Bruce goes to Smallville to attend an opera, accidentally finds his soulmate.
///
Medallion.
A medallion is a round metal disc which some people wear as an ornament, especially on a chain round their neck.
Words: 1,290
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Relationships: Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne
Tags: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Scars, Courting Rituals, No Dynamic Clark Kent, Omega Bruce Wayne, Crush at First Sight, Pre-Relationship, Not Beta Read, Not Edited, Awkward Flirting, Jewelry
@fandombingo The Blooming Hour Bingo — Lovers with matching scar patterns
@multifandom-flash Soulmates — As you come of age, your soulmate's name appears on your wrist
@superbateveryweek Superbat For All Seasons Bingo — Opera
Additional tags: My entry for the My entry for the @multifandom-flash Calendar Events March Compliment.
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.
The sound of the gramophone filled the air with a murmur of static and music.
Trumpets blared in the small community hall, and yellow lights hung in garlands on the walls, twinkling with the same timidity as the young hearts that gathered that night.
It was 1941.
The streets still smelled of freshly baked bread and newspaper ink, although the weight of the news was already felt in every conversation: Europe, the war, the men who were leaving, and the women who saw them off with smiles that pretended not to tremble.
You didn't think about that that night.
Or, at least, you tried not to.
You had agreed to accompany your friend to the neighborhood dance, and although you weren't expecting much, the music, the lights, and the laughter made everything seem simpler and warmer for a moment.
And then you saw him.
Steve Rogers, hunched over in a corner, his hair carefully combed to one side, wearing a suit that was a little too big for him and a nervous smile that seemed afraid to fully emerge.
It was hard not to notice him: not because he stood out for his height—quite the opposite—but because there was something about the way he looked at the world.
As if he were always apologizing for existing but at the same time trying to absorb every detail, every moment, with silent devotion.
You had seen him before, of course.
He lived a few blocks away.
He always carried a sketchbook under his arm, and he used to stop in front of the bakery just to draw the reflection of the lights on the glass.
He was quiet and friendly and, according to rumors, had a history of lost fights that added up to more bruises than victories.
But that night... that night he seemed even more out of place.
His friend Bucky Barnes was dancing in the middle of the room with a blonde girl, laughing, spinning with a natural ease that only confident men can afford.
Steve, on the other hand, watched from a distance, his hands clenched in his pockets, tapping his foot to the beat of the music as if that were enough to hide the fact that he didn't know what to do with the rest of his body.
You approached him, almost without thinking.
Maybe it was the reflection of the lights in his eyes or the way he tried not to take up space.
Maybe it was that, in the midst of so many noisy people, he seemed to be the only one who was truly living the moment in silence.
“Don't you dance?” you asked, stopping in front of him.
Steve looked up, surprised.
His smile appeared suddenly, shy and awkward, as if apologizing for existing.
“Not exactly,” he replied.
I mean... I've tried. But let's just say I'm not very good at it."
“Are you that bad at dancing?”
“It depends.” His tone became ironic, although the embarrassment was still there, evident. “If you consider stepping on someone's feet to be part of dancing... then I'm excellent.”
You laughed, and the laughter disarmed him a little.
He offered you a more sincere smile, the kind that came when he let his guard down.
“Come on,” you said, extending your hand. “No one is born knowing how to do everything. And the music is good.”
“No, seriously, I don't want to ruin your shoes,” he protested, raising his hands as if giving up before he started.
“I have sturdy shoes,” you insisted, with a half-smile. “Or are you going to let your fear of a misstep win this battle?”
He hesitated.
You saw him bite his lower lip, look at the floor, and then exhale.
His hand trembled slightly as he reached out to you.
“Okay,” he murmured. “But I warned you.”
You led him to the center of the room.
The lights fell on you in soft, golden reflections.
Steve looked a little smaller under them, as if the world were too big for his fragile body, but there was a warmth in his gaze that made up for any lack of height.
He placed one trembling hand on your waist and the other in yours.
The orchestra began a slow, melancholy melody.
His breathing was as audible as the beat of the music.
“Don't be nervous,” you whispered.
“I'm trying, but...” His voice broke into a laugh. “I don't think my feet got the message.”
And sure enough, on the next movement, he stepped on your shoe.
Hard.
“Ouch!” you gasped, laughing despite yourself.
Steve immediately turned pale.
“I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I...”
“It's okay,” you said, squeezing his hand gently. “I told you they were sturdy shoes, didn’t I?”
His cheeks turned red, and his smile returned, more embarrassed than before.
You kept moving.
At first, it was a disaster: he went left when you went right, turned too soon, and tripped over the edge of the waxed floor.
But little by little, the movements began to flow.
They weren't perfect, but they were sincere.
Steve laughed, nervously but genuinely happy.
You guided him gently, without rushing him.
Every clumsy step seemed part of the charm, and every time his gaze met yours, the rest of the world faded away a little more.
“See,” you said, “it's not so bad.”
“You say that because you're too kind,” she replied, laughing. “But I admit it's less embarrassing with you.”
“With you?” you asked with a mischievous smile.
“I meant... with you, dancing with you,” she quickly corrected, blushing even more.
The music changed to a softer beat.
His hands weren't shaking as much anymore.
The touch of his palm on your waist was warm, careful, and almost reverent.
For a moment, he allowed himself to close his eyes and simply move with you, letting the rhythm guide what his body had never quite learned.
When the song ended, he didn't pull away immediately.
His eyes sought yours with silent intensity.
“Thank you,” he murmured.
“For what?”
“For not laughing at me so much. And for... making this not so awful.”
“It wasn't awful,” you said, looking down. “It was... nice.”
He smiled again. That smile, shy but sincere, completely disarmed you.
“I'm not good at many things,” he confessed in a low voice. “But I think I could keep trying if you teach me.”
The orchestra started another song.
And without saying a word, you took his hand again.
This time, he didn't hesitate.
And even though his steps were still clumsy and his breathing was labored from the effort, there was something beautiful about seeing him try.
Not out of pride, but because he wanted to be there with you.
Because even though his body failed him, his heart knew the rhythm by heart.
That night, amid the yellow lights, the jazz chords, and the smell of dust and sweat, you understood something you would never forget:
Steve Rogers couldn't dance.
But when he was with you, the whole world seemed to move to his beat.
The air smelled of summer and nerves.
At the Brooklyn community center, the lights flickered in warm tones that made the freshly waxed wooden floors shine. There was live music: a small band played swing, and the neighborhood boys had invited their girlfriends to dance.
You were standing by the punch table, tapping your foot to the rhythm of the trombone, when you saw him: Steve Rogers, wearing the same beige jacket as always, his suspenders slightly crooked and an expression of discomfort so sweet it made you smile.
“Aren't you going to dance, Steve?” You asked with a slight nod of your head, raising your punch glass.
He looked down, his ears reddening.
“No... I don't think that's a good idea.”
“Why not?” you teased. “Are you afraid of stepping on someone?”
Steve let out an awkward, nasal chuckle.
“No... well, yes. That. And I'm also afraid of falling.”
You bit your lip to keep from laughing. Deep down, you loved the insecure tone his voice took on every time he tried to avoid your gaze.
“Come on, soldier,” you finally said, setting your glass on the table. “I'll teach you.”
“To dance?” he repeated, his eyes wide, as if you had just offered him something much more dangerous than a simple dance.
“Yes. It doesn't bite.” You took his small, bony hand, cold to the touch. “I promise I won't let you fall.”
The contact seemed to disarm him. He followed you to the center of the room, where couples were spinning around with laughter and quick steps. The band switched to a softer melody, something that didn't require spins or elaborate steps. Perfect.
“Put one hand here,” you instructed, carefully guiding it to your waist. Steve obeyed instantly, though his fingers trembled.
“Like this?”
“That's fine,” you whispered. “Now look at me.”
He looked up, and for a second the noise of the room faded away. He had the sincerest blue eyes you had ever seen. Behind them lay a deep shyness... but also a sparkle that promised courage.
“One, two, three...” you set the rhythm, moving slowly. Steve tried to follow you, but his feet clumsily collided with yours.
“Ouch...” you murmured with a laugh.
“I'm sorry, I'm sorry... I'm no good at this,” he grumbled, frustrated, looking away.
“Hey,” you touched his chin gently to get him to look at you again. “You're not here to be perfect. You're here to learn.”
He swallowed.
“I don't want to hurt you.”
“Then tread carefully, Rogers.”
They tried again.
One, two, three... his breathing synchronized with yours. At first, his movements were stiff and clumsy, but little by little he began to loosen up. You realized that you were guiding him more with your smile than with your steps.
At one point, the music changed to a more upbeat rhythm. Steve stopped, alarmed.
“That sounds fast.”
“It is,” you said, giving him a gentle spin. “But if you follow it, you won't have to think so much.”
He laughed, something he didn't do very often. And then, by pure luck, or perhaps instinct, he managed to take three steps in a row without stumbling.
“You did it!” you exclaimed, genuinely happy.
Steve raised an eyebrow, incredulous.
“Really?”
“Yes. Although...” you leaned in, “you still need to practice not stepping on my toes.”
He let out an awkward laugh, one of those laughs that comes from relief.
“I promise to do better.”
“I'll take your word for it, Rogers.”
The song ended, but he didn't let go of your hand. The two of you stood still, breathing amid murmurs and laughter from others, and without saying it, you knew that something had changed.
It wasn't just that Steve wasn't so afraid of dancing anymore. It was that, for the first time in a long time, someone had looked at him and seen beyond his fragile body, beyond his clumsiness or his limitations.
You saw him smile with that shy sweetness that disarmed anyone, and you thought that if this is how it felt to dance with Steve Rogers—insecure, clumsy, and pure—you didn't need any other music in the world.
And he, his heart beating fast, thought that even if he was terrible at dancing... if it meant having your hands on his, then it was worth stumbling a thousand times.
Major Tags: Fluff, angst, broken heart, twisted romantic.
Additional tags: My entry for the @multifandom-flash Calendar Events April National Ex-spouse day.
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.
The gray afternoon marked the moment when everything crumbled.
You had planned to meet him at his apartment. The place was his, dark, with gray walls, minimalist furniture, and a couple of clean guns on the dining room table. You knocked on the door. No one answered.
You knocked again. Nothing. The key was in the lock.
You went in.
He was there. He's back to you, looking out the window. Rain was beginning to hit the glass. The reflection of his face was barely visible in the darkness.
“Brock...” you began.
He didn't turn around. He didn't answer. Your heart raced. Something was wrong.
You could feel it before you knew what it was.
“What's wrong?” you said, taking another step inside.
He finally turned around.
“We can't,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“I can't marry you.”
“Brock?” Your voice was barely a whisper.
“There are things I can't leave behind. Things you can't understand.”
You shook your head.
“You promised me.” The air was thick. “You promised...” Your voice trembled.
“I know,” he said. “I know.”
“And what?” you shouted. “Does that mean I can expect you to break your word like that, just like that?”
“It's nothing,” he replied. “It's everything.” His hands opened, as if trying to explain without words. “I never wanted you to suffer because of who I am.”
“What are you, Brock?” you asked, your tears falling uncontrollably. “A monster who plays with promises?”
“I am the man who loves you. But I can't be the husband you deserve.” "It's not that I don't want to marry you,“ he whispered. ”It's that marrying you would mean betraying who we are."
“Who are we?”
“Me,” he said, “and the world that won't allow me to be anything other than this. I want you to understand me.” His voice dropped another notch, barely a whisper. “But if you need me as a husband... I can't do it.”
“So,” you said, “you're breaking the promise you made to me... without a fight?”
He closed his eyes.
“I can't fight this.”
“What about me?” your voice broke. “What do I do with this?”
Brock leaned toward you, closing the distance between you. His lips barely touched yours, a brief kiss. It was goodbye. It was a goodbye I didn't want to say but had to. He pulled away. He took a step back.
Ship: Dark!Steve Rogers X OFC (Evelyn Mae Barton).
Word count: 615 words.
Square: “Serial spouse.”
Rating: Teen.
Summary: The perfect husband... who kills for love.
Major Tags: Fluff, angst, obsessive, twisted romantic.
Additional tags: My entry for the @multifandom-flash Calendar Events April National Ex-spouse day.
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.
Additional tags: My entry for the @multifandom-flash Calendar Events March Compliment.
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.
The air smelled of gunpowder, hot metal, and damp earth.
Smoke rose in black columns that blended into the sky, while the last flashes of combat faded like dying embers.
Brock Rumlow stood amid the chaos, jaw clenched, uniform stained with blood—you couldn't tell if it was his or his enemies'—his gaze fixed on what remained of the battlefield.
His gloves, blackened, still dripped with sweat and ash. His breathing was heavy, rhythmic, and controlled. That of a soldier who has survived once again... even though something inside is falling apart.
You were a few yards away, rifle slung over your shoulder, heart pounding like a drum.
Your ears were still ringing from the explosions, but you saw him, and everything else became distant noise.
“Rumlow...” you whispered, barely audible above the wind. “We did it.”
He turned his head slowly. In his eyes was an impossible mixture of exhaustion, rage, and something you dared not name.
He looked at you without saying anything for what seemed like an eternity. Then he nodded, almost imperceptibly.
“Yes,” he said in a deep, hoarse voice, broken by smoke. “We did it.”
The silence that followed was louder than any explosion.
Around him, the members of the squad began to regroup. Some laughed, others hugged, and others cried. The operation had been a success.
The enemy had fallen, and the base now burned like a monumental bonfire behind you.
You took a few steps toward him. Every movement weighed heavily on you; every muscle ached.
But your eyes couldn't look away from Brock.
There was something about his posture—that mixture of hardness and emptiness—that broke your heart.
He stood with his shoulders tense; his gaze fixed on the blackened horizon.
An icy breeze blew the sweat from his forehead, revealing a small wound above his eyebrow, from which a thin line of blood was still trickling.
Without thinking, you moved closer until you were standing in front of him.
“Let me see,” you whispered, raising a hand to touch the wound.
But he grabbed your wrist tightly, more out of reflex than decision.
His gaze, dark and burning inside, met yours.
For a moment, the world seemed to stop.
“I'm not broken,” he said in a low voice, almost a growl.
“I didn't say you were,” you replied without moving away. “But you're bleeding.”
His breathing slowed, becoming heavy.
He didn't let go of your wrist right away. He looked at you for a long time, with that expression of his, not knowing whether to protect you or push you away before doing so.
Finally, he loosened his grip and lowered his hand.
His fingers brushed your skin as he let go, and that slight contact was more electric than anything that had exploded that night.
“You always end up with blood on your hands,” you said, trying to sound firm. “You always end up like this.”
He smiled, but it was a sad, empty smile.
“And you're always there to remind me.”
They both fell silent. The wind blew across the remains of the battlefield, carrying ash and leaves.
Then a new sound broke the air: a distant, deep, bright explosion.
They looked up almost simultaneously.
In the sky, the first fireworks began to rise from the allied base.
Red, gold, and blue... flashes that lit up the night like open wounds on the darkness.
The men around them cheered.
The roar of victory echoed among the ruined buildings.
But you could only watch as those flashes reflected in Brock's eyes, painting his face with a light that seemed almost human.
“Victory fireworks,” you murmured, barely audible.
He let out a short, bitter laugh.
“Victory?” he repeated in a low voice. “That's what you call it, huh?”
“That's what everyone says,” you replied, shrugging.
Brock stared at you for a long time, without blinking. Then he looked down, took the knife from his belt, and stuck it into the ground at his feet.
“Victory means nothing if you no longer know what you're fighting for,” he finally said.
Your chest tightened.
You knew him too well to try to argue.
You knew that behind that sarcasm and toughness was a weariness he couldn't hide, even with all his armor.
Silence returned, broken only by the bursts of color in the sky.
Then, without thinking, you moved a little closer.
So close that you could feel the heat of his body, the smell of smoke mixed with his skin.
He looked up, and his eyes met yours again, shining with the reflection of the fireworks.
For the first time all night, he didn't look like a soldier.
He looked like a man trying to remember what it feels like to be alive.
“Maybe...” you whispered, “victory is just this.”
“This?” he asked, barely moving his lips.
“Still standing. Breathing. Being here. Together.”
His jawline trembled slightly.
He said nothing, but his gaze spoke for him.
A spark of something deeper, something even he couldn't describe, flashed just before a new golden burst enveloped them in light.
And then, for a fleeting moment, he let his guard down.
His hand, blackened and trembling, rose to brush your cheek.
The touch was clumsy, almost uncertain, but so real that the air seemed to stand still.
His fingers remained there, on your skin, as the lights in the sky fell like rain of fire.
“Don't get used to this,” he said at last, his voice softer than ever. “Nights like this don't happen again.”
“I won't,” you lied, because you knew you would never forget that moment.
The last firework exploded overhead, bathing everything in white light.
The sky shook, the ground vibrated, and for a moment all the pain, fear, and war were suspended.
When the darkness returned, he had already withdrawn his hand.
He was Brock Rumlow again: the soldier, the leader, the man who didn't allow himself to feel too much.
But there was a different gleam in his eyes.
The reflection of a fire that didn't come from the sky... but from you.
And although neither of them said it out loud, they both knew that this was the real victory:
having survived long enough to see the light in the midst of so much darkness.
N/A: Esta es mi entrada para el Calendar Events April National Ex-spouse day.
Links: Wattpad, Ao3, versión en inglés.
Si te gustó, por favor vota, comenta y rebloguea.
No doy permiso para que mis fics sean publicados en otra plataforma o en otro idioma (yo traduzco mi propio trabajo) ni para el uso de mis gráficos (mis separadores de texto también están incluidos), los cuales hice exclusivamente para mis fics. Por favor, respeta mi trabajo y no lo robes. Aquí en la plataforma hay personas que crean separadores de texto para que cualquiera los pueda usar; los míos no son públicos. Por favor, busca los de dichas personas. La única excepción serían los regalos que he hecho, ya que ahora pertenecen a alguien más. Si encuentras alguno de mis trabajos en una plataforma distinta y no es de alguna de mis cuentas, por favor, avísame. Los reblogs y los comentarios están bien.
DISCLAIMER: Los personajes de Marvel no me pertenecen (desafortunadamente), excepto a los personajes originales y a la historia.
Anótate en mi taglist aquí.
Otros lugares donde publico: Ao3, Wattpad, ffnet, TikTok, Instagram, Twitter.
Habías planeado encontrarte con él en su departamento. El lugar era suyo, oscuro, con paredes grises, muebles minimalistas, un par de armas limpias sobre la mesa del comedor. Tocaste la puerta. Nadie respondió.
Golpeaste de nuevo. Nada. La llave estaba puesta.
Entraste.
Él estaba allí. De espaldas a ti, mirando por la ventana. La lluvia comenzaba a golpear el cristal. El reflejo de su rostro apenas se veía en la oscuridad.
—Brock… —empezaste.
Él no se giró. No respondió. Tu corazón se aceleró. Algo estaba mal.
Podías sentirlo antes de que supieras qué era.
—¿Qué pasa? —dijiste, dando un paso más adentro.
Él finalmente se giró.
—No podemos —dijo.
—¿Qué quieres decir?
—No puedo casarme contigo.
—¿Brock? —Tu voz apenas era un susurro.
—Hay cosas que no puedo dejar atrás. Cosas que tú no puedes entender.
Negaste con la cabeza.
—Me prometiste. —El aire se cortaba.—Prometiste… —tu voz temblaba.
—Lo sé —dijo—. Lo sé.
—¿Y qué? —gritaste—. ¿Eso significa que puedo esperar que rompas tu palabra así, como si nada?
—No es nada —replicó—. Es todo. —sus manos se abrieron, como si intentara explicarlo sin palabras.—Nunca quise que sufrieras por lo que soy.
—¿Qué eres, Brock? —preguntaste, tus lágrimas cayendo sin control—. ¿Un monstruo que juega con promesas?
—Soy el hombre que te ama. Pero no puedo ser el esposo que mereces. No es que no quiera casarme contigo —susurró—. Es que casarme contigo significaría traicionar a quienes somos.
—¿Quiénes somos?
—Yo —dijo él— y el mundo que no me permite ser otro que esto. Quiero que me entiendas. —Su voz bajó un tono más, apenas un murmullo—. Pero si me necesitas como esposo… no puedo hacerlo.
—Entonces —dijiste—, ¿rompes la promesa que me hiciste… sin luchar?
Él cerró los ojos.
—No puedo luchar contra esto.
—¿Y yo qué? —tu voz se quebró—. ¿Qué hago con esto?
Brock se inclinó hacia ti, acortando la distancia. Sus labios apenas tocaron los tuyos, un beso breve. Era despedida. Era un adiós que no quería decir, pero que debía. Se separó. Dio un paso atrás.
Pareja: Dark!Steve Rogers X OFC (Evelyn Mae Barton).
Palabras: 556 palabras.
Cuadro: “Cónyuge en serie”.
Clasificación: B.
Sinopsis: El esposo perfecto… que mata por amor.
Advertencias: Fluff, angst, infidelidad.
N/A: Esta es mi entrada para el Calendar Events April National Ex-spouse day.
Links: Wattpad, Ao3, versión en inglés.
Si te gustó, por favor vota, comenta y rebloguea.
No doy permiso para que mis fics sean publicados en otra plataforma o en otro idioma (yo traduzco mi propio trabajo) ni para el uso de mis gráficos (mis separadores de texto también están incluidos), los cuales hice exclusivamente para mis fics. Por favor, respeta mi trabajo y no lo robes. Aquí en la plataforma hay personas que hacen separadores de texto para que cualquiera los pueda usar; los míos no son públicos. Por favor, busca los de dichas personas. La única excepción serían los regalos que he hecho, ya que ahora pertenecen a alguien más. Si encuentras alguno de mis trabajos en una plataforma distinta y no es de alguna de mis cuentas, por favor, avísame. Los reblogs y comentarios están bien.
DISCLAIMER: Los personajes de Marvel no me pertenecen (desafortunadamente), excepto a los personajes originales y a la historia.
Anótate en mi taglist aquí.
Otros lugares donde publico: Ao3, Wattpad, ffnet, TikTok, Instagram, Twitter.
N/A: Esta es mi entrada para el Calendar Events March Compliment.
Links: Wattpad, Ao3, versión en inglés.
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La noche caía lentamente sobre el horizonte en ruinas.
El aire olía a pólvora, a metal caliente y a tierra húmeda.
El humo se elevaba en columnas negras que se confundían con el cielo, mientras los últimos destellos del combate se desvanecían como brasas apagadas.
Brock Rumlow estaba de pie en medio del caos, la mandíbula apretada, el uniforme manchado de sangre —no sabías si suya o de los enemigos— y la mirada clavada en lo que quedaba del campo de batalla.
Sus guantes, ennegrecidos, aún goteaban sudor y ceniza. Su respiración era pesada, rítmica, controlada. La de un soldado que ha sobrevivido una vez más… aunque por dentro algo se esté desmoronando.
Tú estabas a unos metros, con el rifle colgado al hombro y el corazón latiendo como un tambor.
Tus oídos aún zumbaban por las explosiones, pero lo veías a él y todo lo demás se volvía ruido distante.
—Rumlow… —susurraste, apenas audible por encima del viento—. Lo logramos.
Él giró la cabeza despacio. En sus ojos había una mezcla imposible de agotamiento, rabia y algo que no te atrevías a nombrar.
Te miró sin decir nada durante unos segundos eternos. Luego asintió, casi imperceptiblemente.
—Sí —dijo con voz grave, ronca, quebrada por el humo—. Lo hicimos.
El silencio que siguió fue más fuerte que cualquier explosión.
A su alrededor, los miembros del escuadrón comenzaban a reagruparse. Algunos reían, otros se abrazaban, otros lloraban. La operación había sido un éxito.
El enemigo había caído, y la base ahora ardía como una hoguera monumental detrás de ustedes.
Tú diste unos pasos hacia él. Cada movimiento te pesaba, cada músculo dolía.
Pero tus ojos no podían apartarse de Brock.
Había algo en su postura —esa mezcla de dureza y vacío— que te rompía el alma.
Él seguía de pie, con los hombros tensos, la mirada fija en el horizonte ennegrecido.
Una brisa helada movió los mechones sudados de su frente y le dejó al descubierto una pequeña herida sobre la ceja, de la que aún caía una línea delgada de sangre.
Sin pensarlo, te acercaste más, hasta quedar frente a él.
—Déjame ver —murmuraste, levantando una mano para tocarle la herida.
Pero él atrapó tu muñeca con fuerza, más reflejo que decisión.
Su mirada, oscura y ardiendo por dentro, se cruzó con la tuya.
Por un instante, el mundo pareció detenerse.
—No estoy roto —dijo con voz baja, casi un gruñido.
—No dije que lo estuvieras —respondiste sin apartarte—. Pero sangras.
Su respiración se volvió más lenta, pesada.
No soltó tu muñeca enseguida. Te miró largo rato, con esa expresión suya de quien no sabe si protegerte o alejarte antes de hacerlo.
Finalmente, aflojó la presión y bajó la mano.
Sus dedos rozaron tu piel al soltarte, y ese contacto leve fue más eléctrico que todo lo que había explotado esa noche.
—Siempre terminas con sangre en las manos —dijiste, intentando sonar firme—. Siempre terminas así.
Él sonrió, pero era una sonrisa triste, vacía.
—Y tú siempre estás ahí para recordármelo.
Ambos se quedaron en silencio. El viento sopló entre los restos del campo de batalla, arrastrando cenizas y hojas.
Entonces, un sonido nuevo rompió el aire: un estallido lejano, profundo, luminoso.
Alzaron la vista casi al mismo tiempo.
En el cielo, los primeros fuegos artificiales comenzaban a elevarse desde la base aliada.
Rojos, dorados, azules… destellos que iluminaban la noche como heridas abiertas sobre la oscuridad.
Los hombres alrededor vitoreaban.
El rugido de la victoria resonaba entre los edificios derruidos.
Pero tú solo podías mirar cómo esos destellos se reflejaban en los ojos de Brock, pintando su rostro con una luz que parecía casi humana.
—Fuegos de victoria —murmuraste, apenas audible.
Él soltó una risa corta, amarga.
—¿Victoria? —repitió con tono bajo—. Lo llamas así, ¿eh?
—Eso dicen todos —respondiste, encogiéndote de hombros.
Brock te miró un largo rato, sin parpadear. Luego bajó la vista, sacó el cuchillo de su cinturón y lo clavó en el suelo a sus pies.
—La victoria no significa nada si ya no sabes por qué peleas —dijo finalmente.
Tu pecho se apretó.
Le conocías demasiado bien para intentar discutirlo.
Sabías que detrás de ese sarcasmo y esa dureza había un cansancio que no podía ocultar ni con toda su armadura.
El silencio volvió, roto solo por los estallidos de color en el cielo.
Entonces, sin pensar, te acercaste un poco más.
Tan cerca que podías sentir el calor de su cuerpo, el olor a humo mezclado con su piel.
Alzó la vista y sus ojos se cruzaron con los tuyos otra vez, brillando con el reflejo de los fuegos artificiales.
Por primera vez en toda la noche, no parecía un soldado.
Parecía un hombre intentando recordar cómo se siente estar vivo.
—Tal vez… —susurraste— la victoria sea solo esto.
—¿Esto? —preguntó, apenas moviendo los labios.
—Seguir de pie. Respirar. Estar aquí. Juntos.
La línea de su mandíbula tembló ligeramente.
No dijo nada, pero su mirada lo hizo por él.
Una chispa de algo más profundo, algo que ni él mismo sabía cómo describir, brilló justo antes de que un nuevo estallido dorado los envolviera en luz.
Y entonces, por un instante fugaz, él bajó la guardia.
Su mano, ennegrecida y temblorosa, subió hasta rozar tu mejilla.
El roce fue torpe, casi inseguro, pero tan real que el aire pareció detenerse.
Sus dedos se quedaron ahí, sobre tu piel, mientras las luces del cielo caían como lluvia de fuego.
—No te acostumbres —dijo al fin, con una voz más suave que nunca—. Estas noches no se repiten.
—No lo haré —mentiste, porque sabías que jamás olvidarías ese instante.
El último fuego artificial estalló en lo alto, bañando todo de luz blanca.
El cielo tembló, el suelo vibró y, por un momento, todo el dolor, el miedo y la guerra quedaron suspendidos.
Cuando la oscuridad volvió, él ya había apartado la mano.
Había vuelto a ser Brock Rumlow: el soldado, el líder, el hombre que no se permitía sentir demasiado.
Pero en sus ojos quedaba un brillo distinto.
El reflejo de un fuego que no provenía del cielo… sino de ti.
Y aunque ninguno lo dijo en voz alta, ambos sabían que esa era la verdadera victoria:
haber sobrevivido lo suficiente como para ver la luz en medio de tanta oscuridad.
