.
DISCLAIMER: I don't own Marvel's characters (unfortunately), except for the original characters and the story.
Add yourself to my taglist here.
My other media where I publish: Ao3, Wattpad, ffnet, TikTok, Instagram, Twitter.
If you like it, please vote, comment, and provide feedback to help me improve my skills. Consider reblogging as well.
The house where they were wasn’t official; it wasn’t listed in any public records, and there were no signs that it belonged to anyone in particular. It was one of those places that existed only to disappear off the map for a while, to breathe without anyone looking over their shoulder.
Clint Barton was sitting on the porch, holding a cup of coffee that had gone cold a long time ago, scanning the grounds as if he were waiting for something to move, even though he knew perfectly well that nothing was going to happen.
Bucky slipped out of the house silently, as always. He leaned against one of the wooden columns, keeping a certain distance but close enough to share the same space.
Clint didn’t turn around right away.
He knew Bucky was there.
“Are you not sleeping, or have you just decided to ignore the concept?” he said finally, taking a small sip of the cold coffee without making a single facial expression.
Bucky didn’t answer right away.
He looked at the horizon first.
The sky was just beginning to change color—that point between night and dawn where everything seems suspended.
“I wasn’t sleepy,” he replied after a moment.
Clint let out a soft chuckle through his nose.
“Sure.”
Bucky crossed his arms, his gaze automatically sweeping the terrain, assessing routes, blind spots, and distances. It was a habit that wouldn’t go away—one that probably never would. Clint noticed it.
“There’s no one here,” he said, without looking at him. “I’ve already checked everything twice.”
Bucky nodded slightly.
“Me too.”
Clint turned his head then, looking at him for the first time since he’d come out.
“And yet you’re still in surveillance mode?”
Bucky didn’t seem offended. Not even uncomfortable.
Clint held his gaze for another second. Then he nodded, as if that were explanation enough. The coffee returned to his lips, more out of habit than pleasure.
A few minutes passed like that.
In silence.
Bucky was the first to move, taking a step toward the edge of the porch, looking down the dirt road leading to the house.
“How long do you think we’ll stay here?”
Clint shrugged slightly.
“Until someone decides it’s no longer safe, or until they need us to go back.”
Bucky looked down for a second, as if he were processing something beyond the answer.
“What if no one calls?”
Clint raised an eyebrow.
“Does that worry you, or does it make you uncomfortable?”
Bucky didn’t answer right away.
“I don’t know,” he finally admitted.
Clint rested his elbows on his knees, leaning forward.
“It makes me restless.”
Bucky glanced at him out of the corner of his eye.
“I thought you liked not having orders.”
Clint smiled faintly.
“I like choosing when to ignore them.”
The wind rustled through the trees, making the branches creak softly. The sound filled the space without interrupting it.
“Do you ever get used to it?” Bucky asked after a while. Clint didn’t ask for clarification; he knew what he meant. “To not be at war all the time,” Bucky continued.
Clint sighed.
“I don’t think it’s a matter of getting used to it,” he said. “I think it’s more about learning not to need it.”
Bucky frowned slightly.
“And have you managed that?”
Clint looked at him again.
“Some days.”
The sun began to rise, illuminating the landscape with a soft light that made everything seem more… normal.
More real.
Bucky stared at that change.
As if he didn’t see it as often as he should.
“Sometimes I don’t know what to do when there’s nothing to do,” he said, almost in a whisper.
Clint let out a small laugh.
“Welcome to the club,” he said, then stood up, stretching a little, setting the cup aside. “Come on.”
Bucky looked at him, slightly confused.
“Where?”
Clint was already stepping off the porch.
“To do something pointless.”
That certainly caught his attention.
Bucky hesitated for a second.
But he followed him.
They walked to the back of the house, where there was an old, half-abandoned wooden structure. Nothing important. Nothing functional.
Clint picked up a couple of tools leaning against the wall.
He tossed one to Bucky.
“Let’s fix this.”
Bucky caught the hammer without a problem, staring at it as if it were a strange object.
Additional tags: My entry for the @marvelrarepairs Marvel Rare Pairs Round 5. Card MRP-127.
Links: Wattpad, Ao3, Spanish version.
@saiyanprincessswanie
My native language is Spanish, so I wanna improve my English writing skills. Please let me know if you notice any mistakes, and I will correct them.
I don’t grant permission for my fics to be posted on other platforms or in different languages (I personally translate my work) or for the use of my graphics (my dividers are included in this. I created them exclusively for my fics; please respect my work and refrain from stealing it. Some people here create dividers that anyone can use; mine is not of this type, so please look for the dividers created by others. The only exceptions are those I gifted 'cuz now belong to someone else. Please let me know if you find any of my work on a different platform that is not one of my accounts. Reblogs and comments are always welcome.
DISCLAIMER: I don't own Marvel's characters (unfortunately), except for the original characters and the story.
Add yourself to my taglist here.
My other media where I publish: Ao3, Wattpad, ffnet, TikTok, Instagram, Twitter.
If you like it, please vote, comment, and provide feedback to help me improve my skills. Consider reblogging as well.
It was, at best, a spot where neither had an immediate advantage and where both knew exactly what the other was capable of. An abandoned building on the outskirts, with weathered concrete and broken windows.
Steve Rogers arrived first. He stopped in the center of the room, the light filtering in irregular patterns across the dusty floor. His eyes scanned every entrance, every high point, and every shadow that might conceal something. There was no visible equipment or backup nearby, but that didn’t mean he was alone.
He never was.
The sound of footsteps was anything but stealthy.
Brock Rumlow had never been one to hide his presence when it didn’t suit him.
He entered unhurriedly; his relaxed posture was a well-rehearsed lie.
He stopped a few meters away.
Close enough to talk.
Far enough to react.
“I never thought you’d be the one to suggest this,” Brock said.
Steve didn’t respond right away.
He looked at him.
“Circumstances change,” he replied finally.
Brock let out a low laugh.
“Not enough for you to forget who I am.”
Steve held his gaze.
“I haven’t forgotten.”
The silence that followed was tense. Brock tilted his head slightly, sizing him up.
“Then explain to me why you’re here instead of chasing after me.”
Steve took a step forward.
“Because there’s something worse than you.”
The answer wasn’t dramatic.
It was direct.
Brock didn’t react with surprise.
“That sounds like an excuse,” he said. “Or like a problem you want me to take on.”
Steve shook his head slightly.
“It’s a problem that already belongs to everyone.”
Brock studied him for a few more seconds.
Looking for cracks.
Doubts.
Lies.
“Speak,” he ordered.
Steve took a deep breath, as if every word carried weight.
“A group is using technology recovered from old facilities. They’re not just replicating it—they’re improving it. They don’t follow the same rules you used to follow.”
“I didn’t follow rules,” he replied. Steve ignored him.
“They’re expanding fast. Too fast. And they’re not interested in negotiating.”
Brock crossed his arms, shifting his weight slightly onto one leg.
“And you want me to help you stop them?”
Steve held his gaze without hesitation.
“I want information.”
Brock smiled. That smile that never meant anything good.
“Sure. It always starts like this.”
He walked around a bit, without getting too close, as if he were circling the conversation rather than facing it head-on.
“You show up, say there’s something worse, that it’s urgent, that it’s dangerous… and then you expect me to just cooperate.”
He stopped in front of him again.
Closer now.
“What’s in it for me?”
The question was inevitable.
Steve had already anticipated it.
“Access,” he replied.
Brock raised an eyebrow.
“Go on.”
“To information you don’t have. To movements you haven’t seen. To the full picture.”
Brock stared at him.
“That’s not enough.”
Steve didn’t move.
“You also stand to gain by keeping this from getting out of hand.”
Brock let out a dry laugh.
“That sounds more like something that’s in your best interest.”
Steve took another step forward.
“If this escalates, it won’t matter which side you’re on.”
That made Brock’s smile fade. Brock ran a hand over his chin, thoughtfully.
“And what happens when this is over?”
Steve didn’t hesitate.
“We’ll still be who we are.”
Brock held his gaze.
“At least you’re not lying,” he murmured.
He stepped back, as if he needed space to think.
Then another.
As if he needed space to think.
“You know what this means, don’t you?”
Steve nodded.
“Yes.”
“It means you’re willing to get your hands dirty,” Brock continued. “To work with someone like me.”
Steve didn’t look away.
“It means I’m willing to do whatever it takes.”
Brock smiled again.
“There you go,” he said. “I knew you’d get there eventually.”
Steve didn’t respond.
Because there was nothing more to add.
Brock paused, looking out one of the broken windows, the outside barely visible.
“There’s a base,” he said finally. “It’s not on any official map. They operate from there.”
Steve didn’t interrupt.
“It’s not big,” Brock continued, “but it’s well protected. You’re not going to get in with brute force alone.”
Steve nodded.
“Location.”
Brock slowly turned his head toward him.
“Not yet.”
The refusal wasn’t aggressive.
It was strategic.
“First I want to see how serious you are about this.”
Steve frowned slightly.
“I’m already here.”
Brock shook his head.
“That’s not enough. I want a real exchange.”
Steve pressed him.
“What do you want?”
Brock watched him in silence for a few seconds.
“I want you to trust me enough to act without knowing everything.”
That… was dangerous.
Steve knew it.
Steve exhaled slowly.
“Once,” he said. “I’ll do it once.”
Brock smiled. Satisfied.
“That’s a deal.”
When Brock turned to leave, Steve didn’t stop him.
Additional tags: My entry for the @marvelrarepairs Marvel Rare Pairs Round 5. Card MRP-127.
Links: Wattpad, Ao3, Spanish version.
@saiyanprincessswanie
My native language is Spanish, so I wanna improve my English writing skills. Please let me know if you notice any mistakes, and I will correct them.
I don’t grant permission for my fics to be posted on other platforms or in different languages (I personally translate my work) or for the use of my graphics (my dividers are included in this. I created them exclusively for my fics; please respect my work and refrain from stealing it. Some people here create dividers that anyone can use; mine is not of this type, so please look for the dividers created by others. The only exceptions are those I gifted 'cuz now belong to someone else. Please let me know if you find any of my work on a different platform that is not one of my accounts. Reblogs and comments are always welcome.
DISCLAIMER: I don't own Marvel's characters (unfortunately), except for the original characters and the story.
Add yourself to my taglist here.
My other media where I publish: Ao3, Wattpad, ffnet, TikTok, Instagram, Twitter.
If you like it, please vote, comment, and provide feedback to help me improve my skills. Consider reblogging as well.
The rain fell with an almost hypnotic steadiness, pounding the asphalt and blurring the city lights into reflections.
Bucky Barnes had been following a trail for hours that just didn’t quite add up. The information he’d received was clear on paper—too clear, which in itself was suspicious. A target moving between specific points in the city, avoiding cameras, and using routes that only someone with training would know.
The problem was that this pattern… seemed familiar to him.
All too familiar.
He moved through alleys and under low rooftops, taking elevated routes when he could, staying off street level long enough to leave no direct trail. The target finally appeared on the other side of a rooftop.
A slender figure.
Precise movements.
Hair pulled back.
Balanced posture.
And in that instant, Bucky didn’t think.
He acted.
He leaped the distance between buildings with the ease of someone who didn’t need to weigh the risk, landing silently behind the figure. His metal hand moved first—firm, confident—grabbing the wrist before the figure could fully react.
But the reaction was immediate.
Quick.
Too quick for someone caught off guard.
The body in front of him spun fluidly, using the grip to redirect him—a move Bucky knew, had seen, and had faced before.
A blow aimed at his side that he blocked almost instinctively.
An attempt to break free that he countered.
And in the midst of that brief but intense exchange… something clicked.
The figure managed to break free, taking two steps back, assuming a defensive stance. The rain was falling on both of them now, making every movement glisten in the city’s dim light.
Bucky didn’t attack right away.
Something inside him held him back.
He was analyzing the situation.
The woman in front of him lifted her chin slightly, sizing him up with the same intensity.
“It took you too long,” she said.
Her voice was clear.
Familiar.
Bucky lowered his guard just a little.
“I didn’t expect to find you here,” he replied.
Natasha Romanoff didn’t smile.
“That’s because I’m not supposed to be here.”
Silence settled between them, heavy with understanding.
But not entirely resolved.
Bucky took a step forward, more slowly now.
“They were looking for you,” he said. “With a description that matched you.”
Natasha crossed her arms, ignoring the rain.
“Because they wanted it to match me.”
That changed everything.
Bucky frowned slightly.
“A decoy.”
Natasha nodded slightly.
“Or something better. Someone is using patterns similar to mine—movements, routes, even timings.”
Bucky processed that.
Quickly.
“To draw attention.”
“To redirect it,” she corrected.
Their eyes met again.
“I thought it was you,” Bucky admitted.
Natasha tilted her head.
“That was exactly what they wanted.”
Bucky looked toward the edge of the building, as if he could see beyond what was visible.
“Do you know who it is?”
Natasha shook her head.
“Not yet. But I know it’s someone who knows us well enough to replicate what’s necessary without making obvious mistakes.”
Bucky didn’t answer right away.
“So it’s not just a distraction,” he said finally.
Natasha shook her head.
“No. It’s a message.”
Silence fell again.
Bucky took another step forward, closing the distance—not as a threat, but as a gesture of connection.
“What kind of message?”
Natasha held his gaze.
“That someone wants us to meet… in the wrong place.”
Bucky looked around.
The rooftop.
The city.
The night.
“And this place?”
Natasha turned slightly, surveying their surroundings.
“It might be one of many. Or…” she paused briefly, “the right one for the wrong reasons.”
Additional tags: My entry for the @marvelrarepairs Marvel Rare Pairs Round 5. Card MRP-127.
Links: Wattpad, Ao3, Spanish version.
@saiyanprincessswanie
My native language is Spanish, so I wanna improve my English writing skills. Please let me know if you notice any mistakes, and I will correct them.
I don’t grant permission for my fics to be posted on other platforms or in different languages (I personally translate my work) or for the use of my graphics (my dividers are included in this. I created them exclusively for my fics; please respect my work and refrain from stealing it. Some people here create dividers that anyone can use; mine is not of this type, so please look for the dividers created by others. The only exceptions are those I gifted 'cuz now belong to someone else. Please let me know if you find any of my work on a different platform that is not one of my accounts. Reblogs and comments are always welcome.
DISCLAIMER: I don't own Marvel's characters (unfortunately), except for the original characters and the story.
Add yourself to my taglist here.
My other media where I publish: Ao3, Wattpad, ffnet, TikTok, Instagram, Twitter.
If you like it, please vote, comment, and provide feedback to help me improve my skills. Consider reblogging as well.
It wasn’t obvious at first glance. His posture remained upright, his breathing controlled, his expression neutral. But there was a stiffness in his shoulders, a tension in his jaw that wouldn’t go away, and a way of standing too still that gave away that he wasn’t resting but waiting.
The house was in semi-darkness, barely illuminated by the faint light filtering in from outside. Everything was silent.
The first sound was faint.
A sharp thud.
Then another.
And then, a sudden movement that shattered the stillness.
Steve sprang to his feet.
His body reacted before his mind had finished processing.
He moved silently down the hallway; when he opened the door, what he found wasn’t an attack.
It was something worse.
Clint Barton was sitting on the bed, leaning forward, breathing heavily, as if he’d just finished a race that his body hadn’t quite shaken off yet. His hands were tense, one of them clutching the sheets tightly, his knuckles white from the pressure.
His eyes weren’t fully focused.
He wasn’t quite present.
Steve didn’t say anything at first.
He entered slowly, closing the door behind him carefully, as if any sudden noise might make the situation worse. He approached without intruding, maintaining a short but respectful distance.
Clint didn’t look at him right away.
His breathing was still irregular, trying to steady itself but not quite managing it.
That’s when Steve spoke.
“Yeah,” he finally replied.
Steve took a step closer.
“Nightmare,” Clint said after a moment, more as a confirmation than an explanation.
Steve nodded slightly.
“I know.”
It took a while for Clint to fully come back to himself.
The sound of his breathing began to change little by little, becoming more regular, more controlled. His shoulders dropped slightly, the tension easing just enough to allow him to be truly present.
Steve watched every change.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked after a moment.
Clint let out a short, humorless laugh.
“Not much to say.”
He ran a hand over his face, as if trying to wipe away the remnants of what he’d seen.
“Same old, same old.”
Steve didn’t respond right away.
He sat on the edge of the bed, close enough to be there but without invading Clint’s personal space.
“Sometimes it changes,” Steve said. “The details.”
Clint nodded.
“Yeah.”
Steve rested his forearms on his legs, leaning forward slightly, adopting a more relaxed, less rigid posture. “Do you want to be alone?” he asked.
Clint shook his head almost immediately.
“No.”
The answer came faster than he’d expected.
Steve nodded.
He didn’t comment on it.
Several minutes passed in silence.
Clint finally leaned his back against the wall, stretching out his legs, his posture less defensive now.
“Do you sleep?” he asked suddenly, turning his head toward Steve.
Steve hesitated just a moment.
Long enough.
“Sometimes.”
Clint raised an eyebrow.
“That doesn’t sound very convincing.”
Steve exhaled through his nose.
“It’s not always easy.”
Clint let out another small laugh.
“That’s a fancy way of saying you don’t get any rest either.”
Steve didn’t deny it.
“Nightmares?” Clint asked.
Steve remained silent for another second.
“Memories,” he replied.
Clint nodded.
“Yeah… that too.”
Clint ran a hand through the back of his neck, letting out a more controlled sigh.
