The Veil to the realms is OPEN.... If you wish to see your whispers written then follow this FORM and send them into the veils for your dreams to come true....
At the current time I am bringing back all my old works due to being hacked, so if you see a familiar work feel free to give it some love...
"Are you sure
That we are awake? It seems to me
That yet we sleep, we dream."
~ Demetrius, Act 4, Scene 1
📩Authors Note: I haven't written in awhile and need to do something to break my writing stump. It is time. Pick a character, send in your favorite song and any specific details and let me write a story.
Characters to choose from:
[If you do not see the character/show/movie you want feel free to request and if I know them I will try to write for them]
MARVEL
DC
Top Gun
Stranger Things
Hunger Games
Twisters
Challengers
Ted Lasso
Bullet Train
Game Of Thrones
House Of Dragon
Knight Of The Seven Realms
Sinners
Wicked
Running Man
Knives Out
How To Make A Killing
Scream
The Pitt
[If you do not see the character/show/movie you want feel free to request and if I know them I will try to write for them]
Send in a character + song + anything special you want added to it and I will write it!
⟵ Previous Constellation {Last Part} 🌌 Next Constellation ⟶
Enjoy!
Asterope. The Fifth Star.
You know something’s wrong the second you walk in the door.
Not wrong wrong, the lights are on, the “OPEN” sign hums, no one has set the new release display on fire but there’s a particular flavor of wrong that belongs solely to Steve Harrington, and it’s all over the store.
He’s already behind the counter, which is odd because you were supposed to work with Robin today. He’s also… grinning.
“Hello,” he says, too fast, too bright.
“Hi,” you say slowly, carefully.
The bell above the door jingles once in aftershock. The air has that fizzy, unsettled feeling again, like someone shook a soda bottle and handed it to you with the cap on.
You hang your jacket on the hook and pretend not to notice the way he’s watching you, like a man determined to Confirm Data.
“Sleep okay?” he asks, casual, too casual. “No storms, no power surges, no haunted appliances?”
You squint. “You sounded almost disappointed.”
“What? No.” He leans on the counter, shrugging. “I mean, you know… boring night. That’s all.”
“Sorry my lack of near death experiences has ruined your day,” you mutter, grabbing the returns bin.
“No, no, it’s good,” he says quickly. “You look…uh..rested.”
You blink at him. “What are you doing?”
“Being friendly?” he says, but his eyes are darting around like he’s expecting the ceiling to drop hints, eyes narrowing on the lights.
You narrow your own eyes. “You’re acting weird.”
He gives you a look that is eighty percent indignation and twenty percent embarrassment. “You say that every time I talk.”
“Because it’s always true.”
He opens his mouth, then closes it, like he’s decided to save that fight for later. “I, uh… I made coffee.”
You stop. “You made what.”
He gestures to the break room door. “There’s a pot.”
“You know how?”
“No,” he admits cheerfully. “But it smells like coffee and nothing has caught fire yet, so I’m counting it as a win.”
You stare at him for one more suspicious beat, then go to investigate. The coffee is somehow drinkable. You take a cautious sip, waiting for sparks to fly or the machine to explode.
Nothing happens.
When you come back out, Steve is pretending to reorganize the candy rack, but he keeps glancing up at you like he’s keeping score.
You set the coffee down. “What.”
“What what,” he echoes.
“You keep looking at me.”
“Do I?”
“Yes.”
“I’m just…” He waves a hand. “Observing.”
“Observing what?”
“The… environment.”
“You’re staring at my face.”
“It’s part of the environment,” he says weakly.
You roll your eyes and retreat into the aisles. Behind you, you hear him breathe out a quiet, frustrated, “Come on,” like he just missed a goal.
Weird. Even for him.
The shift drifts by in the slow, dusty way of small town weekdays. A couple of moms with toddlers, some teens who argue about horror titles like they’re picking a college. There was no Keith to bother you at every corner thank god.
You shelve, stamp, sticker, and ignore the way the static under your skin has learned his schedule. It rises when he laughs. It hums when he hums. It does a strange, low, warm purr when he calls you by name.
You try very hard not to let him make you laugh.
He tries very hard to make you anyway.
At one point, he drops an entire stack of VHS cases. They explode across the floor like plastic fish. Steve just stares at them for a beat, then says solemnly, “They sensed weakness,” and you snort before you can stop yourself.
The candy display light flickers, Steve’s eyes dart up, his entire body jumping like he was waiting for this moment.
You immediately school your face into neutral. “Don’t.”
“What?”
“You’re doing the thing.”
“What thing?”
“The thing where you act like the store is a science experiment.”
He straightens, rolling a tape between his palms. “Maybe it is.”
“Let it be a store.”
“It can be both.”
You groan. He grins, pleased with himself. The overhead fluorescents make a soft bzzzt like someone just nudged them.
“See?” he says. “It likes when we talk.”
“I hate you,” you mutter.
“You don’t,” he says, annoyingly sure. “You fixed my endcap.”
You throw a comedy tape at his head. He catches it without looking, eyes already sliding to the door as the bell jingles.
You don’t have time to turn to see who it is, all you know is the static in your chest snaps like a live wire as Steve looks over your shoulder before an annoying voice fills the store. “Sunshine!” it crows.
You sigh internally. Of course.
Tyler Cain is exactly the kind of man the universe would send you on a day like this. Mid twenties, perpetually tanned in a way Hawkins should not logically allow, with a Camaro that’s louder than his taste in shirts. He’s been a regular since long before you worked here, the kind of customer Keith loves because he never dings tapes and always pays his late fees.
And the kind of customer you dread because he has zero boundaries.
He strides up to the counter with a stack of tapes and that smirky, overeager grin already loaded. “Knew it was gonna be a good day,” he says, dropping the tapes in front of you with a thump. “My favorite movie expert’s on duty.”
“Hi, Tyler,” you say, pasting on your Customer Service Smile. The one that says please don’t talk to me longer than necessary but I am legally obligated to pretend this is fine. “Returning and renting?”
“Returning these, renting you….” He winks. “I mean, renting three. Unless you come free with membership.”
Your cheeks prickle, not with heat but with crawling discomfort. Your soulmate bond writhes under your skin, almost like it was sensing you do not want this.
“Ha,” you say politely, not even approximating a laugh. “We’re… not included with the tapes.”
“Crime,” he says. “Should be.”
Steve goes still. You don’t have to see him to feel it. The store seems to hold its breath, air tightening like a muscle.
“Well, good thing the tapes are decent company,” you say briskly, picking up the top one. “What’ve we got? Die Hard again?”
“You know me.” He leans on his forearms, looming closer into your space. “I like classics.”
“You rented this last week,” you point out.
“Yeah.” He grins, shameless. “Didn’t finish it.”
You raise a brow. “Busy?”
“Distracted,” he says pointedly, eyes sliding over your face.
The static in your chest hisses. Across the counter, Steve’s hand tightens on the comedy tape he’s still holding. The cardboard creaks.
“Well, hopefully you get to the end this time,” you say, focus pinched. You scan the tapes, fingers moving on autopilot. The register beeps dutifully. The screen shows the correct prices. No coins attack anyone.
Steve is glaring, you can feel it.
“Hey, man,” Tyler says when he finally notices the extra body. “You new?”
“Nope,” Steve says, voice flat.
Tyler’s eyes narrow, then flick dismissively back to you. “Can’t blame him. I’d get a job here too if it meant seeing your face every day.”
You press your tongue to your teeth. Your soulmate bond spikes, disliking the claim like a cat with its fur dragged backward.
“You know I might have to start charging you a gawking fee,” you say, reaching for the membership card. “Card, please.”
He slides it toward you, fingers brushing yours purely on purpose. His touch doesn’t spark, the wrong kind of contact. Wrong person.
Steve moves.
Subtle. Just a half step around the counter so he’s behind you instead of to the side. A half step closer. The hair on your arms lifts, not from Tyler’s proximity but Steve’s.
He sets the comedy tape down with more force than necessary. “We also have a four for three deal,” he says, voice a shade too bright. “If you want to add something that isn’t explosions.”
Tyler smirks. “Explosions are art.”
“What would you know,” Steve mutters.
“What’s that, pal?”
“Nothing, buddy.” The word buddy comes out with the exact opposite of warmth. You shoot Steve a warning look over your shoulder. He smiles back, tight and sharp.
“So,” Tyler says, returning his focus to you, elbow now planted on the counter like he owns it. “You ever think about getting out of here early? I could show you what a real sound system sounds like. Movies, big screen, no late fees.”
“Store’s open till nine,” you say calmly. “I’m on closing.”
“Another night then,” he says immediately. “I’m flexible.”
You let out a thin little breath that wants to be a laugh, because that’s what people expect when they’re flirted with. That’s what girls do. They giggle and shrug and pretend they don’t want to dive into the nearest dumpster.
It’s not even a real laugh. Just a tiny chuff.
The overhead light buzzes. The register screen flickers, reboots, then returns to normal.
You feel Steve go from simmer to boil.
He leans forward, bracing his hands on the counter so his arms box you in without touching you. He’s not looking at you, though. He’s looking at Tyler, and his eyes are darker than usual, not brown but something like storm soaked bark. “Hey,” he says, polite in the way knives are shiny. “She’s working.”
Tyler looks irritated for the first time. “She can talk and work, man.”
“Yeah,” Steve agrees. “She just doesn’t have to talk to you.”
Your heart lunges. “Steve-”
Tyler scoffs. “You always this territorial with coworkers, Harrington, or just the cute ones?”
The static under your skin flares hard enough to make you dizzy. The wall of horror tapes to your left gives a tiny shudder. One of the cardboard standees rustles. Steve’s jaw flexes. “I’m this territorial with people when they don’t understand no.”
“I didn’t hear her say it,” Tyler says, smirking.
You want to throw up, or throw something, or both.
“That’s because she’s too polite,” Steve snaps. “Unlike you.”
The register gives a protesting bleep and spits out two inches of blank receipt. A bulb two aisles over flickers.
“Guys,” you say, voice thin. “Can we not-”
“Relax, sunshine,” Tyler tells you, glancing down with a little smile that makes your skin crawl. “I’m just messing with your friend.”
Steve’s fingers curl against the laminate and the laminate trembles. “Don’t call her that,” he says.
Tyler laughs. “What, sunshine? She doesn’t mind. Do you?”
Every eye in the store is suddenly on you. Even the posters seem to stare. You swallow. “I… really just need to check you out so we can help the next customers.”
There are no next customers. The bell hasn’t jingled in ten minutes. You say it anyway.
“See?” Tyler tells Steve. “She’s fine.”
“No,” Steve says, deadly calm now. “She’s being nice. That’s different.”
The air between the two of them feels sharp, like an invisible wire pulled taut. Thunder rumbles faintly outside, as if the sky is interested.
Tyler straightens up, rolling his shoulders. He’s not particularly tall, but he somehow manages to loom. “You got a problem, man?”
“Yeah,” Steve says. “You.”
The register drawer chooses this moment to slam shut on its own with a loud, metallic K ACHUNK. All three of you jump. The overhead light flares bright white for a second, then dims.
Tyler whistles. “Weird wiring in here.”
“Yeah,” Steve says. “Funny how it only acts up around some people.”
“That supposed to mean something?” Tyler asks.
Steve’s mouth opens but you step in before he can say something that will get him fired.
“It means Keith is cheap,” you say quickly, jabbing the total button. “That’ll be eight fifty, Tyler.”
There is a long, tense beat. Then Tyler smiles, slow. “Whatever you say, sunshine.”
He slaps a ten on the counter, deliberately letting it brush your hand. The static in your chest recoils. You make yourself take it. Make yourself make change. Make yourself hand it back without flinching.
“Enjoy your movies,” you say, a little hoarse.
“Oh, I will.” He tucks the cash and tapes under his arm, throws Steve a mocking salute, and saunters toward the door. “See you soon.”
The bell jingles as he exits. The rain swallows him, Camaro roaring a minute later.
Silence.
You realize you’re shaking. You put both palms flat on the counter to hide it, Steve is still staring at the door like he can set Tyler on fire by will alone.
“Steve,” you start.
He turns on you. Not violently, not in anger at you, but in the way thunderstorms turn, just sudden, intense, focused. “Why do you let him talk to you like that?”
Your breath catches. “What?”
“You heard me.” He gestures frustratedly at the now empty parking lot. “You don’t even like him.”
You flinch, because he’s right and you hate that he’s right. “He’s a customer.”
“He’s an ass,” Steve says. “That’s not the same thing.”
“Keith likes him,” you say weakly.
“I don’t care what Keith likes.” His voice cracks on it, full of too many feelings to smooth out. He runs a hand through his hair, pacing a small, tight circle behind the counter. “Every time he comes in here it’s like you shrink. You go all quiet and stiff, and he keeps pushing, and you just… smile and take it.”
“I don’t want to cause a scene,” you say, cheeks burning.
“Oh, right, because God forbid Tyler Cain have to face the horror of being told no,” Steve snaps. The lights bzzzt overhead in sympathy.
“Steve-”
“No.” He stops, turns back to you. His eyes are bright, almost feverish. “You think I don’t notice? You think I’m not paying attention?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You don’t have to.” He laughs once, humorless. “Look, I get it. I know I’m not exactly… subtle. But I’m not blind. I can see when someone makes you uncomfortable.”
The register lets out a faint whine, as if begging you to stop this conversation. You ignore it.
“Why does it matter so much to you?” you ask, voice small in your own ears.
The question stills him.
He stares at you for a heartbeat too long. Something in his face opens, unguarded. “Because,” he says, and for the first time there’s no joke in it, no deflection, just raw honesty. “I hate watching him take pieces of your attention when I-” He cuts himself off with a huff, reaching his hands out to slap his face.
Thunder growls outside, the lights flicker once, dimming, brightening, like they’re leaning in. You step closer without meaning to. “When you what?”
He swallows and you watch closely as his throat works. His shoulders move with his breath. “When I… want them,” he says quietly, gesturing to you awkwardly while avoiding eye contact.
The words hit you like a jolt. Not the brutal, world breaking shock of the first spark, but something softer, deeper. A steady current instead of a bolt.
The lights overhead flare, then hold.
Your heart is pounding so hard you’re sure he can see it.
“Steve,” you whisper, because you don’t know what else to say.
He rakes a hand through his hair again, agitated. “He looks at you like you’re something he can pick off a shelf. Like you’re just… there, waiting for whoever wants you most. And I-” His jaw clenches. “I feel….wrong when he’s near you. Like the air gets messed up. Too loud. Too bright. Like the whole room is trying to eject him and can’t.”
As if to prove his point, the horror aisle light flickers and pops, the bulb dying with a tiny, dramatic spark. You both look up.
“Oh, come on,” he mutters at the ceiling. “I know that was you.”
You blink. “Me?”
“No, not you-” He waves a hand at the air, frustrated. “You. This. Whatever this is.”
“What are you talking about?” you ask, even though you think you know. Maybe Steve had finally caught on to you.
He drops his hand, breathing hard. “I’ve been trying to figure it out,” he admits. “The register, the lights, the tape spits… it’s not random. It’s… us.”
Static slides down your spine, prickling in your fingers. “Us,” you echo.
“Yeah,” he says, eyes earnest and a little wild. “It happens around us. When you laugh, the VCR freaks out. When I get pissed off, the lights throw a tantrum. When you get that look like you’re about to bolt-” He gestures helplessly. “Everything gets tight. Like the store’s holding its breath. Like I can’t breathe.”
You can feel the store holding it now. The hum of the fluorescents, the low buzz of the sign, the quiet whir of the ceiling fan above the horror section, all of it waiting. “I thought it was just bad wiring,” you say weakly.
“I thought I was going insane,” he says. “Until Robin said… things.”
“What things?” Your voice is paper thin.
He hesitates. Then, very softly, “Do you remember what they taught us in school? About soulmates?”
Your blood turns to ice and fire at once. “Steve-”
“They said the bond shows up in… weird ways. Electricity. Air pressure. Heat. Like the universe is trying to get your attention.” He takes a small step closer. He’s not touching you. Not quite. But the space between you feels charged enough to fuse metal. “They said it reacts to feelings. Not just fate. Choice.”
“Stop,” you say, because the word soulmate in his mouth might undo you. “Please.”
His gaze searches your face, desperate for an answer you’re not ready to give. “Why?” he asks. “Why does this scare you so much?”
Because you’ve already felt the full force of it. Because you know what it is. Because you’ve been living with the knowledge that he is yours and you’re not his and he hasn’t felt it anything close to what you have felt and you are terrified of what happens when he does.
Because one bond, unbalanced, can burn someone out.
Because you’d rather carry all the current yourself than risk him destroying you.
“I don’t want to talk about this,” you say, voice shaking. “We’re at work.”
“Screw work,” he says, too quickly. “This is…this is bigger than work.”
“Steve.”
He takes another step. He’s close enough now that you can see the faint ring of lighter brown around his pupils, the way his lashes clump when it’s humid, the tiny freckle under his left eye.
“When he was standing here,” he says, voice low, “I felt like the whole room was wrong. Like the lights wanted to pop. Like the register wanted to jump the counter and attack him.” A humorless huff of breath. “And when you smiled at him like you were choking on it, the screen glitched. Like it knew you didn’t mean it.”
Your eyes sting.
“And when you look at me,” he continues, softer now, “when you actually look at me? Everything feels… better. Like the buzz smooths out. Like the store relaxes.” He swallows. “Like I relax.”
Your breath is coming too fast. Your fingertips tingle with the urge to touch him and the fear of what will happen if you do.
“I don’t… know what this is,” he admits. “Not really. But I know it’s something. And I know I don’t want you to keep pretending it’s not just because it’s scary.”
The open vulnerability in his face guts you.
“I can’t do this,” you whisper.
“Why?” he asks again. “Tell me why.”
Because if you take that step, if you let him in, the universe will slam the circuit closed, and you don’t know who will get burned.
You don’t answer.
A light in the romance aisle flickers in sympathy, dimming and brightening like a fluttering heart.
He sees it. Of course he sees it.
“Oh,” he says softly.
Not the shocked, breathless oh of revelation. Something smaller. Sadder. Like he’s seeing the outline of the truth even if he doesn’t yet know its name.
He takes a shaky breath. “Okay. Okay. I’m… I’m pushing.” He backs off half a step. The air between you cools by a degree, but the hum doesn’t disappear. “I just-” He laughs once, helpless. “I just really, really hate that guy.”
Despite everything, a strangled little sound escapes you that might be a laugh. Might be a sob.
The register dings. The screen, which had been flickering faintly, steadies.
Steve’s shoulders drop, some of the tension leaking out. “There it is,” he says, almost to himself. “Static theory. Confirmed.”
“You’re an idiot,” you say, and it’s the most affection you’ve ever let into the words.
His mouth curves, tired but genuine. “Maybe. But I’m an idiot who’s not gonna let Tyler Cain hit on you without saying something.”
“I can handle it,” you protest weakly.
He shakes his head. “You shouldn’t have to.” The simple conviction in his voice does something dangerous to your insides.
“I’m going to… go check the breaker,” he says after a beat, gesturing vaguely toward the back. “Before the romance section decides it’s had enough of our drama.”
You nod because you don’t trust your voice. He turns to go, then pauses, hand braced on the doorway. “Hey,” he says without looking back. “If he ever makes you feel like that again? The shrinking thing?” He exhales. “Tell him no. And if you can’t-” His fingers tighten on the doorframe. “I will,” he says. Then he disappears into the back, leaving you alone at the counter with your still-buzzing bones and a store that hums like it just heard a secret.
You sag against the register, pressing your palms flat to the cool metal. The static inside you swirls, restless, uncertain, but… different. Not entirely alone.
Because he may not know the whole truth.
He may not have felt the original strike.
But he feels something.
Enough to fight for you.
Enough to notice the way the universe warps when you’re uncomfortable.
Enough to say he wants your attention.
You look up at the dead bulb in the horror aisle. It blinks once, then, inexplicably, flares back to life, casting the covers in a softer light.
“Traitor,” you mutter at the ceiling.
The ceiling hums back, smug.
You close your eyes for a second, just breathing, letting the current settle. When you open them again, you catch a glimpse of Steve through the small office window at the back. He’s standing by the breaker box, hand braced on the metal, head tipped back against the wall like he’s praying to hardware.
The sight makes something warm and electric curl in your chest.
You’re not ready to give the bond its name.
Not yet.
But you are starting, slowly, fearfully, to admit one thing, whatever this is, you’re not the only one feeling it anymore.
-
Maia. The Sixth Star.
You tell yourself today will be normal. You tell yourself that during the walk, during the unlocking of the front door, during the deep inhale of the dusty air inside Family Video.
You tell yourself that even when you see Steve leaning over the counter, elbows propped, chin resting on his hands like he’s waiting for you and ONLY you. It lasts about eleven seconds.
“Morning,” he says, all soft edged warmth, hair too fluffy, vest too wrinkled, smile too careful.
“Hi,” you say, voice neutral.
Neutral, neutral, neutral. You’re Switzerland,you’re a grounded telephone line.You’re safe. You would not repeat the mess of the other day.
His eyes brighten. “Good….cool…great….okay.”
“Steve,” you say slowly. “What are you doing?”
He straightens, clears his throat, puts on what he probably thinks is a casual expression. “So I’ve been thinking,” he announces.
You stare. “Oh no.”
“No no… like, good thinking. Scientific thinking.”
“Since when are you scientific?”
“Since last night!” he says proudly. “Robin sent me home with a whole lecture about ‘patterns of soulmate energy,’ which- don’t look at me like that, she used real science words and I realized something.”
“Please don’t say science words.”
“I realized,” he continues dramatically, “that the static in this place reacts to… us.”
Your pulse skips. “We talked about this. Please don-”
“Yeah, but I want to prove it.” He sighs out.”I deserve ti test it.”
You blink. “Test what?”
He grins like a man who has decided on chaos. “The static.”
“Steve.”
“Let me do science,” he pleads.
“No.”
He beams. “I’m already doing it.”
You squint. “What do you mean-” And then he does the very first experiment:
He smiles at you. Not just a smile, a real one. It’s soft, earnest, hopeful.
Your heart jumps in your chest, it practically launches through your ribcage. The overhead bulb above the counter flickers once.
His eyes widen. “YES. THAT. THAT EXACT THING.”
“Steve-”
“Okay, control test,” he announces, hand raised. “Don’t smile. I mean it. Don’t.”
You cross your arms. “Fine.”
He walks around the counter, comes to stand in front of you, arms folded behind his back like a boy about to confess something to his crush at a school dance.
Then he… wiggles his eyebrows.
Horribly, terribly. Dad joke level eyebrow wiggles.
You try to keep your mouth still, you try SO hard. A tiny laugh escapes anyway. The register beeps twice without being touched.
Steve GASPS. “IT HAPPENED AGAIN. The….what do you call it? Static?”
You cover your face. “Go away.”
“No,” he says gleefully. “This is important field research.”
“Field research,” you echo flatly.
“Absolutely. Peer reviewed by Robin. Eventually.”
“Oh god.”
“And now,” he says, wiggling his shoulders like a game show host, “Phase Two.”
“Phase-” He steps closer. Too close.Far too close.
His chest almost brushing yours, his hands behind him, leaning in just enough that your body immediately short circuits. Your breath stutters, your eyes drift to his shoes to avoid the panic.
“Look at me,” he says softly.
“No,” you whisper.
“Look at me,” he repeats, gentler this time, like a request instead of an order. You lift your eyes and the moment your gaze touches his, the light above Flop Films flickers, slow and deliberate, like a sigh.
He exhales shakily. “Okay,” he murmurs, voice warm with awe. “That one wasn’t even me.”
“Steve, stop-”
“I’m not done!”
“Please be done-”
“PHASE THREE!” he announces, then lifts a single finger…and taps the tip of your nose.
You flinch. “What was THAT-”
The microwave in the break room turns on. By itself.
It beeps three times, then powers down again.
You glare at him. “You’re being a menace.”
“You LOVE it.”
“I do not.”
“You SO do.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Steve-”
“You haven’t run away today,” he says softly and you stop breathing. He doesn’t smile this time. Doesn’t flirt or tease. He just stands there, close enough to feel the heat of him, eyes impossibly gentle.
“You always run,” he says quietly. “But not today.”
Your throat closes. “I… I’m not running.”
“No,” he says, stepping closer, voice rougher now. “You’re not.”
His hand lifts, slow and careful, like he’s approaching a frightened creature.
He touches your elbow. Barely and yet a spark snaps.
Not painful, not even close to dangerous. Just… awake.
His breath catches.
“Yeah,” he whispers, “I knew it wasn’t just wiring.”
“Steve-” you begin. But the bell jingles as a mom with three kids barrels in.
Steve steps back but only barely, eyes locked on yours like he’s memorizing the way you looked at him a second ago. You force your body into neutral mode.
Smiling, returning tapes, recommending age friendly movies.
Normal.
Human.
Steve is not normal.
Steve is staring like his life depends on it.
Every time you laugh at the kids, every time your voice softens, every time you tuck your hair behind your ear the lights hum or the tape rewinders spasm or the microwave acts possessed.
And Steve sees all of it.
Every. Single. One.
Closing rolls around awkwardly, and though Robin would normally be here she is not. It’s just the two of you and a universe that is desperate to out you.
The sky outside has that heavy, pre storm feel again, humid, thick, the kind of darkness that presses against the windows. Inside, Family Video glows in muted neon and flickering fluorescents.
Steve is unusually quiet, focused, which should scare you.
He locks the doors, turns the OPEN sign with a fluid ease, slowly flips the bolts into place as you wipe down the counter until you feel the air shift like static gathering before a thunder strike.
You turn to see he is already walking toward you, a deliberate stride up to you with his hands messing with the end of his vest that’s unbuttoned.
“Steve,” you whisper as he stops in front of you. Not touching, not speaking. Just there, leaning his head to make eye contact.
“Can I ask you something?” he says.
“No,” you breathe.
He smiles faintly. “I’m gonna do it anyway.”
You exhale shakily. “Steve-”
“Why do you get quiet around me?” he asks softly.“Why do you look like you’re holding your breath the whole time? Why do you run when I get too close? I’m trying so hard to get close.”
Your mouth opens, closes. “I don’t-”
“You do,” he says, voice steady. “And I wanna know why.”
Because you’re my soulmate, because the universe already shocked me, because if we touched when you weren’t ready, the bond could burn one of us out. Because I feel everything when you’re near me and I don’t know if it’s safe.
You choke on all of it, he merely steps closer, so close your bodies almost meet.
“Say something,” he murmurs.
“I can’t,” you whisper.
“Why?”
“Because you don’t know.”
His brows knit. “Know what?”
You shake your head, backing up one step. He follows.
“You keep doing that,” he says softly. “Backing up when I move.”
“Steve-”
“Why?” he repeats.
You turn away, just for a second and he catches your wrist. It’s not hard, not possessive. Just… a touch and yet it is your entire undoing.
Your bond SURGES, the overhead lights flicker violently, the TVs powers on by theirselves, static buzzing across the screen, the register drawer SLAMS open.
A cardboard standee collapses.
“Jesus-” Steve jerks, looking around. “What was THAT?”
You’re breathing too fast. He drops your wrist instantly. “Hey. Hey, no. it’s okay-”
“It’s not,” you whisper.
“Then tell me why.”
You look up, he looks back, unyielding. And the universe holds its breath.
Slowly, he steps closer again and he whispers, “Is it me?”
Your breath stutters. “Steve-”
“Because it feels like me,” he says, voice rough. “It feels like something happens when I look at you. When you smile. When you laugh.”
“I feel… too much.” You’re trembling, the static is crawling across your skin in bright, invisible lines.
“And you think I don’t?” he asks softly.
You can’t answer, you’re not sure you’re breathing. Finally, he lifts a hand and cups your jaw. His touch is gentle, and warm, you gasp.
The light above you blooms bright white, flooding the counter in warm, shimmering electricity. Steve freezes. His voice is a whisper. “Is it… this?”
“Steve-”
“Tell me,” he says, almost desperate. “Tell me what this is.”
Your heart fractures because he’s so close, so gentle with you, so invested all the while the bond is screaming at you to finish the circuit.
Because if he kisses you right now, the universe will strike and he won’t be ready.
You part your lips and lean in, giving in right as the bell on the back door TRILLS sharply.
A delivery guy sticks his head in. “Uh….drop off for Keith?”
Steve jerks back like he’s been electrocuted. You turn away, heart hammering, electricity slowly settling into your bones.
The delivery guy drops the package and leaves without noticing the apocalypse he walked into.
Silence. Long, crushing silence.
Steve clears his throat, cheeks red, hands shaking. “Okay,” he whispers. “So that was… something.”
Everything inside you trembles.He looks at the flickering lights, at the buzzing TVs, and then, quietly, with terrified wonder, “…It’s us. Isn’t it?”
Your breath catches, the lights pulse once. Steve Harrington looks at you like he’s finally scared of the truth, but also like he’s ready to chase it anyway.
-
Electra. The Seventh Star.
You avoid Steve Harrington for seven full days.
A week of excuses, silence and a week of leaving early, picking up shifts Keith forgot to schedule, shelving tapes in the back instead of the front, ducking behind aisles whenever someone with Harrington shaped hair walks by the window.
You think you’re being subtle. You know you’re not.
You stop laughing at work, no more humming or teasing. You hold your breath whenever the bell above the door dings and the universe notices, it electric feel of it coiling in your chest like a wounded animal. Confused, angry, restless, willing to lash out at the first thing it could.
You tell yourself it’s for the better, you tell yourself the truth. You’re absolutely terrified of what will happen when he finally pieces everything together. Because he’s close, too close.
Because he looked at the lights flickering around you like they were spelling his name, because he touched your jaw and the whole damn video store tried to light itself on fire.
So you hide.
And hide.
And hide.
Until the universe decides it’s had enough.
The storm rolls in before afternoon, it’s a violent, electric thing with no patience for your emotional cowardice. Wind shreds through the parking lot. The sky turns green gray, then black and lightning curls across the clouds like veins.
Robin was supposed to close with you, to be your buffer and your shield. The only person who could talk Steve down if he decided to demand the truth.
But at 2:07 PM, she calls.
“Hey, sooooo I can’t come in,” she says over the phone, tone suspiciously bright. “Sore throat. Flu. Bubonic plague. The usual.”
“You sound fine.”
“Do I?”
“Yes.”
“Well, wow, that’s crazy, nice chatting-”
“Robin, don’t you dare-” It’s too late, she has already hung up based on the dial tone you were now hearing.
The bell above the door jingles thirty seconds later, you don’t have to look. You feel him. Like pressure, electricity moving underneath your skin, preparing like lightning about to strike.
You grip the counter and tell yourself to breathe.
Footsteps sound out behind you, slow and purposeful. Then, “Hi,” Steve says softly, your lungs forget how to work.
He looks… ruined.
Hair wet from the rain, curls stuck to his forehead and his vest half unbuttoned. Eyes dark and searching your face like you’re a puzzle with one missing piece he’s finally ready to snap into place.
He doesn’t waste time, doesn’t smile, doesn’t joke. He walks straight to you and says, “Why did you hide from me?”
Your heart slams against your ribs, the lights flicker in sympathy. “I didn’t-”
He has no time for your excuses, cutting you off with a firm nod even when his voice is gentle. “You did,” he whispers. “For a week.”
“Things were… things got complicated.”
“No,” he says, voice low and steady. “Things got honest.”
Lightning crashes outside, the lights shudder and you back up instinctively. He follows, not ready to let you out of his space. Not ready to be parted from you after a week. “You can’t keep doing this,” he says.
“You can’t act like nothing’s happening.”
“Steve-” You groan, turning your head away in anxiety.
“Look at me.” You do annd it’s over.
He sees everything, within a blink of an eye he sees the fear and the longing and the static clawing it’s way from under your skin.
“Tell me,” he says, stepping closer. “Tell me when it started.”
You swallow. “I- Don’t-”
He shakes his head, jaw clenching. “No more running. No more ‘I don’t know.’ No more pretending the lights don’t flicker when you look at me.”
You turn away, your last useless defense. “Steve, please-”
“Tell me,” he says again, almost pleading. “Tell me when it activated.”
A crack of thunder hits the transformer outside, the entire building blacks out. You both are submerged in darkness. Only the glow of lightning through the windows, illuminating his silhouette.
You can hear your heartbeat.
Hear his.
He whispers, barely audible over the storm: “Was it me? Was it something I said? Something I did? What did I do to make my soulmate hide from me?”
Your eyes sting and you can do nothing but shake your head. “It wasn’t you.”
His breath catches. Then softly, devastatingly, “Then who?”
You break. “Not like that. It was you,” you whisper. “It was always you. But you didn’t feel it.”
The confession hangs between you, bright and terrifying. He stares at you, unblinking, rainwater dripping from his hair. “What do you mean?” he breathes.
Your voice fractures. “Graduation. The day we ran into each other. The spark that broke Nancy and Jonathan's cameras.”
His mouth falls open. “That was-?”
“Us,” you finish. “Well me…. It was the bond.”
He inhales sharply, like the truth itself punched him.
“And I felt it,” you whisper. “And you didn’t.”
Lightning flashes white across his face, he looks wrecked. “Why didn’t you tell me?” His voice cracks on it. “Why did you carry that alone?”
“Because you didn’t feel anything, Steve!” Your own voice cracks.”Of course you didn’t. No one saw me for years, and my soulmate didn’t-” You stop, inhaling a deep breath in. “If I had told you and you rejected me then I would have burnt up from the inside out. I know this.”
The storm howls, the ceiling creaks a bit, and your heartbeat is roaring in your ears. “I couldn’t tell you,” you whisper. “I was scared.”
He moves, like he’s never been more sure of anything as he steps into your space, chest brushing yours, the lightning outlining him in silver.
“Do you know what the worst part was?” he asks, voice raw. “The worst part wasn’t that you ran. It’s that you looked at me like I could hurt you. Like there was any universe out there where I would have been able to ever turn you away like that.”
You flinch, and his hands rise up, slow and gentle to rest on your arms.
“I would never hurt you,” he whispers. “I could never….”
“Steve-”
“And if the universe wanted me to feel something-” Another flash, followed by a loud crack of thunder, a surge of static crosses across your skin. “-I think it finally caught up.”
Your breath stops. “What?” you whisper.
He swallows. “When you touched me last week,” he says softly. “When you put your hand on my wrist during the fight with Tyler. I felt… something. Like a jolt. Like a spark under my ribs.”
Your heart stumbles.
“And tonight,” he continues, stepping closer, “I walked in and the air changed.”
Your fingertips flicker with electricity.
“And when you look at me, really look at me…” He raises a hand and touches your cheek. The lights flash violently. “I felt it again.”
Your entire body trembles.“Steve,” you breathe.
He smiles, broken and unbelievable. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “I feel it. I have felt it for awhile.”
And then he leans in. It’s slow and careful, terrified. His face stuck into a look of awe, your noses brushing and your breaths mingling.
Lightning hits somewhere close enough to shake the floor and Steve whispers, “Let me feel it. All of it.”
You shatter, finally giving in to what the universe wants. You grab his shirt into a tight hold, as he cups your face and the moment your lips meet the universe seems to implode on itself.
Light explodes behind your eyelids, electricity surges through the room. The register slams open, every VHS cover rattles off the metal shelves as each of the TVs powers on in a show of static, the overhead lights blaze white hot. They flash so hard that sparks fly from them, falling to the ground.
It feels like lightning in your veins, it feels like falling upward, it feels like the universe screaming at you for finally giving in.
Steve gasps against your mouth, his lips melding with your own and you feel it. His bond snaps into place like a circuit completing. A flood of warmth crashes through you, his recognition and his shock, but mostly his relief and joy.
He breaks the kiss only to breathe, forehead pressed to yours.
“Oh my god,” he whispers, voice shaking. “Oh my god- it’s you.”
“It’s me,” you whisper back. Lightning arcs across the sky.
Steve cups your cheeks, breathless and laughing and overwhelmed. “You should’ve told me,” he murmurs, brushing your lips again. “Never in my wildest… My dreams couldn’t even be this perfect.”
“I was scared,” you admit.
“I’m not,” he says softly. “Not anymore.”
The storm howls and the lights hum. Your soulmate bond glows electric between your hands.
And Steve pulls you back into the kiss, this time with the knowledge, the understanding, the certainty.
You were his.. And he was yours.
-
Six months after the bond clicked into place, Family Video is… suffering. Electrically, spiritually, emotionally. But mostly electrically.
And Keith doesn’t know why. Which is what makes it all the more beautiful.
In the mornings you and Steve walk in together. Not hand in hand since you’re careful in public, but close enough that your arms brush. Close enough that the static hums pleasantly between your ribs.
The moment you step over the threshold, the lights flicker and the “OPEN” sign buzzes loudly. The register even makes a distressed chirp.
Keith bursts from the back room like a man under siege, making Robin jump at the sound of the door hitting the wall. “What did you DO?” he demands, pointing accusingly at the two of you.
You blink innocently. “We literally just got here.”
“THAT’S MY POINT,” he snaps.
Steve bites down a smile, hard, struggling to bite back a laugh.
“Maybe the wiring’s old,” you suggest.
Keith spins on you. “The wiring wasn’t old yesterday!”
Steve rubs the back of his neck. “Uh… Keith… pretty sure wiring doesn’t age overnight.”
“THIS BUILDING ONLY HAS THESE ISSUES WHEN YOU TWO ARE IN IT,” Keith cries.
You and Steve exchange a look, then you both shrug at the same time, turning back to give him angelic smiles.
Keith groans into his hands.
The day passes in a slow lull, with you and Steve separating to try and give the store a fighting chance of survival, you take to stocking mostly everything you could while he mans the register and Robin yaps his ear off.
Dustin would be in soon, it’s a thursday and he would be coming in to complain and try to get the movies he rents cheaper. Steve would let him and you would pretend nothing happened. Obviously.
By the time you take your lunch you’ve been able to tune most the ruckus out, hating every inch of the breakroom as you chew on the sandwich Steve had made for you last night, reading a magazine that you hadn’t stolen from Robins backpack.
Steve sneaks in because he “misses you”, trying to play cool as he drones on about how long it’s been since he’d laid eyes on you. [exactly 11 minutes]
He leans against the counter, smiling at you the way he does now, soft, warm, like kissing you is his favorite hobby. Which, realistically, it is.
“Hi,” he murmurs when he is done with his rant.
“Hi,” you murmur back.
He steps closer and the microwave senses danger.
BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. It yells as it turns itself on.
You sigh. “Steve-”
“What?” he asks innocently, pinning you gently against the counter. “I didn’t even touch you yet.”
“You were thinking about it.”
“That shouldn’t count-”You kiss him to shut him up.
A bag of popcorn explodes loudly behind you both, the kernels exploding across the room as the coffeemaker hisses steam like an offended dragon and the fridge makes a popping sound before restarting.
Keith runs in already yelling out, “WHAT IS HAPPENING IN HERE?”
You and Steve freeze, stuck in the hold you had on each other during the kiss with both your lips swollen and red and his hands still pinning you to the counter.
“We were just talking.” You lie.
“Building had an electrical surge.” Steve clears his throat, shrugging a bit.
“The weather has been real funky lately.” Robin helps, passing by the door with the magazine you had just been reading.
“…I’m calling an electrician,” Keith decides, shaking his head as he heads back out to rush to the office.
“You have to get back to wor-” You start but Steve doesn’t let you finish, pushing you against the counters to cover your mouth with his own and continue the kiss. Electricity be damned.
⟵ Previous Constellation 🌌 Next Constellation {Next Part}⟶
Enjoy!
The core of the Pleiades cluster contains seven major stars, each one young, hot, and most electrically charged stars in the sky.
Even in the dark, seven little stars can charge a whole universe.
-
Alcyone. The First Star.
The football field gleamed like a mirage, the sun hot enough to warp the horizon, glittering green and orange gowns swallowing the grass in uneven waves. Tassels tangled in the wind, banners flapped, someone’s mom shouted from the bleachers, and the loudspeaker screeched a final Congratulations to the Class of 1986! before dying in a crackle of static.
You were late, not that this was a big shocker.
Half your gown was unzipped, your hair a little too frizzy from the humidity, and your diploma tube was tucked under your arm like you were sprinting a relay instead of finishing high school. The air smelled like sunscreen, grass, and that odd electric sweetness that comes before a summer storm. You were weaving through the chaos toward the parking lot, thinking of air conditioning and cold lemonade and the promise of never hearing a bell schedule again when it happened.
You tripped.
The heel of your shoe snagged on a hitch in the grass, your balance pitched forward, and before your brain could even form the thought ‘this is going to hurt’, you collided with someone solid.
The world lit up, not in the metaphorical way your cheap romance novels always said, but in a literal way.
The sky seemed to inhale a deep breath,sound thinned, then burst. For a second, the air was full of light, tiny white sparks dancing in the space between your skin and his. The static jumped like it recognized you. It felt like touching the socket as a kid, that forbidden jolt that makes your heart skip a full measure but instead of pain, it was awareness. Like something had just settled into your bones and made itself at home, working in your bloodstream like a calling.
A sharp pop followed, loud enough to make you flinch. Somewhere close, a camera sizzled, the glass shattering from it. The smell metal curled in the heat as Jonathan Byers cursed out, holding his camera away as the electric shock of a mating bond destroyed it.
You knew what this was, everyone had learned about it in school and had gone through lessons on how to recognize it. You had just found your soulmate. After years of dreaming of it you had finally been gifted with it.
You blinked up, dazed, into the startled face of Steve Harrington.
No…… no stars no….. The universe sure did have a sense of humor.
King Steve. With his stupid hair perfect even in the humidity, sunglasses perched on his nose, grinning like summer and sin and a dozen things that made people forgive him too easily. He had his cap shoved under his arm and a tassel stuck to his sleeve like even it couldn’t let go of him in the static shock of the electric jolt.
The very same person who had spent the past 4 years treating you like an utter ghost. Of being one of the people at this school who wouldn’t remember your name if they tried.
His hands were still on your arms, steady, warm, and grounding you when everything else felt like a live wire.
“Whoa….hey, you okay?” His voice came out easy, a low concern that made your pulse stumble again. He glanced over your shoulder, toward the crowd. “You went down fast. You hit your head or……?”
You couldn’t answer. The noise had returned in a roar, parents shouting names, friends calling out for photos, the brass of the marching band blaring a victory tune. But under all of it was the soft, unmistakable hum that didn’t belong to any of those things, a hum you could feel beneath your ribs, thrumming in time with your heart.
Because this wasn’t just a shock of static. It couldn’t be. You were the unluckiest lucky person to ever walk this planet.
Soulmate bonds were rare, unpredictable, dangerous in the wrong moment. The universe’s way of whispering this one belongs to you. They said you’d know when it happened, that your souls would connect like lightning finding its path.
You knew. Every nerve screamed it.
And yet…. He didn’t seem to.
Steve looked at you, blinking, utterly calm, completely oblivious to the war thrumming through your body in this moment. The only sign he noticed anything at all was the faint frown tugging between his brows. “You sure you’re okay? You kinda… look like you saw a ghost.”
The hum grew sharper in your chest. Nancy Wheeler’s voice floated over the crowd, “Steve! Steve, hold still!” There was the click of her camera, followed by a violent pop and a puff of gray smoke. “What the hell?” She stared at the dead device in disbelief. “Did this thing just fry itself?”
“Yours too?” Jonathan asks, coming forward with his own busted camera.
Steve half turned toward them both, laughing at their confusion. “You probably overused the flash-”
“No, it smoked, Steve! Cameras don’t smoke!”
He laughed,all charisma and easiness, reaching up to push his hair out of his face. “Yeah, well, you’ve been taking a hundred pictures since this morning. Thing’s probably just tired.” His attention flicked back to you, his grin warm. “Sorry about that…..you really okay?”
You nodded quickly, words jammed behind your tongue. Your fingers tingled, the phantom electricity still dancing under your skin. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. Just…uh. Static.” You winced at how stupid it sounded. “Big crowd. Bad combo.”
“Guess so.” He released your arms, brushing his palms against his gown like he was wiping the feel of you away, which made you flush from embarrassment. “At least you didn’t faceplant. That’d be a bad look for a graduate.”
“I’ll… keep that in mind.”
He smiled again, polite, distracted, charming in the careless way he’d always been and that was somehow worse than if he’d felt nothing at all. Because you did. You felt everything. The universe had just flipped your world inside out and he was making small talk about faceplants.
Nancy called his name again, beckoning him back for one last photo. He gave you a little salute, stepped backward, and melted into the crowd.
And just like that, the connection snapped.
The humming silence that followed nearly made you dizzy. You stared down at your hands that were still shaking, at the faint, trembling shimmer that wasn’t light but memory and the realization hit like cold water.
He hadn’t felt it, he hadn’t felt you.
You had just spent 4 years being an absolute ghost, and the day you got your soulmate…. You still remained that ghost.
You took a shaky breath and forced your feet to move. Away from the field, the voices, the smell of burnt plastic from Nancy’s camera. Away from the boy the universe had chosen and promptly forgotten to notify. You didn’t stop until you were at the far end of the parking lot, leaning against your mother’s car with your heart still sparking in your chest.
The afternoon had turned heavy with humidity, the kind that promised rain but never delivered. You rubbed your palms against your gown, trying to ground the current still crawling under your skin, trying to fight off the stinging of the tears forming.
People said soulmate bonds balanced, something about two halves of one charge. But what happened when only one half carried the current? When the universe connected you to someone who didn’t even flinch?
You didn’t know. You didn’t want to find out.
By the time you slid into the passenger seat, the air conditioning blasting your face, you’d already made a decision: you weren’t telling a soul.
Not your mom.
Not Robin.
Definitely not Steve Harrington.
You’d keep it buried, the way people hide old scars. You’d convince yourself it was just static. Bad luck. A freak spark between strangers.
Outside the car window, the banners still fluttered, green and orange. Nancy’s ruined camera dangled from her neck while she scolded Steve for something you couldn’t hear. He laughed, hair catching the late sunlight, completely untouched.
The engine started. The radio fuzzed for a second before catching a song. You pressed your fingers against the humming dial and whispered under your breath, “Power surge.”
The lie felt easier the second time.
-
Celaeno. The Second Star.
Family Video has three reliable exits and twelve perfect hiding spots. You learn this on Steve Harrington’s first week like it’s a class you signed up for and can’t drop.
It depended on the level of panic that coursed through you on which hiding spot was better. Your favorite was the return bins that you duck behind whenever you hear the front door bells jingle, pretending to be inventory. The next would be the break room, going on lunch whenever he is on register, chewing your cheap lunches under the fluorescent morgue lighting of the room, listening to the soda machine purr like a sleeping cat.
The best hiding spot? Your manager Keith.
To be fair, Keith was less of a hiding spot and more of an excuse. A wall with a boring face. He runs the store in a graphic tee collection and a God complex that doesn’t ever quit. When you corner him on a Wednesday morning he is hunched over the schedule like it’s a crossword puzzle he couldn’t solace. Pen tucked behind his ear, cheeto stains from his fingerprints still on his pants.
“Swap my shifts,” you say, crisp, like it’s a reasonable thing, like your bones aren’t humming, like you didn’t wake up this morning with the taste of electricity and the memory of graduation soldered to your ribs. “With anyone. No more shifts with Harrington.”
Keith does not look up. “No.”
“That was fast.”
“I believe in decisive leadership,” he says. “Also, I believe in not rewriting this whole board because you and Harrington have, I don’t know, a vibe.”
You fight the urge to flinch at Steve’s name. “It’s not a vibe. It’s….” Dangerous, annoying, destroying you from the inside out. A broken transformer inside your chest. “-complicated.”
Keith finally looks at you for a long moment before his eyes dart back to the door. His voice is lower when he speaks again. “Is this, like, a… thing? Are you guys… you know…” He mimes two awkward sock puppets trying to high five. It’s obscene.
Your face flushes, body crossing with hot flashes. “No.”
“So it’s a vibe,” he says, satisfied. “And regardless, I can’t switch you out of all his shifts, because he’s on for the evenings you can actually work, because we live in a society. Also, we’re short staffed because human beings keep quitting to go to college, and I can’t afford to lose you, so…..no.”
“You don’t even alphabetize right,” you say, which is not an argument, it’s an attack. “You put The Godfather under T, it goes under G you imbecile.”
“The Godfather goes under T, and if you want to fight about it, take it up with the Dewey Decimal System.” He stabs the pen at the whiteboard. “Also, Harrington needs a responsible partner his first week. I chose you.”
“You’re punishing me for eating your twizzlers,” you mutter.
“Close enough.”
The sound of a throat being cleared behind you makes you jump a little, your stomach drops before you turn. You don’t have to look to know it’s him, your nerves read him like the weather. But you look anyway, because you’re stupid in all the classic ways, curious, soft, human.
Steve Harrington steps in from the back entrance with a hand up to push through air that doesn’t push back, vest on, hair offensively good for someone this early. He grins when he sees Keith, he grins when he sees you.
“Morning,” he says, easy, and the store lights flicker like they’re trying to wink back at him.
Keith squints up. “We gotta get the ballast replaced.” He says it like he’s proud he remembered the word you taught him.
“Ballast,” Steve repeats, pleased with language, pleased someone talked to him. “Good word. Like a pirate thing.”
“It’s a light thing,” you say, because your mouth speaks when it should not. Your hands are already busy with the stack of comedies you were pretending to shelve in the wrong section just to have something to do. “Bad ballast. Weird wiring.”
He laughs, just a short, warm sound and the light nearest the counter buzzes like a contented bee.
“Uh huh,” Keith says suspiciously. “Well, since the ballast is haunted, you two can work register. I have… managerial duties.” He gestures vaguely toward the stockroom, where managerial duties consist of inventory, naps, and reading comics.
“Keith,” you say under your breath, last ditch. “Please.”
He makes a face like you’ve asked him to donate a kidney. “Teamwork makes the dream work,and your team is officially Harrington.” he says, and flees.
You hold your stack of tapes like a shield as Steve drifts behind the counter, the way some people always end up where the center of a room is without trying. His vest hangs a little wrong, like he hasn’t decided if he hates it yet.
“Want me to run the desk while you… organize?” he asks. There’s no swagger like there was in high school, none of that lazy arrogance you’d once seen from very far away and written off as his religion. It’s replaced by gentleness in the shape of a question.
Which was odd because it had only been a summer since you had last seen him at graduation.
“I’ll take returns,” you snip, which is technically not answering.
“Cool,” he says, just as cheerfully, and when he smiles the light above the door trembles again, then settles.
You sort the bin with religious concentration. Your ears hear an entire language of Steve without looking up, his shoes scuff when he turns, the register dings when he hits a key too hard, the way he hums tunelessly when the store goes quiet, and unfortunately your name, spoken once to ask a price check, every lilt of his voice turns your spine to a tuning fork.
You hand him a sticker sheet, your fingers brush which in turn makes the the air prick, a skin needled warning. You snatch back like the sticker burns, which is not how stickers work.
“Sorry,” he rushes out.
“Not your fault,” you say automatically, voice clipped.
A woman approaches with two kids and an armload of cartoons. Steve turns on his customer voice, a warm and unhurried sound which makes the little boy immediately beam at him like dogs do at men who are good with dogs. “We’re doing a two for one on new members,” Steve tells the mom, winking at the kid as if this is classified intel. “Which means if you sign up, these two might be able to pick out their own movie.”
The mom laughs and agrees, the kids rush to choose their own movies. You can’t help it, your mouth curves. It feels like the first safe smile you’ve worn in days. It startles you.
The register fritzes.
Not much, just a small hiccup, a flicker on the tiny screen, the receipt printer stuttering out two inches of nonsense hieroglyphics before catching up like it tripped a stair and kept going. Steve glances down, bemused.
“Weird,” he says. “Keith did tell me the machines here have… personality.”
“It’s… the heat,” you lie, finding the new word like a coin in your pocket. “Circuitry hates sweating.”
“Same,” he says, and when he laughs, every bulb in the aisle does a soft sympathetic pulse. The kids ooh at the sight. “Whoa, cool light trick!”
You deadpan, “We spent the whole budget on that.” The mom giggles, Steve bites a smile.
He makes small talk, ‘enjoy your movie, bring it back late if you need an extra day, I won’t tell if you won’t’ and when the door closes behind them, he turns to you like he’s been bracing for something.
“Hey,” he says. “Can I….do you have a second?”
No. Always. “Sure,” you say, and you can hear your own heartbeat in the pause.
He rubs the back of his neck. It’s painfully endearing, like he rehearsed this in a mirror and forgot half the lines. “I, uh… I overheard you with Keith. About the schedule.”
You go very still, your cheeks flame like the bulbs want company. “Oh.”
“I wasn’t eavesdropping,” he adds quickly, like he wants to be clear on the terms. “I was… coming to clock in early, and I’ve been told by multiple people that I move too quietly for a man my size.” His mouth twitches. “Ninja syndrome.”
“Uh huh,” you say, faint. “That’s a terrible syndrome.”
He nods gravely. “Tragic.” The humor drains out of his face, replaced by something like worry. “I just…look, if you don’t want to work with me because… because of who I used to be? Like, back when I was an idiot with better hair? I get it. I do. And I’m sorry.”
You look at him, really look. Not at the hair or the vest, but at the way his apology sits in his shoulders, earnest, a little crooked, trying to fit.
“It’s not that,” you say, and your voice rings wrong in your own ears. Not a lie, but not the truth. “You’ve been… not a jerk.” You want to say you’ve been kind, but the word feels like an intimacy you haven’t earned.
He laughs once, a short and self deprecating one,and the lights give a tiny hitch overhead. “High praise. ‘Not a jerk.’ I should put that on a business card.”
“Get Keith to laminate it.”
“Keith would laminate his own face if he could,” he mutters, and you surprise yourself with a laugh, real and unguarded.
The register dings in protest, then blanks its screen. For a half second, the drawer stays shut, then it shoots open with a violent KA CHUNK that makes both of you jump. A roll of coins leaps, arcs, and pings across the linoleum like a meteor shower. A quarter hits Steve in the knuckle. He yelps. You slap a hand over your mouth to smother the hysterical noise building there.
“I broke the money,” he says, appalled and delighted at once.
You choke on a laugh. “You… I have no clue what to say to that.”
He picks up a dime, holds it to the light like he can see the store’s ghost trapped in Roosevelt’s head. “It feels personal.” He glances at you, and the humor softens into something else. “So… if it’s not me being…y’know, past me… is it something I did… now?”
Yes. You persisted in existing. You smiled at a child. You don’t know I exist. You’re my soulmate, and you don’t know. You have ruined my life. “No,” you say, and you taste metal. “I just like the break room.”
“Big fan of the… soda machine hum?”
“Huge.”
He studies your face as if you’re a riddle with a friendship bracelet tied to it. He must decide not to tug, because he nods slowly and lets it go. “Okay,” he says. “Well, if there’s anything I can do to… make me less… me-”
“Don’t say that,” you blurt, shocking yourself. “You’re fine. You’re… good at this.”
His mouth tilts at the corner. “At what? Breaking registers?”
“Talking to people.” You swallow. “Being nice.”
He blinks as if this is brand new information. Then he laughs, soft this time, careful, like he doesn’t want to knock anything over and the light above the horror aisle hums and steadies like it’s purring.
“Okay,” he says, and he says it like he means to keep being it.
Keith emerges from the stockroom then, as if summoned by the ghost of managerial competence. “What was that sound?” he demands. “Was that the register? Did the register attack you?”
“It was a mutual misunderstanding,” Steve says solemnly, rubbing his knuckle. “We’ve talked it out.”
Keith peers into the drawer, which sits slightly askew now, like it survived something traumatic. “This place is going to be the death of me.”
“Power surge,” you and Steve say in unison, then glance at each other and crack up.
The moment is stupid and small and perfect. Your laughter tangles. Something inside you unclenches, only a fraction, only enough to breathe without tasting lightning. The register, relieved to be part of a joke instead of a crime scene, makes a soft reassuring ding.
After that, the day settles into itself. You divide the labor without speaking, he takes the front, because charm is a renewable resource and you keep the cart moving, because order is a spell you know how to cast. When you pass tapes between you, you aim for the sweet spot, close enough to be normal, far enough to keep the hum from rising to a fever.
Every time he laughs, the store lights do that impossibly gentle flicker, a blink rather than a strobe, a heartbeat more than a warning. You tell yourself no one else notices. Why would they? It’s Hawkins. Everything is a little haunted.
At one point, a teenage girl asks for recommendations for “something where the girl chooses herself,” and Steve’s eyebrows shoot up, delighted. “Flashdance,” he says, and then, with mischief, “and The Terminator, because technically Sarah Connor chooses herself and everyone else chooses to stop talking.”
The girl cackles and you snort. The receipt printer wheezes out a foot of paper in solidarity. You slap it to stop, it obeys. Steve watches you, fond.
By six, the sky’s gone lilac and the world around you cools. You rest your elbows on the counter while Steve counts a drawer like someone doing math for the first time. “Hey,” he says suddenly, without looking up. “Can I ask you a weird question?”
“Is it about whether we’re alone in the universe? Because wrong coworker, ask Robin.”
He huffs. The coin stacks wobble, then straighten under his thumb. “Do you believe that thing? The soulmate thing?”
Your mouth goes dry. You hope your face doesn’t show the way your bones just screamed. “I… think a lot of people want to. It’s…comforting.”
He nods, thoughtful, eyes on the nickels like they’re a constellation. “Used to think it was fake,” he says, casual like it’s weather. “Or for other people. I don’t know.” He shrugs, an embarrassed, vulnerable motion you haven’t seen on him before. “Lately it just… sounds nice.”
The register chooses that exact moment to cough out another inch of tape. You pretend to be very invested in tearing it clean. “Why?” you ask, as if you are a person who asks casually why.
He finally looks up and the smile he gives you is quiet. “Feels like it’d make certain things… simpler.”
“Nothing about the universe is simple,” you say, and try to say it like a joke but it still comes out sharp.
“Yeah,” he says softly. “Guess not.”
The bell over the door saves you by ringing. A couple of regulars trundle in, and the hour resets around the choreographies you’ve learned. The hum eases. Your internal transformer stops screaming. You breathe.
When the sun slips low, Keith declares himself done with being in charge and disappears with the confidence of a man who believes the ship steers itself. You and Steve close, because of course you and Steve close. It’s quiet enough you can hear the ice shift in the soda machine. You count the drawer (again), wipe the counter (again), and by the time you flip the “OPEN” sign to “CLOSED,” the sky is the color of a bruise trying to heal.
“Thanks for not quitting,” Steve says as he pulls the grate down over the doors. He makes it a joke but it still sounds serious.
You lock the padlock. “I can’t give Keith the satisfaction.”
“Please don’t. He’ll start inventing an award for employee loyalty and make it out of laminated napkins.”
You huff a laugh and he beams. The light under the sign buzzes contentedly.
Outside, the air is softer. Night insects practice their singing and the parking lot glows with the reflected neon of your own store name. You stand together on the curb like it’s a stage you both forgot you were on.
He shoves his hands in his vest pockets. “You need a ride?”
“I’m good.” You gesture across the lot at your car. “Thanks.”
He nods and rocks back on his heels. You watch the way his mouth tries for more words and retreats. Something nudges your chest from the inside, soft and insistent. He’s trying, the nudge says. Be nice.
“Steve,” you say before you can stop yourself.
He looks up quickly. “Yeah?”
“About earlier. With Keith. I didn’t mean to-” You fidget with your keys until they complain. “I wasn’t trying to… I don’t hate you.”
“Good,” he says immediately, relieved, like he’d been holding something heavy and just set it down. “I mean….cool. Great. I’m very lovable.”
You snort. The Family Video sign hums like a laugh track.
A strip of receipt tape is stuck to the bottom of his sneaker from where the drawer attacked him earlier, as he steps back, it unspools behind him, leaving a white tail through the door. You gesture. He blinks, looks down, and groans.
“God,” he says, bending to peel it off. “This store is going to eat me alive.”
“Let it,” you say, and your voice is soft without your permission. “You’re… good at feeding it.”
He straightens, receipt tail bunched in his fist like a streamer. “Now that’s going on the business card.”
“Under ‘not a jerk.’”
“You’re really fixated on that part.” A beat. He tries it in a different tone, gentler. “I’ll… see you tomorrow?”
“Yeah,” you say, and the word doesn’t feel like a cliff this time. It feels like a step. “See you tomorrow.”
He lingers like he wants to add something. Then he just lifts a hand, a small, shy wave as if you haven’t spent the entire day inventing new ways to not talk to him. He heads for his car. The neon throws a warm pink across his shoulders. Halfway across the lot, he laughs, at himself, at the receipt streamer, at nothing, you have no clue but you do see the parking lot lights do that tremble, barely there.
You watch his back, watch the way the laughter loosens him. You feel the faintest tickle of current under your skin, a moth wing instead of a storm, and it’s almost… sweet. Not dangerous. Not a warning. A simple hello.
You exhale, your breath trembles.
In your car, you rest your head against the steering wheel and let the engine’s thrum drown the ghost of the day. You think about the apology he didn’t owe you and gave anyway. You think about the way the register sheeted out paper when you laughed. You think about how he said nice like it was a word that belonged to you.
You also think about Keith, and the schedule, and how there are only so many exits in this place and none of them go where you thought they would.
You pick up your head and check the rearview. Steve’s taillights blink as he pulls out, one, two, like eyes closing. You breathe again, and the breath doesn’t scrape this time.
“Power surge,” you whisper to the empty car, and it sounds less like a lie and more like a joke you’ve both agreed to keep telling until it isn’t needed.
You turn the key. The radio crackles, catches, and plays a song you both recommended earlier to a couple in their forties who wanted something “with a beat that doesn’t make us feel ancient.” You smile despite yourself.
-
Maia. The Second Star.
The storm begins in the late afternoon the way most Hawkins storms do, ominous, sulking, gathering in a bruise colored mass just beyond the treeline like it can’t decide whether to swallow the town or simply sit on it.
By six o’clock, it decides to hit.
The wind kicks up hard enough to make the Family Video sign rattle on its rusted chain. Raindrops slap against the windows like impatient fingers. The bell above the door trembles once, twice, then stays silent for nearly forty minutes.
Four weeks.
Four weeks of Steve Harrington working alongside you, asking harmless questions, hovering near your orbit like he’s trying to figure out why your gravity pulls and pushes at the same time.
And four weeks of you avoiding the one truth you can’t let him touch.
“So…” he says from behind the counter, leaning on his elbows, chin balanced on his hands. “Top five movies. Go.”
You stare at the rain as if the sky might offer you an escape hatch. “We’re not doing this.”
“We are doing this,” he insists, cheerful in a way that should be illegal during a natural disaster. “Because it’s dead in here, and I’m bored, and you hate when I alphabetize out loud.”
“You alphabetize wrong,” you say.
He perks up. “Okay, see, this is great. This is productive. Are you a purist or do you get weird about ‘the’?”
“Stop,” you groan, placing another tape into the returns bin with unnecessary force. “We’re not bonding.”
“I’m not trying to bond,” he lies, badly, “I’m trying to make conversation. With my coworker. Who keeps glaring at me like I ran over her goldfish.”
“I don’t glare.”
“You definitely glare.”
A loud crack of thunder punctuates his sentence, so close the lights flicker. You swallow hard and he notices. Of course he notices. He notices everything about you except the one thing that matters.
“You okay?” he asks softly.
“Fine,” you say, even though your stomach has turned to static. “Just jumpy.”
“Storms?” he asks.
“Storms,” you say.
He nods like he’s filing that under Important Information, right next to “likes grape soda” and “laughs at dumb jokes even when pretending she doesn’t.” Another gust of wind rocks the sign outside and you can hear the metal shriek.
Steve glances at the window. “Gonna be a bad one.”
“Really?” you deadpan. “You think?”
His mouth tilts. “Look, if you’re gonna be mean to me, at least be creative.”
You open your mouth to argue but the lights overhead flicker again, a sudden shudder of fluorescence that crackles along your spine.
Steve laughs lightly. “Poor Keith. He’s gonna have a full meltdown if the power goes out.”
You clasp your hands together tightly, hiding the tremble. “Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
“We?” Steve asks with a grin. “Wow. Didn’t know we were a team.”
“We’re…” You bite your tongue quickly, jumping a bit, you’d almost said we’re not. But that felt wrong, even if you were the only one to feel it this was your soulmate. You shove another tape into the returns bin so aggressively it squeaks. He smirks at you like he knows you’re flustered, but not why.
“Come on,” he says, voice warm, coaxing. “Just tell me. Do you like storms or hate them?”
“It’s not that,” you mutter and he leans closer. Too close. Close enough that the faint smell of his cologne and the clean rain scent of his hair nearly short circuit you.
“Then what is it?”
“Don’t.” You step back automatically. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Ask things like you care.”
He blinks. It’s not hurt, not exactly. More like confusion, a soft bewilderment that makes his expression go gentle. “I do care.”
The lights flicker a third time, thunder cracks directly overhead and you exhale shakily. “Well… stop. It’s weird.”
He gives you that half smile, the one that’s always tilted on the right side, like he’s letting you inside a joke without saying it. “You keep saying everything I do is weird.”
“That’s because-”
He straightens suddenly, hands up. “Okay, okay. Fine. No more questions.”
Good.
Good.
You should feel relieved, you don’t.
Forty seven minutes later the store is still empty and he has been humming to himself for far too long.
The storm hits full force, wind howling, sheets of rain slamming the windows hard enough to make the glass wobble in its frame. The air tastes metallic, almost electric. Like the world is holding its breath.
Steve, of course, decides this is the perfect time to inventory the snack shelf.
“I swear Keith has trauma around Twizzlers,” he mutters, holding up three mismatched boxes. “Why does he keep ordering the off brand ones? Who buys these?”
“People in actual emergencies,” you say. “We’re about to become one.”
He glances at the window where water torrents down. “Nah. Storm’ll pass.”
You don’t answer. Because you feel it, the pressure behind your ears, the charge in your fingertips, the thrum beneath your sternum. Your soulmate bond seems to like storms. It amplifies, sharpens. It’s like the sky is a living thing, calling to the electricity inside you and asking it to join.
You brace your hands on the counter to steady yourself.
Steve notices again. “Seriously, hey… are you sure you’re okay?”
“I said I’m fine.” You snap, closing your eyes.
He hesitates, you can hear him shuffling a but before he starts again, this time gentler. “You can… talk to me, y’know.”
“No,” you say quickly. “I can’t.”
He stares at you for a long moment. The storm whips tree branches across the parking lot outside. Something thuds against the dumpster with a metallic crack.
“Okay,” he says finally, voice soft. “Then just… let me know if you need anything. I’m here.”
You swallow around the ache that sentence puts in your chest.
Keith phones from home to tell Steve to lock up early, which he should have done hours ago.
“Don’t get electrocuted,” Keith says through the phone, voice bored.
“We’ll try not to,” Steve replies, tone dry.
“You say that, but Harrington, you attract disaster.”
Steve laughs. “Yeah, well, disaster keeps me humble.”
You try not to melt at that, and you fail.
You grab your bag from the back room, shouldering it carefully. The electricity underneath your skin is building, it’s worse now that you’re tired, worse in the dark, worse around him.
Steve flips the last switch. The interior lights die with a chime, leaving only the neon glow from outside filtering through the blinds.
“You parked close?” he asks, grabbing his keys.
“Kind of.”
“Kind of where?”
“Back row. Under the tree.”
His face does something pained. “The murder tree row? Really?”
“It’s fine.”
“It is not fine.” He waves his hand toward the front door. “Lead the way. I’m not letting you go out there alone.”
“I do it every night,” you say.
“And tonight the wind is sideways.” He gestures again, stubborn, protective. “Come on.”
You sigh loudly enough for him to hear it over the storm but secretly feel warmer for it. You push through the door, the bell jangling weakly behind you.
The moment you step outside, the air is ice. Wet. Violent.
Steve immediately shrugs out of his jacket. “Here.”
“No…Steve-” He’s already draped it over your shoulders. The fabric is warm. It smells like him, citrus shampoo and old leather and something clean and bright.
And the second it touches you….Lightning splits the sky.
A bolt hits so close the flash blinds your vision white for a fraction of a second. The thunder crashes immediately, loud enough to shake your ribs. The pavement vibrates beneath your feet.
Steve’s hand shoots out and catches your elbow, like he is trying to cover your body from getting hit. “Holy shit-” he breathes. “That was…did you feel-?”
But you can’t hear him.
Because your soulmate bond reacts.
The electricity floods your body in a rush, like every vein lights up from the inside. Your fingertips tingle and your chest hums as the air around you crackles, faint blue static dancing off your clothes.
You turn your face away so he won’t see.
“Hey,” he says gently, leaning down, trying to catch your eyes.His voice shakes, the same as his hands. “Hey, are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” you force out. “Just….just jumpy.”
He squeezes your arm, warm even through the jacket. “Okay, come on, let’s get to your car.”
He covers both your heads as you run across the lot to the door, trying to keep you close before you get there.
The door groans when you open it letting rain pour into the interior. Steve cups a hand over your head even though it does absolutely nothing to help fight it.
You jam the key into the ignition and turn it.
The engine coughs, wheezing before it gives up.
You try again.
Nothing.
Steve crouches beside you, soaked hair clinging to his forehead. He peers into the car like he’s a doctor diagnosing a chronically ill patient. “Uh oh.”
“Don’t ‘uh oh’ me.” You snap, closing your eyes for a moment before trying again.
He grins, teeth flashing in the dim. “That was an ‘uh oh.’”
“It’s fine,” you insist. “It’ll start.”
You turn the key again, watching as the dashboard flickers once, then goes black.
“Okay,” you whisper, throat tight. “Maybe not fine.”
Steve rests one hand on the door frame above you, rainwater dripping off his sleeve. “Looks like I’m giving you a ride.”
“No,” you say too quickly. “No, it’s-”
Lightning rips across the sky again, closer this time. The static under your skin answers it, flaring painfully.
Steve steps back when you rush to get out, eyes on you. “You’re shaking.”
“It’s cold,” you lie.
“It’s not that cold.”
You slam the car door harder than necessary. “I don’t need a ride.”
“Yes, you do,” he says calmly. “I’m not letting you walk home in this.”
“It’s not far.”
“It’s far enough.”
Your pulse stutters. Every fiber of your soul is screaming don’t get in his car don’t sit next to him don’t touch him don’t touch him don’t touch him-
And then a massive bolt of lightning hits the lot again. The explosion of light and sound is violent, the world glows white and the power lines spark.
You physically stumble backward, hand flying out. Steve catches you again, both hands around your arms, steady and solid and warm.
“Okay, that’s it,” he says, breathless but determined. “You’re coming with me. No arguments.”
Your heart is pounding so hard you swear the rain might hear it. “Steve-”
“Hey.” His voice softens. “It’s just a ride.”
It’s not.
It’ll never be just anything with him.
But your skin is buzzing uncontrollably, the storm is getting worse, and you’re one lightning strike away from full meltdown.
So you nod.
He beams, actually beams, like you’ve given him a gift.
“Come on,” he murmurs, guiding you with his jacket tucked around you like a shield. “Let’s get you out of the storm.”
The static inside you flares again as he steers you toward his car, hand warm on your back, electricity gathering in your veins like recognition.
The sky cracks overhead.
The bond answers in your bones.
And Steve… Steve doesn’t feel a thing.
Which just makes this all so much worse.
He lets you sit in silence in the car, flickering with the radio here and there but trying not to bother you to much. Once you pull up to your place he tries to sound out a goodnight, you don’t let him, slamming the door harshly as you try to disguise your tears.
-
Merope. The Third Star.
Keith assigns movie night the same way he assigns shifts: with too much authority and not enough sense.
Technically, it’s a “teambuilding exercise.” In reality, it’s because he bought a new VCR and wants everyone to praise it like it’s a newborn child.
It's been a couple months since Steve started and you’ve been doing a precarious dance the entire time. You avoid touching him, looking at him too long, letting him get close to make you laugh. You don’t even acknowledge the bond in fear it make take over your body like a caged storm.
And he, Steve Harrington, has apparently decided his new part time job is “figure out every single thing about you that you refuse to tell me.”
Which is how you end up on Keith’s sagging thrift store couch while rain taps lightly at the windows, surrounded by coworkers and an illegal number of discount snacks. It seems Keith is not only abusing his management role to fake friends but also get junk food.
Robin sprawls on the floor, legs crossed, hoarding the Dr Pepper.
Mason, the sarcastic Tuesday night shift guy that leaves passive aggressive notes whenever people miss something small, claims an armchair and refuses to move.
Keith is fiddling with wires like a toddler with a bomb.
And Steve, well of course Steve sits beside you. He’s nott “near” you, not “kind of in your vicinity.” He’s beside you, so annoyingly close you debate murder. Thigh pressed to thigh, srm brushing yours every time he shifts.
You don’t know if he does it on purpose.
You do know your body is approximately 78% static electricity and your heart has developed performance anxiety. One wrong move and you might as well shock yourself enough to die.
“Shift over, nerds,” Keith announces, as if he didn’t blackmail you all here today. “Time to bond.”
“Bonding implies choice,” Robin mutters without looking up.
Keith ignores her, instead he jabs a tape into the VCR. “Tonight’sa need to know classic, The Terminator. Don’t argue. It’s a masterpiece.”
Steve immediately perks up. “Oh hell yes.”
“You would like a movie about robots punching each other,” Mason snickers.
“It’s literally about fate,” Steve argues. “And destiny. And protecting people. And-”
“-and explosions,” you add dryly, before you can help it. Steve gives you a look, a soft grin, warm eyes crinkling around the edges. .
The room doesn’t flicker this time, but the lights hum, like they’re leaning closer.
Robin glances up sharply. “You paid the electric bill, right?”
Keith waves a hand. “Probably.”
You sink lower into the couch, willing your soul not to burst into lightning and out you. No such luck.
Twenty minutes in Steve laughs at a joke, and the lights stutter. It’s a tiny flicker, more of a wink than you pretend not to notice. His eyes flick to you, but you’re too busy sitting ramrod straight and playing like nothing had happened to look over.
Casual, you think, who is gonna notice?
Then he reaches for the popcorn bowl in your lap, his hand shooting out the same time you had reached out for a couple pieces, your fingers brush and a spark snaps.
Not the metaphorical kind. Actual static, bright enough to sting.
The popcorn bag in the bowl pops violently, bursting open like a cheap firework. Kernels spray across your lap, bouncing onto the carpet in a chaotic rain.
“WHAT THE HELL?” Mason shouts, jerking upright, glaring around the room.
Robin wheezes laughter. “Oh my god, Keith’s haunted popcorn-”
“That wasn’t the popcorn,” Keith says suspiciously, offended that he was immediately blamed. “That was ENERGY.”
You want to crawl into the drywall.
Steve stares at his hand like it betrayed him. “Uh…sorry. Must’ve been… static?”
Robin tilts her head, eyeing the two of you. “Weird static.”
You shove a handful of popcorn at your mouth. “Yeah. Weather, dry air, carpet…..Science stuff, all that mambo jumbo.”
“Keith doesn’t have carpet,” Mason deadpans.
“Shut up,” you whisper through a mouthful of kernels, biting down aggressively as your body flushes with embarrassment.
Steve leans close, too close, his voice drops to a low whisper that curls into your ear like heat. “You okay?”
No. “Yes,” you say. “Perfect.”
He studies your profile for a second too long. His eyes are soft, careful, like he’s holding an invisible thread between his fingers and trying not to snap it. “Sorry if I… startled you,” he murmurs.
“You didn’t,” you lie.
“I think I did.”
Your cheeks burn and the electricity under your skin pulses once, twice, like lightning practicing. Then Robin yells, “STEVE. SIT BACK. YOUR KNEE IS HITTING MY SHOULDER!.”
He jumps, flustered. “Sorry! Sorry!”
He settles, but he doesn’t shift away, if anything he sits closer, your thighs touching again. A slow, warm press that has your breath hitching but you don’t move. You can’t move, you’re a creature carved out of static, but desperate for the touch.
Halfway through the movie something changes.
Not in the room, but in him.
Steve relaxes into the couch in small increments, bit by bit. His knee presses to yours, a little firmer, 5 minutes later his arm drapes behind you along the couch and his shoulder presses closer until your cheek is nearly touching it.
Every time he laughs, even quietly, your body jostles with it and the lights give a tiny shiver. And when you laugh?
The VCR buzzes, the speakers hiccup.
Keith glares at the walls like they personally insulted him.
You hug your knees to your chest, trying to contain the universe with your body.
Steve leans closer, whispering in your ear. “Okay. That was definitely you.”
You whip your head toward him, so close your noses almost brush. “What?”
“When you laughed just now. The TV glitched.” His brows lift. “That’s too weird not to be connected.”
“It’s NOT connected,” you say quickly, shrugging, though you didn’t quite know how that worked. It always happened when he smiled or laughed, you had no clue what you laughing would have done.
He tilts his head, studying you with that maddening softness. “You sure?”
“Yes.”
“You sure sure?”
“Please stop talking.”
He grins, victorious. “Thought so.”
You want to shove him, you want to kiss him, you want to run into the woods and scream.
He is so close you can feel his breath and yoru heart pitches sharply, the movie screeching in the VCR reader, making everyone groan out.
Keith snatches the remote, pausing the movie to complain loudly. “The barometric pressure is messing everything up.” He announces, pacing like a conspiracy theorist. “Hawkins is the worst. Electronics hate this. It’s SCIENCE. I have been reading up on this-”
“Nerd,” Robin coughs into her sleeve.
“You’re all ungrateful goblins,” Keith snaps. “I invite you into my home-”
“You bribed us with pizza,” Mason says.
“Blackmailed our shifts.” Steve corrects.
“-and you disrespect my science!” Keith continues, missing your statements.
You bury your face in your hands, annoyed by your manager and embarrassed by the VCR even though no one here could prove that it was you that had messed it up.
Steve bumps your knee with his. “Hey.”
You peek at him.
“You wanna go?” he whispers. “Get air? It’s cramped in here.”
Your pulse flips. “And stand in a thunderstorm?”
“I have an umbrella.”
“You do NOT have an umbrella.”
“…No. But I have enthusiasm.”
Despite yourself, you smile. If the universe had any mercy, the lights would not-
The lights flicker.
Steve softens. “There. You laughed again.”
“Stop tracking it.”
“I’m observing patterns.”
“You’re annoying.”
“You like me anyways.”
You freeze.
He freezes.
The air between you charges, warm and sharp.
Steve clears his throat, suddenly flustered. “I…I meant…like..coworker like. Not, uh- whatever.”
You nod too fast. “Right. Obviously.”
“Obviously.”
You both stare at the TV like it has the answers to life’s riddles.
The movie resumes, people die violently on screen, and neither of you breathes. But you both play normal, you pretend that the world is not twisting and turning on you both.
Then comes the moment you absolutely cannot have, Steve's arm gets closer and touches your shoulder making the VCR cluck and stutter before the screen gives out completely.
“Keith,” Mason groans. “Your fancy VCR is dying.”
“It’s THE STORM,” Keith says, pointing at the ceiling dramatically.
Steve leans toward you before you can react. “Hey,” he says softly. “Look at me.”
You do, because you are a glutton for punishment.
He’s close enough that your knees touch, close enough you can see the faint stubble along his jaw, close enough that his hair brushes your forehead when he tilts his head.
The static in your chest roars.
“You sure you’re okay?” he whispers. “You’ve been….different. Not bad. Just… far away.”
Your throat closes.
You want to tell him the truth, that you are the epicenter of a cosmic storm, that every spark your body makes tries to pull him into something he hasn’t felt yet.
You want to tell him you think you might break if he ever touches you with intent.
Instead, you say, “I’m fine.”
He searches your face for a lie, and finds it.
He always finds it, because for someone who didn’t see you for all 4 years of highschool he somehow manages to find a way to see your every tell now.
He inches closer.
“Okay,” he murmurs. “But… if you ever want to tell me what’s really going on?” His shoulder brushes yours, his voice is a warm, steady current. “I’d listen.”
Your breath shakes. “I know,” you whisper.
He leans back, reluctantly. Gives you space you didn’t ask for and needed too much. Robin throws a pillow at Keith, Mason is snoring in the armchair and the movie glitches again.
And Steve stays beside you, close enough to touch, close enough to feel, close enough to ruin you with gentleness.
It’s a victory when the movie finally ends. Everyone rushes up to stretch, yawn….. Complain loudly about Keith right in front of him.
Keith launches into a rant about sci fi continuity, always ready to hate on anything he could even if he was the dipshit that recommended this movie.
You pull on your shoes and grab your jacket, trying not to look towards Steve as everyone shuffles toward the door, even if it’s all you want to do. But you were behaving.
But Steve finds you anyway. Of course he does.
He steps in front of you, blocking your path gently. “Hey. Thanks for sitting with me.”
“I didn’t choose that,” you remind him.
He smiles. “I know. But I’m still thanking you.”
You shrug into your jacket. “It was… fine.”
“Fine?” he repeats, pretending to be offended. “Just fine? I sat very supportively all night.”
“You talked during half the movie.”
“I was making insightful commentary.”
“You said Linda Hamilton has ‘great apocalypse energy.’”
“She does!”
You snort and the porch light flickers. He opens the door for you, letting you step into the damp night. The rain has softened to a mist, the air warm and charged.
Steve looks at you with something careful,something like hope. “I’ll see you tomorrow?” he asks.
It’s not casual, but it’s not flirty. It’s an offering, a spark of a different kind and you, foolishly, softly, say, “Yeah. See you tomorrow.”
He smiles like he’ll never get tired of hearing that, nodding his head without even knowing how the static under your skin warms, steady and sweet, humming at the sound of his joy.
-
Taygete. The Fourth Star.
It starts on a Wednesday, raining again, because Hawkins has a flair for the dramatic.
Robin is reorganizing foreign films alphabetically, which means the section smells like burning brain cells and misplaced resentment. Steve is wiping down the counter because he needs to do something or he’ll start thinking again.
Robin glances at him. “You’ve wiped that spot sixteen times.”
“It’s dirty.” He argues, wiping it a little harder to prove a point.
“It’s not. You’re spiraling.”
“I don’t spiral.”
“You absolutely spiral.”
Steve stops wiping. “…Okay, I have been thinking….”
“Oh god.” Robin groans, her head throwing back making her hair stick up.
“I haven’t been attacked by the register in a week.”
Robin freezes mid alphabetizing. “What?”
“You remember my first week?” he says, leaning back against the counter. “When the register like… hated me? Shot coins at me? Printed the Dead Sea Scrolls every time she laughed?”
“The Dead Sea Scrolls….?” Robin squints. “Oh. You mean the tape avalanche?”
“YES. That. And the lights flickering all the time. The signs dying and the microwave dinging randomly.”
“That was the storm.”
“It happens even when there aren’t storms, you know that.”
She crosses her arms. “Steve. You think the store had a personal vendetta against you? It’s plotting your murder? Cause I haven’t seen anything happen all week.”
“That’s what I’m saying! It stopped.” He gestures wildly. “Nothing! No drawer violence. No tape riots. No freaky lights.”
“So the place is… behaving.” Robin lifts an eyebrow. “And that’s bad?”
“No!” He pauses. “I mean….no? It’s just weird. Something changed.”
Robin taps her pen against her clipboard. “Like what?”
He hesitates, but he struggles to find the words because he knows exactly what changed.
You.
You haven’t worked this much this week, you have been focusing on stuff outside of your shifts which has left him with Robin for most the week, which meant that he has spent the past week stalking the schedule to see if he can switch with anyone to work with you on the slim days you have worked.
“It’s like,” he says, trying to find the right words, “the weird stuff only happens when she…” He cuts himself off, mouth snapping shut as his hand reaches to play with a pin you had left on your last shift.
Robin pounces immediately. “When SHE WHAT?”
“Nothing.”
“Steven.”
He groans. “When she laughs, or smiles. Or even looks at me.”
Robin processes this, stares with manic eyes before she bursts into a loud, delighted cackling. “OH MY GOD. You like her so much you’re hallucinating electromagnetic phenomena-”
“I’m NOT hallucinating!” Steve protests. “I’m making an observation!”
“A romantic observation.”
“ROBIN.” He groans, his forehead hitting the counter as he debates ways to bring this conversation back.
She tosses a tape at him and he catches it on instinct without even having to look.
“Okay,” she says, pushing her hair back, “let’s pretend you’re not insane. What kind of ‘weird stuff’ only happens when she laughs?”
He runs a hand through his hair. “The lights flicker. The VCR spits out extra tape. The register decides it’s possessed.”
“And when YOU laugh?” Robin asks, arch.
“…Sometimes the lights flicker too.”
She stares at him. He stares back, foot tapping anxiously. Then Robin says, very gently, “Oh my god. Are you sure you don’t have a concussion?”
“ROBIN.”
She sighs, plops dramatically onto the stool, and softens. “Steve. Sweet Steve. My dear dumb Steve.”
He glares.
“Do you want me to explain soulmate stuff?” she asks.
He almost drops the cleaning cloth. “NO! I mean…what? No. I already know. Or…like….mostly.”
“Do you want the real version or the health class we all fell asleep version?”
“…Both?”
Robin leans her elbows on the counter, which means this is Serious Lore Time.
“Okay. So,” she begins. “Soulmate bonds usually don’t show up unless BOTH people feel something in the presence of the other person.”
He swallows, already hating where this conversation is going.
“Sometimes the bond awakens on one side first,” Robin continues. “But the full spark? The big cosmic zap everyone talks about? Only happens when they touch at the same time they’re both… open.”
“Open?”
“Emotionally available,” Robin says, poking his forehead. “Not being a repressed golden retriever.”
“HEY-”
“But the bond still reacts weirdly before it goes both ways,” she says. “Stuff gets glitchy. Lights flicker. The air shifts. Tech freaks out.”
His stomach flips.
“So,” she says slowly, “if weird stuff only happens when she’s around you-”
“It’s not ONLY her,” Steve insists, a little too quickly. “It’s… me too.”
Robin freezes mid sentence and turns her entire body toward him in an odd about face. “…What?”
“I said it happens when I laugh too.” Robin blinks.
“Say that again,” she whispers.
“It happens when I laugh too?” He shrugs helplessly. “Not always. But…like when she says something funny? Or when she looks at me a certain way? Or-”
“OH MY GOD,” Robin gasps, standing so fast she knocks over the pencil cup. “YOU IDIOT. YOU’RE THE PROBLEM.”
“Wow. Thanks.” Steve stares.
Robin continues, manic now. “YOU like her. A lot. Enough to short circuit a VCR! And SHE makes the lights flicker when SHE likes something YOU do!”
“I…SHE…WHAT?”
“So the bond is like…half awake. And reacting to BOTH of you in different ways.”
Steve’s heart pounds. “You’re saying… when I laugh…”
“She reacts,” Robin says.
“And when I make her smile…”
“You react.”
He sits down.
Hard.
“Oh.”
Robin nods sympathetically. “Yeah. Oh.”
He runs his hands over his face. “I thought…..I thought something was broken with the wiring…”
“Nope.”
“I thought Keith cheaped out on the breakers-”
“He still did, but that’s unrelated.”
“I thought the popcorn bag was defective-”
“Nope.”
“Oh my god,” Steve breathes. “Oh my god oh my god oh my…”
Robin places a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Congratulations. The universe thinks your love life is funny.”
He groans into his hands. “I don’t have a love life.”
“…Steve.”
“I don’t.”
“Steve.”
He looks up helplessly. “What if it’s not…what if I’m misreading all of it? What if she’s just nice sometimes? What if I’m glitching the lights because I’m pathetic?”
Robin grabs his face between both hands.
“You like her. She likes you. The air around you both behaves like a haunted toaster. THIS IS NOT COMPLICATED.”
He blinks at her.
“I don’t know if she likes me,” he whispers. “She always seems like she’s trying to… stay away.”
Robin’s expression softens. “Not from you. From whatever she’s afraid of.”
“What would she be afraid of?”
“I don’t know,” Robin admits. “But you make her nervous.”
“That’s not good,” he mutters.
“That’s VERY good.”
Steve thinks back, to all the moments his heart truly stopped dead in his chest. To you smiling at him at Kieths movie night, or when you laughed after he fell and he debated doing it all again just to hear the sound, or the awkward way you say ‘see you tomorrow’, the way you shuffle when he stands too close, or when your breath catches whenever you make eyecontact and for a split moment he believes you might be feeling the same as him.
Static, little sparks, the electricity. Your cheeks going pink when he jokes around with you, or the way the lights flicker whenever you lean too close to him. “…Robin,” he says slowly. “Do you think-”
“Yes,” she says immediately.
“You didn’t let me finish.”
“You were going to say ‘do you think something’s happening,’ and the answer is YES, Steven.” She squeezes his shoulder. “Something’s happening.”
He sits back heavily, heart hammering.
“And,” Robin adds, playful but kind, “if it makes you feel better? She looks at you like she’s terrified you’ll figure something out.”
“Figure what out?”
“The obvious.”
“What obvious?”
“That she likes you too.”
Steve’s breath catches and the lights above flicker faintly.
Robin points upward. “See? Universe agrees.”
He rubs a hand across the back of his neck. “What am I supposed to do?”
“Be yourself,” she says. “And pay attention.”
“I pay attention!”
“To everything except your own feelings, dingus.”
He groans again, head thunking onto the counter. Robin pats it. “Look on the bright side. If the soulmate thing is real- and I’m not saying it is- but IF it is- then this is the fun part.”
“Fun part?”
“The fun part before the part where it hits him.”
Steve looks up. “Hits me?”
Robin’s smile softens. “Oh, Steve,” she says, “you haven’t even felt the real spark yet.”
He swallows.
Something warm and terrified coils in his chest. “What if,” he whispers, “I want to?”
“Oh thank god,” Robin says. “Maybe you DO have a brain.”
He can’t help it, he laughs. “So what do I do?”
“You….. you can take the rest of my double shift-”
“I knew you were going to try and get out of that-”
Dreamweaver's Note: This is a Constellation post which means it's new and I haven't published it before I got hacked. Please enjoy! -Ultralight
⚠️Fae-Bound Triggers: Pain, it's apart of the trope
⏳Length of the Spell: 12.3k+ words.
✨What the Stars Foretell: Apart of my soulmate constellation series... In which Yelena Belova shares pain with her soulmate.... who just so happens to be an absolute menace
The Chiron constellation, often associated with the mythic centaur, represents the Wounded Healer, a being who bore pain not as weakness, but as understanding.
To feel another’s pain is to learn how to love them better.
-
You stopped explaining bruises when you were twelve, you stopped talking about them in general.
The first time a doctor called them “psychosomatic manifestations,” you’d nodded politely and gone home to Google it.That had ended in you being so offended you practically punched a hole into your computer and screamed at the top of your lungs.
The second time, you stopped asking for help, there wasn’t much point. How were you supposed to keep explaining that whoever was at the other end of your soul bond was probably getting tortured on the day to day basis? From bruises to faint scars. It was all just so…. It was bullshit.
Bruises showed up within minutes even when you were sitting patiently, you felt the pain of stitches even when there were no needles with you. You had sobbed in the corner of a school locker room the day you felt your arm shatter, even though you hadn’t done a thing to it.
For years you treated it like bad luck, ice packs, Advil, long sleeves. You joked about being cursed. But lately, the pattern has sharpened, too precise to ignore.
It had been late when it all clicked into place, after your friend had canceled on your girls night in lew of finding her soulmate and you had taken to your very own pity party. Pizza box open on the couch, laptop humming, shoulder throbbing under an old heating pad from an injury your soulmate had given you and you were mumbling to yourself angrily.
Because your friend had canceled on you, because you would never get an adorable tripping up meet cute that she just got when your soulmate was probably an mma fighter. You’re only half watching the news and shoving your face with pizza when you stop short.
THUNDERBOLTS: MISSION SUCCESS IN CAIRO. Casualties minimal. One operative injured.
You almost skip it, truthfully you didn’t give a shit about the Thunderbolts or the Avengers because you had to fork over the ‘Hulk Insurance’ for your car every month. But then the footage cuts to John Walker, battered but grinning at the cameras. He’s holding his shoulder tightly, the same shoulder that’s been burning for two days.
You sit up, heart hammering.
When he moves his hand, your own shoulder pulses in perfect sync.
You test it, pressing your fingers gently against the muscle and gasping out when Walker winces on-screen a split second later.
You drop the slice of pizza, stare at the screen, and whisper, “No way.”
The ache doesn't fade, this time it seems to answer you…. And the vodka you kept under your sink seemed to call you.
That was how you ended up filling out a federal job application at 2:43 a.m. with an ice pack balanced on your arm and a stupid hope blooming in your chest, the bottle now empty to your left.
-
Thunderbolts Headquarters smells like disinfectant, coffee, and the kind of stress you can only get from classified paperwork. Honestly it smelled like the kind of office where dreams go to die and every person you passed so far refused to make eye contact. The walls are chrome, the lights too bright, and you’d been lost for ten minutes before you even found the orientation room.
Your badge read your first and last name in boring letters right above the words, ‘DATA DIVISION.’ You repeat it to yourself like a prayer.
The elevator doors started to close just as you reached them, and you wedged your hand in without thinking to make them snap open, only to reveal the sharpest woman you’ve ever seen.
Short blonde hair, leather jacket that definitely made your office attire look drab, eyes like a sniper scope with an impressive liner on them.
“Sorry,” you say, voice taut, as you step to the side to let the doors close and leave her to piece. “Didn’t mean to-”
She hits the ‘open’ button and nods for you to enter. “You’re fine.”
Her accent curls through the air, Russian, quick, musical in a way that makes your brain lag. She eyes your badge. “Analyst?”
“First day,” you admit. “I’m already late.”
“You’ll fit right in,” she says. “Everyone here is late or dead.”
You choke on a laugh. “Comforting.”
She offers a faint smile, not enough to show teeth. “Welcome to the team.”
“Thanks…?” You ask, even though you definitely already knew who she was. Yelena Belova, the red room assassin that had taken the news in waves.
“Yelena,” she says, sticking out her hand. “Field division.”
Her grip is firm and warm. Your shoulder twinges, and you wince before you can stop it.
She glances down. “Old injury?”
“Something like that.”
“Then you will fit in even better,” she murmurs as the elevator dings before she saunters out with a glare.
Jesus.
After that encounter the rest of the day is a drab of gray. Orientation is a blur of PowerPoints, safety disclaimers, and Valentina Allegra de Fontaine’s voice echoing through a projector in a poorly scripted video that had you cringing throughout.
You zone out halfway through a slide titled Proper Weapon Disposal Procedures for Civilian Employees, because why would a Data Analyst ever need to know that? [Knowing de Fontaine you would definitely need to]
Yelena sits two rows ahead, half slouched in her chair, twirling a pen like she’s considering stabbing the projector with it. When she turns slightly, her eyes catch yours across the room, bored, amused, a silent kill me now. You grin only she doesn’t grin back, but her pen stops spinning and she swivels away as if making eye contact with you had ruined her day.
Well shit.
By the time the briefing ends, you’d sell your soul for caffeine.
The HQ espresso machine hisses like it’s fighting for life, and Yelena is standing in front of it with crossed arms.
“It hates me,” she says without preamble, casting you a sideways look that has you standing on the tip of your toes preparing to flee.
“You have to hit it first,” you tell her.
She blinks. “Excuse me?”
“Percussive maintenance. Classic IT technique.” You shrug, fighting off a laugh as she looks skeptical until you reach forward to give the side of the machine a quick tap. It sputters and then obediently dispenses coffee.
Yelena’s brows rise. “You assault technology until it submits?”
“I was raised on playing games on a Windows. I learned.”
That earns a real laugh, sharp, surprised. She pours two mugs and slides one your way.
“Congratulations,” she says. “You are now responsible for caffeine supply.”
“Oh, good,” you deadpan. “My lifelong dream.”
For a second she lingers, sipping and studying you until her phone buzzes and she sighs. “Don’t die before lunch,” she says, already walking away.
You call after her, “That’s not in the orientation manual!”
But she’s gone, leaving the smell of strong coffee and gun oil behind.
By the time your day ends you can add three new injuries to your phantom list and you were twice as determined to figure it out.
Your apartment is small, cluttered, safe. You collapse onto the couch, open your laptop, and start a spreadsheet labeled SUSPECTS.
Columns: Time/ Injury/ Possible Match/ Notes.
You fill in what you know… which isn’t much.
1am, Shoulder ache. Walker, Tv broadcast matching injury
12:18pm, Thigh bruise, Unknown, no one near,thunderbolts were on mission
2pm, papercut. Self inflicted…. No one near and a waste of injury.
You hit save glaring at what little evidence you had for this whim. The screen reflects faintly in the window…rows of data and your own tired face staring back.
You press a hand to your shoulder. It still throbs.
Somewhere across the compound, a blonde assassin rolls her shoulder, frowning at the matching ache.
She tells herself it’s just fatigue, nothing more. But she keeps thinking about the analyst with the crooked smile and the bruises she shouldn’t have.
-
Morning at Thunderbolts HQ arrives like an alarm you can’t snooze…because you definitely tried. Fluorescent hum, boots on metal walkways, someone somewhere already swearing in a language you never learned. The lobby fills with people who look like they could quietly implode a nation if budget cuts hit the wrong office. You spoon cold coffee into your throat and read your spreadsheet again, as if the tiny grid of rows and timestamps will suddenly explain the way your body keeps betraying you.
The headers glow back at you: time, injury, possible match, notes. The notes column is where you try to be scientific but end up scribbling half syndicated jokes and a lot of very blunt hopes.
But that was going to change today because today you would be doing controlled testing. Low stakes, but by the end of the day you were sure your dignity would be destroyed but the spreadsheet would give you a clear indicator on who your soulmate was.
TEST ONE.
You stand at the far end of a quiet hall and look at the file cabinet like it’s about to break your entire body. It’s absurd, you know it is, but there was no choice, you needed to know. At least that is what you keep telling yourself. But every time you nudge your body toward action, to just get this done and over with you find yourself freezing.
Just do it. You tell yourself. Quit being a damn coward and JUST DO IT.
You kick the cabinet.
It hurts in a way that sounds like a swear in your head… well out of your head because the curse that rips from your lips could stop a clock. You hop, cursing under your breath as the pain registers a bit deeper, you clutch your foot, cheeks burning with the ridiculousness of it.
From the doorway at the next block of offices, a voice that should not have the range of decibels it does bellows, “Who moved this goddamn chair?!” then, a beat later, “My toe!”
Bob Reynolds stomps into view, face jowled and dramatic, shoe off, nursing a foot he insists he stubbed on Alexei's chair. He limps with theatrical annoyance straight past you, but he makes sure to throw you an apologetic look before disappearing from your view.You, in turn, look like every detective with a broken theory,flushed and a little giddy at the new suspect.
09:14 am. Stubbed toe. Bob limped Correlation: possible. You make the entry with index fingers still tingling. The thrill of a tiny win is like cheap sugar, whirling in your chest like cotton candy getting ready to explode out of your chest as your hands shake a bit.
First test…. Successful, well sorta.
It’s an hour or so until you are brave enough to try again… well until the pain in your toe stops throbbing.
TEST TWO.
When you return to the mess of the community kitchen for round two, the kettle is already steaming and the machine is sighing like an obstinate beast. You rehearse the “accidental” touch in your head, which really means you are debating it like a real coward. One second of carelessness, two seconds of pain, one dramatic cough, then the observe-and-log maneuver. It was going to be easy… Do it. Just do it.
Quit yelling at me, you argue with yourself like an actual mad woman. I’m trying.
You rest your palm on the spout. It’s hot. You yelp exactly as practiced, eyes watering from the immediate sting as a hand yanks back from the next table at the same time. Ava, otherwise known as ‘The Ghost’ pulls off a glove and looks at the reddened skin on her palm like she’s been betrayed by common utility. She hisses, low and sour, and you nearly choke on a laugh.
“Everything okay?” you blurt over instinct.
She gives you a look that could curdle milk, it’s sharp and assessing. “Hot as hell,” she says, and the corner of her mouth quirks. You assume on impulse that she’s rolling her eyes at the kettle, not you. Then she flexes her hand and the motion is slow, as if she’s expecting more to come before picking up her glove to try and inspect the inside of it closely. You keep watching, unable to stop yourself as she flips it in her hands to spread it out and see the wires.
Before you know it she is up out of her chair and storming out, too bad because you were already writing down the reaction of the test, confusion taking over.
“Are you okay?” murmurs Bucky when he steps in to stand by you by the kettle, a small smile on his face as you try not to panic. The Winter Soldier was currently talking to you, and you were trying to hide your travel notepad before he can see it. He smells like an older cologne, something a grandfather would wear; and he holds two cups of coffee in his hand like it was completely normal, he looks like an older brother who occasionally tends the household pets when you're not looking but is fully ready to snitch on you to mom.
“Yup,” You clip out, clearing your throat. “Fine.”
“Really? Cause from my view it looked like you were just holding your palm to a heated kettle.” He mumbles, raising an eyebrow while you narrow your eyes.
“Testing,” you say. You try to keep the word casual but the word carries a hint of guilt that makes Bucky snort.
“You know I have to flag you for excessive self-harm if you do that in public,” he says, sliding one coffee into your hand without waiting for you to reply.
“You're not legally my guardian,” you say, taking the coffee with both hands. It’s more comfort than a need for caffeine, and the warmth spreads through you like permission to keep going.
“Not yet,” he says. He leans in and squints at your notepad that you hid like shit, like he’s seeing a conspiracy for the first time. “So. Walker, you think?”
Apart of you wants to argue, to deny this stupidity and walk away before this becomes an HR complaint. But Bucky Barnes seemed like the kind of person who avoided HR and honestly you were sure there was no hiding it from THE freaking Winter Soldier. Not to mention this was the man mated to Captain Freaking America. What is the point of hiding the tests?
You nod. “He got shot shoulder during Cairo and I’ve had this ache for days. It lines up. It’s-” you search, find the humor in it. “-very dramatic.And stupid. But we are talking about my soulmate here so I thought I’d give it a shot.”
Bucky reads over your shoulder, his colored eyes flicking through the columns. He murmurs, delighted and horrified by turns. “You are actually documenting this like a proper lunatic.” He taps the paper, a smirk sliding on his lips.
“Don’t narrate my current choices like that.”
He grins. “Too late. Also….don’t forget to account for prank variables. Val’s sense of humor is mainly applied chaos. And Alexei is…”
You roll your eyes and plot the next test.
Between the kettle incident and the pencil test, you pivot through small humiliations that feel absurd when you explain them, necessary when you’re living inside a body that insists on holding pain for a stranger. You paper-cut your finger and watch a tracker agent,blonde and efficient and yet nowhere near as pretty as Yelena Belova [not that you were thinking ABOUT Yelena] frown at a similar slice minutes later. You let a box fall against the top of your foot and see Bob mutter something about the logistics guy being a menace as he once again limps past you.
Every little test adds another suspect and you were very much beginning to lose your mind. It was getting to the point of you debating just shooting yourself in the thigh and seeing who screamed first but that would require access to the weapons room and you were just a Data Analyst.
But none of that mattered because you were no closer to a solid answer.
It doesn’t help that while you’re executing your absurd work, Yelena is a half step away from being a constant in your peripheral vision. She drifts into your edges like a weather system you keep tracking for reasons you can’t explain and don’t really want to think about. She’s sharp-boned and quieter than her reputation implies, which is saying something. There’s a kind of control to her movements, no wasted breaths and no surprise smiles, and yet she keeps popping up in the exact worst of times. Setting you off your game.
She’s the one that had you dropping your files across the floor with just a look before stepping over them to get past you. She’s the one who said a little too bluntly “You laugh too easily,” like it was both an assessment and an accusation that you would never get an answer to. She’s the one that has you so flustered all the time that you aren’t intentionally hurting yourself but rather clumsy enough to do it naturally.
There was a day where you were requested for a meeting, to which Yelena and Bucky were both dragged into because it had been their fault the building blew up. You had, stupidly, made eye contact with her and lifted your hand to say hello only to hit your funny bone on the table and hiss out in the pain.
By the time you looked back up she was holding her own arm to mock you. Of course.
But you didn’t have time to think about Yelena Belova, you had tests to continue, which today meant stabbing the shit out of your thigh.
You move into the pencil test without much ceremony, it feels lunatic and small and urgent and the sort of thing you knew would land you in an asylum but you try not to put too much thought into it and instead you pick up a graphite pencil and press the tip to the fleshy part of your thigh, just enough to measure where you were hoping it would land before lifting your hand and shoving the pencil back down as hard as you can. The reaction is not heroic instead it is very, very human. The jab is quick and stupid and immediately regrettable in the pleasant way things go wrong when you’re trying to prove something to the universe.
You yelp out, the sound closer to a bird being stepped on than a normal human yelp as you slam a hand on the table to help the pain before snatching a napkin to cover the small red mark you just gave yourself before you bleed all over Vals floors. Two seats down in the desk Bucky had chosen to play an office worker to piss Val off, Bucky hears you and peeks over, expression fully disapproving like an uncle watching someone light fireworks facing their face.
Across the room, where she sits with a PR sepcialist, Yelena’s hand stops midstride, her mouth a hard line, and for a fraction of a second she looks exactly like someone who was ready and willing to murder everyone in the room for even looking at her wrong. The muscle in her jaw ticks before she mutters something under her breath in Russian that you are too far away to hear or see before she rushes to stand up and storm away, but not before her fingers rub at the spot under her tactical uniform in a grumpy motion.
You blink. The observation box on your spreadsheet fills itself in your mind: Pencil stab reaction, Belova mad…..Which is also the very first time she had made it to your spreadsheet in general. Your heart speeds at the sight of her on your data sheet, blinking at it slowly before shaking your head. Honestly her name on the sheet is mocking enough that you are quick to erase it.
“Need help with the napkin?” Bucky says in that tone that is both indulgent and incredulous.
“Very funny,” you say as the small wound throbs and your ego crumbles like a nature valley bar.
Your afternoon is a blend of pain and small victories. The kitchen gets another dent in its sense of normal when you arrange to have five mild mishaps in an hour. A paper cut after paper cut, a carefully timed stub, a deliberately knocked mug that doesn’t shatter but sprays hot coffee across your exposed skin. Each time someone in the field reacts somewhere else in the compound, you log it with the precision of a clerk cataloguing saints, like a broken compass going this way and that way.
At one point, late morning, Sam Wilson slides into the break room carrying a lunchbox and a grim sort of amusement. “You’re trying to confirm a soulmate with office supplies,” he says, half amused, half exasperated. “Do you not have better hobbies?”
Completely busted you shrug, skin eating up as you try to keep your composure, falling anyways as you flush. “It’s science,” you defend.
He eyes your laptop like a collector appraising a forgery. “You actually made a spreadsheet.” There’s a crack of genuine incredulity in his tone, as if Bucky had told him all about it and yet he still did not believe. “You organized your pain, this is absurd.” It is not mean. It is a fascinated little insult from someone who measures people the way other people measure food. It is the first time you have ever met him, and suddenly you could see how the soulmate bodn had paired him and Barnes together. An even duo.
Bucky drops by with a new coffee and scowls before Sam sets the lunch infront of him and he melts a little. “You know, it’s charming,” he says, “in the yearning sort of way. But also…you should not be making holes in your thigh for sport.”
“Not sport,” you say. “Research.”
“You are a lunatic,” he says, and you know he means it fondly.
Sam perches on the edge of the table and says, “You could injure yourself less dramatically but achieve similar results.”
You look at him as if there’s a secret between you and her that you suddenly both own. “Any suggestions?”
“You could just…. Ask?”
You laugh because Sam says it like it is obvious, but ignore his suggestion to you.
The day pushes forward. You run into walls while walking down hallways with a dramatic thump to see who curses and where. Bob, predictably, takes any fall with a flourish and a sigh. Ava treats her reactions like a private annoyance, Walker is just agitated.
You call Bucky at lunch. “Do you ever get tired of watching me almost die for data?” you ask, mouth tinkling with laughter.
He sounds like he’s flipping through a comic book. “We’re all tired of watching you almost die for data. That’s why we keep you around. It’s like a domestic sitcom. Keep an eye on Walker, though. It does line up sometimes. But the universe is a troll. It will not be simple… and for both our sakes I would hate for it to be him.”
“You don’t have to throw shade,” you say. “I am grateful for your paternal advice.”
This pulls a heavy laugh from him, and you can practically hear him shrugging when he responds. “You should be,” he says. “Also…you need a better hobby.”
Later, in the quiet of the archive room, you test the staple. It is petty and sort of personal to place your finger under the stapler and let the metal nip you just hard enough to sting. It’s nonsensical and you hate that you’re doing it, but you love the neatness of the data. Sensation now, reaction later. You were so close to your soulmate, the answer was there and you could feel it.
The resulting sting is immediate. You mutter and press the pad of your finger against your thumb to stop the throbbing. Your face has the shape of someone starting to get delirious at boredom, but you smile at the neatness of the experiment.
It’s small and ridiculous and somehow perfect.
You’re not blind to the ridiculousness of the entire charade, but it’s working. Each micro injury maps onto a reaction that isn’t you. Common sense was beginning to turn into desperation now, and you just couldn’t help it.
You keep at it till the end of your shift, fingers bandaged, ego bruised but amused. The spreadsheet has more entries now. It looks less like randomness and more like a constellation.
When you shut your laptop, there is only one more thing on your mind and that is the way Yelena’s voice sounded when she said, “You laugh too easily.” It was a critique disguised as a fact, and you still could not figure out why it mattered. In truth you should not be worried in the slightest about what she thinks about you considering you are here searching for your soulmate, and yet….. It’s all you can think of, it’s scarred into your memory.
In the training room later that day, after Bucky had caught you in a weak moment and tricked you into agreeing to work out, you sat with your back to the wall as you took in the damage on your thigh in the dull light. The bruise you had given yourself from the pencil was swollen and still a little red in the center, you couldn;t help but let your thumb pad at the skin around it to test the pain.
Bucky catches you, just finishing wrapping his hands, and a sly smile crosses his face as you keep padding at the skin. “You beginning to feel a little regret?”
“Nope.” You lie, shrugging as if you both believe what you just said. “None at all.”
“Any closer to the lead?”
“Nope.”
“Well tell ya what, I will make sure to invest in some more first aid kits and duct tape before you die trying to find out.”
You laugh. “Deal.”
He looks at you for a long second, older brother energy wrapped around him like a warm, somewhat exasperated blanket. “And kid?” he says, almost casual. “If it ends up being Belova… you owe me 50 bucks.”
“It’s not.” You rush to say, shaking your head. “The universe would never do that to her. You kidding? She hates me.”
You look over your shoulder, and across the gym to where Yelena stands by a sparring mat, glare on her face and her back to the world.You look too long before she turns to see you looking and for a heartbeat you feel like you might explode and she might make her way towards you. She turns again, ignoring you, and the world goes back to normal.
You sleep that night with band-aids on fingers and small, ridiculous wounds that feel a little like proof. You dream of nothing but tripping and stabbing and kicking, by the time you wake up you are reset and ready to go back to testing.
-
Yelena.
The days all start with a wrong bruise.
They bloom across her thighs before she’s even out of bed, each one deep and stubborn, like a memory she didn’t make. Yelena thumbs the darkening skin, cataloging the ache with the same detachment she reserves for mission damage. No training yesterday. No sparring. Nothing to explain why her body decided to hurt first thing.
And it would have been easy to blame her soulmate but her mate tended to be quiet on their side of the bond, Yelena could go months without feeling anything.
“Ghosts,” she mutters, and swings her legs off the mattress, leaving that as an excuse enough.
By the time she laces her boots, the ache has settled into background noise. She ignores it the way she was taught to ignore everything: efficiently. The red room had made an assassin, thigh bruising be damned.
Only it didn’t stop, in fact the days began getting worse. Day by day the wounds began growing.
The first hit of the day lands when she isn’t looking for it. She’s taping her hands, mind on the heavy bag she is getting ready to beat into submission when something sharp snaps across the pad of her index finger almost like a nip of metal, quick and petty.
She stares at the clean skin. Nothing. Still, the sting crawls under the tape as if it were real yet no blood appeared.
“Great,” she says to no one. “My soulmate has found the staplers.”
She pounds the bag for twenty minutes, searching for the rhythm that always finds her but today it arrives late. The phantom sting returns every time she resets her stance. After the third flinch, she swears in Russian at the ceiling.
“Have a problem, Belova?” Bucky asks, ambling in with a towel around his neck and the smug calm of a man who sleeps like a saint and stretches like a cat and somehow managed to find his soulmate after years.
“Only when they are rude,” she says, not pausing. “These ones are very rude.”
He leans on the ropes and watches her combinations. “You’ve been… twitchy.”
“Impossible.” Yet true. Nevermind ghosts, it was going on 3 weeks of the pains which meant these were definitely coming from her soulmate.
He points at her knee as she resets. “Sure, and you haven’t been babying your thigh since you started training today…. Because Yelena Belova would know better than to baby something like that while training.”
She snorts, doing her best to act natural as her spine remains tense. She hated how gloaty Barnes got when he knew something she didn’t. “You are insufferable, Barnes,” The bag shudders under a final cross. She peels the tape off in impatient strips. “I am fine.”
“Sure,” he says. “And I stopped aging in 1945.” He tosses her a bottle of water, still utterly smug and she was beginning to rack her brain to figure out what he knew. “You headed to briefing?”
“Coffee,” she says. “Then briefing.”
“Tell the coffee I said hi,” he calls after her, laughing a bit when she flips him off over her shoulder before walking out.
Of course Barnes would know her next move, she had done very little to hide it, even Bob had learned her schedule and made a habit of clearing the kitchen area that the analysts were allowed to use. If anyone was confused as to why the Thunderbolts had taken to using their kitchen rather than the state of the art one they had 3 stories up they didn’t seem to say anything,.... At least not to her.
She was early enough that her target was not quite here yet which gave her plenty of time to try and get it to work. The machine hisses like a dragon with asthma and Yelena glares at it and it glares back. She contemplates violence which tended to be her answer for anything.
“Percussive maintenance?” a voice suggests, warm with a smile she can hear.
She doesn’t need to look to know it’s the analyst, the newest one, the one whose badge hangs a little crooked and whose laugh lands in the room like a bright, accidental thing.
Yelena taps the metal frame with her knuckle just as the analyst had done weeks ago and the machine coughs and obeys. She chooses to take this as proof of dominance, not luck. “Beating technology into submission.”
“You’re a wizard,” You say, stepping in beside her, mug in hand. There’s ink on your fingers, a small cut wrapped in a bandaid that looks like it has strawberries on it. Of course it does.
“Just violent,” Yelena says, filling two mugs. “You want?”
She wants- no needs- you to say yes, because it would give her another moment to stand closer to you, Barnes smug teasing be damned.
“Always.”
She passes one over, trying to act a natural when your fingers brush. The contact is nothing, light as breath, and yet her ribs tighten like a wire pulled taut. The odd ache she woke with presses up for attention, demanding her to answer.
She watches a little too closely as you take a sip, eyes closing briefly like your memorizing the taste. There’s a smudge of graphite at the edge of her thumb, and when you spot her looking at it you give a sheepish smile before hiding it away.
“You are already injured and it is not even eight,” Yelena says, nodding at the bandaid.
“Occupational hazard,” You respond brightly. “Paperwork is an apex predator.”
Yelena almost smiles. Almost. “You should consider armor.”
“For the bureaucracy?”
“For your fingers.” She starts to step away, then stops, pivoting back before she can think better of it. “You… smile too easily,” she says, a truth that came out dressed as criticis, just as her comment about you laughing last week had.
She watches as your smile falters, then rights itself as if nothing had happened. “I will try to work on that for you, as well as laughing less,” she offers, which is both ridiculous and sincere.
Yelena feels the ground tip, just a little. “No,” she says, more quickly than intended. “Keep it. Just….maybe not at me.”
A beat. Then you laughed anyway, soft and surprised. It puts a crack in Yelena’s morning. She leaves before she can stand there and watch it widen.
She flees to the safety of the briefing room, where she could hide behind glares and boredom. Val talks and people nod, she couldn’t seem to care less. Yelena doodles knives in the margins of her packet and catalogs the wrong sensations in her body trying to pinpoint if there was a theme.
There is no surprise when she cannot find a single theme.
Nothing changes by the next day.
She’s halfway down the corridor when a sudden, clean pain snaps across the pad of her finger. It’s small, precise, the exact sensation of a needle kissing skin. “Tch,” she hisses, shaking out her hand.
“Everything okay?” Bucky appears from nowhere with that smug knowing smirk that makes her want to shave his head and magnetize his arm to the side of the building.
“I am being attacked by office equipment that I haven’t even seen,” she snips. .
“Office equipment or someone with a vendetta?” He cocks his head, like a cat playing with a toy.
“Same thing,” she says, and starts walking. “And when I find my soulmate oh I’m gonna…”
He keeps pace, all lazy stride. “So….The analyst.”
Yelena does not stiffen, she refuses to give him any hint for more smugness. “Which one?”
“The one who you keep glaring at.”
“I glare at everyone,” she says.
“Not like that.” He grins. “It’s cute, like the little Widow can;t decide if she is an enemy or a lover. I saw that look once….. Hmm where have I seen that look…. Maybe when another little widow caught her eyes on Steve Rogers.”
“Die,” she says, without heat.
He sips his coffee. “You know you’ve got a crush, right?”
She stops, thhe bruise on her thigh hums, the coffee in her hand turns to a prop in her fist that is very close to being thrown at the soldier. She turns her head slowly. “I do not have a-”
He raises a hand, and she is embarrassed to admit how well it silences her. “Sure. It’s just… you don’t usually hang around analysts. And she’s… different.”
“She is reckless,” Yelena says. “She smiles and laughs too much.”
Bucky’s eyebrows climb. “Oh?”
“She is always up to no good. I can see it in her eyes.” Yelena’s mouth twists, the admission tasting like worry. “It will get her hurt.”
“And you hate that,” Bucky says, so gentle she could shove him.
“I hate stupidity,” she says.
“Sure,” he says again, and peels away toward the armory, leaving the word crush floating like a mine behind him.
She finds the analyst at lunch because of course she does. The compound is large, but it doesn’t matter,Yelena’s feet have opinions and she has a target to hunt. You have a tray piled with an alarming number of fries and something that looks like salad if you’re a forgiving person. You’re sorting fries by size, which is somehow both chaotic and methodical.
Yelena sits across from her. No invitation. “You are organizing your food.”
“If I make it look like I am still eating I can scam a longer lunch,” You reply quickly before your eyes widen and you look like you wish you could drag the words back with both hands, choosing a better lie. “I mean. It’s… a comfort thing.”
Yelena considers. “Fries aren’t a scam.”
“I know,” You nod, so simply it makes Yelena’s chest ache. “But sometimes lunch can be.”
They eat in a quiet that is not silence, though she catches you watching her multiple times. The compound breathes around them,cutlery working against plates, boots on the tiles, laughter in the far corner where Walker is holding court with his usual crowd. Yelena doesn’t care, she can only seem to watch you as you watch the room the way an analyst would, absorbing data.
“Do you like your job?” Yelena asks, surprising herself.
You blink slowly, then nod. “I like… making sense of things. I like collecting data and getting an outcome.”
“Data?,” Yelena repeats, hiding the way the word lands. “From us.”
“From missions,” You say quickly. “And coffee machines.”
Yelena’s mouth turns. “Hm.”
She reaches for her cup and without warning pain jumps along her elbow again, bright and ridiculous. She rubs the spot, annoyed by the petty ache and the way it steals a beat from the conversation.
“You okay?” You ask.
“Funny bone,” Yelena snaps, trying to roll it out.
“Huh. Me too.” You huff out, rubbing your own arm and your voice carrying the sound as if it was a coincidence, like a joke.
Yelena looks at the line of her mouth and thinks, abruptly, stop hurting yourself.
The thought startles her, she stands too quickly, trying to ease her panic. “Do not die before briefing,” she says, which is easier to say than anything true.
You salute back sarcastically before messing with your fries once more. “Aye Aye Captain. I’ll pencil it into my schedule.”
Pencil, the word lodges, oddly and Yelena storms off before she could laugh at your joke.
That feeling does not disappear, it clings to her like a bad feeling and she needs to figure it out.
She’s not looking for proof, she’s looking for… she doesn’t have a word for it. She tells herself she is checking the range on her instincts, that this is reconnaissance but her feet carry her to logistics, where the analysts’ desks fan out in a horseshoe of screens and coffee cups.
You are at your station, alone, with your head bent and your shoulders tight, as if you are only pretending to be calm. Almost as if the rest of the world is too loud for you and you are trying to ignore it. She doesn’t understand why that feeling makes her angry, she doesn’t understand why she gets the urge to kick out all the other analysts to give you privacy.
Yelena ducks behind a support column and watches, feeling faintly ridiculous. She has stalked oligarchs, extracted assets from armored convoys, taken down men twice her size in rooms half this bright, and somehow this feels like the most illegal thing she has done all week.
She debates what she is doing, choosing to try and look away, until you begin looking suspicious. You glance left and right, as if you were checking to see if anyone was looking before reaching into your pen cup and sliding your fingers across them before choosing the right one. Yelena is at a loss for ideas on what you are doing before you readjust to give yourself room which makes your skirt ride up and her breath hitch as your thigh is exposed.
She can feel her body flush with a blush and she thinks for a moment how absurd she is being before you lift the pen.
Her chest goes tight.
“Don’t you dare,” she whispers, as if you can hear her. You don’t, of course not, and the pen meets your thigh in a quick jab. Quick, controlled enough to sting as your face pinches up before the pain hits Yelena two seconds later.
It is immediate and precise and humiliating in how small it is, in how completely it arrests her anyway. She swears in Russian, low and quiet and full of all the things that don’t have English names.
You flinch, looking around sharply with your eyes wide, gaze skimming past her before you press a napkin to the mark and rush to full something out on your computer. Your smile is small and fierce and completely unhinged.
It makes something in Yelena shift, inevitable and perfect.
Suddenly it all makes sense.
The bruise at her thigh, the staple stings in her finger, the elbow twinges, the wrong aches arriving at the wrong times,the way the espresso machine’s good behavior coincides with a laugh, the way her own body has been narrating someone else’s day since the analyst walked into it.
Not ghosts, not stress, not a unnamed and unseen soulmate she could never blame. You. You you you you you. The knowledge slots into place with a quiet click that isn’t relief so much as recognition.
Across the room you breathe out as the initial pain passes, alone with your data and your wounds. Yelena breathes in, no longer alone with the pain but absurdly irritated.
Bucky’s voice from hours ago drifts back like a taunt. You know you’ve got a crush, right? She does not need him to be right, he will gloat for the rest of his grandfather days.
Yelena steps out from behind the column before she can think better of it.
“Stop,” she says, voice even, a slight hint of anger slipping through. You jolt, guilt stamped all over your face as you stutter out a hello.
“Stop hurting yourself.” Yelena snaps, frustration beginning to get at her when she hears the plea behind the words.
Your eyes flick to the pencil, to your own thigh, then back to Yelena’s face. You look… confused, hopeful and terrified, it makes her want to snatch the tool in your hand and chuck it away. “Why?”
Because I feel it. Because you are better off smiling. The words hover behind Yelena’s teeth, hot and true. She swallows them like a secret.
“Because I asked,” she says, and even she can hear how thin that is.
“Is that a request,” you ask softly, “cause it kind of sounds like you are ordering me?”
Yelena’s mouth opens. No sound emerges. The pain in her thigh steadies into a pulse that feels a lot like a heartbeat answering another.
Realization settles, and with it, a fear old as the Red Room and new as this morning: bonds can be used. Bonds can be broken. Bonds can be taken and twisted and turned into knives.
She chooses a safer truth. “It is… inconvenient, and completely stupid.” she says.
Your smile is small and sad. “It’s not really your business.”
Yelena nearly laughs at the wrongness of it, considering what she just learned she would say this is 100 percent her business. She doesn’t even know how to find the words.
“Just…” Yelena gestures at the pencil. “Use paper next time.”
You blink, then huff a laugh, confused and a little charmed despite yourself. “Noted.”
The corner of Yelena’s mouth betrays her with the ghost of a smile. Then she turns and walks away because if she stays, she will admit it. She cannot admit it.
Not with Val so close, not with so many enemies.
Behind her, the fluorescent lights buzz. Somewhere, the espresso machine sighs like it is waiting for her attention. In her thigh, the bruise answers a bruise that isn’t there, and for the first time, Yelena knows who she’s been carrying.
She does not know what to do with the knowledge yet.
But she knows Barnes will be twice as annoying.
-
You have never seen a chandelier try this hard.
It unfurls from the vaulted ceiling like a jeweled kraken, dripping crystal in tiers so bright they turn every dress into a constellation. The ballroom is a palace someone welded onto a government building and it was far too much of a spectacle. Gilt cornices, marble floors, mirrored pillars, and a dais where important people can practice pretending the Thunderbolts are respectable.
All staff were invited, which is how you ended up in a dress you had to Google “how to steam,” on a night your ribs are already humming with the familiar ghost-ache of someone else’s life. You pin your badge to the interior of your clutch because Val said staff must be identifiable “but not ugly about it,” and then you do what you always do in rooms like this: you find a corner, you find the exits, and you start translating the chaos into lines you can understand.
“Do not catalogue the senators,” Bucky murmurs at your shoulder, materializing with two flutes of seltzer like a pain in your ass, wearing a suit that should be illegal and keeping an eye on his soulmate like a guard dog. You wanted that one day. You wanted it so badly you would stab yourself right here.
“I’m not cataloguing,” you lie, taking a flute. “I’m… assessing risk…..and judging their outfits.”
“Uh-huh.” His eyes flick over the crowd. “Cause that is a normal thing for you to do.”
You snort. “I stabbed myself with a pen today, when am I normal?”
“And look who woke up to common sense.” He nudges your arm with the rim of his glass and lowers his voice. “You look nice, kid.”
You don’t disintegrate with gratitude, but it’s a near thing. “You too,” you say, then ruin it by adding, “I didn’t know they made suits with kevlar.”
“They don’t,” he says cheerfully. “This is just trauma chic.”
You try not to laugh while sipping, it comes out anyway, small and bright, enough that your chest loosens a notch and you snort into the champagne.
“Try not to die,” Bucky adds, as casual as if he’s asking you to hold his drink. “Val didn’t budget for a corpse tonight.”
“I’ll put it on my calendar,” you say, and because the universe loves irony, that’s when you see John Walker.
He’s impossible to miss, handsome in that poster-boy way, all broad shoulders and the kind of grin people mistake for sincerity. Tonight he’s in black tie with a bandage peeking artfully from beneath his jacket sleeve, and you feel your shoulder ache sympathetically, an old echo answering a new wound. He catches your eye, raises his glass like a reflex, then is pulled away by a flock of donors who look like they would eat granite if it came with a tax deduction.
“You gonna say hi?” Bucky asks, amused.
“Absolutely not,” you say, too fast. “My job is at the comms table. I’m blending.”
Bucky looks you up and down. “In that dress? Good luck.” He tips his chin toward the opposite side of the room. “Belova, three o’clock.”
Of course she’s here. You knew she would be, Belova would never miss the chance to play security, a ghost woven through the crowd, but your body still stutters around the sight of her. Yelena in a black tuxedo-style dress that fits like a secret, hair slicked into something sharp enough to cut. She moves with the indifference of a hunting cat and the attention of everyone in a fifteen-foot radius. Her eyes slide over everything like she’s calculating ways to take everyone down. When they pass you, they don’t linger, except you feel the smallest static prickle race along your skin, the hum of your own private weather.
Her mouth barely moves. Pretty, her eyes seem to say, like a fact she didn’t mean to think. Out loud, she only nods once, a soldier’s acknowledgement, and keeps walking, joining Bob closer to the stairs.
It lands in your chest like a coin in a well. Small, heavy, claimed by gravity no matter what you want.
“She didn’t glare,” Bucky says, budding in as per usual. “Progress.”
“She never glares,” you say.
“Not at you,” he says, and then the emcee is tapping the microphone to begin the program and the ballroom reshapes itself around applause.
You make your way to the comms table, a discreet rectangle draped in linen at the back of the hall, where staff can look industrious while the speeches unspool. You check the earpiece looped behind your hair, run a quick systems test, pretend you aren’t scanning the room for the blonde sentinel in black. You are almost good at pretending…. No you weren’t, not even close.
The speeches start, a senator who thinks humor is a personality, Val with a smile like a brand new scalpel ready to tear into her next victim (you were hoping it wasn’t you), Walker with a practiced sincerity that makes your spreadsheet instinct itch. You only half listen, paying more attention to the security updates coming through your earpiece. “VIP 2 moving to left balcony,” “Catering refill ETA 12 min,” “Press cluster forming at northern doors.”
You’re zoning on the updates when your ribs change.
The first shot is a crack that sounds like a party trick until it isn’t. The second is quieter, or maybe your hearing is already turning into cotton. Someone screams, the sound a loud banshee wail that has others responding. The chandelier does not fall, but for a stupid second you expect it to. It would be so neat, you think, for the ceiling to come down when the floor is gone.
At first it’s a pressure, like a too-tight hug. Then heat blooms, sudden and searing, spreading under the skin near the left side where a body carries important things. The world narrows to a point. You intake a breath, the sound sharp and silent in the same go. You know this sensation as intimately as you know your own breathing, they got shot, you think blankly and in the same instant the room reacts as if dragged by the same string.
Your soulmate got shot.
“Shots fired,north balcony!” someone yells into the comms line in your ear. “Walker’s hit!”
Your entire body pulls three directions at once. You look up as Walker staggers on the dais, hand flying to his shoulder in a bright spatter of red and at the same time a hot, brutal fist closes around your left side. It is not your shoulder. It is lower, bad, a slice of white behind the red that makes the room tilt.
You think, ridiculously, wrong vector, right as your legs forget whose idea standing was. The comms table jumps at you; your hip clips the corner; you taste metal, then nothing.
Hands catch you because your luck must be in…. At least for someone whose blood was currently dripping on the floor. Bucky’s, first his touch iron and the faintest tremor of don’t you dare, to which you tremble, not quite knowing where his anger is coming from. Then another pair you know by the way pain quiets around them, just enough to hear a calming voice with a russian lilt. Yelena’s.
“Hey,” Bucky says, voice pitched steady for people who are bleeding. “Hey, eyes on me.”
You oblige out of habit, but the room won’t settle. It keeps rocking like a boat you did not board which is crazy because you are pretty sure you are on the floor. You are on the floor. The marble is so cold you could cry from the honesty of it. When did you land on the floor?
Yelena’s face blots out the chandelier like an eclipse. She is all pupils and jawline and hands that don’t know how to be gentle until you cry out. She presses both palms to your side and you gasp, not because it hurts more but because it hurts less the second she touches you.
“Don’t move,” she says. Her voice is both a command and a prayer and you are desperate to listen because you know you will be safe if you listen to her. “Do not move.”
“Walker-” you manage, because your job is an instinct even now and even with the pain you feel as thoughyou need to update them. You need to do anything but lay on the ground being yelled at by two former Russian assassins.
“Walker is fine,” Bucky says, lying so beautifully it should be framed. “Stay with us. That’s an order.”
“Who…” you start, and then the heat spikes again because somewhere across the room the shooter is trying for a second angle and Yelena makes a sound you have never heard in your life, something soft and torn that sounds like a person learning they have a voice.
“Medics!” she shouts over her shoulder in English, in Russian, in anything that will move the world faster. “Right now!”
The comms in your ear are a rush of words phasing in and out “Copy..Walker secured…shooter on the balcony..second unit sweeping..med team en route…Belova, status?” You want to answer for her, you want to say she’s here, like that’s a code that matters, because it does.
“Look at me,” Yelena says, and you do because she says it like the opposite of drowning. Her touch is warmn on your skin; her mascara has not smudged, and you hate her a little for that while also wanting to put your hands on the lines of her face and memorize what care looks like when it finally chooses you.
“You-” you try, and the word is silly, pointless, the size of a seed. It’s a waste of energy. “You… don’t hate me.”
Something shatters in her expression so quietly you almost miss it. “No,” she says, and the no is a whole confession. “But I should because you are nothing but pain.”
You laugh, absurdly, and the laugh tries to become a cough and Bucky swears which makes you panic a little more. Seeing two assassins panic is not what you want to see.
“Pressure,” Yelena says, and her hands redouble their purpose. “Barnes, where are they?”
“Here,” someone answers who is not Bucky, and a medic’s bag hits the floor like a verdict. People in white shirts kneel in a rustle of competence. Everything tightens into a tunnel: gloved hands, scissors, the hiss of something being torn, the pinprick of a line going in, voices counting.
“Ma’am, can you hear me?” the medic asks, bright and brave. Ma’am.
“Unfortunately,” you say, because humor is the only muscle that will still listen.
Bucky huffs approval. “She’s fine,” he tells no one. “She’s insufferable. It’s her main symptom.”
Heard that.
“Walker?” you ask, unable to stop being yourself.
“Nicked,” Bucky says. “Showboating about it already.” His voice flips, command sharp. “Perimeter tight! Clear the dais! Eyes up, people!”
The medics work like a well-rehearsed argument. You obey orders you did not consent to. Breathe here, lie there, don’t go toward that light even if it looks like a softer room. The pain swells and recedes in waves; when it peaks, Yelena’s hands turn the tide. When you groan, she hisses something soft in Russian that your blood translates as live.
“Need to lift her,” one medic says. “We’ve got to get a look at entry and exit.”
“On three,” the other says. “One..two..“
Yelena’s hands hover for a fraction, then return, one at your ribs, one catching your wrist. “I am here,” she says into your hairline. It is nothing like the way she says anything else. It is a declaration, and it folds you open from the inside.
You try to brace yourself, hoping to ease her worries and try to regain some dignity before they lift and any composure goes out the window with a yell. The world whites out, then slams back in. You inhale hard enough to hurt two people. The medic murmurs encouraging lies. Bucky mutters “good” like it’s a battle report. Yelena does not let go.
Someone yells “Shooter down!” from the balcony, truthfully you don’t really give a shit, what does it matter to you now?
Did that make you selfish?
“Okay,” the medic says, calmer now. “Through and through along the ribs…missed the lung by grace and luck. We need to transport.”
“If that’s luck then it’s all shit.” You cough out.
“Transport,” Yelena repeats, like she’s testing the word but she doesn’t move, doesn’t even budge in the slightest.
The gurney arrives in a squeak of wheels and mercy. The medics position it, those negotiations of limbs and leverage they practice in back rooms, and then you are being coaxed onto it with an efficiency that makes you want to tip them like waiters. You think you mumble something about it, you can honestly no longer tell.
Yelena still hasn’t let go of your wrist. The medic looks at her hand, then at her face, then makes the sort of decision people make when they don’t want to be stabbed by a smaller person. “You can walk with us,” he says.
She nods once. “I know.” What she really means is As if there was a choice.
Bucky jogs backward beside the gurney, phone to his ear, barking orders between words that might be for you and it takes you a minute to realize he must be on the phone with Sam. Stupid lucky soulmates. “Keep talking,” he instructs. “Tell me about your spreadsheet.”
“My spreadsheet?” you repeat, woozy.
“Yeah,” he says. “The one where you prove how insane you are.”
“Am not,” you say. “I’d say…...” You can’t remember the word you want. “Capricious.”
Bucky grins like a sunrise. “Fancy word. Gold star.”
Yelena’s thumb presses against your pulse. “You are very brave,” she says quietly, as if confessing to the floor so it can carry the news away.
“I’m very stupid,” you correct, because accuracy matters, even now.
She huffs a sound that’s almost a laugh and almost a sob. “Both can be true.”
The hallway narrows into fluorescent logic and doors swing open out of your way. The floor hums under the wheels. On the edge of your vision you glimpse Walker on another gurney, sitting up because of course he is, clutching his shoulder and explaining to a camera that he’s fine, that everything is fine. Bucky veers toward him long enough to shove him back by the forehead with one finger. “Down,” he says, like a golden retriever who forgot its training.
You’d laugh if laughing didn’t feel like chewing glass.
The elevator is a short fall. The med bay is a white square with too many bleeping kindnesses. They slide you to a bed with the tenderness of people who do this enough to keep doing it again. Voices become shapes. Your body becomes numbers. Somewhere, someone says your name with startling gentleness and you realize it was Yelena and that she’s been saying it the whole time, like a spell, like a metronome.
“Stay,” she says, and even if your eyes are closing, your bones obey before your brain can try to be clever.
“I’ll….” you start, and you can’t find the verb, so you borrow hers. “Stay.”
You think you just lied.
Bucky’s voice is the last tether you feel. “She’s good,” he tells someone invisible. “She’s stubborn. Get out of the med bay unless you’re useful.”
The world narrows to a point of heat and then, kindly, goes dim around the edges. You feel Yelena’s hand frame your wrist like it belongs there. The pressure is steady, a promise weighted into flesh. They try to peel her away to place lines and pads and all the gentle violence medicine requires; she refuses without words, a stance more than an argument, and the medics decide to work around the orbit of her spine.
“Do not let go,” you whisper, not sure if the words leave your mouth or just bloom in your chest.
“I won’t,” she says, like an oath, like a dare to anything that thinks it can make her.
The room swims, then steadies, then finally softens into a dark you can live in. You drift there with her thumb counting your heartbeats. It is the last thing you know: pain braided with pressure, fear braided with a voice, the chandelier’s light still caught in the backs of your eyes.
Then the dark closes carefully, like a door pulled shut by someone who promised to open it again.
-
You wake to antiseptic and static, it’s disgusting.
Machines breathe in rhythm around you, the air tastes of metal and lemon cleanser. Every pulse monitor beeps at a different tempo, like a mechanical jazz band that doesn’t know the song. You drift for a while between pain and memory until a low voice threads through both.
“If you die,” the voice mutters, “I will resurrect you just to yell.”
Yelena.
She’s sitting in a plastic chair pulled too close to the bed, knees pressed against the frame, her head resting on folded arms. One of her boots has been kicked off amd there’s a coffee cup balanced on your chart, lipstick print smudged along the rim. She looks like she fought the night and only half won.
“Morning,” you croak but it comes out like gravel.
Her head snaps up. Relief flickers, quick, sharp, dangerous. Then it settles into a cold calm. “You are awake.”
“I’m… mostly sure.” Captain Obvious.
You glance down at the IV line, the neat rows of stitches bandaging your ribs. “Is this the part where I see the light?”
“Only fluorescent…. Which is worse for my hair.” She exhales, the sound shaky. “You stopped breathing once. They fixed it.”
“Good for them.” You try to smile. It works badly. “You stayed.”
“Of course.” The words leave no room for argument. “You think I let you out of my sight after that?”
“You hate hospitals.”
“I hate funerals more.”
That silences you. She moves closer, careful, one hand hovering above your blanket until you nod. Then her fingers settle around yours, warm, steady, a pulse that feels borrowed from both of you.
“Yelena,” you start, but she’s already speaking.
“I knew it was you,” she says quietly. “Not at first. I felt pain for years and thought it was old injuries. Then you joined the team and suddenly every stupid bruise matched your day.”
A humorless laugh. “You think you were subtle, stabbing yourself for data?”
“I had hypotheses.”
“You had no self preservation.”
Her thumb strokes the inside of your wrist, gentling the words. “I thought the bond was a weakness. The Red Room trained us to cut those out. But the night of the gala…” She stops, swallows hard. “When you fell, it was like my body remembered you before my mind did. I have never been so terrified.”
You squeeze her hand. “You still got to me first.”
“I will always get to you first.” It isn’t a boast, it’s a vow wrapped in exhaustion. You try to lighten the air. “That’s very romantic for someone covered in my blood.”
Her mouth quirks. “It goes with everything I wear.”
Silence drapes over the room, heavy but kind. After a while you whisper, “You don’t have to be afraid of it anymore.”
“Afraid of what?”
“The bond.” You let the words spill. “It doesn’t have to be another weapon. It can just be… connection. Something ordinary. Something good.”
She studies you like she’s memorizing a language she never expected to learn. Then she leans forward and presses her forehead to yours.
“I don’t deserve something good,” she says.
“Neither do I, I stabbed myself with a pencil.” Your voice shakes, but you keep it steady enough. “Let’s try anyway.”
Her breath catches, the laugh that follows is half broken. “You make terrible plans.”
“They usually work.”
When she kisses you it isn’t careful, but it is gentle. The monitors pick up the change in your heart rate and tattletale it to the room. She pulls back an inch, eyes glinting.
“See?” she murmurs. “Scientific proof.”
You laugh, and for the first time since the gunfire, it doesn’t hurt.
-
The farmers’ market smells like sun-warmed peaches and possibility. Stalls overflow with color. Tomatoes like jewels, flowers spilling from paper cones, bees dancing drunk between the herbs. You’re four months into recovery, four months into something that no longer needs a label.
Your ribs ache the way weather changes, predictably. Physical therapy this morning left you sore enough to flinch, but you’ve been pretending otherwise for the last hour, your girlfriend had a habit of over reacting and you did not want to stress her out. You’re good at pretending,Yelena’s better at noticing.
She strolls beside you in cargo pants and a Support Local Bees tee, sunglasses pushed onto her head, a tote bag slung carelessly over one shoulder. Every few feet she tests your pace like she’s calibrating gravity, and you knew that every move you made would be reported back to her best friend Bob later.
“You are walking funny,” she observes.
“I’m walking fine.”
“Fine is the sound you make before falling over.”
“Scientifically untrue.”
“We can make a spreadsheet and track it,” she suggests, raising a knowing eyebrow as she reaches a hand up to swipe her thumb along your cheek. You huff, switching the bag to your other side to hide the limp. “I’m thriving. Look at me, buying produce, being domestic.”
“Lying in public…to me.” she says. “A brave choice.”
You stop at a fruit stand, the vendor offers slices of melon on toothpicks; you take one and hold the other out to her. She bites from your hand, teeth grazing the pad of your thumb. The taste is sweet; the look she gives you sweeter, it makes you blush.
“You could have taken your own,” you tease.
“I like yours better.”
“That’s not how sharing works.”
“It is exactly how sharing works,” she says, lips quirking. “I share yours. You share mine. Equilibrium.”
The ache in your ribs forgets itself for a moment.
A breeze tumbles through, carrying music from the busker at the square, what sounds like an old waltz twisted into something lazy. You wander toward it, the world spinning slow around you. She buys two lemonades and presses the cold cup to your side where the scar hides under fabric. The chill jolts you and she grins.
“Therapy,” she says. “See? I can heal too.”
“You’re terrible,” you whisper, but you don’t move away.
They find a bench near a cluster of flower stalls. You sit and she sprawls, legs stretched, one arm draped along the backrest. For a while you just exist, letting the lemonade sweat down plastic, sun striping your knees, the hum of people living ordinary lives. Yelena watches them like she’s learning peace by imitation.
“Remember when you said the bond was inconvenient?” you ask.
She turns her head. “Yes. I was wrong.”
“What is it now?”
“Evidence,” she says.
“Of what?”
“That something good survived me.”
The words hit softly but go deep. You rest your head on her shoulder, careful of her sunglasses. “You’re sappy.”
“Blame you,” she murmurs, kissing your temple. “You infected me with feelings.”
“I’ll add it to the spreadsheet.”
She laughs and it’s real, full, bright enough to make two old ladies at the flower stall smile for no reason. You sit there until the music changes, until the lemonade is gone and the world feels small enough to hold.
When you finally stand, she reaches for the tote bag. You beat her to it. “I’m carrying it.”
“You are sore.”
“I’m fine.”
“I know.” She sighs, a mocking pout face filling her face. “If you limp, I carry you.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
She steps closer, voice dropping. “Try me.”
You start down the row of stalls again, pretending not to limp. She walks beside you, hand ghosting at your back, the connection between you quiet but constant. Every brush of your shoulders hums like a shared heartbeat, proof that the bond has learned new tricks: it hurts less now, and loves more.
Halfway down the street a balloon pops, the sound cuts clean and quick as your body freezes before your mind catches up. Then Yelena’s hand is already there, palm to your spine, grounding you.
“Breathe,” she whispers.
You do. The air tastes like peaches and summer dust. The tremor passes.
She doesn’t remove her hand. “You see? We are fine.”
You believe her.
The sun slides lower, painting everything gold. You stop at a stand selling wildflowers, pick a bunch of small white blooms you can’t name. She insists on paying; you let her. When she tucks one behind your ear, her fingers linger just long enough to make the world slow.
“Ready?” she asks.”To go home?”
“No…” You lie, a small smile playing on your lips as you watch her glare form. “Okay yes.” This pulls a perfect smile, she grabs your hand into hers and leads the way to guide you home.
[Bonus Scene because I liked this couple.]
Saturday mornings in the apartment are sacred.
Not for religion.
For pancakes.
Yelena is at the stove, hair messy, wearing one of your old sweatshirts that hangs off one shoulder because of course she would style it as if she hadn’t stolen it. She’s flipping pancakes with the same precision she uses to reload a weapon. You’re sitting on the counter behind her, eating strawberries straight from the container and pretending to “help.”
“You are stealing my garnish,” she says without turning around.
“I’m taste-testing.”
“For poison?”
“For quality control.”
“You are liar.” She flips the next pancake perfectly and gestures with the spatula like it’s a pointer. “Down. Off my counter. You promised we would eat like adults.”
“We are adults,” you say, popping another strawberry into your mouth. “Adults just sometimes eat on counters.”
“Then why do I have chairs?” she demands, mock exasperated.
“Decoration,” you answer sweetly. “A faux ploy.”
She glances over her shoulder, one brow raised, the corner of her mouth threatening to betray her. “You are lucky I love you.”
You grin. “I know.”
Silence follows, it’s comfortable, warm. Morning light spills across the kitchen floor in gold stripes, catching the steam from the coffee mugs. The air smells like butter, fruit, and the faintest trace of Yelena’s shampoo. It’s the kind of morning that feels stolen from someone else’s dream.
Until you stub your toe.
It’s not an accident.
You do it deliberately, right against the cabinet, hard enough to make the old familiar spark of pain zing through your foot.
Across the kitchen, Yelena freezes mid-flip. Her jaw tightens; her left foot jerks. “You did not,” she says, voice dangerous.
You grin innocently. “What?”
She slams the spatula down with theatrical outrage. “You did it again!”
“I was proving a point.”
“That you are menace?”
“That you can’t ignore me when you’re mad,” you say, smug.
She turns slowly, eyes narrowing with the calm of someone plotting retribution. “We were arguing about whose turn it is to do laundry. You injured yourself for laundry?”
“You started ignoring me first.”
“I was cooking… and I was talking to you!”
“I… decided to stir the pot.”
She stalks toward you, still holding the spatula. “You have forgotten the lesson of the pencil.”
“You’re not actually mad,” you tease.
“I am furious,” she says, then pinches your chin between her fingers and kisses you, short and sure. “Next time, use your words.”
“Words don’t get your attention as fast.”
“I am about to teach you the language of cold toes on your calves,” she warns, grinning now.
You laugh, leaning into her. “Domestic abuse by cuddle?”
“Revenge by affection,” she corrects. “Very efficient.”
The bond hums between you, warm, steady, echoing contentment instead of pain. You can feel her amusement under your skin like champagne bubbles, and you know she feels yours in return. It’s the same thread that once carried bruises and bullet wounds, now carrying laughter, mornings, pancakes.
“You love me,” you sing song.
She sighs, pretending defeat. “Unfortunately, yes.”
“And my stubbed toe?”
“Also, unfortunately, yes.”
You hop down from the counter, wrap your arms around her waist. “Then it was worth it.”
She shakes her head but rests her chin on your hair. “You are ridiculous.”
“I’m your ridiculous and you can’t get a coffee maker to work without me.”
Her hand trails down your spine, gentle. “Da,” she murmurs. “Mine.”
The smoke alarm chooses that moment to chirp,one perfect note of chaos. Yelena groans, you laugh, and the two of you spend the next five minutes fanning the ceiling with a cutting board, arguing about whose fault it was.
Pain shared, pancakes slightly burnt, love absolutely intact.
Haven't read the first? Find it right..... 🌌 Pisces - Johnny Storm
Enjoy!
The stale, hoppy scent of beer and the low thrum of a jukebox from the nearby dive bar are a world away from the quiet intimacy of your bedroom or the quiet isolation of his room at the baxter building. You’re here with Johnny because he loves the energy, the noise, the life of a crowd. And after a year of this dizzying, incredible bond, you love anything that makes him smile.
Across the sticky table, he’s in his element, holding court with a group of friends, his laughter a bright, crackling thing that seems to generate its own light. You feel a familiar, pleasant buzz under your skin, not from the cheap beer but from the constant, low level hum of him. Your connection. Your handsome, brilliant, infuriatingly charismatic soulmate.
A guy slides onto the stool next to you, all too confident smile and slicked back hair. “Hey there. Haven’t seen you around before.”
You offer a polite, closed lipped smile. “Just visiting the scene.”
“Well, it’s a better scene with you in it,” he says, leaning in a little too close. His cologne is aggressively citrus. “Can I buy you a drink?”
You’re about to politely decline, to nod toward Johnny and say I’m with him, when the world lurches.
A nauseating, disorienting flip. One second you’re looking at Citrus Guy’s overly eager face, the next you’re… looking at yourself from across the table. Your own eyes, that are currently in your body that you are watching across the bar, narrow in on the man that was standing in front of you.
Oh. We switched.
It doesn’t happen often anymore, not since you both stabilized the bond, but stress or strong emotion can still trigger it. And the sudden, uncomfortable attention from a stranger must have been enough to have Johnny jumping.
From your new vantage point in Johnny’s body, you see Citrus Guy lean even closer to you, to the body you just vacated, which now contains a very confused, and from the feeling of it, rapidly escalating, Johnny.
“So,” the guy continues, completely oblivious to the cosmic swap that just occurred. “What’s a stunning woman like you doing wasting her time with a human fireworks display?”
Through your own eyes, you see a slow, dangerous smirk spread across your face. It’s not your smirk. It’s pure, unfiltered Johnny Storm, and it’s blazing with a possessive fire you feel ignite in your…. Well right now HIS, chest.
“A fireworks display, huh?” your voice says, but it’s laced with Johnny’s particular brand of cocky charm. “You have no idea.”
The guy misreads the tone entirely, puffing out his chest. “I’ve got some ideas. How about you ditch the light show and I’ll-”
The world lurches again, a gut wrenching snap back into place. You’re back in your own body, the bar sounds rushing back into your ears. Citrus Guy is still talking.
Johnny is already moving. He’s up from his stool, his chair scraping loudly against the concrete floor. He doesn’t even look at the guy. His cool blue eyes are locked on you, and the heat in them could melt steel. He grabs your hand, his grip firm and unmistakably final.
“We’re leaving,” he says, and his voice is a low, tightly controlled inferno.
He pulls you through the crowd, not roughly, but with a single minded intensity that brooks no argument. Your friends call out a confused farewell, but he doesn’t slow down. The neon signs flicker as you pass, buzzing erratically. The air crackles, thick with the unshed energy of his jealousy.
The second the cool night air hits your skin, he pushes you against the brick wall of the alley beside the bar, caging you in with his arms. His body radiates a tangible heat.
“That guy,” he growls, his forehead dropping to yours. His breath is hot. “Touching your arm. Leaning into your space.”
“Johnny, it was nothing, I was just-”
His mouth crashes down on yours, and it’s not like his usual playful, enthusiastic kisses. This is a conflagration. It’s all possession and raw, unvarnished need. He kisses you like he’s trying to brand the taste of himself onto your lips, to erase any other possibility.
He breaks the kiss, his chest heaving. “Mine,” he breathes, the word sparking in the air between you. “You’re mine.”
He doesn’t wait for an answer. He grabs your hand again and yanks you toward his bike. The engine roars to life with a deafening snarl that feels like an extension of his mood. You climb on behind him, wrapping your arms tightly around his waist, pressing your face against the hot leather of his jacket. The city blurs into streaks of light as he weaves through traffic, the bike’s speed a frantic echo of your pounding heart.
He doesn’t take you home. He takes you to the old Baxter Building hangar, a vast, empty space that smells of jet fuel and ozone. The second the reinforced door clangs shut behind you, echoing through the cavernous room, he’s on you.
His hands are everywhere, pulling at your clothes, his mouth stapled to yours. Your shirt tears under his frantic tugging, the sound obscenely loud. The hangar’s emergency lights flicker on, casting long, dramatic shadows across his determined face. “I saw him looking at you,” he mutters against your neck, his teeth grazing your pulse point. You gasp, arching into him. “I saw him want what’s mine.”
He backs you toward a workbench, sending a set of precision tools clattering to the floor. He lifts you, setting you down on the cold metal surface. The shock of it against your bare skin makes you yelp, but he swallows the sound with another searing kiss. He pushes your skirt up your thighs, his hands rough with urgency.
“He doesn’t know what you feel like,” he rasps, his fingers hooking into the waistband of your panties and pulling them down your legs. “He doesn’t know what you taste like.”
He drops to his knees on the concrete floor. And even if you can’t really hear over the sound of your own heart pounding in your chest you can still focus your feeling on the feel of his hot breath against your inner thigh.
His tongue finds you, and you cry out, your fingers scrambling for purchase on the smooth, cold bench. It’s not the tender, worshipful attention he normally gives you, not the charming lovey dovey love making you two regularly partake in, instead this one is a claiming. . This is claiming. His tongue is relentless, a rough, passionate exploration that borders on frantic. He licks into you with a hunger that steals the air from your lungs, his stubble a delicious abrasion against your sensitive skin.
You can feel the power building,making your eyes roll back as your hands scramble to find purchase. “Johnny… oh god… I can’t…”
He doesn’t let up. He slides two fingers inside you, crooking them, finding that perfect, devastating spot as his tongue circles your clit. The dual sensation is too much. Your orgasm hits you like a shockwave, a silent, screaming rush of pure voltage that makes your vision whiten at the edges. You convulse around his fingers, your back bowing off the bench.
He rises, his silhouette a dark, powerful shape against the few remaining emergency lights. You hear the frantic rustle of his jeans, the clink of his belt buckle. He’s on you in an instant, his heat enveloping you. He guides himself to your entrance, his eyes glowing faintly in the dark, his body literally smoldering with barely contained energy.
“Tell me,” he demands, his voice a ragged, raw thing. The air smells of smoke and sex.
“Yours,” you sob, the word a desperate plea.
He drives into you in one fierce, possessive thrust. The fullness is absolute, breathtaking. He doesn’t start slow. He sets a punishing, frantic pace, each slam of his hips a physical punctuation to his jealousy, his need, his love. The entire hangar seems to shudder with it. A power tool whirs to life on a distant bench, screeching before dying again. A jet engine in for re
You cling to him, your legs locked around his waist, meeting every single one of his thrusts. You can feel his control unraveling, his rhythm becoming more erratic, more desperate. His skin is fever hot against yours.
“See what you do to me?” he grunts, slamming into you. “See what we do?”
You can feel another climax coiling, tighter, brighter, fed by the raw energy arcing between you, by the chaotic feedback loop of your bond and his jealousy. The main hangar doors groan, vibrating in their frames.
“Johnny… Johnny!”
He crushes his mouth to yours, swallowing your scream as your second orgasm erupts. It triggers his own. With a guttural shout, he buries himself to the hilt, his release pumping into you like liquid fire. The force of your mutual climax is the final straw.
He collapses against you, his weight heavy and welcome on the cold workbench. His laughter is a breathless, amazed puff of air against your sweat damp neck.
“Damn, baby,” he whispers, his voice full of awe and satisfaction. “All this over a swap.”
God, you were so happy you both got the swaps down a little better.
Dreamweaver's Note: This is a Constellation post which means it's new and I haven't published it before I got hacked. Please enjoy! -Ultralight
⚠️Fae-Bound Triggers: Swapping bodies.
⏳Length of the Spell: 14.4k+ words.
✨What the Stars Foretell: Apart of my soulmate constellation series... In which you and your soulmate swap bodies until you meet.... too bad it's always at the worst moments.
The Pisces constellation is depicted as two fish tied together by a cord, a symbol of escape and transformation in myth, where the goddess Aphrodite and her son Eros leapt into the waters as fish to flee the monster Typhon.
Swapping Places is the only way to see sometimes.
-
The screen blooms to life the second the rabbit ear antennae is done being messed with, when a cutout title shows across the screen catching the attention of everyone at home immediately. Warm organ music swells and soon enters Miss Cynthia Starling,with her helmet hair and carnation-pink lipstick, seated behind a lacquered desk with a ceramic bowl containing two plastic fish tied by a thin ribbon.
“Hello, darlings!” she chirps. “I know many of you out there are used to hearing our weekly episodes of stories told by soulmates that have found each other. But I thought that for today’s episode we would go back discuss some tips for safety for any newcomers just finding their soulbonds.You must be thinking, where to begin….. Let’s start at the beginning. Rule Number One! Privacy, Please. When destiny scoops you into your darling’s life, remember the Three P’s. ‘Pause, Pivot, and Peek-away!’ No rifling drawers. No peeking at secret scribbles. No barging into bath time!”
She winks. Somewhere, an ancient laugh track chuckles like it’s had a martini.
“Let’s demonstrate!” She stands from her desk, ready to mimic the soulmate pull.
Static skitters across the screen.
-
There’s a smell first,eucalyptus and expensive soap,then steam.
The floor under your bare feet goes from apartment tile to slick, too-warm shower. Your soulmark,the half-formed Pisces cluster on your inner wrist,flares hot under the humidity like it’s been branded there while you slept.
You,who were, two seconds ago, writing a sentence in your journal about how you are “absolutely, definitively, 100% not thinking about my soulmate today,”.....are now not you.
You’re tall. Your balance is wrong. Your center of gravity has migrated to “middle of very smug chest.” There’s water roaring down your hair -his hair- and there is, objectively, a criminal amount of body happening in your personal space.
You look down.
“Oh my-NO…nope, illegal…sir…please-”
It comes out in a deep, incredulous baritone that is not yours. Because it’s his throat. His chest. His everything.
The shower handle tries to make you do geometry, it’s rich and fancy. You slip, pinwheel, slap a palm against a marble wall you are eighty percent sure costs more than your checking account. A burst of steam kisses your face. Somewhere outside the glass door, a voice knocks like judgment.
“Johnny? Are you combusting in there?”
You, as Johnny (not combusting, tragically),clear the baritone. “I’m…uh…hydrating!”
“Try not to scorch the marble,” the voice sighs. “Reed had it sealed.”
You whip your gaze to a blurred reflection on the fogged pane and see an outline you know from headlines, a face you had seen pose for just about every magazine he could.
You were staring at the face of Johnny Storm.
Which meant you…well he was currently showering in the Baxter Building. The shower. The Human Torch’s shower. Fantastic.
“Okay,” you tell the spray. “We’re calm. We’re composed. We’re…oh my god, I’m naked in my soulmate's body.”
You make a choice and do the brave thing. You reach for a towel like you didn’t just nearly die on bodywash. The towel is hung on a heated bar because wealth has no shame and you waste no time flinging it around your/his waist with the dignity of a newborn deer on a frozen pond, feet still slipping on the water beneath you.
“Breathe. Just freaking breathe.”
“Johnny?” The voice again, closer. Feminine, a stylish lilt that had you jealous of how she sounded. “Are you talking to… yourself?”
“Always!” you bark. “It’s self care!”
“Mm. Five minutes.” The voice calls once more, muttering something to herself about ego as you struggle to keep your balance.
Why is it so soapy?
You cough a laugh that sounds too deep because truthfully you weren’t used to the sound of it before the words registered. “Yep! Got it!”
You reach for the handle, intending to step out, intending to not meet whoever is out there, intending to not commit a felony on a national treasure, when the tug hits.
You’ve learned the tug. It’s the cosmic fishing line yanked hard. A hook behind your ribs. A little warning before the universe throws you like a paper airplane.
“Do not put me back mid-shower,” you beg the cosmos, one hand wide on the marble, the other clutching a towel like it’s your last shred of decency. “I will cry.”
The universe, heartless gremlin that it is, pulls.
He’s mid “hot water equals spiritual rebirth” when the yank hits. There’s the familiar flicker, the little drop in the stomach and then cold air and the smell of paper and cheap pen ink and lemon cleaner.
Johnny Storm lands in a chair in a small apartment, wearing a soft T-shirt that has definitely seen better days. He looks down and sees delicate hands, ink on the ring finger where a pen has rubbed for years, a bracelet with a tiny fish charm. He doesn’t breathe for one second…. Two…
Finally she switched with me.
A journal is open on the desk.
He doesn’t mean to read it….He absolutely doesn’t……He absolutely does.
The line his eyes snag on first:
I have decided that thinking about him is a civil offense punishable by seven business days of embarrassment.
His mouth does a thing it doesn’t do in public, the soft smile he doesn’t advertise, the one that feels like warm hands tucked into jacket pockets. He glances at the wrist. His. Hers. The soulmark. Not fully burned in. A cluster of not-quite stars where Pisces will be when the universe stops holding out on him.
The voice that he is currently using is not his, but dear soulmarks he is obsessed with it, so much so he takes to humming just to hear it.
The pen in his/your hand is mid-word. He should put it down. He should be a paragon. He should….
He writes, because truthfully there was no way he could leave your world without giving you some sign he was here.
Hi. Not thinking about you is my full-time job. I’m bad at it.
Then his conscience comes a little late to the party and he rushes to move. He nearly falls out of the chair pushing back, shoves the journal closed so fast the elastic band snaps against the cover. “Nope. Didn’t see a thing. We are champions of boundaries.” He says this to your toaster.
It doesn’t respond back.
He gets up, forced casual, and does a panicked perimeter of your life in six seconds: plant, alive; mug, chipped; shoes, not where shoes should be; window, stuck; fridge… not running?. The apartment breathes a kind of curated chaos that is not his brand. He loves it. God help him, he loves it all.
His chest gets tight, not in the way it did when he used his powers, more so like a warm glowing feeling as if he were home. Something that makes him want to light his hands just to see if the glow would find you in the walls.
The tug returns. He nearly says wait out loud, as if he could get you to give him a little longer in your world.
“Don’t put her back mid-disaster,” he tells the air. “I got it. I’ll… figure it out.”
He rushes to sit back down, so that you wouldn’t be thrown around too much and closed his eyes.
The universe, nothing but a chaos goblin, yanks him anyway.
-
You stumble back into your chair with the whiplash of a cartoon crash. Your journal is closed and the elastic is lopsided. Your heart makes a staccato out of whatever it was doing before.
On your inner wrist, under the skin, the stars glow like someone held a match to your vein. You slap a palm over it. It does nothing.
“Okay,” you tell your apartment. “Rule One. Privacy. We are so private. We are a vault. We are Fort Knox. We are…”
You flip open your journal like you aren’t the weakest human alive.
Between your last sentence and a smear of ink, there’s a line in a handwriting that is not yours.
Hi. Not thinking about you is my full-time job. I’m bad at it.
Your soulmark pulses in your wrist like it heard a joke and laughed.
“Rude,” you whisper to your own self before you shout a little louder to the universe itself as if he might be able to hear you. “RUDE!”
The toaster that’s on its last leg of life makes a popping sound. “Don’t you start.”
On the TV, the organ music tinkles back in like a cat returning to the room it destroyed. Miss Cynthia’s smile looks painted on with a spatula. “Uh-oh!” she trills. “Looks like someone took a little peek! Privacy is the foundation of trust, ducklings! Remember our Three P’s!”
You point at her with your pen. “I paused! I pivoted! I….look, ma’am, there was steam.”
You set your face in the world’s most unconvincing posture, as an adult who is absolutely, definitely, unquestionably fine.
You are not fine.
Your pulse is not fine.
The line in your journal is a burning itself into your skull as you begin pacing back and forth.
Hi. Not thinking about you is my full-time job. I’m bad at it.
“Same,” you tell the empty room. “Apparently.”
The tug twitches in your ribs,just a flicker this time, a warning. Your heartbeat flutters like a startled bird, then settles. You blow out a breath that hurts your teeth.
“Okay. Ground rules.” You grab a sticky note and write them like the list will save you.
No thinking about him
Especially not in the shower
Or near paper
Your hand shakes and you look at it until it stops.
“Right,” you say to the universe. “I am a stable adult. Rule One. Privacy. PRIVACY!”
Which meant tomorrow you would be figuring out good hiding spots for all your journals… and maybe a lock for the underwear drawer.
Somewhere uptown, a human blowtorch laughs and it echoes down your bones like a struck chord.
-
Johnny.
Johnny comes back into himself with heat still in his skin from your radiator, and steam still ghosting his hair. He’s wrapped in a towel he did not deserve to look that good in. There’s a knock like punctuation on the bathroom door.
“Johnny,” Sue calls. Calm, long-suffering, the voice of a woman who has seen him burn through three robes. “Two minutes.”
“On it,” he says, voice ragged in a way that has nothing to do with hot water.
He turns the shower off and the silence is a crash. For a second he stands there, towel knotted at the hip, hand braced on marble, watching a single drop of water race his reflection down the glass. He is not a reflective man. He is a bright man. He knows mirrors have not historically made him better.
But he sees his eyes, and they’re not doing the usual thing, the sparkle that weaponizes cameras, the cut-glass glint he uses to slice through expectation. They’re doing a softer thing. A thing that looks a little like falling and a little like a promise he can’t say yet.
He palms his wrist. The not-yet soulmark under the skin warms his hand.
“Soon,” he murmurs to it, he doesn’t know if he’s promising fate or picking a fight with it.But there was no time to think about it, instead he towels off, puts on the PR smile like armor as he gets dressed, and steps out to follow his sister and face cameras, agents, people who think they know what his life is made of.
He does not let them light him up. Not yet. He walks hot but not flaming. He keeps the heat for the thought of a small apartment with a blinking toaster and ink on your finger. He keeps it for the sentence in your journal he wasn’t supposed to see and the sentence he wrote that he definitely was not supposed to write.
He keeps it for the next time destiny yanks.
He hopes it’s inconvenient.
He hopes it’s soon.
-
Miss Cynthia Starling appears again, this time on a stage set decorated like a therapists office, with a fake fireplace and a potted fern under stage lights.
“Hello, little soulmates!” she says, posture immaculate. “Did you know emotional spikes can extend your swap time? A racing heart may keep you and your sweetheart stuck in each other’s shoes!” She stirs a teacup dramatically. “So take a breath. And remember: Stay calm to stay home.”
She smiles like she has never been calm a day in her life.
You can’t help it, you reach to flip the TV channel away, landing on Mr. Fantastics science show.
You turn the TV off completely.
-
Honestly it was gonna happen no matter what, with how stressed you were leading up to today, it’s just kind of annoying that it happened during the interview.
You’re halfway through a hopeful sentence. “My biggest strength is attention to detai-”
YANK.
Your spine arches like a ripped puppet string, air whooshes from lungs you didn’t inflate. The smell changes from an old library to heavy perfume as hot lights blind you and people wearing all black surround you.
There was a heavy crowd all keening to talk to you, cameras flashing non stop and a huge backdrop labeled ‘FANTASTIC FOUR; HEROES OF TOMORROW’.
You were in his body…. And there is a mic in his/your hand.
You blink into a magazine press line. A journalist in perfect lipstick beams up at you like your heart isn’t falling through your ass. “So, Johnny! Rumors say you and your soulmate are getting closer to meeting, is there any truth to that?”
You freeze, going as still as a statue, and you are sure your brain leaks out of your ears…. Well his ears.
Her smile widens, mistaking your panic for a coy game. “Oh, he’s being shy! We’ve never seen the Human Torch shy!”
You laugh, and it comes out deep and flirty, completely betraying how you are fighting from the inside out. They seem to love it, all laughing with you.
“That’s because I’m…uh…not him.” Truth, the truth couldn’t hurt right?
She blinks. “You’re not… Johnny Storm?”
Okay so judging by her reaction the truth was not what she wanted…. Fix it! “You know what? Let’s circle back.”
Cameras flash and someone yells, “Give us a flame shot!”
The panic washes over you like molten metal… Flame? They want FLAME?!
“No flame!” you shout, finger shaking wildly. “Not even a spark! No pyro today!”
More cameras, more flashes, someone whispers that Johnny’s having a breakdown. Marvelous.You were ruining your soulmates image.
Then you see him, THE Reed Richards, the smartest man alive, looking directly at YOU, brows knitting like something is off. Because something is.
“You okay, Johnny?” he asks slowly.
You give him two thumbs up like a deranged camp counselor. “So great.”
Who would believe that?
And then a reporter asks the ultimate death sentence, “Where is your soulmate tonight?”
Your pulse kicks into overdrive and your wrists burn like his name has already carved itself into your bones.
You open your mouth, absolutely no idea what will come out,when the world snaps again.
-
Johnny.
Johnny Storm lands in a body that is too small for his ego, a little sad because a mere second ago he was wowing the crowd in a press conference. He now sits in a bland office in a rickety interview chair, knees nearly up to his chin. The air tastes like stale coffee and fluorescent regret with the charming scent of old books mixed in.
A woman in glasses stares at him over a clipboard. “So, your attention to detail?”
Johnny Storm blinks once.
Then twitches.
Oh no.
Then smiles way too confidently, probably looking like a crazy person as he attempts to sit up straighter. “Oh yeah, so much detail. I detail. Everything. Like…look at your pen. That’s a sad pen. Let’s get you a better pen, huh?”
Her eyebrow rises to the ceiling tiles,he tries to sit properly but the chair squeaks like it’s protesting his entire existence.
“What are your weaknesses?” she asks.
“None,” he says immediately, her pen pauses mid-stroke, and his/your eyes narrow at the challenge. He’s about ready to start arguing why you were perfect before he realized that you needed a good impression. He scrambles. “No,I mean- uh-I care too much! I care so so sooo much. I mean… look at me.” He gestures at the body he is currently wearing. “This person cares.”
She stares like she’s watching a real life meltdown, his knee bounces as he grips the arms of the chair like he could set himself on fire in your body. The panic tries to rise and he clamps down so hard his jaw pops.
Be calm, he demands himself. Be normal, do this for her.
He fails every command.
The interviewer sighs. “This position requires consistent presence in the office. No… sudden disappearances. Stability. Is that something you can guarantee?”
He bursts into nervous laughter. “Lady, I can’t guarantee I’ll still be sitting in this chair in thirty seconds.”
The tug in his chest pulls as if you were ready to pull him back to himself.
“Oh thank god,” he whispers.
-
You slam back into his body in the press line, still in his body and still holding the mic, still surrounded by cameras. Crap.
You were supposed to have switched back, why are you still in his body?
Miss Cynthia’s voice from the old TV show floats back like an irritating ghost. ‘Elevated heart rate prolongs the swap!’
Right, cool, calm, collected.
You could do that… right? Probably not, you don’t bother trying to lie to yourself considering your heartbeat is currently trying to break the sound barrier.
The lipstick journalist steps forward again. “Johnny?” Her tone shifts from playful to worried. “Are you sure you’re alright?”
You smile stiffly.
“I’m incredibly, fantastically, stupidly, spectacularly fine.” You huff out, the ringing in your ears beginning to get louder as your breath struggles to keep pace.
Dr. Reed moves closer, clearly picking up on your spiraling anxiety.
You try to breathe, to slow your pulse, to obey Rule Two. To do anything to give Johnny Storm his body back. But every camera flash is a gunshot, every voice is too loud, your lungs are filling too fast, your hands are shaking and-
“You should take five,” Reed says quietly. “Before you-”
TUG.
-
He comes back mid-panic, definitely not in his own body, instead he was struggling to catch his breath.
Mid-hyperventilation….in your chest.
He stumbles backward into the interview chair with a wild gasp, as the interviewer screams.
He screams louder, in your voice before shaking his head and taking a deep breath in. He needed to keep cool, this was not how he took care of his soulmate. “I am very sorry. My soulmate was not expecting this soul switch.”
He explains it, holding a hand to his/your chest as he tries to calm down. He throws an apologetic salute and bolts out of the room like the carpet is lava…which, honestly, highly possible.
He doesn’t stop until he hits the hallway, palms braced on cool brick, pulse a drumline beneath his wrist. He looks down at your hand to your soulmark, the Pisces stars glow faint and furious.
He whispers to it, breathless, as if he could calm your panic down through the bond. “Calm, sweetheart. Please. Come back.”
His heartbeat tries to slow your, a soothing hum across the tether, like warmth under your skin.
Like he’s holding you from another city.
The tug returns.
-
You return to your apartment floor in a heap, knees buckled, palms catching tile, breath coming too fast. There is nothing to do but roll to your back, staring at the ceiling like it might explain what just happened.
Your journal lies nearby on the desk. You could look. You could see if he saw something. Added something.
You don’t.
You can’t.
Because your wrist is glowing like starlight trapped under skin, like the universe carved a road map to a boy who laughs like fire.
And you are not calm. Not even close.
You don’t know how he got you home… but you do notice a couple things. The first being that he had organized your shoes and the next being that the fridge that hadn’t been working is now…. Humming.
He even played your tv, to the soulmate show you liked watching all the time.
“Remember! Emotional control is the key to swapping success!” Miss Cynthia pops up with her Stepford grin. “If we can stay calm, we can get hooome!”
You snatch a pillow to shove your face into so you can scream, gripping it so harshly you might rip it. You are already in trouble, you are already falling.
-
Johnny.
He stands in the Baxter Building hallway, chest rising and falling, finally back into his own skin. Flame creeps into his palms,not uncontrolled, just… when he thinks of you.
He curls his fingers into a fist.
“Alright,” he murmurs. “Game on.”
He will learn every rule, he will break them beautifully, he will find you.
Because for one slippery, breathless second in that press line,h e felt you want him back.
“I am taking a studious leap here and guessing that your soulmate was in your body.” Reed starts, drawing Johnny's attention. “That and the vitals from your suit were off.”
He shows the data, nodding a bit as Johnny rushes to grab it. “She say anything?”
“No. Kind of hard to when dozens of camera are pointed in her face.” Ben laughs, coming to join them.
“High stress levels, her panic seemed to keep you guys trapped in each other's bodies…. It actually seems like she sent herself… well you, into multiple panic attacks.”
Johnny doesn’t respond, instead he keeps swiping through the data, knowing you make a little more sense.
-
The picture warms from black to a honeyed Technicolor, Miss Cynthia stands beneath a papier-mâché meteor and a painted city skyline, wearing a velvet rope that snakes across the set, theatrical smoke curling around her ankles.
“Precious audiences,” she trills, tapping her nails on the meteor, “sometimes our bonds put us in the middle of life’s… kerfuffles.” She gestures at the toppled scenery, unfazed. “Tonight’s guidance. When the world is watching, don’t let your heart write checks your reputation can’t cash.”
“Which leads us to rule number three, DAMAGE CONTROL.”
-
There were chandeliers, far too many, with gold chains draped across the ceiling like the restaurant was wearing jewelry. Waiters in short jackets moved like synchronized swimmers, in the corner, a trio sang something smoky over a brushed snare.
You had done your hair into an updo that had taken far too long, and the earrings you wore were pearls, you had even wasted your nice lipstick. The one that lasted for hours.The dress that said “I tried,” even if you didn’t mean it, because you were trying to try. To be normal. To prove you could sit across from a man and not think about the other one…. the one who smelled like ash and sugar. The one who would always just be out of your reach. The one you would never be worthy of.
Your date swirled his whiskey like he was auditioning to be a cliché with his slicked hair and a clip on tie that he seemed to think looked real.
“So the thing about the market is,” he said, already mid-sentence about something you hadn’t heard him start, “you just have to sense when to pull out. I’ve always had a nose for it. Natural, you know?” He winked.
You put your chin in your hand and counted chandeliers…again…. Eighty-two. Unless one had multiplied out of mercy.
Across the linen, he leaned in. “You’re even prettier when you’re quiet.”
You stared at your wine glass, trying not to puke across the table at that line. If you concentrated hard enough your reflection would start talking to you and telling you how stupid this date was. Good, maybe she could stay and finish this date for you.
“After dinner,” he murmured, “we can go back to my place. I’ve got a hi-fi you wouldn’t believe.”
“Do you,” you said, a tone as flat as the table.
He smirked. “Oh, I do a lot of things you wouldn’t believe.”
Your wrist flickered, that quiet star-heat whispering under the skin. A reminder, not a siren. You pressed your napkin to it as if cotton could muffle the universe.
He mistook your wince for shyness and reached, presumptuous fingers sliding for your hand.
You moved your hand to your lap, he laughed. “Playing hard to get, doll?”
“Playing not to get pneumonia,” you said sweetly. “It’s drafty. Must be all the hot air.”
He didn’t get it, must not have heard it since he was already talking about a convertible he didn’t own.
The pressure in your chest shifted, that telltale soft draw of the tether like a tide changing. You knew the cues now, lights a fraction brighter, sound a touch too loud, the world acquiring an echo like a room mic picking up itself. Your breath paused. Not now. Not here. For once, please not-
“-babe?” he said, and the word scraped like sandpaper.
“I need a-” you started, reaching for your clutch, for the excuse, for any exit before this happened because you didn’t want your soulmate meeting your date.
The universe didn’t give you a choice.
The hook tugged, your seat fell out from under you, the chandeliers blurred to stars and- YANK.
-
Johnny.
Johnny Storm did not like tuxedos, tuxedos liked him, which was worse. A black bow tie turned him into his own magazine cover, and the city’s eyes ached for him like he owed them light. Tonight, he was supposed to be a lamp. Silent, decorative. Reed’s words, “donor-friendly.”
In his sister's words, “Do NOT catch anything on fire.”
The gala was all lacquer and lentils and men with checks. Reed had called it a “science culture benefit,” which meant famous lecturers in horn-rims on the dais and very serious ladies in satin discussing grants as if the future was born between place cards.
Cameras bloomed like mechanical orchids along the press rope, flashbulbs popped like miniature lightning and a jazz quartet murmured standards in a corner drowned in money. The Baxter Foundation crest sat on a banner with the kind of gravitas you couldn’t buy, except they had.
“Johnny,” Sue said through a campaign smile, body angled to block the next reporter with the ease of a woman who had dodged meteors. “For the love of the cameras, smile. Do not speak unless spoken to, and if you are, say ‘philanthropy,’ ‘kids,’ ‘education,’ or ‘space.’ No ad-libbing.”
“I’m very philanthropic,” Johnny said, dimples weaponized.
“Great.” Sue swanned past like every camera existed to capture how a woman could be both genius and myth. “Try not to set the endowment on fire.”
“You wound me,” he said, hand to heart.
“Good,” Ben grunted, adjusting a tux across a kilometer of shoulders. “Means you heard her.”
Johnny’s smile stuck. He was good at that, being the good kind of shallow, the mirrored pool donors wanted to see themselves in. He could turn down the jokes, lock the kindling behind his ribs, behave.
And then the tug came, a small test-pull, a line plucked in his chest. He went still. One beat. Two. Sometimes it passed if he didn’t move.
A patroness drifted close, perfume like powdered sugared violets. “Mr. Storm,” she purred. “Would you tell us about your…” she lowered her voice as if confessing a sin, “...gifts?”
Reed smiled like a hostage. “Oh, Johnny would love to tell you about our outreach.”
“Outreach,” Johnny said pleasantly, and felt the tug snap taut. His champagne flute shivered, then slipped.
He caught it and Reed didn’t breathe for a second as Johnny tried to snap himself back into the cool confidence.
“Outreach,” Johnny tried again, tongue thick. “Kids. Education. Space.”
“Marvelous,” the patroness said, delighted. “And your soulmate? Is it true you’ll meet soon? The papers I read say the marking on your wrist is growing.”
The markings under his cuff, the constellation that had been a rumor against his pulse since he was seventeen, thrummed hot. The room swelled, like he was standing in a bell when it rang.
“Johnny,” Reed murmured, warning. “You’re pale.”
“That’s new,” Johnny said, attempting levity,and failing. The rope tugged behind his ribs like fate wanted him on a different stage.
“Not here,” Reed said, barely moving his lips. “Not on donors.”
Johnny opened his mouth to fight back. To say ‘I don’t get a choice’, or ‘She needs me.’
And the floor took him.
Not down. Sideways.
The gala smeared. The rope snapped.
SWAP.
-
Flash, noise, perfume like sugared violets that overtook your senses. The tux squeezed your shoulders, too tight across muscle that wasn’t yours and your field of view a lot taller than you were used to. Your balance was different, that middle centered way that Johnny Storm seemed to swagger on. The room greeted you like an old friend and a firing squad.
“…and your soulmate?” a patroness finished asking, as if you’d been here all along. You blinked into the lenses, Reed Richards stood six feet away, smile white, eyes not. He watched you like he could wrestle an atom with a look if you broke it.
You smiled, Johnny’s smile, and it felt like trying on a mask in a mirror. Too sharp, too bright, too easy to wear.
“My soulmate?” you said, and you heard it, his voice out of your panic. A baritone with a laugh hidden in it. The kind of voice men practiced to sell cologne. “She… uh…”
Reed’s gaze sharpened and you got the hidden message well enough. Don’t improvise.
“She reads,” you said. “Uh. A lot.”
The patroness beamed. “A librarian! How darling.”
Reed coughed, loudly.
“And I… love that,” you finished, smile hurting. “Love that about…about… reading.”
Someone laughed, a reporter raised a hand. “Johnny! The Foundation’s micro-grants program has impressed even your skeptics. What’s the first principle of the youth lab initiative?”
Reed actually mouthed it to you, the way a man at the back of church mouths the words to a hymn to keep you from embarrassing the family, the answer you needed and you were so grateful. The words was…. Reproducibility.
You could have said the word, let it sit like a pearl on your tongue. You could have nodded, smiled, moved along the rope. Instead you told the truth that rose unbidden, your truth, not his.
“Give them time,” you blurted. “Time that isn’t measured in dollars. Adults think money fixes it, but it’s time. Let them fail where it’s safe. You can buy and replace beakers. You can’t buy a teacher who says, ‘try again.’ Or a kid who wants to try again. So… that.”
Silence hit, then a ripple, not derision, not yet. Something like attention bending toward you. Reed’s head tilted in that infinitesimal way of a scientist noticing an anomaly he liked.
You pretended not to pant, your heart was too fast… well his heart, your panic, the swap’s clock lengthening with every beat. Miss Cynthia’s warning fluttered through like a mockingbird.
A younger reporter squeezed to the rope. “Mr. Storm, you never answered, is it true your soulmark is almost complete? A source says you’ve been… glowing.”
Every camera aimed at your face.
You glanced down at your cuff as if it might tell you what to say. The edge of white linen hid the heat. You could have said a joke, thrown a quip like a bone to the crowd. Johnny, you sensed, was good at that, letting humor open the valve so the pressure didn’t blow.
Instead you swallowed. “Some things,” you said carefully, “are worth waiting for.”
The patroness sighed. “Romance! How delicious.”
Reed stared and you couldn’t read him, truthfully you didn’t know how to read anyone in this suit but you hoped you weren’t ruining this for Johnny.
A hand brushed your shoulder. Sue, elegant as a verdict. “Photo wall,” she murmured through her smile. “Donor demanded you.”
“Right,” you said, and your chest lurched, not from the touch. From something else. A wrongness. A heat like friction under skin, like a match about to bloom.
The tug trembled and you prepared to have him back in his body, you just had to calm down first.
You stepped toward the photo wall. The flashbulbs climbed a ladder. Voices fused into a single, insistent hum.
Smile, you told your borrowed face. Smile and don’t let the world see that your lungs don’t fit. Do NOT ruin this for him.
Smile and pretend you weren’t in a different life ten minutes ago, counting chandeliers to keep from drowning.
-
Johnny.
He hit the restaurant in your body with the clean jolt of a needle jumping a groove. It all hit at once, the plush of the booth, the weight of a purse strap on a bare shoulder, the smell of steak, perfume, money. Two hands, your hands, clutching the strings of your purse.
He didn’t breathe for one beat. Then he did, and it came out wrong, a sound that would have embarrassed him if he had space in his skull for shame. He looked down at your fingers and wondered how a person could have bones that made other people believe in art.
“Babe?” the man across from you said, mouth of a wolf with a business card. “You drifted off.” He reached for your wrist like it was a thing on a menu.
Johnny moved your hand away before the man’s fingertips arrived, quick, not apologetic, no question about it.
“Hands,” Johnny said through your mouth, voice low with a thread of something dangerous under it. “Mind your own.”
The man blinked, then laughed like he’d paid to. “Oh, you like a little fire.”
You have no idea, Johnny almost said.
Instead he leaned back, as far as the booth allowed, and did the damage assessment he’d learned to do in a glance. Door to your left, waiter with a heavy tray that was side-eying your table like he was worried about you, which sent a protective flare up Johnny's spine. Busboy at two o’clock. Bartender watching. He put an elbow up on the booth back and let his posture telegraph what he wanted it to say, don’t try me.
“Tell me,” the man purred, unchastened, “what’s a pretty girl like you do with her days?”
“I’m not a riddle,” Johnny said.
The man smirked. “Someone woke up on the wrong side of the boudoir.”
Johnny’s hand tightened on the glass. His chest, your chest, thrummed like the air before summer thunder. He felt it then, under the skin where your clever pulse lived: the little bright sting of your mark heating because he was angry. Because he was here. Because the universe enjoyed irony.
“I asked,” the man said, faux-patient, “what you do.”
“I make things beautiful,” Johnny said, looking at him the way he looked at a tinder pile while deciding if it deserved mercy, picking up your glass to see what wine you had chosen for this date. “What do you do?”
The man’s grin went crooked. “Make problems go away.”
“Start with yourself,” Johnny said, and set the glass down.
He didn’t like this man, he didn’t like the way he crowded the table, tried to occupy space he hadn’t earned, worked at charm instead of decency. He especially didn’t like the flash of annoyance that crossed the man’s eyes when you didn’t serve him your hand like a course. It tripped a lever in Johnny that had nothing to do with cameras or donors or Reed’s lists. It was older and simpler, the part of him that burned when something that was his was about to be mishandled.
He wrestled it. He did. He had spent years learning how not to make a scene simply because the scene begged to be made. He had learned to let the fire burn in, not out.
The man leaned in, confiding like a conspirator. “You’re not like other girls,” he said, which was a sentence that should come with a fine.
Johnny didn’t roll your eyes because it would have been wasted, he lifted your water instead, cool glass against your mouth. The man watched your lips as if you’d put a price on them.
“Listen, doll,” the man continued, voice dropping like he just discovered the word sultry, “we can take this to the Savoy. Got a bottle of bubbly in the icebox and a bed that’s never said no.”
“Beds can’t talk,” Johnny said pleasantly. “Lucky for you.”
The man smiled , oh he thought he was so clever, and set two fingers on the table, inching them toward your wrist like two little soldiers. “You’re a feisty one. I like trouble.”
Johnny didn’t move your hand.
He moved the wine bottle.
He slid it toward the man’s cuff just enough that if those creeping fingers trespassed again, the glass could meet them half-way. He let your gaze drift from the man’s reach to his face and held it steady.
“I have rules,” he said softly.
“I like rules,” the man lied.
“Rule One,” Johnny said. “You don’t touch what you don’t respect.”
The man scoffed. “What are you, a nun?”
Johnny smiled with all his teeth. “Something that knows fire.”
The man sat back. He wasn’t afraid, that would require imagination, but he recognized the geography of a line.
“So tell me,” he said instead, tone one shade more careful, “you got someone?” His eyes flicked to your wrist, hunting the glamour of a mark like a magpie hunts a coin.
Johnny curled your hand away, resting your forearm along your lap so the secrets weren’t for sale. “If I did,” he said, “you’d be on thin ice, pal.”
“Pal,” the man repeated, lips twisting. “Who says pal?”
“I do,” Johnny said, sweet as a match.
His chest ached, not with anger but with the phantom sense of you somewhere else. Your heart punching too fast, a camera trying to eat you, people saying Johnny and meaning a version of him he liked only in photographs. Something in him reached down the tether, tried to lay a hand on your spine and say breathe.
He felt it when you did. The way your pulse, in his body miles away, stuttered, then tried to find a rhythm.
Easy, sweetheart, he thought, and hoped it crossed. Let me do the ugly part. Let me be rude for you. I can be polite tomorrow.
“Bathroom,” he told your date, halfway rising.
“You want me to-” the man began, hopeful.
“Stay,” Johnny said, already moving, and he didn’t wait to check if the command was obeyed. He went because he needed a mirror to talk into. He went because the world was too full of the wrong face, and for a minute, he needed to tell the right one that he wasn’t going to let anyone dim it. He shut the lavatory door and turned the faucet on too loud. The mirror gave him your mouth, your eyes, the fish-charm bracelet glinting by the sink. He leaned in.
The prettiest image he had seen staring in his reflection.
“I’ve got you,” he told your reflection, voice low enough that the tile swallowed it. “Even when I’m not there. Don’t let them put their hands on you. Not their questions, not their cameras, not their anything. I’ve got you.”
Your mark warmed as if the stars under your skin had heard him.
The tug twitched again, not the hard snap of an immediate swap. The slow pull of a tide. He breathed around it, pulled his shoulders down, tried to slow both of your pulses with the metronome of his own discipline.
“Come back safe,” he said. “I’ll handle the rest.”
He washed your hands and dried them gently. He returned to the booth. The man was on his feet, wallet open, impatience sweating at the temples.
“Look, doll,” he said, dropping bills like absolution, “bore you later. I’ve got a place two blocks down.”
Johnny smiled without humor. “You don’t.”
The man shrugged into his coat. “Maybe I do. Maybe I don’t. You coming?”
Johnny tilted your head, the better to show the man he’d never seen a neck that could be more than decoration. “Not in this lifetime.”
The man scoffed and left because cowards always prefer exits to arguments they can’t win.
Johnny sat, exhaled, and let his eyes sting once, just a minute, private rebellion against the instinct to burn everything that threatened what he cared for. He reached for your water, not to drink it but merely hold it, trying to cool your pulse.
Until the tug took him.
-
The photo wall felt like standing in a lighthouse beam. People said your borrowed name from three angles so fast it stopped sounding like anything, the backdrop was branded. The donors smiled like they were getting their picture taken with sunshine. You truly did not know how he suffered through this everyday.
It was merely another sign of how unfit this soul bond was.
“Right here, Mr. Storm!”
“Johnny! Over the shoulder!”
“Give us a grin!”
You did all the things a magazine taught you to do in a waiting room once, chin, shoulder, smile in your eyes not your mouth, don’t let the nerves show. You could hear Reed’s voice like a metronome, the words he had repeated three times since you ended up in Johnny's body. Philanthropy, kids, education, space.
But you could feel him, too, a thread of warmth down the tether, a hand on your back that wasn’t touching you. A voice you hadn’t heard out loud yet laying against your bones: I’ve got you.
It almost worked. For a moment, your breathing matched what your body needed. For a moment, you believed you could be this person long enough to leave without setting anything ablaze.
Then a pap shouted, “Johnny, kiss for the camera! Show us that famous heat!”
A ripple of laughter went through the rope line like a fuse, somebody clapped, someone else wolf-whistled. Heat hit your face, not flame but shame. Anger. Yours. His. The terrible confusion of two people trying not to give the world a piece of them and the world demanding it anyway.
You didn’t know what Johnny would have done. Made a joke, probably. Something to turn the wolf into a lapdog without making it bleed. You were not that deft.
“No,” you said, and the word came out so quiet, so steady, that it silenced more than a shout would have, it sounded like a door gently closing.
The photographer faltered, the laughter died.
Sue’s chin lifted, delicate as a sword.
Reed looked at you like he could see two people standing there and was weighing which one was braver.
“Johnny,” an assistant cooed, not reading rooms. “Donors adore a little flirtation.”
“Donors have museums,” you said pleasantly. “I have a line in the sand.”
Sue’s mouth almost smiled, Reed looked away so you wouldn’t see his gratitude.
It should have been fine, it would have been, if your heart hadn’t been swinging like a lantern on a ship, if the flashes weren’t beginning to smear like you were seeing the world through rain on glass, if at the far end of the tether a man who burned for a living hadn’t just clenched his jaw and warned a stranger away from you and meant it.
Your pulse leapt, the swap liked that.
Miss Cynthia’s voice ghosted through like a slogan: DAMAGE CONTROL!
You took a breath and aimed your smile at the nearest camera like a shield. “Shall we talk about micro-grants?” you said. “I love kids who fail safely.”
The rope line laughed, the sound like a relief.
“Now that’s a headline,” someone said, scribbling.
The tug finally,finally, drew tight.
You let it take you.
-
Johnny.
He returned to his body in one smooth transition, poised to be useful, ready for whatever he was coming into. The tux settled on his shoulders like a dare. Reed and Sue bracketed him as if they could be his training wheels. He had the strained, brittle laugh of a man who had just been a woman inside a men’s restroom telling herself to breathe.
“You handled it,” Reed said quietly.
Johnny huffed. “Did I?”
“You said something I agreed with,” Reed said, as if that were a miracle.
“Write it down,” Johnny said. “Put a plaque on it.”
He’d love to know what you said, because he was sure it was better than anything he’d have said.
Sue’s eyes searched his like a sister reads a weather report. “You okay?”
“No,” he said honestly. Then, “Yes.” Then, “Ask me when she’s home.”
Sue’s hand brushed his sleeve. “She will be.”
He swallowed, pride, fear, something that tasted like the smoke of a fire that hadn’t started yet and stepped back into the light for a last photograph. If the cameras caught anything new, let it be the way he’d stopped trying to make the world love a person he wasn’t and started thinking about the one person who might love him anyway.
The tug softened.
The swap let go.
-
The set glows warm as toast. Miss Cynthia, in a bow-collared blouse and a grin the size of syndication, clicks her lacquer-red pointer against a chalkboard that reads, in looping cursive: DON’T PEEK! A paper room divider (three panels, painted cherry blossoms) stands stage left, a cardboard bathtub with soap bubbles on wire rattles faintly as a studio fan huffs.
“Precious audiences,” she trills, “curiosity is a darling cat. But remember: kittens have claws. Tonight’s counsel…” she taps the chalk, “When life hands you a window, don’t smash it into a door.” She winks. “And if you must peek, be gentle.”
A harp run. Static tickles the corners of the frame. The tether behind your ribs exhales, low and certain.
“Places, hearts!” Miss Cynthia sings. “We’re going domestic.”
The wind machine hiccups. Her hair still doesn’t move.
You turn off the TV, staring at it as you laugh quietly to yourself. “Coulda just said curiosity kills the cat!”
-
You didn’t feel the tug at first, you felt cutlery.
Silver chimed, clanking against fine china as you settled into your soulmate's body. You looked down at hands that were not yours as they set a water glass on linen so crisp you could have ironed a crease with a glare.
“-and I told the underwriter the micrographs could wait,” Reed said, calm as an equation. “We can’t misstate our variance.”
You flicked your eyes up.
Dinner, at a round table set with nice porcelain, candlesticks. Sue with a perfect chignon, light catching in her earrings like she’d trapped moons. Reed at her right, posture impeccable, napkin folded like origami discipline. Ben across, tux stretched across a continent of chest, knife held delicately between fingers that could crumble brick. And you, well Johnny, in a suit that remembered your shoulders and resented a bow tie.
“Johnny?” Sue’s voice was a smile. “Thoughts?”
You smiled the way you’d learned to, borrowed, bright, careful not to show the seams. “Love variance,” you said. “So chic.”
Ben’s laugh came out like a gravel slide. “Flamebrain knows one math word, stop the presses.”
Reed’s mouth twitched, a concession, like he knew that it wasn’t Johnny staring at him but was still willing to play along. “We’re discussing the youth lab’s new guardrails.”
“Guardrails,” you repeated, sitting straighter. You could do this. You’d just survived a rope line with flashbulbs and a gala. A dinner table couldn’t bite. “Kids need time.”
Reed’s eyes cut to you, interest pricking. “Indeed,” he said, tone shading intrigued. “We were saying much the same.”
Sue passed the roasted chicken with a poised wrist. “You’re quiet tonight,” she murmured, not a question, not a reprimand. Sue didn’t wield knives. She used teaspoons that could cut marble. “Everything all right, Johnny?”
Your chest went warm, the borrowed body’s reflex to her voice, to her looking and underneath that, something small and private that said…she knows. Not the particulars, maybe. But the tilt of you. Like she could tell the painting had been rehung.
“Peachy,” you said, and reached for a safe subject. “Ben, how’s your… bowling league?”
Ben squinted as if weighing a joke. Went with sincerity. “Picked up twelve pins last week.”
“Twelve.” You widened Johnny’s eyes like that number was a comet. “Imagine if you tried.”
Ben snorted. “You sound like you,” he said, which somehow made your fork heavier and your pulse lighter.
Dessert came like a reprieve, a nice lemon tart with a brûléed top that cracked like glass under a spoon. Reed was mid-explanation about control groups when a fizz of glee popped in your chest. The sugar and the silliness of being here without a camera. For the first time since you begun switching you felt as if you didn’t need to perform.
“May I be excused?” you asked, which was absurdly formal and Sue loved it.
“Five minutes,” she said. “Then Reed will talk standard deviations at you until dawn.”
“Outrageous,” Reed murmured, already plotting.
You slipped from the table with Johnny’s legs and the world shifted from candlelight to corridor hush. You walked like you knew the building because you did, like there was some part of him in you finding rooms by muscle memory. Down the hall. Left at the framed photo of the four of them glaring at an exploding prototype. Past the plaque that said STORAGE with a polite lie. To a door that pulled at your palm, a lodestone under your skin.
His room.
You paused. Miss Cynthia’s chorus in your head, Don’t peek!
But then you remembered him writing in you diary and pushed the door open.
Inside was not what you expected.
Not a bachelor mess. Not a shrine to himself. It was… lived. A record player with a stack of jazz sleeves and a closet door left half-open, suits aligned with a discipline you hadn’t credited him. A desk littered with tangible thought, random napkins scrawled with ideas, a dismantled lighter, a tiny coil of copper wire and a grin of pliers. On one wall, a grid of magazine tear-sheets and yes, some were of him, but more blueprints than cheekbones.
And over the desk, your breath hitched…maps. Not just maps, a constellation made of clippings, notated in a hand you now wore. Pins for swap-sites and threads between them in red and gold. Margins scribbled with guesses: humidity? circadian? her job? Arrows, ask Sue about sensory bleed; build meter. Dates circled.
On his dresser there was a small, neat clutter of keepsakes. A crumpled paper wrapper from a candy you loved and a program from an art opening. A Polaroid he wasn’t in, of a mural you’d stood beneath mid-swap and stared up at like it mattered more than breath.
A book lay open on the bed. You picked it up. Not a comic. Not an article about Johnny Storm: Bachelor of the Year. Maxwell’s On Electricity and Magnetism, with annotations in his hand that would have made a grad student proud. Circles and arrows. Jokes in the margins when the math got cocky. Underlined lines of poetry stuck between pages like bookmarks.
You put your hand on the mattress because the book was too much, and found, tucked beneath, like a kid hiding cash from a sibling, a small cigar box. DON’T PEEK said a note in Sharpie, liar’s handwriting.
You bit your lip.Paused.
You opened it anyway.
Inside held a fish charm bracelet, twin to the one you wore and your heart stuttered a beat. A ticket stub from the bullring night you told yourself you’d forgotten. A little pencil sketch of your mouth.A photo booth strip of him and Ben scowling at a camera and, in the last frame, caught off guard laughing.
Your throat burned in a way no camera could catch. You bowed your head over the box and whispered, “You idiot,” but honestly you wanted to be face to face with him in this moment.
Whether you fit into his world or not.
“Johnny?” Sue’s voice through the door, soft with suspicion. “You’ve been gone awhile.”
You closed the box, slid it home, smoothed the bedspread like you hadn’t been rummaging through someone’s ribs.
“Coming,” you said, and the room felt like an answer.
-
Johnny.
He landed in porcelain and panic.
“Jesus,” he yelped, which was not the most gallant first word to say when the universe plunged you into a bubble bath that belonged to the woman you’d die for.
Bubbles climbed to there-and-then-some, bless them. Your knees surfaced like startled islands and his hands flapped briefly in the dignified tradition of a modesty crisis before his brain rebooted.
Okay. Okay. Focus. Don’t peek. Except there had to be some peeking for the purpose of logistics because towels existed. He squeezed his eyes shut, found the edge of the tub with blind fingers, and reached for the terrycloth like a man searching for the rope in a storm.
A sound padded across the tile. A new weight leaned against the tub’s outside.
He cracked one eye to reveal a dog, all floppy-eared, earnest-faced, coat the color of toasted marshmallow as she set her chin on the rim and looked at him with the kind of concern doctors faked. A blue collar tag read PIPPIN.
Pippin sneezed bubbles when he exhaled. He didn’t laugh, but he grinned so hard it hurt. “Hey, sweetheart,” he whispered, which made the dog’s tail thump, which made the bathroom feel like a chapel. “You on bath duty?”
Pippin answered by licking his wrist, warm, fast. Right over the mark that lived there even when he was somewhere else like the dog knew that there had been a switch. He swallowed. “It’s me,” he said softly to your dog. “For a little while.”
He stood, eyes still mostly averted because he was a gentleman, or trying, and also because if he looked too much he might set the water on fire, which seemed like a bad look, and wound the towel around your body with careful hands.
The mirror met him with you, damp and flushed and alive. He looked long enough to memorize the line where your neck met your shoulder, the star-prick at your wrist, the way your mouth went a little stubborn when you were embarrassed. He placed his palm against the glass like a promise, then tugged on a robe from the door that had a fish embroidered on the pocket. Of course it did.
Your apartment was small in the way of an artist and a city making a deal. Light pooled like honey over wooden floors; canvases leaned against the wall in ranks; brushes sat like a bouquet in a jar. Books. Records. A string of tiny lights along a shelf. A calendar on the fridge with TUES DINNER + MRS. K marked in tidy handwriting.
“Right,” he told Pippin, who had decided he was a sheep and needed herding. “We have a schedule.”
He found your leash, your sensible flats, and your cardigan. He had no business loving how your clothes felt. He loved it anyway. He clipped the leash, knelt, and scratched Pippin’s ears until she whined with gratitude. “Tell me what she doesn’t tell anyone,” he murmured. Pippin sneezed again. “Good enough.”
The neighbor across the hall opened her door as if she’d been waiting since the Hoover administration. She wore an apron and the benevolent suspicion of a woman who had seen twelve wars and one hundred men lie about dinner. MRS. KAZMARSKI read the script on the mailbox on her door; the apartment behind her smelled like onions and butter and the particular holiness of roast chicken.
“Late,” Mrs. K said, but the word came out like welcome, her gaze never ending as she watched you. “You’re pale.”
Johnny smiled your smile and felt it work differently on a woman who could see the bones under a grin. “Had a day.”
“We all had days,” she said briskly, her accent turning syllables into stained glass. “Come. Sit. Eat. Is bath. You look like bath.”
“I was,” he said, because he had no poker face around old ladies. Pippin dragged him inside, which saved him the trouble of inventing manners.
Mrs. K’s kitchen was narrow and perfect with a checked cloth on a small table and a radio murmuring weather and news. A vase with carnations trying very hard. She shoveled chicken and potatoes onto a plate with the force of medicine and set it in front of him. “Eat.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, and did without show, because it was good and because he’d learned the hard way that refusing meals was a terrible thing to do.
Mrs. K sat with her own plate, fork tapping once, twice. “How was museum?” she asked, not because she didn’t know but because she knew you needed to narrate life to make it less heavy.
“Old paintings are still old,” he said, borrowing your dry cadence. “New ones are trying.”
She looked over her glasses. “Ah. Trying,” she repeated. “Like men.”
He choked on a laugh. “Some.”
“Girl like you needs better ‘some,’” she said. “I tell you, boys today…” a dismissive wave, “...too many mirrors.”
“I’ll… keep that in mind.”
She speared a potato. “You still get storm headaches?”
He went still. Pippin nudged his knee.
“Sometimes,” he said, meaning, only when she’s scared; only when I can’t reach her; only when the world is too full of cameras and not enough exits. “Less lately.”
Mrs. K nodded, a queen bestowing a benediction. “Good. I don’t like when you get pale. Make soup tomorrow. Send you with jar.”
“Thank you,” he said, and meant, you are saving a man you don’t know.
Her gaze softened, just a hair. “You bring dog by after, I give biscuit.”
Pippin woofed on cue, which was clearly rehearsed, which meant she was used to getting spoiled.
After dinner, he washed dishes because he couldn't leave without making a good impression, even if he was in your body. Mrs. K pretended not to notice him trying to memorize everything he could, but she did ask, too casually, “You still write every day?”
“Yes,” he smiles. “She has good words.”
Mrs. K’s mouth smiled in a way that made him think of candlelight. “She does,” she said. “And good bones. You tell her she is not alone.”
He swallowed. “I'll tell her.”
“Good.” Mrs. K nodded, satisfied. “Now go. Dog needs walk. And bring back pie dish your mother still has.”
He blinked. “My..?”
Mrs. K frowned at her memory, then waved it off. “Never mind. I mix up my daughters.” She touched his cheek with flour-dusted fingers like a blessing. “Be safe, little fish.”
He left with Pippin, leash loose, heart tighter. The evening had softened, the city exhaling into blue. He walked your block like he’d built it, the mailbox with the dent; the kid drawing rockets in chalk; the storefront a painter rented when she could. He stopped in front of your building and looked up at the square of your window, light like a star.
“Don’t peek,” he told himself, and pictured your journal staying closed without his hands on it. He felt the tug lengthen, not greedy this time but patient. He turned back toward the apartment because he wanted to leave one more thing better than he found it.
He fed Pippin, a half cup of food with a drizzle of gravy from dinner and a quick kiss on the head.He dried the bath floor with precision. He placed a note on your desk, not in the journal, on a loose leaf.
Soup tomorrow from Mrs. K. Walked Pippin before rain.
P.S. I didn’t peek. I swear.
-J
He hesitated and then added, smaller, You’re not alone.
He set your favorite record on the player and left it ready but not spinning. And then the tether hummed, a low string plucked, warm and inevitable.
“Back we go,” he told Pippin, who sneezed bubbles on his ankle like absolution.
-
When you slid back into Johnny’s chair, Reed had moved his napkin an inch which one of his tells for anxiety and Sue had her palm against the stem of her wineglass as if she could keep the evening from spilling.
“You took a long time,” Sue said, words gentle as gauze, eyes not.
You thought about the cigar box under the bed, about the bracelet twin, about the drawing of you with a dog looking at sky. “Got lost,” you said, smiling like ignorance. “Elevators.”
Ben lifted a brow ridge. “Elevators,” he rumbled, skepticism like a warm coat. “Man gets lost in his own house.”
“Miracles daily,” you said, and cut a dotted line in your tart with the side of your fork.
Reed cleared his throat. “Johnny,” he said, and softened it with a new tone. “Listen. About the other day at the gala. Your comment on failure… it was… good.”
You blinked. “Was it.”
“It was,” he said. The admission sounded like a door opening in a building that had none.
Sue’s hand found your sleeve under the table. Not a grip. A touch. I see you, it seemed to say.
“We’re a family,” she said, tone bright for the benefit of candlesticks. “We share.” A beat passes. “And we protect.”
You looked at her, startled by the word choice and what it did to your ribs. Protect. A thing you’d trained yourself not to need.
You wondered for a moment if this was their way of saying you weren’t meant for this, that you weren’t right for Johnny and they were hoping you wouldn’t blame them for thinking so. Trust me, you wanted to say. I know I’m not meant for him. He deserves someone better.
“I know,” you said but your voice did something traitorous and tender that made Ben pretend to cough and Reed pretend to pour wine.
“Finish your tart,” Sue instructed, which really meant don’t run. “Then help Ben with the records.”
“Records,” Ben echoed obligingly, which meant I will stand between you and whatever threatens you until the sun burns out or this passes.
You finished the tart. You laughed, his laugh, because it was in you now too, when Ben complained about ballads. You told Reed a museum story dressed in Johnny’s cadence and watched him store the data in a folder labeled : my friend is bigger than the box I built. You did not peek again in the cigar box. You didn’t need to.
The tug hummed, low and sure, like your favorite song asking for one more chorus.
You let it take you home.
-
Johnny.
He landed in his room standing, which was good, and breathing, which was better. The tux collar itched so he tugged it loose with fingers that still remembered the slip of your robe’s sash. Sue’s knock said You’re fine? in Morse, like she knew enough time had passed before the swap went back.
“Yeah,” he called. Then, quieter, to the fish box under the bed: “She’s okay.”
He sat on the edge of the mattress and let the quiet do its good work. The board on the wall glowed like a solved puzzle he was still humble enough to question until he took up the pen and added all the new information he could.
Mrs. K- soup, lives across hall.
Pippin was fed 1/2 c. + gravy (she really liked the gravy)
favorite record was left ready, hope she notices.
He hesitated then printed, neat: not alone.
Because he had to remind himself of the fact, he had to remind himself not to rush the bond and go and find you otherwise he might lose it. There were rules.
Ben rapped on the door without bothering to make it sound polite. “Flamebrain,” he said, half-in, “you comin’ back for afters or you gonna keep broodin’?”
Johnny grinned. “Coming.”
Ben peered, boulder brow lowering, gaze sweeping the room like a geologist looking for fault lines. “You good?”
Johnny weighed the truth against the shape of his mouth. “Yeah.” Then, because Rule Four was Don’t Peek but it wasn’t Don’t Tell, he added, low, “She had dinner with a neighbor. Dog named Pippin. Soup tomorrow.”
Ben’s granite face did something so soft it should have cracked stone. “Good,” he said. “Glad she’s got someone.”
“She does,” Johnny said, and didn’t say the rest: she has me.
“Well she agreed to help me fish my records so now you have to. Don’t scorch my records,” Ben grunted, retreating. “And if Richards starts with the grants again, jump out a window. I’ll catch you.”
Johnny laughed. “Deal.”
-
“Today’s lesson in soul swapping is actually one of the most important, for it could save your life. Now remember ladies and gentlemen, that the closer you get to meeting your soulmate the more you will swap and the more your tattoo will grow. But the day you meet your soulmate you won’t just swap bodies…. You’ll swap places.” The host mumbles, her eyes flashing with warning. “Let’s go over some dos and donts for today’s lesson which is ‘SAFETY FIRST!”
“A few quick dos and don’ts!
Do stay grounded during crises.
Don’t operate heavy machinery.
Do avoid tall places, open flames, and flying anything.
Don’t, and I cannot stress this enough, do anything that can hurt your soulmate.”
-
Screams overlap sirens,dust tastes like metal on your tongue and you’re kneeling on cracked asphalt with your hands wedged beneath a chunk of concrete that has no business being this heavy in your reality. The woman you’re trying to free is sobbing sharp, hiccuping breaths that saw at your nerves.
You make the mistake of letting your mind wander to your soulmate, which you should know better than.
You don’t have him, not Johnny, not right now. You have the stranger with the shredded pant leg and the blood seeping into the street and a whole city coming down around your ears. The ground jumps under your knees; glass windows of a lobby across the street explode outward in glittering meteors.
“Almost….” You wedge your shoulder, push until it finally gives. A hand hauls the woman backward and only then do uou sag, dizzy with the rush of relief, then jerk up at a new sound. Raw, scraping, too close.
You glance up.
A balcony shears away from a high rise after being hit, the concrete tilting, groaning,and coming down in an enormous slab. Your brain does the math before your body can: trajectory, distance, your position dead center of the kill zone.
Your chest locks.
No breath. No time.
You try to move and your knees won’t listen.
And somewhere, under the alarms and the crumbling,your bond snaps taut. The feeling scalding-hot as it yanks behind your ribs.
SHIFT.
The sidewalk vanishes.
It’s replaced with something far worse.
Wind punches your face, cold air roars in your ears and your stomach drops out with the street when you realize you’re on a rooftop. No actually, on the edge of one with your boots on gravel, your heels half-off nothing, the city a void below. Your vision tunnels. The scream sticks.
Rule Fifteen laughs in your face.
“Safety first,” you whisper, and your lungs spasm. “Sure.”
Your hands fly out to grab anything. Air, sky, a rusted pipe, you would’ve taken anything but you hit nothing but wind. Your heart jackhammers, the noise of it bigger than the sirens now. The edge sloughs a line of gravel under your soles. You jerk back one step on instinct, hit a broken planter, and pinwheel forward again. You feel your body teeter toward the drop and a sob breaks loose, raw, terrified.
“Johnny,” you rasp into the gale. Not to call him. To beg. “Johnny-“
It was too late, you were in free fall.
-
Johnny.
He’s on the ground on hands and knees trying to process where he is. The first thing he hears is a sob, somebody else’s, and the second thing he hears is your voice through your body’s throat: “Johnny-“
Time tears down the middle.
The bond detonates. He doesn’t think. He moves.
He’s where you were, right smack in the churn of bodies and fumes with smoke streaking the skyline, engine fluid slick under his palms, barely managing to throw his body back to avoid the pieces of buildings set to squish him. Someone yells and Reed’s voice crackles in his ear over the comms “Johnny, status?”and Johnny doesn’t answer because he’s not Johnny where Johnny’s supposed to be.
A second ago Johnny was on a world towers roof preparing to ‘FLAME ON!’ And sa- THE ROOF!
He whips his head up and finds the building he was supposed to be on that you were now on and calculates vertical, wind, the angle you’d be facing if…
He sees you on the roof.
He sees your clothes, your sweater whipped flat to your ribs, the little art-splotches on your cuff, your hair tossed like you’re being shaken by a giant hand.
He sees your heels skid forward a centimeter.
“BEN! SUE! ROOFTOP! EAST CORNER! MOVE!” He’s not sure if it’s the comm or the sky he shouts at. “She’s-“
The words ‘going to fall’ don’t bother coming out because your body is already slipping, free falling in the wind as he braces for action, already launching to get to you.
-
Wind shoves you toward the drop as you stumbled to try and catch yourself on nothing, stumble again. Your vision sparkles and your fingertips go numb. There’s too much air everywhere except in your lungs. Your body goes weightless for one sick second, heels flying off in the doomfall and you think, this is it, this is how I die, because I didn’t obey a TV show with a perfect beehive.
Then the sky yells.
“MOVE!” a voice booms, his voice, and a comet of fire streaks through your peripheral vision, slashing a demand across the storm of your fear.
You flinch backward, the gust rolls your ankle and your foot kicks nothing as a chopped sob cracks your throat.
The world turns gold.
Arms slam around your waist, heat bellows over your spine, not burning, just holding, and the word spins harshly as your catapulted. Your stomach invert-somersaults as the building drops away, as a backdraft of flame roars and immediately dies so you’re wrapped in only warmth, not fire. His body tucks around yours in a hard, undeniable cage.
“I’ve got you,” Johnny says into your breath, raw and shaking. “Breathe baby. Breathe for me.”
Baby.
Your brain blanks.
He angles and drops. The rooftop patio flashes up all stone, peeling paint, an abandoned cafe table before he hits it hard with his shoulder and rolls, one arm behind your head, the other iron around your ribs. The landing rattles your teeth, the second slide scrapes your elbow. You end in a tumble against a half wall with him braced above you, chest to your chest, his breath a rough staccato on your mouth.
He doesn’t let go.
He can’t.
“Hey,” he says, forehead to yours, like the word is a spell. “Look at me. In…” He inhales. “….and out.” It’s dizzying how much is going on, and you struggle to focus on anything as he repeats the orders. You follow because your body obeys him the way wind listens to gravity. In. Out. Your lungs yawn like a hinge stuck too long, then catch the rhythm and run with it. You taste heat and smoke and him.
“Good girl,” he breathes, a crack of relief in the growl, and your eyes sting for a brand-new reason.
You take a moment to focus, trying to check him for injuries at the fall, you see none but that could be because of the suit.
-
Johnny.
He’d sworn he wouldn’t be weird. When it finally happened, when the universe quit playing keep-away and delivered you to him, he’d be… charming, sure, but cool about it. That plan evaporates with the last dust plume.
Because the first time he actually sees you, really sees you, no longer admiring you through a mirror and instead looking up close with wind-nervous hair and a bruise blooming high on your cheekbone and fear still controlling your breath….he forgets how to swallow, how to breathe.
“Hi,” you whisper, as if the word might explode between you.
His laugh is a broken thing. “Hi.”
Then all the terror boomerangs back and hits him square. He grips your jaw gentler than his heart would like and tilts your face, searching for blood he somehow missed, for something he failed to block with his body. “Where are you hurt? Tell me, right now.”
“I’m okay,” you say. Your voice shakes. “I think I’m okay.”
“Don’t ever do that again.” It flies out harsher than he means,it’s not anger,it’s shock wearing anger’s coat. His mouth slants into something that isn’t a smile, hoping that you can understand the emotions coursing through him right now and know he’s not actually mad.. “Don’t ever scare me like that again.”
You huff a laugh that wetly borders a sob. “Don’t ever switch spots with you in a war zone?”
“Don’t ever be near a war zone,” he snaps, then gentles it with a kiss to your forehead so tender his own ribs twinge. “Safety first. You hear me?”
“I was helping-”
“Then you call me. You think of me. You let me do my job.” His voice is low, hoarse. He doesn’t lift his forehead from yours. “My job is you.”
Something breaks open in his chest at the way he says it, and the way your face seems to crumble a bit at the words. Like a vow that predates language. You can’t help but nod weakly, leaning forward a bit as you finally catch your breath. “Johnny,” you say his name like the bones of a prayer, he never wants to stop hearing it.
He swallows, and that’s disaster for both of you because it brings your attention to his mouth, the slight puff of his lips from biting them and because the adrenaline is still singing and the bond is a live wire, he leans in and gets ready to keep lecturing you for risking yourself.
“Don’t you ever-” he begins again, fierce and shaking, and you surge up and kiss him before he can finish the sentence.
-
He makes a wrecked noise that might be your favorite sound on earth and drags you closer. It’s not neat. It’s relief and threat and apology and promise all at once. His mouth moves like he’s been practicing in his head: gentle and greedy in the same go.He doesn’t burn you, not that you think he’d ever would but heat thrums under his skin and stays put, caged, obedient, like the was willing to burst at any moment.
You fist your hands in his suit and kiss back like gravity owes you money. He presses you to the patio with one broad palm and cradles your head with the other and breathes the words into your mouth, “Mine. Mine.”
You gasp. “Yeah.”
He pulls back a breath, barely long enough to stare like he’s imprinting you into the back of his eyes. “You with me?”
You nod and your pulse settles in a pattern that’s embarrassingly synced to his. So synced that you worry the two of you might switch bodies in this moment, and
He kisses your cheek, your temple, the bruise he wishes he could take. “Good girl.”
“Johnny,” Sue’s voice snaps through a nearby comm, closer now, strained. “Do you have her?”
He bristles on instinct, then exhales. “Yeah,” he says, voice a bit taught. “I’ve got her.”
Ben’s voice gruffs sounds out. “Keep your pants on, matchstick. We’re comin’ up.”
Johnny doesn’t move off you, he merely lifts only enough to tuck you under him more comfortably, your leg between his, his shoulder a wall against the sky. He’s shielding you, from what you don’t know since most the danger has passed.
“You good to stand?” he asks, softer.
“Eventually,” you admit. “Or we live here now. I’m open, that corner can be our kitchen.”
He smiles then, the kind that breaks things inside you in the best possible way, your insides going molten.
“C’mon, little fish ,” he murmurs, and the nickname zings right down your spine. “We’ve got an med bay bed with your name on it.”
You do not remember crossing the distance from roof to transport to elevator to medical floor because Johnny Storm carries you for 80% of it and refuses to let you argue about the remaining 20%. Reed tries to be logical, Sue tries reason with him, Ben tries jokes and humor. Johnny listens to none of it, he even takes to mumbling to himself something about being tired of their existence.
In the med lab, you perch on the exam table, the paper under you crackling, while Dr. Reed checks your pupils and makes you follow a penlight, smoking a bit everytime you avoid eye contact. Johnny sits on the edge of the table with you, with one arm around your waist like he’s daring anyone to wedge air between you.
“Concussion?” he asks, not taking his eyes off your face.
“No,” Reed says, amused. “But she’s rattled and dehydrated. That’s not a diagnosis, that’s me being obvious.”
Bite me.
“You heard the doctor,” Johnny says, squeezing your hip. “Water, my hoodie, at least forty eight hours of sleep minimum.”
“I didn’t hear any of that, actually.” You scoff, hearing Sue snort behind you as Ben rumbles a laugh. “Well I’ll be.”
Reed finally glances up from a brainwave reading that looks like sheet music for bees. “Fascinating. The swap gradient spiked in tandem with adrenaline and proximity. The place-transfer defies our earlier body-swap model; it suggests an emergent convergence threshold. If we map the-”
“We’re not mapping anything until she eats,” Johnny says, firmly, and you watch Dr. Storm’s eyebrows lift a millimeter in secret approval.
“Food first,” she agrees. “Then Reed can play with his graphs.”
“Ha,” Reed says mildly. “Joke’s on you…. .I can do both.”
“Johnny,” Sue says softly, and he looks at her like a guilty kid who can’t possibly be guilty because he was busy saving the world. “You okay?”
He answers too fast. “I’m fine.”
You twist, thumb over the ridge of his knuckles. “He wasn’t.”
Sue’s gaze warms like a heat lamp. “No,” she says, and the look she gives her brother is I see you without an ounce of pity. “He wasn’t.”
Johnny rolls a shoulder and pretends he’s aloof. He fails with gusto. “You didn’t see it,” he mutters. “She was right there and then she wasn’t and then she was and she was-” He stops. His jaw flexes. He turns his head and kisses your hair like that action is the end of the sentence.
You lean into it and breathe him in.
“Food,” you say. “Then Reed can do whatever that buzzing is. Then… maybe you show me your board.”
His ears pink. “What board?”
You tip your chin toward the hall. “The wall of crazy in your room where you tried to track me down.”
A beat.
“Okay,” he concedes, laughing under his breath. “Maybe.”
-
The Baxter Building had never felt small until it was full of your half-open boxes and Johnny’s completely full closet. You were on the floor in his room, your room now, cross legged in a sea of sweaters, sketchbooks, and a diary that you had taken to writing ‘DO NOT TOUCH’ across the cover, and you had done a good job of not biting Johnnys head off when he did in fact touch it. Relationship growth.
Water thundered behind the bathroom door, steam curled from the crack like a dragon sighing because the human torch needed his water scolding. Johnny had been in there exactly sixteen minutes,which you knew meant that he still had another 15 minutes in the process.
“Babe?” you called, balancing a framed print on your knee while you eyeballed wall space. “Do you really need the portrait of yourself?”
“How else will you admire me when I’m at work?,” he shouts through the door, smug and muffled. “It’s for you!”
You rolled your eyes so hard you nearly dislocated a thought. “I’m throwing it away when you won’t see it.”
“Heard that.”
You found a spot for the newest print in your joint collection, two koi fish circling a star pond, and started arranging your pencils in a glass. You didn’t hear the click. You felt it. The soft pressure change before the world shifted.
“Johnny, wait-!” you called, as if he was able to stop it.
The swap slammed through you like a door caught in wind.
Steam swallowed your world. You were suddenly very tall, very warm, and very, very aware hot, physically and metaphorically. You grabbed at the nearest towel, which just your luck, had been hanging out of reach. Your reach, his reach? God, swap grammar was hell.
Water pounded your shoulders,his shoulders. Broad, familiar, the very same ones you had gotten used to rubbing your hands across. You yanked the shower door open, snatched the towel, and wrapped it in one frantic spin just as Reed’s voice floated from the hallway: “Your stats spiked, did you two swi-”
“Reed, we’re fine!” you sang in Johnny’s voice which was unfairly smooth, stepping onto the bathmat and trying not to die. “We’ll talk about it later.”
Because truthfully you hated talking in Johnny's body, especially naked.
“This is odd, normally soulmates do not switch back and forth after they have met-” He continues, not reading a room very well.
“Later!” You snap, still in Johnny's voice as you try to take a deep breath in. You hear his footsteps disappear down the hall before trying the new breathing method.
Your heart was doing cardio without you as you braced both hands on the counter and met your own reflection,no, his. Gold skin flushed pink from heat, wet hair slicked back, a grin that wouldn’t leave even when you were the one wearing it. Furious, you used his toothbrush because that felt like a small domestic crime and those were your favorite.
“Babe?” came your voice from the bedroom, threaded in laughter. Johnny wearing your skin.“I think we swapped.”
“Little late!” you snapped, and because you were lonely for yourself you cracked the bathroom door.
There you were,your body in his room, in an oversized tee that you had stolen from him the second he went into the bathroom to shower. He was halfway through reading your diary until you came out and he popped up when he saw you, grin wrecking-ball bright. “Hey, gorgeous.”
“Stop flirting with yourself,” you hissed, which only made him laugh before you held out your hand for the diary. “What did I say?”
“You said to keep my hands off of it.” He, you, whines out before wiggling your eyebrows. “But technically these are your hands.” You watch your own eyes turn hungry, and your own head tilt at you.
“Absolutely not.”
“Come here,” he coaxed, using your voice to do that soothing anchor thing he was dangerously good at. “I just wanna switch back….”
You breathed out and shuffled closer, oddly enough relaxed just as you always were when you were near him. “Okay. I’m…okay.”
He softened. “I know.”
Silence curved warm as steam drifted into the room. The swap had that weird, elastic feeling like you might bounce back at any second, or stay for an hour. You opened the door the rest of the way, careful to keep the towel secure.
He padded over in your body and lifted his hands. “Can I?” he asked, like you hadn’t already given him everything and then some.
“Yeah.” Your voice cracked on it.
Careful palms cradled your jaw with your thumbs rubbing in circles, and for once you didn’t overthink anything. He kissed you like a secret and you kissed back like you finally liked being found.
Something flickered, the universe tapping its sign because Johnny had figured out how to cheat the system, had figured out how to make your brain go blank without trying.
The world hiccupped.
You were you again, standing on your tiptoes with your hands on his jaw, and he was him, noses still brushing, hands falling to your hips to grip at them through his shirt. For half a breath you both blinked at the re-sorted puzzle. Then he laughed, low and helpless, and folded you into his chest.
“You’re in my shirt,” he murmured against your hair.
“You’re very observant,” you said into his sternum.
Knuckles rapped the door. Ben, grouchy and inevitable, “Pippin knows you two switched again, she’s freaking out.”
Johnny snorts, smiling despite the interruption before waddling to open the door with the towel around his waist to let your dog in.
“She was happy cuddling me before you two deviants had to switch.” Ben grouches, shaking his head.
“We’re working on it.” Johnny groans, shutting the door and turning back to you as Pippin jumps to lay on the bed. “We’ll stop switching one of these days.”
“One of these days.” You laugh, shuffling to lay on the bed as well while he goes to get dressed, and once he comes back in boxers he makes sure to turn the tv on to let your soulmate show play before climbing to lay in bed with you.
Haven't read the first? Find it right..... 🌌 Orion - Bucky Barnes
Enjoy!
The deep, rhythmic thrum in your left wrist is a constant, comforting presence these days. Like a second, silent heartbeat. James Buchanan Barnes. You trace the raised script absently with your thumb as you stir the sauce simmering on the stove. A year. A year since your entire existence had been rewired.
The gentle hum of the refrigerator kicks up a notch, a familiar sign. You don’t need to turn around to know he’s entered the kitchen. You feel him in the air, a static charge that raises the fine hairs on your arms. You feel him in the subtle, answering vibration in your bones.
“Something smells good,” his voice rumbles from the doorway, a low baritone that still manages to make your stomach flip.
You glance over your shoulder. He’s leaning against the frame, all coiled power and quiet intensity. His sweat damp t shirt stretches across his broad chest, and his hair is tied back, emphasizing the sharp lines of his face. His blue eyes, no longer shadowed by the haunted look you first knew, are dark with a different kind of heat now. A focused, predatory hunger that is entirely for you.
His gaze flicks from your face down to your wrist, which you’re still unconsciously stroking. A slow, knowing smile plays on his lips. The heat from the stove has nothing to do with the heat crawling down your spine.
“Couldn’t keep your hands to yourself, could you, doll?” he asks, his voice dropping into that intimate register that feels like a physical touch.
“It’s a compelling read,” you counter, turning fully to face him. The wooden spoon is still in your hand. The stovetop burner under the saucepan glows an unnaturally bright, furious red.
He pushes off the doorframe, closing the distance between you in three slow, deliberate strides. The air around you seems to crackle,and the words on your wrist hum as he nears until you can smell his cologne. He doesn’t stop until he’s crowding you against the counter, his body a wall of heat and muscle. He brings his right hand up, his flesh fingers gently tracing the same path yours had moments before.
“Yours is better,” he murmurs, his eyes locked on yours. He lowers his head, his lips brushing the sensitive skin of your inner wrist. The sensation is electric, a jolt that travels straight to your core. You gasp, the spoon clattering into the sink.
A corresponding flare of soft, red light emanates from the script on his vibranium arm, the letters of your name, glowing with a gentle pulse. His pleasure, manifesting on his skin in the form of your name.
“You’re going to make me burn dinner,” you breathe, even as you arch into him.
“Dinner can wait,” he says, his voice thick. His metal hand comes up to cup your jaw, the cool, unyielding vibranium a shocking contrast to the heat of his body. The sensation is always a dual one: the firm pressure of the metal and the faint, resonant hum that echoes through your own skeleton, a private symphony only the two of you can hear. “I need you. Now.”
His mouth crashes down on yours, and the world tilts on itself.
It’s not a gentle kiss, more so a claiming. A desperate, hungry collision that tastes of mint and pure, undiluted want. The kitchen light buzzes loudly, and you knew if he wasn’t so focused on you that your lover would be set on fixing it for you. You half expected him to already be thinking about waking up once you were asleep to do so.
But that would wait for a moment.
His hands are everywhere. His flesh hand tangles in your hair, tilting your head to deepen the kiss. His metal arm snakes around your waist, pulling you flush against him, the hard plates of his forearm pressing into the small of your back. You can feel the evidence of his need, hard and insistent, against your stomach.
You fumble for the hem of his shirt, yanking it up over his head and tossing it aside. Your own top follows a second later. The air is cool on your feverish skin for only a moment before his body is on yours again, skin to skin. You gasp as the cool metal of his arm slides around your rib cage, his thumb brushing the underside of your breast. The dual sensation is maddening, overwhelming, he heat of his touch and the cool, humming weight of the vibranium. The letters on his arm are glowing steadily now, a constant, soft red beacon in the kitchen light.
He bends, hooking his arm under your thighs, and lifts you as if you weigh nothing. You wrap your legs around his waist, kissing him hungrily as he carries you out of the kitchen. You panic for a moment about the stove and the sauce but the thought is quick to wipe away. The only thing that matters is the feel of him, the raw, electric current of the bond screaming through your veins.
He lays you down on the bed, following you down without breaking the kiss. His weight is familiar, anchoring, perfect. His mouth leaves yours, trailing a searing path down your neck, your collarbone, lower. His teeth graze your nipple and you cry out, back bowing off the mattress. He grunts in approval at your bodies answers to him.
“James,” you moan, your hands scrabbling at his shoulders, his back, anywhere you can reach.
He looks up, his eyes burning with a feral light. The glow from his arm is brighter now, the script pulsing in time with his heartbeat. Or is it yours? “Say it again.”
“James,” you gasp as his hips grind down against yours, the rough denim of his jeans providing a delicious, frustrating friction.
His metal hand slides down your body, his cool fingertips hooking into the waistband of your pants and panties. With a sharp tug, he rips them aside. The sound of tearing fabric is lost under the rising hum of the bond. The air itself feels thick, charged, like the moment before a lightning strike.
He shifts, kneeling between your legs, and finally frees himself from his jeans. The sight of him, illuminated in the erratic flashes of light from the dying power grid, is breathtaking. All taut muscle and deadly grace, his name glowing like a brand of ownership down your arm. Your brand glows on his own arm.
He doesn’t wait. He doesn’t need to. You are both vibrating with the same need, the same current. He sheathes himself in you in one smooth, powerful thrust that steals the air from your lungs.
The effect is instantaneous and catastrophic.
The connection slams into place, a live wire completing a circuit. A blinding, white hot pleasure erupts from where you’re joined, radiating out to every nerve ending. You scream, but the sound is swallowed by the deafening hum that fills your ears. The feel of his skin against your own is a life ender.
Bucky’s head is thrown back, a guttural roar tearing from his throat as he picks up his pace almost immediately. His thrusts are relentless, each one a jolt of raw power that pushes you closer to the edge. You can feel everything, the flex of his muscles, the coil of tension in his belly, the way his control is fraying into pure, primal instinct. You can feel the vibranium muscles in his arm contracting as he holds himself above you, the glow from his name now so intense it paints the world around you both red.
You claw at his back, your nails leaving faint red trails. “Don’t stop. Don’t you dare stop.”
“Never,” he grunts, his pace becoming frantic, punishing. The bedframe groans in protest, cracking against the wall with each drive of his hips.
You feel it building, that familiar pressure in your lower gut, a straining, whining tension that mirrors the one coiling tight in your chest. The air smells of sweat and sex and him. You can see the same realization in his blown wide eyes. He knows what’s coming, and he knows exactly how to pull it from you.
He lowers his body onto you, his mouth finding yours in a sloppy, desperate kiss. His metal arm wraps around your back, locking you together as his thrusts become shallow, frantic circles, grinding that spot inside you that makes you see stars. The glow from his arm is blinding now, the letters searing themselves into your vision.
“Look at me,” he commands, his voice raw and strained. “Please baby, look at me.”
Your eyes snap open, meeting his. The connection is absolute. You are no longer two people, but one single, supercharged entity hurtling toward oblivion. You can feel his climax gathering like a storm, a tumultuous wave of sensation that is yours, his, ours.
Your orgasm hits you like a physical blow, a convulsing, shattering detonation that rips a silent scream from your throat. His follows a split second later, his entire body seizing as he pours himself into you, his roar of release the only thing you can hear.
Theorgasm racks through your body so strongly it rings in your ears. The red glow from his arm fades to a soft, satisfied thrum. The only light is the faint silver of the moon through the window. The only sound is your ragged, synchronized panting.
He collapses on top of you, his weight a welcome anchor in the sudden quiet. His face is buried in your neck, his lips moving against your damp skin.
You can feel the slow, steady thumping of his pulse as his body begins to relax into you. Bucky lifts his head, a wicked, utterly satisfied grin spreading across his face. His vibranium fingers trail a path down your stomach.
“You feel that, doll?” he whispers, his voice husky with promise. “That’s all us.”
He leans to kiss your lips once more, keeping his body draped over yours as his lips lunge for you before you jump a bit and move before his are able to meet your lips. He humphs in disappointment before your shaking your head. “The sauce!”
Dreamweaver's Note: This is a Constellation post which means it's new and I haven't published it before I got hacked. Please enjoy! -Ultralight
⚠️Fae-Bound Triggers: Reader faints, bad writing.
⏳Length of the Spell: 11.1k+ words.
✨What the Stars Foretell:Apart of my soulmate constellation series... A soulmate bond where your mates name is written on your arm.... only problem is Bucky's arm is metal.
The Orion constellation, also known as "Orion the Hunter," is a prominent constellation visible in the night sky, particularly during winter evenings. Sometimes parts of the Orion constellation might appear to be "missing" or less visible, at least temporarily or from certain vantage points
Even the brightest stars can hide behind shadows.
-
The morning decided to be a deeply unforgiving force, one that was set on destroying you no matter what.
It started with a simple press of a snooze button, shoving your face deeper into your pillow as your arm shot out to slam the button on the enemy that was making the shrill sound, falling back to sleep after that was easy. Far too easy. Waking up 40 minutes later was….. exactly how you’d expect it.
The immediate wave of panic when you read the time was inevitable, launching from your bed with a speed you had never known and never bothered to use, judging by the way you careened forward. You managed to hit your shoulder on the wall entering the bathroom door; barely catching yourself before you faceplanted into the tile.
From there, everything was a blur. Toothpaste on your shirt, water on your socks, one shoe that had apparently disappeared into the void. You stood in the middle of your apartment holding a bagel in one hand and a mascara wand in the other, trying to decide which was the greater priority, and failing spectacularly.
The TV, which you had turned on for white noise, made itself known in the background by snagging your attention with the very word you dreaded. Soulmate. The news reporter carried a too cheerful voice and a tight smile as she spoke the next words. “-new studies show a twenty-six percent increase in soulmate divorces in the past year. Experts suggest the strain comes from unrealistic expectations-”
You groaned, mouth full of bagel, not ready to hear the rest. “Tell me about it.”
You can’t fight the electric pulse that sets on the skin of your wrist, like it’s very own heartbeat. The bandaid you kept over the mark on your wrist did nothing to help hide it at times, you always knew it was there no matter what you did, no matter how you attempted to ignore it.
No more than he did…… HIM. The one and only soulmate. Mr. “Oh, uh, I don’t have a soulmate.”
The bastard.
It was proven, there had never been a single case recorded of someone carrying an unrequited soul mark. Never in history. If one had a mark then the other had to have it. So if Bucky Barnes wanted to say he didn’t have a mark while you currently felt yours burning then he was a lying petty little sh-
Your rampage thoughts were broken by the sound of vibrating from the counter, your phone lighting up as it rang through. Once. Twice. A short stop before it started up again. Then again, rapid-fire, until it was practically vibrating itself to death.
You couldn’t stop yourself from glancing at the screen, eyes widening a little when you read the listed icons. 4 missed calls from Valentina Allegra de Fontaine, 12 messages from Valentina Allegra de Fontaine.
Which was… insane. Why in the world would she- OH MY GOD IS THAT THE TIME?!
“Shit.” You curse, snatching your bag and rushing to find your keys, running out your door as fast as you can as your phone vibrates in your hand again. But you didn’t have time, none at all, so you pressed decline and exited out of your apartment building to the bright sunlight streaming down onto you.
The phone buzzed once more and the agitation that fills you when you hit the red button knows no end. The sidewalk is packed with people as you try to break through, swiping to see the messages until someone hits your shoulder and your phone goes flying. “Come. On.”
By the time you manage to pick it up it’s already ringing again. DECLINE.
“Pick up.”
“This is important.”
“Congratulations, sweetheart, you’ve just been drafted into the big leagues.”
“Call. Me. Now.”
And again, as though she had no concept of time, boundaries, or the fact that you were about to get fired from your job the phone rings once more. DECLINE.
You remembered the day you met Val, she was terrifying. Truly terrifying. You were fresh into the PR world, and had been working a gala for the corporate job you started in, a gala which she attended. A dark alcove and a poorly timed flash photographer was all it took to set Val up for disaster and honestly you were left wondering what it was she saw in the man she had been caught with as you worked your PR magic to save the day.
Never in your life did you imagine you would be the one to save her ass, never in your life did you imagine exchanging phone numbers with her since she was so impressed with your work. “Nuh uh.” She snipped when she saw you try to shorten her name. “My full name. I insist.”
And in this moment you hated her full name as it came up on your screen once more. “FUCK OFF!”
Your office building finally came into view, and your phone found its home in your purse as the ac of the building hit you, smiling at security as you passed on the way to the elevators.
Maybe if you weren’t running late you’d have heard the whispers, maybe if you weren’t in such a rush you would have seen the news reports about it. Maybe, maybe, maybe.
There was no time for maybies, because in the next 40 minutes you would be fired. Left hauling out a copy paper box of all your stuff… and maybe some office supplies…. As you walked home.
The TV was still on when you stumbled back into your apartment, of course it was.
"We begin this morning with breaking news that has taken nearly everyone by surprise. In a sudden announcement earlier today, Contessa Valentina Allegra de Fontaine introduced what she’s calling the New Avengers. The details are… murky at best. What we do know is that several familiar figures were seen standing beside de Fontaine during the unveiling, though the full roster remains unconfirmed. Already, questions are flooding in: is this truly a sanctioned successor to the original Avengers, or something else entirely? And perhaps most importantly… who was the shadow figure that attacked this morning?”
It wasn’t the words that stopped you cold. It was your soulmate standing among the lineup, ocean-blue eyes fixed on a camera like he hated everyone he knew that sat behind it, including you.
Your heart slammed against your ribs. The phone lit up again.
Valentina Allegra de Fontaine.
This time, you answered.
-
The television was still on, muted now, running a carousel of headlines that made his stomach turn. “The New Avengers? A brighter tomorrow?” one chyron read, sandwiched between stock photos of him and other faces Val had gathered together like trading cards. They’d pulled his Army photo for this one when he was young, with a buzzcut and sharp jaw. And he felt like his heart plunged as he saw it, staring at him in the group of photos like that version of him still existed somewhere in the rubble.
Bucky laid on the couch, letting his metal hand dangle uselessly against the floorboards, tapping against the wood with a hollow clink…clink…clink.
The apartment was too clean. Too quiet. He hated that Valentina had found him here, that she’d walked in like she owned the place, like she already knew he’d say yes. He hadn’t. Not really. He’d just run out of ways to say no.
And Sam had yet to answer the calls, Bucky was beginning to think he was being avoided. Which he hoped was not the case, because he really needed him right now.
“Ross…. He asked me to restart the avengers, Buck.”
On the coffee table lay the crumpled envelope she’d left behind, a thick packet that within it held a contract, neat and official, the government stamp glaring at him like a taunt. It was official, and Bucky had found himself caught in yet another problem.
“Ross…… He asked be to restart the avengers, Buck.”
He knew Sam was avoiding him. Anything else he told himself was just a lie.
His eyes flicked back to the TV just in time to catch himself caught on camera, wide-eyed and fumbling over the words he’d never lived down, “Oh, uh… I don’t have a soulmate.”
The groan ripped out of him before he could stop it. He slapped his flesh hand over his face.
“You idiot,” he muttered. “You liar.”
Because it was a lie. A technical one, sure, but still a lie that twisted in his gut every time he thought about it. What was he supposed to have said? Yeah, I had a soulmate once, but I never wanted it. Never cared. And the arm that held their name? Hydra took it.
Now it was metal. Blank. No red script curling across his wrist. Nothing left to remind him of what he’d thrown away.
It shouldn’t matter. He told himself that all the time. It was easier to believe his soulmate was dead. Years in Hydra’s cage, years of blood on his hands,there was no way anyone tied to him could still be out there. If they had been, their name would be gray anyway. Faded. Gone.
He should be grateful. That’s what he told himself. Better a blank arm than a grave reminder.
But some nights, when it was too quiet and no one was around to witness it, he still caught himself staring at the smooth metal, wishing. Wishing the red script would burn back to life. Wishing he hadn’t lost the only proof that someone had once been meant for him.
The phone buzzed on the coffee table, Valentina’s name lighting the screen. Again.
He didn’t move. He let it ring.
Maybe if he threw the damn thing out the window, the rest of the world would vanish with it.
The phone rings again… this time it’s Bobs number that appears across the screen accompanied by a picture of his dopey smile that Ava had taken and Yelena had made his contact photo.
There is no denying him when he calls, and so Bucky reaches to swipe his hand across the screen and pressing the speaker button.
-
This is not going to work.
It was the only thing going through your head as you rode the elevator up to the penthouse level of the New Avengers building, giving awkward smiles to every construction worker you passed on the way up.
The badge currently hooked to the waist of your pants felt heavy, and the tight clutch you kept on the straps of the bags did nothing to help your anxiety, nor did the awkward elevator music. It only managed to grate on your nerves even more than the intense burning on your wrist that was working as a constant reminder of just how much of a terrible idea this was.
PR management for the New Avengers.
This was never going to work.
The ding of the elevators is the only warning you have that your current hiding spot is about to be ruined before the doors pull open to reveal a large expanse of what looks to be a modernized…. Living room? Lounge? Business lobby with a couch and tv?
You couldn’t gather enough strength to cross the border of the elevator, choosing instead to peek your head out as your wrist burns all the more.
“Hello?” You call, anxiety dripping from you as leaking through your voice as you awaited an answer. Maybe if no one answered you’d have the perfect excuse.
Sorry Val, I showed up but no one was there so I crawled back to the safety of my home and ignored life until I died. Good luck with everything!
Your plan would have worked too, if it weren't for the “Hello?”.
The word comes back deeper this time, rough but steady, tinged with faint amusement. A voice that carries too much history. And then he steps into view and you can feel the exact moment your heart stops short and your breath stills as every nerve in your body lights up. Because standing in front of you, impossibly real, is him. Your soulmate.
Your tongue feels like it’s glued to the roof of your mouth, every possible word you could say scattering into static the moment your eyes meet his. He’s… taller than you expected. Broad shoulders filling the doorway, dark hair falling a little into his face like it hadn’t decided if it wanted to be neat or unruly. But it’s not his presence that makes your lungs forget how to function. it’s the freaking pull. The thrumming recognition that roars through you like a struck chord, resonating deep in your chest.
He pauses too, like he feels it. Like the air between you has shifted, thickened into something alive.
For a split second, the corner of his mouth tilts, as if he’s caught between disbelief and something dangerously close to a smile. But then it’s gone, hidden beneath the practiced neutrality of someone who’s very, very good at hiding what he feels.
“...You’re not Val,” he says finally, voice low, rough, steady all while his eyes don’t move from yours. Not once.
“Aren’t you a genius?” you shoot back before you can stop yourself. The words tumble out, half-sarcasm, half-defense, and the second they’re hanging in the air you regret them. His head tilts the slightest bit, like a wolf scenting blood. That almost-smile flickers again a litle sharper this time, and edged with disbelief.
But it doesn’t reach his eyes.
Instead, his gaze lingers on you, unwavering, unblinking, as if he’s trying to carve apart every layer you’ve built to find what’s underneath. You hated it.
“Sure I am a genius.” He murmurs, that smile turning a little sarcastic on his end. “Still can’t figure out why you are here.”
“THERE YOU ARE!” Mel sighs out, coming into view wearing her too old for her outfit that you know Val influenced. “You are so late.”
“I came 30 minutes early.” You huff back, holding up one of the bags you hauled up here with a nervous smile. “And I brought donuts.”
“Crappy donuts,” Mel snaps, snatching the bag from you like a starving raccoon. “Why are you hiding in the elevator? Let’s go. This is Bucky, by the way. Quit lurking, old man.”
The name lands in your chest like a strike. Bucky. It rolls off her tongue with an ease that twists your stomach, especially when you catch the faint smile he gives her with an eye roll and a warmth you should not have been jealous of.
They’re friends. Maybe even close. These people you’re about to meet? They’re his people. His circle. His trust. And all the while, he pretends you don’t exist.
“This is the part where you introduce her,” Bucky huffs, dragging both your attention back to him.You barely hear Mel say your name, too caught up in the way your pulse spikes, watching him for any sign, any flicker of recognition.
Nothing. Notta. Zilch.
No smile. No flinch. He doesn’t even glance at the mark.
“Nice name.” The small, awkward smile he gives you feels like a slap, lighting rage low in your chest.
“I’m late,” you snap, gesturing to Mel with sharp impatience. “Lead the way.”
Mel leads you down a hallway that feels longer than it needed to, with your heels clicking on the floor with more drama than they needed to as Bucky begins following you both to the meeting, smiling when you look over your shoulder to glare at him and watching a sharp look of confusion fill his features when you make your glare deepen.
“Stark had a thing for industrial floors.” Mel explains, swishing her ponytail to grab your eye. “Considering our team, it has worked quite well.”
It hits you then, the realization that you were standing IN the Avengers tower. Where Black Widow and Captain America once lived. You feel your feet stutter in step, nearly tripping over yourself, pulling your arm away from the hand that tries to catch you. You can feel the weight of him behind you. Silent, steady, a shadow too solid to ignore.
And finally Mel swings a door open, being pulled into a loud room right as something is thrown across, leaving you to hesitate outside the door that she holds open.
“Might be the genius in me….. But if I didn’t know any better you would seem nervous.” He murmurs behind you, his breath hitting your ear which makes you step forward to ignore him. Diving into the world of the New Avengers.
Yelena is the first to spot you, ,sitting up like a cat that has found something new to play with all the while whatever John Walker was trying to throw at Ava Starr manages to hit you square in the head.
“Children.” Val snaps, coming into the room from the very same door the three of you just used. “Settle down and meet your new PR Manager.”
“PR?” The brunette sitting next to Yelena asks, his eyebrows pinching together in confusion as your soulm- Bucky shuffles past you to sit down at the table.
“The New Avengers.” Val sighs, leaning on the table with her arms crossed. “The second chance heroes…. The knock off team.”
“Knock off?” John snips out.
“Knock off.” You confirm, nodding your head as you set the bags down on the table for them all to view the goodies and treats you brought to buy their favor.
“Knock off?!” John snaps again, voice bristling with offense, as if repeating the word might change its definition.
“Knock off,” you repeat, this time a little more firmly as you unload the bags on the table with a practiced smile. “Donuts, muffins, caffeine. Bribery. Take your pick.”
Yelena perks up immediately, stretching across the table to snag the largest muffin without hesitation. “I like her.” She takes a dramatic bite, chewing slowly while her gaze flicks from you to Bucky, like she already smells blood in the water. Which from what you had read from her file isn’t too shocking, but it’s not that knowing look on her face that makes you bristle, but the glowing red mark of a newly found soulmate bond…… and before you can even ask your question is answered when Bob reaches to grab a donut tentatively. PR gold….. Your worst nightmare.
Ava leans back in her chair, arms crossed, unimpressed. “PR. Great. So you’re here to tell us when we’re allowed to talk and when to shut up?”
“Basically,” you say, smoothing your pants and trying to wipe the sweat from them in the same go, pretending your pulse isn’t currently racing. “Though judging by the last five minutes, I’ve got my work cut out for me.”
“Understatement,” Bucky mutters from the end of the table, finally chiming in. He gives you a small, sympathetic grin before aiming a glare at John, who’s still bristling like someone insulted his flag.
“Don’t worry,” Val cuts in, sharp and satisfied. “She’s not here to babysit. She’s here to make sure the world buys into you lot. Big difference.”
There’s a pause before all eyes swivel toward Bucky, who hasn’t touched the donuts, hasn’t moved much at all. He’s just watching, unreadable, like a shadow in plain sight. Like they all knew who the PR problem Val seemed to hate the most was.
You meet his eyes before you can stop yourself, the tiniest twitch pulling at his mouth again, and you hated it. It makes your skin burn.
“Alright,” Val claps her hands once, jolting the air. “Introductions done. Eat your donuts, stop throwing things, and try not to scare off your PR manager in the first ten minutes.”
You keep the smile placed on your face as she disappears with Mel, leaving you in the office with the team. It isn’t until the door shuts with a snap that you turn back to the group who are all blinking at you with puppy dog looks.
“Alright, first up. John…. Lose the helmet.” Yelena snorts out while he gasps. “Alexei, no more interviews. You give off far too much information. Ava, no more cursing in your interviews. Yelena and Bob, congrats on the mark…”
Your words die out as your own wrist burns, and you can’t help but rub your thumb over the bandaid.
“Bucky. Haircut and new suit. You look homeless.” Bob spits out half a donut at your words, Yelena however howls with laughter, and even John smirks.
Bucky doesn’t laugh. He just leans back in his chair, jaw flexing, eyes locking on yours like he’s deciding whether to tear you apart or play along.
“Bold start,” he mutters. “You always this charming, or just with me?”
You keep your face neutral, even as something sharp and electric coils between you. “Depends who needs fixing most.”
If he wanted to ignore the soul mark you would just destroy him. Plain and simple.
-
Things for the most part had taken an easy shift after that.
The way Val made the team seem was that this was about to be the hardest job of your life, that the team would hate you. And yet it felt like working with stray cats that loved following you around…. Which is exactly what you did.
It had been a month since you started, and they had all learned your schedule a little too quickly. When you got up in the morning you always had a cheery good morning message from Alexei, and Yelena always took to sending you any safety threats she was worried about for your route.
By the time you got to the building every morning John was there, grabbing your bags from you as he yapped your ear off about the news articles he had read on the ride in the elevator, but mostly he was always worried about his sons information being leaked and what his image would do to him.
Bob was always waiting outside the elevator, a dopey smile and an awkward wave as he followed you around to gather everyone. Ava ready to see you with dozens of ideas of stuff she could do.
Today followed the same routine, all of them following you around your office like little ducklings as you went through your checklist. With Bucky sitting in the corner on a swivel chair watching them all crowd around you.
“Alexei, you agreed to go to a race today. Please for the love of god do not wear the Avengerz jumper. I already picked out your outfit, it should be hanging on your door-”
“I saw it and I refuse. It does not fit my figure-”
“It fits fine, your pants don’t need to be tight. Moving on. Ava, thank you for getting a haircut.” You make sure to raise your voice a bit so that Bucky would know you were being a pain in his ass, basking in the glare he sends your way. “Your new suit designs were sent in and I would like you to try them on and choose your top 3 if not favorite.”
“Brilliant. Did you get my note about-”
“Yes. I got it and I made sure to let them know it was vital.” You smile. “John, you have a visit with your son… congrats and good luck.”
He smiles wide, reaching to hug you and letting Alexei slap his shoulder in excitement. “Bob….. I ordered those books you wanted but I really would like you to reconsider no brand deals.”
He shrugs and you knew he wouldn’t consider it at all.
“Finally. Bucky.” You sigh, pivoting on your heel with a smile that’s just sharp enough to cut. “Today is your lucky day.”
Your ducklings quiet instantly. Alexei mid-complaint, John lowering his coffee, even Ava pausing with her notes as Yelena lets out a small ‘uh oh,’ .They all look between you and him like they’re watching a fuse get lit, waiting to see which one of you it sets off first.
Bucky spins lazily in his chair, metal fingers drumming against the armrest, eyes already narrowed like he’s bracing for impact. “Can’t wait to hear this one.”
Your smile widens, professional and merciless. “We’re doing a full media day. Photoshoot, interview, the works. New haircut. New suit. No brooding in corners.”
He leans forward slowly, forearms braced on his knees, gaze pinning you in place like a sniper sight. “Sounds like torture.”
“Exactly,” you say sweetly, ignoring the sudden, traitorous burn of your wrist. “And thanks for you ignoring my requests for a month I have decided to run it. No escaping.”
A dangerous curve pulls at his mouth. “Careful, sweetheart. You’re starting to sound like you enjoy this.”
“Oh I am going to enjoy this.” You smile back, tossing todays itinerary to him. “Bucky Barnes. America’s dream man.”
It was nice to watch the way his face fell, nice to see him hesitate. Only to be ruined when he nods and smiles up at you, and somehow you think you might have fallen into a trap.
-
A day of prodding and poking from stylists and news reporters? Miserable. A day with you? Worth it.
Bucky Barnes would never admit that aloud because if he ever found the nerve to say it, you’d punish him by refusing to spend another second with him. So he kept quiet, choosing instead to watch you in silence, eyes flicking toward you as you sorted through emails on the ride to the studio.
It had been a month since you started, one month since Bucky Barnes first heard your name, the very name that had been haunting him for reasons he couldn’t explain. He’d never felt anything like the pull he felt toward you the day you stepped out of the elevators, calling out like you’d been waiting for a trapdoor to catch you.
He heard your voice like an echo in his head whenever his own thoughts grew too loud, a soft tether pulling him back from the edge. At night, he saw your face smiling at him in dreams. Dreams where you were his, where he could hold you, kiss you, and love you without consequence. Dreams where you didn’t glare at him in annoyance, where there was no mark on your wrist binding you to someone else. And every time his gaze strayed to the bandage you wore to cover that damned soulmate mark, guilt twisted in his chest. Still, he couldn’t stop himself from glaring at it, as if sheer willpower would burn through the fabric and reveal the name of the stranger who had stolen you from him before he’d even had a chance.
Not that he would have ever had the chance because for reasons he couldn’t figure out you had decided you hated him.
He shoved the thoughts down before they could swallow him whole, like he always did. Dwelling on you never changed anything except leaving him raw and restless. So instead, Bucky clung to routine, to the pieces of life he could control. He tracked out the window, cataloging every car, every face, every movement that might be a threat.
If memory served - and it always did - your apartment building should be coming up soon. Too far, he thought. Too far for you to travel alone every morning.
“You should look into rooming at the tower,” he said, keeping his tone as casual as possible even while he felt your glare snap toward him. “Plenty of extra space. And I’m sure Alexei and John would appreciate the twenty-four-hour surveillance.”
“Why would I want that?”
He shrugged, pretending he wasn’t scrambling for a reason. “Less commute time. Nice building.”
“I have a life outside of work,” you huffed, arms crossed tight.
Bucky turned just enough to catch your eye, as if that might make his words sound less desperate. “I mean… your soulmate could move in too, I’m sure.”
Smooth. Real smooth, Barnes.
“Why don’t you focus on looking through the book the hairstylist sent. You need to pick a cut.” You mumble, handing the book over as he groans out a bit, pointing to the first one he sees. “Ew no. Bucky.”
His heart skips a beat when you say his name, and he can’t fight the smile that drags onto his lips when a short laugh escapes you. ‘That is the worst one.”
“You said to pick one. I picked.”
“The bowl cut?!”
“I could make it work.” He shrugs, leaning across the leather seats to push his shoulder against yours as you flip through the booklet, and he tries to make it seem natural and not at all like his entire body was on fire just by being close.
“What about this one? It’s very modern.”
“I JUST had short hair.” He argues, reaching to turn the page to get you away from the short cut.
“I just think it’d look good.” You mumble under your breath, and suddenly he is ready to shave all his hair right this moment.
“I mean if you really think-”
“Oh! This one!” You gasp, finger slamming into a photo that has him blinking slowly.
“No.”
“Yes!”
“I can never make that work.” He argues.
“Oh come on.” You groan, closing your eyes for a moment before turning to look at him. “You love pretending you’re not the perfect specimen every girl dreams of.”
“Every girl?” He laughs, watching you smile. “Including you?”
You blink, eyes sparking with something he doesn’t recognize from you but is desperate to see more of. Then it’s gone in that moment, as you bring a hand to trace at the wrist where your soulmark was currently hidden and jealousy flares through him as he leans back to his side of the car. He leaned back to his side of the car, trying to mask it, failing miserably.
He leaned back into his side of the car, jaw tight, eyes on the window, doing everything he could not to glance at you again. The question he shouldn’t have asked still hung in the air, bitter on his tongue.
You didn’t fill the silence. Instead, you muttered to yourself over your ipad, flipping screens and tapping your pen against it in quick, focused beats. He didn’t hear the words so much as the rhythm as it was steady, grounding, and maddening. Yet he couldn’t stop listening.
By the time the car rolled to a stop, flashbulbs already flared outside the studio, white light bursting against the tinted glass. The noise of the crowd carried even through the closed doors. Reporters barking questions, stylists calling names, Val’s voice sharp as a whip cutting through the chaos.
The door opened, and you were out first, professional mask snapping into place as if the past half hour in the car hadn’t happened. Folders tucked under your arm, smile tight, voice firm, you looked untouchable, it did nothing to ease the ache in his chest.
Bucky followed, stepping out into the storm. Cameras swung toward him instantly, and for a second he hated every second of it until his eyes caught yours again, steady, directing him forward like you’d been doing this your whole life. PR handler. Babysitter. Not his. He still couldn’t decide which role was going to kill him first.
The studio was a hive. Stylists darted back and forth, arms full of garment bags and makeup kits, photographers shouting about light angles, Val barking orders like a general in the middle of battle. Bucky hated it immediately. Too many people. Too many hands reaching for him.
He sank down into the chair like a man sentenced, glowering at the mirror while a stylist fussed nervously with a comb. You leaned against the counter beside him, ipad balanced on your hip, giving quick, precise directions that kept the chaos from swallowing him whole.
“Trim, not a chop,” you said. “Shape it. Keep it clean, sharp.”
The stylist hesitated, glancing at Bucky. He didn’t answer, just crossed his arms and stared at his reflection like he wanted to break the glass. Catching the stylist's eyes in the mirror to really scare her off. Watching her go frozen in fear.
Finally, you sighed, stepping forward. “Move,” you told the stylist gently, sliding the comb from her hand. She didn’t argue, merely shuffled back as you raked your fingers through Bucky’s hair, slow and steady, untangling it from the roots.
He went stock-still.
Your touch was professional, quick, efficient…..at least, that’s how it should have been. But the second your fingers brushed the nape of his neck, his pulse kicked hard against his throat. He watched in the mirror as you pushed his hair back, testing the length, tilting your head like you were weighing every possible version of him, and the anxiety he got just from that alone should be laughable.
“This works,” you murmured, mostly to yourself, twisting a lock between your fingers. “Cleaner lines. Less broody. More… Avenger.”
His mouth curved, helpless. “Didn’t know haircuts fixed personalities.”
“Didn’t know you had one,” you shot back automatically, but the corner of your mouth twitched and he could not fight the thrill of it.
He should’ve said something. Should’ve leaned into the sarcasm, should have pulled another smile from you while he could. Instead, Bucky sat there quietly, memorizing the feeling of your hands in his hair, wishing like hell the stylist never came back.
The scissors finally snipped, quick and sure as if you knew what you were doing, but Bucky didn’t move. Not when the stylist returned to fuss over the angles. Not when flashes from the photographer’s test shots spilled across the mirror. He stayed still for the sole purpose of feeling your hands roam through his hair once more.
You weren’t supposed to be doing this. He knew it. You knew it. But every time the stylist cut, you leaned in, fingers combing through the strands to check the length, smoothing it back like it mattered. He could feel the warmth of your palm linger against his scalp. And he could feel the jolt of his skin answering to your touch.
“Don’t slouch,” you murmured, not even looking at him, your focus locked on his reflection. He straightened instantly even as his chest tightened and his eyes narrowed. God help him.
“You’re enjoying this,” he said, low enough that only you could hear.
“Enjoying fixing a lost cause?” you teased, lips twitching into the barest grin. “I am a saint after all.”
“Don’t think you’re fixing me, doll.” His voice dipped, warm, rough. “Pretty sure you just like having your hands in my hair.”
That earned him a sharper tug than necessary, and he bit back the hiss, watching your smug reflection in the mirror as the stylist blinked between the two of you. When it was finally done, you stepped back, folding your arms, tilting your head as you studied him. The stylists hovered nervously at your shoulder, waiting for your verdict.
Bucky leaned back in the chair, giving you that slow, dangerous half-smile that used to work so well for him back in the day. “So? Perfect specimen yet?”
You rolled your eyes, but he didn’t miss the way your throat bobbed before you said, “Don’t push it.”
And when the camera lights called him to the next station, he stood but not because Val barked for him, not because PR demanded it, but because you stepped back first, breaking the invisible tether of your touch and he was doomed to follow.
The studio had been transformed into a battlefield of lights and lenses. White backdrops stretched across the walls, camera rigs rose like artillery, and half a dozen assistants swarmed with clipboards and mic wires all pushing around him like he was nothing but an ant to their picnic.
Bucky froze the second they tried to steer him toward the mark on the floor. His spine locked tight, shoulders stiff beneath the new suit you’d fought tooth and nail to get him into. The lights hit him, hot and unrelenting, and he hated the way every click of the camera sounded like gunfire. This was all too much, far too much.
“Relax your stance,” one photographer called.
“Turn your chin,” another shouted.
“Smile!” How about I shove my foot up your-
He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. His metal hand flexed once at his side, and as if you could see it, his mask slipping, the soldier taking over, the storm closing in you decided to take pity on him.
“Alright, everyone, back off,” you cut in sharply, stepping past the cameras. They hesitated, grumbling, but one look at your face had them shuffling back. Then it was just you and him in the harsh light, the buzz of the room fading at the edges as his world and vision narrowed to just you.
“Bucky,” you murmured, softer now, tilting your head. “Eyes on me.”
And he did. Instantly. Couldn’t fight it.
You stepped closer, straightening the line of his super suits vest, brushing your fingers along the fabric. He leaned down, just enough that your touch ghosted up toward his collar, just enough that your perfume wrapped around him like something luring him in.
“Good,” you said quietly, adjusting his shoulders with your hands, guiding him into an easy stance. “You’re fine. Just… keep looking at me.”
The camera shutters started up again, but all he saw was you. Your steady gaze, your calm tone, the faint curve of your mouth when he actually listened. The haze of your eyes as you took in the image you had created, the very first time he had actually felt like more than the winter soldier or a half assed congressman.
And when you reached up to push his hair back from his forehead, just a tiny adjustment, his heart slammed against his ribs. He was supposed to be standing still. He was supposed to be posing. But all he could think about was leaning down, closing the fraction of space between your hand in his hair and his mouth on yours and for a moment he began to move, only for the photographer to snap him back.
The flash went off. The photographers cheered, they thought they’d captured the moment.
But Bucky knew better. The real moment hadn’t even started.
He stared at you, bringing his metal hand up to grab at your wrist softly, letting the gold lining of it glint in the studio light as your vision drags up to his wrist and within a moment he sees it. He watches you crumble in the blink of an eye.
“Your wrist.” You blurt, sounding like you were about to throw up.
“What?” He breathes out, trying to make sense of what you had just said.
Bucky froze when your fingers latched onto his wrist, panic flaring sharp in his chest. Not because you touched him -God, he’d wanted that for longer than he could admit-but because of the way you said it. Like you’d seen something in him no one else had. Like something you had survived on was crumbling right before you.
Your eyes were wide, horrified, like the floor had opened up under you.
“You weren’t lying.” The words ripped out of you like glass. “Your wrist is bare. You don’t have—” Your breath hitched, strangled in your throat. “Oh my god.”
He struggled to find the words, to find an explanation to whatever was currently bothering you so badly. He was desperate to fix it. But all that came out was a broken, “Wait-”
And then you were gone. One blink you were there and the next you were bolting from him. Your heels snapped against the floor as you escaped, dodging lights, crew, and assistants as if fire was chasing you. The sound of your name tore itself out of him as he pushed forward to follow, only to be blocked by the photographers that swarmed immediately, lenses flashing, voices barking orders.
“Barnes, over here!”
“Show us the arm!”
“Smile, soldier!”
He shoved past them, desperate, but the room pressed in like a cage, cameras snapping the panic etched on his face. And just like that, you were out of reach.
-
Bare.
The metal of his wrist was completely fucking bare.
Oh how stupid you were.
It all begins to flash through your mind, sharp images of every blatant sign you missed. Every late-night thought, every bitter prayer, every time you pressed a bandaid to your mark or scratched at it until your skin went raw. You had convinced yourself he was lying. That he was cruel, careless, anything to explain away the way your wrist burned with his name while he stood in front of cameras and swore he had none.
But he wasn’t lying, he hadn’t been.
It wasn’t cruelty. It was absent. The metal gleamed where your name should have been and the sight of it caved you in. A hollow, ugly ache thundered through your chest, the kind that no PR polish or professional smile could ever fix as the image of it scarred your brain.
Noooo. No. No NO no NO no nO NO NO NO NO NO.
You stumbled out of the studio, gasping like you’d been punched, the fluorescent hallway lights stabbing into your eyes. Someone called after you and you couldn’t make out the voice through the ringing in your ears. Maybe it was Mel, maybe Val, maybe even him, but you didn’t stop. Couldn’t.
Because the truth was worse than every lie you’d ever told yourself.
He had no soul mark, it had been taken long ago.
The thought ripped through you like shrapnel, each repetition sharper than the last, tearing away at your skin and soul like a warzone. Your wrist still burned beneath its bandaid, practically hissing for release, a truth you had hated for years. Proof that someone was out there. Proof that he was out there.
Your chest hitched, every inhale a struggle. If it’s gone, does that mean… we’re gone too? The question throbbed in your skull, poisonous, relentless.
The hallway blurred as you stumbled forward, hands braced against the cold plaster walls, like they could hold you up when your knees threatened to buckle. You wanted to scream, to claw at the bandage until your skin tore, to rip the mark away in effort to get it to stop burning.
Instead, all you could do was gasp for breath, your lungs refusing to fill, your vision beginning to blur.
You had built a life on the belief that he had rejected you. That he had lied. That his denial was a choice. It was easier to be furious than to be helpless. Easier to imagine him cruel than to face the truth that he had been broken long before you ever had the chance to know him.
Your soulmate hadn’t abandoned you.
He had been robbed of you and you had wasted time, all this time, trying to hate him.
Your world tilted, and before you knew it everything went dark.
-
Bucky was set on catching up to you, nothing was going to stop him. He could hear the clicks of the cameras with the flash, but he was focused on following your path. His chest seized, a low growl rising in his throat as he finally broke through the crush of cameras.
“Move,” he snarled, shoving a lens aside with his metal hand. The photographers shouted after him, questions hurled like bullets, but he ignored every one. He only had one focus now: you. He needed to fix whatever just happened.
By the time he rounded the corner, Mel was crouched by your side, panic twisting her features as she tried to rouse you. “She just- jesus, she fainted, I think- oh my god Bucky-”
Bucky dropped to his knees beside you, hands finding purchase on your cheeks as he took in your state. His heart hammered as his gaze swept over you, your lashes fanned against pale cheeks, your bandaged wrist curled tight against your chest like it was trying to protect itself and it glared back at him like a running joke.
“What happened?” Mel panics. “Oh my god- Bucky help her.”
He swallowed hard, guilt crushing him like a vice. He didn’t know how to help you right now. He didn’t know what to do.
“Barnes,back up. Give her air.” Val’s sharp voice cut in as she pushed through the chaos, but he didn’t move. Couldn’t. His metal fingers twitched, aching to reach for your hand, to hold you steady in a way he never could before as Val swiped some hair from your eyes and blew in your face.
“Mel. Water. Ice. Anything.” He orders, checking your pulse as he locks in and pulls you closer.
He hears her heels as she dashes to go grab what he asked for while Val pets your hair. “We gotta get her up and out of here. She’ll kill me if I let her get photographed.”
“I’m not really worried about a PR move right n-”
“I’m not either.” Val snaps, slapping his shoulder. “Get her to one of the rooms. Let’s go.”
So he does, hauling you up into his arms and following Vals path until they reach an empty office and Bucky lays you down on the desk as carefully as he can as if you were made of glass, his flesh hand cupping the back of your head until you’re steady. The florescent lights hum overhead, too bright, too sterile, making your pale face look even more fragile. He hated it, he wanted to punch out every light he could.
“Water,” Mel pants as she dashes back into the room, shoving a bottle into his free hand. He unscrews the cap, his fingers clumsy, then presses it to your lips as he lifts your head to help you swallow.
“Pulse is steady,” Val mutters, her tone clipped but softer now as she dabs the sweat at your temple with a napkin she scrounged up from her pocket. “She just blacked out. Stress, shock. She’ll come around. I’ll take her in my car. Set her up in a guest room at the tower.”
Bucky’s jaw clenches as he runs his thumb over the spot on his metal wrist where it laid bare, chest tightening as he the images of your face flash in his mind. What had you seen that stirred that reaction?
“She’ll kill me if I let her get photographed like this,” Val says again, but quieter, like she’s talking more to herself than him and he doesn’t understand the fear placed on her face. “She’s good at what she does. Too good to let something like this be her headline.”
Her words wash over him, but he doesn’t answer. His eyes stay locked on you, every shallow breath, every flicker of your lashes.
When you stir at last, a faint sound slipping from your throat, Bucky leans in despite himself. His hand hovers an inch above yours, aching to close the gap, to anchor you before you drift again. “Easy, doll,” he murmurs, the nickname slipping out unguarded. His voice is low, rough, steady. “You’re safe.”
“We need to get her home. Help us get her out of here, Barnes.” Val orders and he picks you up once more, breathing you in as he follows her to the car and helps you get in, watching you blink a bit as the world goes in and out.
“Message me when you get her there.” He orders, sighing out as he runs his flesh thumb across your cheek.
“You never answer my messages.” Val snips out, sitting beside you and trying to cover you with a blanket as Mel brings in bottles of water and takes her spot.
“I have you blocked. I was talking to Mel.”
“Got it, Grandpa.” Mel nods, and before Bucky could argue even more the door is slammed in his face.
The limo’s taillights disappeared into traffic, and Bucky stood there, jaw clenched, every instinct in him screaming to follow. To climb into the car, to stay at your side until you woke for good and looked at him without the panic he’d seen flash across your face. To fix whatever mess he managed to create without even realizing.
Instead he turned on his heel and headed back inside, letting the doors close with a heavy slam as he was cut off from your path. From you. From his.
Photographers and journalists were already circling back, their questions like gnats, and the flash of cameras burned against his eyes. He rolled his shoulders, forcing the mask back on. The Winter Soldier. The New Avenger. The man with no soulmate. Whatever they needed him to be, whatever you needed him to be.
But in his chest, your name burned like it had been branded there all along.
And no amount of bare metal would ever erase it.
It isn’t until he gets back into position in front of the cameras, trying to smile, that he feels the burn on his flesh wrist, pulling his attention down until he sees it and his heart stops dead in his chest.
Red letters, scrawled across the skin of his wrist forming your name.
-
The gala was stupid.
Everything sucked.
From your perch on the balcony, the whole thing looked more like theater than celebration decked out with costumes and champagne flutes, masks of laughter stretched across faces that never really smiled. The lights dazzled, the music swelled, and the glittering crowd below moved like some grand machine you couldn’t fit into no matter how much Val insisted.
The dress she’d stuffed you into clung in all the right ways and still felt like someone else’s skin. Too fine. Too exposed. Especially with your wrist bare to the world, raw, branded, burning and no bandaid, no way to pretend. Val had ripped it off you as neatly as she’d ripped you from bed. PR optics, she’d laughed, as if exposing your soul to the room was just another campaign strategy. But you knew better, you saw her a little closer now, mostly the way she had been hovering around you since you fainted. Worry, concern, protectiveness, none of this something she could hide.
It’s why you didn’t bother arguing when she demanded you move into the tower, making the guest room you had woken up in your full time living now.
That’s where you should be, organizing the packed boxes….. Or sulking in bed.
Somewhere behind you, laughter carried, and you swore you caught the low timbre of his voice mingling in it. The sound lodged in your chest like glass.
Because he was here.
And you weren’t ready.
It had been a week.
Seven days of perfectly timed exits, of Val sweeping him into briefings while you “just so happened” to be pulled into a separate meeting. Seven days of ducking into stairwells, of silencing your wrist’s constant throb with bandaids you tore off just as fast as you put them on. Seven days of Mel spamming your phone with back to back messages updating you on his every move now that Val and Mel knew everything. Seven days of trying to move your entire apartment into the tower with the team's help. Seven days of pretending you weren’t waiting for the moment you’d run out of excuses.
And now here yoi were, cornered by chandeliers and champagne and a city’s worth of cameras, with the low rumble of his laugh cutting through the noise like a knife, even past the live band Mel had found for tonight.
Your fingers tightened around the glass in your hand, knuckles whitening and you feared you might shatter the glass in your grip. You told yourself you wouldn’t look. That if you didn’t turn, you could pretend he wasn’t there.
But you did, of course you did.
And there he was.,James Buchanan Barnes. Standing in the crowd in a suit that fit too well, head tipped toward someone else’s words, lips curved faintly in a smile that wasn’t meant for you.
But his eyes?
Even across the room, even through the throng of people, his eyes were already on you, with that deep ocean blue. Watching your every move as if you might flee before he had the chance to get to you.
The music swelled, laughter rising and falling around you like white noise, but none of it mattered. Not when his gaze pinned you there, sharp and steady, like he could stop the world from spinning if you so much as flinched. Like he would burn it down if you so much as showed you needed it.
Your chest tightened, heat crawling up your neck as you forced yourself to take a sip from your glass doing anything to break the spell that was currently controlling you. But your hand shook, betraying you. The champagne fizz cracked against your tongue, bitter and wrong, never your favorite drink.
And then he moved. Just a shift at first, a subtle lean toward the crowd, an apology murmured to whoever had his attention even if it wasn’t fully given. And you knew. You felt it, that invisible tether pulling taut, dragging him toward you whether you wanted it or not.
Your heartbeat pounded like a warning drum. Run. Stay. Choose.
But your feet wouldn’t move.
Fight or flight and you were simply just frozen.
Because James Buchanan Barnes was crossing the floor, and every head seemed to turn just a little, the crowd parted as though even the universe knew better than to stand in his way at this moment. He took the stairs 2 at a time, the lights of the gala casting him in a perfect glow.
Your breath caught when he reached the landing.
The press of bodies, the clinking of champagne glasses being used in toasts, the noise of the band gearing up for another round of songs. Everything dimmed, like the air itself was holding back to make space for him. For you. The world fizzed to nothing but you two.
And then those eyes found yours again, locking you in place the way no spotlight ever could. Blue, steady, unrelenting. The kind of look that didn’t ask permission, that didn’t give you anywhere to hide.
He didn’t smile. He didn’t falter. He just kept coming closer, each step deliberate, each second stretching until your skin prickled with the weight of it. Fight or flight…..yet you did neither.
You couldn’t.
Because this wasn’t the Winter Soldier, wasn’t the headline or the hollow politician the world thought they knew. This was James Buchanan Barnes, your soulmate, walking toward you in a room full of strangers like you were the only thing that mattered.
“I’d like to explain myself.” The words tumble out the second he gets close enough. A panicked sort of word vomit that leaves everything you say a little too loud and too fast. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t mock you. Just watches, slow and steady, as if he’d been waiting for you to speak. A small smile pulls at the corner of his mouth.
“I… I set up that entire press day for you l-last week.” You swallow, nails digging into your glass. “And me leaving in the middle was extremely unprofessional.”
There’s a pause, heavy but not unkind. His gaze stays locked to yours, and for a moment you think you’ll drown under the weight of it. Then, his voice starts with a low and gentle tone that still carries that knowing rough tone. “That’s what you’re worried about? PR optics? Professionalism?”
The smile deepens, just barely, as he tilts his head like a cat playing with a mouse. “You fainted in the middle of a studio, doll. Forgive me if I don’t give a damn about professionalism.”
“I just….. T-there is something that I need to explain-”
“Is it about the red mark on your wrist that you’ve been hiding?” He cuts you off, getting straight to the point.
There’s no air left in your lungs. Straight to the jugular, no hesitation. You appreciate it at the same time as hating it. Your hand twitches at your side, instinctively curling to shield your wrist, though it’s too late. He already knows. Of course he knows.
“I…” The word stumbles out, shaky and useless, your throat tight. His eyes pin you where you stand, blue and unrelenting, and suddenly you hate that part of you thrills at the heat of his gaze, feeling the electric pull of his body even in a moment of confrontation.
“You’ve been hiding it.” His tone doesn’t rise, but it doesn’t need to. Each syllable is a steady strike, deliberate, controlled, and so damn certain. “And I need to know why.”
You want to laugh, or cry, or run, because how could he possibly not know? How could he stand there, bare-wristed, and ask you to explain? Your voice breaks on the whisper: “Because you don’t have one…..I……. You- Oh my god.”
He’s patient, but his gaze is unrelenting.
“I thought you had been lying, that you just… you didn’t want the mark.” Your throat tightens, each word tumbling over the next like they’re breaking free after years locked in your chest, and you are doing your best to avoid his eyes in this moment. “I realized at the press day -I realized I’d been wrong. You weren’t lying or ignoring it. You just didn’t have the mark.”
The words hang between you, fragile, jagged. Your voice cracks on the last syllable, and you drag a hand across your wrist like you can scrub away the burning truth written there. His gaze never wavers, if anything, it deepens, softens around the edges in a way that makes your heart ache worse than if he’d just laughed in your face. He doesn’t rush to fill the silence. He lets you unravel, lets the confession bleed out, like he’s been waiting for it.
“I hated you for it,” you whisper, blinking hard against the sting in your eyes. “I convinced myself it was rejection. That you chose to… to deny me. That you had found…. Found me somehow and thought I wasn’t good enough.”
For the first time, something flickers in his expression. Raw, unguarded, a tremor of grief and recognition that you were sure reflected in your own. His metal hand twitches at his side, like he wants to reach for you but isn’t sure he’s allowed.
“Doll,” he says finally, quiet, rough, your name tucked into the word like a prayer, and you hate him a little for the gentleness. Because you don’t deserve gentleness after the way you’ve hated him.
“I’m sorry,” you rush out, the words tumbling, jagged, desperate, as your hand snaps forward to grip his arm like he might disappear if you don’t anchor him.
And the second you touch him, he moves too, like he’s been waiting for it. Waiting for the invitation. His hand, the flesh one, comes up fast, curling around yours, warm and steady in contrast to the cold weight of metal at his other side. The contact shoots through you like lightning, blistering, grounding, the mark on your wrist thrumming so hot it feels alive.
“You don’t get to apologize for hating me,” Bucky says finally, voice low, dangerous in its tenderness. His eyes lock to yours, so close now that you can see the fracture lines in the blue, like waves crashing into the sand “Not when I gave you every reason to.”
Your breath catches, lips parting, but he isn’t finished. The hand that holds yours tightens just a fraction, like he’s terrified you’ll let go. “I never wanted this.” He murmurs as he lifts the metal wrist, jaw clenched, eyes burning. “Not the arm. Not the lies. Not losing you before I even had you. But I need you to know… I never stopped wanting the mark.”
He lifts your hand then, twisting gently to reveal the red mark to the light. “And…. you cannot understand what this means to me….. I just wish my new mark hadn’t taken so long to choose to reappear.”
Your head tilts, confusion knotting your brow, until he tugs at his sleeve. The fabric slides back, deliberate, and your breath sticks when the light catches it.
Red.
Fresh, blazing, alive.
Your name, carved into the skin of his flesh wrist, stark against the veins that tremble just beneath the surface. It shouldn’t be possible. You’d told yourself a thousand times it wasn’t possible. And yet-
“I thought it was gone forever,” Bucky admits, voice rasped like gravel, his eyes never leaving your face. “All these years, I looked at that metal and told myself I didn’t deserve one anymore. That whoever had mine was better off without me. But then-” His throat works, his jaw tight. “Then you walked out of that damn elevtor. And for the first time since I can remember, I hoped.”
The mark glows between you, his pulse hammering beneath it. His hand trembles slightly as he keeps yours lifted, like you’re a relic he’s not sure he’s allowed to touch.
“Doll,” he whispers, softer now, as though afraid the word might break if he says it any louder. “I don’t know why it took so long to come back. But it did. It’s you. It’s always been you.”
For a long moment, neither of you moved. The world had gone quiet. The music, the clinking of glasses, even the weight of the gala around you faded to nothing but the sound of his breathing and the hammer of your heart. His wrist, your wrist, both of them burning where red ink tied you together at last.
Then his hand shifted, the metal one sliding up to cradle your jaw with a gentleness that should’ve been impossible for steel. You swore you could feel the heat of him through it, like the bond itself was making even his cold alloy pulse alive.
“Bucky…” you breathed, and it was all he needed. He surged forward, not reckless but unstoppable, like gravity had always been meant to pull him here. His lips met yours, and everything broke open.
The kiss was fire and thunder, years of longing and denial and aching stitched into one impossible moment. His flesh hand splayed against your back, dragging you closer, closer, like he could fuse you to him if only he held tight enough. The room tilted, your mark searing against your skin, glowing between you like molten ink.
You gasped against his mouth, the sound swallowed when he deepened the kiss, tasting of desperation and reverence all at once. He kissed you like a drowning man breaking the surface, like you were the first breath he’d had in decades. And when your fingers tangled into his hair, tugging, his low groan vibrated against your lips like a vow.
The bond sang. You felt it in your bones, in the marrow, in every hidden corner of yourself that had ever been hollow. A rush, a tide, a flood of warmth so sharp it made your eyes sting. For the first time, the ache in your wrist didn’t feel like punishment.
When he finally tore back for breath, foreheads pressed together, his chest shuddered against yours. His voice was raw, unsteady, but truer than anything you’d ever heard.
“Mine,” he whispeed.
And for once in your life, you didn’t fight it.
-
“No.”
“But you didn’t even hear the best-”
“No.” You repeat, the word the only one needed as you stared at Alexei holding an over decorated outfit with sponsorship patches covering every single blank spot.
“You’re not even being fair.”
“No.”
“Plea-”
“NO!” The rest of the team snaps from behind you in the living room, groans and huffs of frustration filling the room as Alexei whines and falls into the couch like a toddler.
“Not this again.” Yelena grumbles, her soulmate Bob just shaking his head with a new book gripped in his hand. “Dad. Get a grip.”
“But Lena-”
“Alexei.” Bucky’s voice cuts sharp from his seat, that low warning rumble he uses when he’s this close to losing patience. He doesn’t even look up from where his flesh hand is spread protectively across your bump, thumb tracing idly like he can soothe the baby from the outside. “You’re not putting our kid in that walking billboard suit.”
“It’s patriotic!” Alexei protests, throwing his arms wide, nearly smacking John in the face with the infant supersuit. “What is more American than sponsors? Capitalism!”
John makes a disgusted sound and swats his arm away, shaking his head and scratching at the full beard he had been growing. “You’re embarrassing yourself, man.”
You can’t help the laughter that bubbles up, warm and light, as you watch the group begin to argue and unravel in chaos and the baby kicks like it agrees. Bucky glances down at you, instantly softening, and leans to press a kiss against your temple before muttering, “You’re encouraging him.”
“Maybe,” you admit, your hand covering his on your belly. “But you have to admit… ‘Team Pampers’ does have a certain ring to it. Much better than the Avengerz.”
“Doll.” He groans, the metal hand coming up to cover his face while the rest of the team breaks into laughter, Yelena doubled over, Bob’s shoulders shaking silently, Ava smirking from her spot against the wall and Sam cracking up further down on the couch.
“Maybe we leave the PR to the actual manager for it.” Vals smile is strained as she grabs the onesie from Alexei, throwing it in the trash as she walks past to kiss you on the forehead. The chaos that unfolds after isn’t to be helped, in fact there is nothikng to do but watch as the group descends into hysteria.
The tower is loud, messy, and crowded….and for once, Bucky doesn’t hate it. For once, the chaos feels like home. Because you’re beside him, glowing, carrying the future that once felt stolen from him. Because when you laugh, he feels the bond tug in his chest like a promise that finally, finally came true.
Haven't read the first? Find it right..... 🌌 Lynx - Clark Kent
Enjoy!
The soft cotton of your sleep shirt is no match for the heat of the morning sun streaming through the window, or the even greater heat of the body pressed against your back. Clark’s arm is a heavy, welcome weight around your waist, his breathing deep and even against your hair. A year. A whole year since he’d finally, finally taken his glasses off and the world had snapped into perfect, brilliant, pain free focus.
His lips brush the nape of your neck, a sleepy, unconscious gesture that sends a familiar, delicious shiver down your spine. No migraines or hazy sight. Just the pure, unadulterated hum of rightness that’s thrummed in your veins every day since.
You shift slightly, turning in his arms to face him. He’s already awake, his eyes, those impossible soul searching blue eyes, wide open and watching you. A slow, tender smile spreads across his face the second your eyes meet his, and it still does the same thing to your insides it did the first time you saw it unobscured. It’s a smile meant only for you.
“Morning,” he rumbles, his voice thick with sleep. He leans in, and his kiss is soft, unhurried. It tastes of mint and Clark and the quiet comfort of a thousand mornings just like this one.
His hand slides up from your waist, his thumb stroking a gentle, absent minded circle just below your breast. The touch is innocent, but it ignites a low, smoldering fire in your core. You press yourself closer, and you feel the moment his lazy morning interest sharpens into something far more potent. The hardening length of him pressed against your thigh is an answered prayer you didn’t even know you were whispering.
You break the kiss, a playful glint in your eye. Reaching over, you pluck his glasses from the nightstand. He watches, a question in his gaze, as you gently unfold them and place them on his face. The world for you doesn’t dim, doesn’t pull back. The bond {and glasses} is fixed, permanent. But the act itself… it’s become a game. A trigger.
Behind the lenses, his eyes darken. The tender lover is still there, but now there’s a edge of something else. A focused intensity that makes your breath catch. “Teasing me?” he asks, his voice dropping into a register you feel in your bones.
“Maybe,” you breathe, tracing the black frame with your fingertip. “Remembering.”
A low growl resonates in his chest. He moves with that speed that still surprises you, rolling you onto your back and settling his weight over you. He’s careful, always so devastatingly careful, but the intent in his gaze is anything but. He looks down at you through the lenses, and it’s the most strangely intimate, powerful thing you’ve ever seen.
“I remember a year of headaches I gave you,” he murmurs, his lips finding the sensitive spot behind your ear. “I remember being such an idiot.”
“How were we supposed to know?” you correct him, your fingers tangling in his dark, sleep mussed hair.
“I was blind,” he says against your skin, his hands sliding under your shirt. His palms are warm, calloused in a way that speaks of farm work and heroics, and they skate over your ribs, pushing the soft fabric up. “But I see you now.” He pauses, his mouth hovering over yours. “All of you.”
He kisses you again, and this time it’s not soft. It’s deep and claiming, a kiss that speaks of a year of making up for lost time. His tongue tangles with yours, and you moan into his mouth, your hips arching up of their own volition to meet the solid ridge of his erection. He tears his mouth from yours, his breathing ragged. With one hand, he pulls your shirt up and over your head, tossing it aside. His other hand remains, framing your face, his thumb stroking your cheek.
He looks down, his gaze burning a path over your bare skin. The glasses are slightly askew, and the look of this perfect, god like man brought to a state of such raw want by the sight of you is a potent aphrodisiac. You reach up, slowly, and take the glasses off again. You fold them delicately and set them back on the nightstand.
The loss of the barrier seems to unleash him. A shudder runs through his powerful frame. “You,” he says, the word a vow, a prayer, a promise.
He buries his face in the curve of your neck, his mouth hot and desperate as he kisses and sucks a path down to your breast. His mouth closes over your nipple, and you cry out, your back bowing off the bed. The sensation is electric, a direct line to the throbbing ache between your legs. He worships one breast, then the other, with a devoted attention that has you writhing beneath him, a litany of pleas and his name falling from your lips.
His hand slides down your stomach, his fingers dipping below the waistband of your sleep shorts. He doesn’t tease. He knows your body as well as his own now. His fingertips find your clit, already swollen and desperate for him, and he lets out a groan that is pure male satisfaction.
“So wet for me,” he rasps, circling that sensitive nub with a tortuously perfect pressure. “Always so ready.”
You can only nod, your eyes squeezed shut, lost in the whirlpool of sensation. He pushes a finger inside you, then two, curling them, stretching you. The fullness is exquisite, but it’s not enough. It will never be enough.
“Clark, please,” you beg, your voice breaking.
He withdraws his fingers, and the loss is a physical pain. But only for a second. He hooks his hands in your shorts and panties, and in one fluid motion, pulls them down your legs and off. The cool air hits your damp skin, but it’s nothing compared to the heat of his gaze. He kneels between your legs, shucking his own briefs with a impatient haste that makes your heart stutter. And then he’s there. All of him. Your Superman, laid bare and utterly, completely yours.
He leans over you, bracing himself on one arm. The other hand guides himself to your entrance, the blunt head of his cock pressing against you. His eyes are locked on yours, dark with need and an emotion so profound it steals your breath.
“Look at me,” he whispers. “I want to see you.”
And he pushes inside.
The gasp you both let out is synchronized. The feeling of him sheathing himself fully within you, of being stretched and filled so completely, never, ever gets old. It is, and will always be, a revelation. He stays there for a long moment, buried to the hilt, his forehead pressed to yours, both of you trembling with the sheer rightness of it.
Then he moves.
His thrusts are not frantic or punishing. They are deep, deliberate, and earth shatteringly thorough. Each stroke is a complete possession, a reaffirmation of the bond that connects you deeper than any physical act ever could. He rocks into you with a steady, relentless rhythm that has you seeing stars, each drive of his hips hitting a spot inside you that makes your toes curl.
You wrap your legs around his waist, locking your ankles at the small of his back, pulling him even deeper. A strangled moan escapes him, and his control fractures, just a little. His thrusts become harder, faster. The headboard begins a soft, rhythmic tap against the wall, a quiet counterpoint to the slick, wet sounds of your joining and your ragged breaths.
You can feel it building, that glorious, coiling tension that promises a shattering release. Your fingers dig into the impossibly hard muscles of his back, urging him on. “Right there… don’t stop…”
“Never,” he grunts, his voice strained. He shifts his angle minutely, and on the next thrust, he brushes that perfect, hidden place so directly you scream. The sound seems to spur him on. One of his hands slips between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit again, applying just the right amount of pressure. The dual assault is too much. Pleasure, white hot and absolute, blindsides you.
Your orgasm crashes over you with the force of a tidal wave, pulling you under. Your inner muscles clamp around him, milking his length, and you convulse, a wordless cry tearing from your throat. Through the haze, you feel his own climax hit. He lets out a guttural roar, a sound of pure, unvarnished ecstasy, as he pumps his release deep inside you, his entire body shuddering with the force of it.
He collapses on top of you, his weight a welcome, grounding anchor. His face is buried in your neck, his breath hot and ragged against your damp skin. You can feel the frantic hammering of his heart against your own, slowly beginning to steady. The room is silent except for your shared, panting breaths.
After a long, blissful moment, he lifts his head. His eyes are soft, sated, full of a love so deep it makes your own heart ache. He brushes a sweaty strand of hair from your forehead, his touch impossibly gentle.
A slow, utterly wicked grin spreads across his face. He dips his head, his lips hovering just above yours. “Let me see you smile.”
The Lynx constellation is a faint constellation in the northern sky. It's named for the animal, the lynx, because its stars are so faint that you'd need the eyes of a lynx to see them
Hidden in plain sight, waiting for the right eyes to notice.
There was a saying once printed on the front page of the Daily Planet, back when your father used to get the copies delivered to your doorstep, that had always stuck with you even from a young age. Rambling through your head well before you truly knew what the words meant.
“Everytime I hit rock bottom life always shows me where to find a shovel.”
Written by Perry White.
You never knew what those words meant as a kid, and even when you had your ups and downs growing up you never truly felt the words, for you never managed to hit rock bottom quite yet. You got hired at the Daily Planet, under Perry White himself ironically enough, and you had once been so full of life.
Your rock bottom did find you though…. Or well you managed to find it, in the form of ‘Soul Sights’. The column is made to tell the world's very own soulmate stories, story after story of people locking eyes and feeling their world tilt and their heart begin beating in sync. Different versions of the same story over and over…. With you as the main writer for it all.
Which was ironic, considering you had never felt that soul bond yourself.
Yes, you’d found rock bottom inked between the lines of the very column you were assigned, mocking you in black and white, like the universe itself had printed the punchline.
And today was no different. The shovel life handed you took the shape of a pen clenched tight in your fist, scratching across the pages of your travel journal as you struggled to keep up with the rapid-fire pace of the interview unfolding before you.
Vivienne Herald, 84, had been with her soulmate since she was 14 years old. Which meant she had quite a lot to say about her years with the universes fate, and every story she gave you couldn’t help but note the crows feet and smile lines worn in on her features, the signs of a good life. She liked to talk about the feeling she’d get every time she made eye contact with Ron, how no matter how many times they looked at each other that first feeling never seemed to pass.
“Butterflies.” She’d described it as. “Even after 50 years of marriage, every time he looked at me I was still that 14 year old with butterflies.” She’d giggled as she spoke the words, a lovestruck and giddy giggle that managed to pull one from you. This woman was so happy you couldn’t fight off the own feelings of giddiness traveling through you, even as you tried reveling in the misery a little longer.
She’d given you tea, shown you pictures of her children and their children, and even showed you the wedding dress she wore the day she married her soulmate. That alone had given you so much to write in your column for the week, and by the time it was nearly over you found yourself asking the dreaded question. “What was it like to lose him?”
You hadn’t had to ask this question often, and you hoped you never would, fearing you might puke all over her carpet this time as you watched her smile falter and her eyes dim down. “I read the other day, this woman wrote an article about…. Well she felt the soulmate bond click in but…. But her soulmate never felt it. It was on some buzz sight….”
You nodded along, recognizing the article she was talking about yourself, trying not to cringe at the memory of bitterness that washed over you. Remembering the glee you felt that at least one person out there was just as miserable as you with soulmates.
“She said that it felt like her world was dimmer, that the longer she went on the worst her eyesight got. That there was this pain in her chest, and most days she thinks about ripping her own eyes and heart out. And when I was reading that all I could remember was the blinding.” Vivienne murmurs, voice faltering from the pain of the memory, stirring you to reach forward and grip her hand in comfort. “60 days. After he passed I went blind for 60 days…. and …. I was fine with it. Because I thought I never wanted to see a world my mate wasn’t in….”
“And now?” You urge, the tightness in your throat making the words hurt more than they should.
“I realized that he’s still there. Soulmates never leave you.” Her voice seemed to steady out, and her eyes traveled to the picture of her former husband on the table beside her, as if even now she found herself while looking at him.
The interview wrapped up quickly after that, before you know it she was leading you to the front door, and you could taste the freedom of your escape before the dreaded question you were always asked rang through the room like a lighting bolt in a tunnel.
“When’d you meet your soulmate?”
It was only fair, you reasoned with yourself, that she ask. Most people always assumed you had a soulmate, most people assumed everyone had a soulmate.
“I….. “ You could lie to her, like you lie to everyone else who asks the question, hoping to ease the awkwardness built up. Come up with a quick ‘locked eyes on the train’ or maybe a ‘coffee shop, instant eye contact, instant chemistry’. But Vivienne had just spent the better of 3 hours being open and honest with you, you couldn’t lie to her. So you cleared your throat, stood a little straighter, and told the truth. “I haven’t.”
The look of pity is immediate, and the panic that spreads through you is like wildfire. You find yourself rushing to make it better. “I thought I did once, got close.”
That one was a truth, one that seems to make the old woman even more upset for you, clicking her tongue and patting your shoulder. “You’ll get there one day.”
And isn’t that the worse sentence you’d ever heard.
You clench your teeth on the entire walk back to work, the bitterness taking hold once more as you can’t help but stomp, suddenly hating the older woman once more and wishing the world would just give up on making you dig your rock bottom and swallow you whole finally.
“You’ll get there one day.” You mock, feeling the anger surge as you kick at a stone. Ready to pull your own hair out. You hated when people said that; you hated their gloating faces and the amount of times you heard it.
You didn’t care about the soulmate part of it anymore; fuck the happily ever after; you just wanted the embarrassment to be over.
Because the worst part of it all was you thought you had gotten that moment. You believed you were going to feel that earth shattering, lovesick, butterfly feeling once.
You had been wrong.
The new intern of the Daily Planet had started on a week you were out of town, you had taken a week off to move apartments with your now roommate Louis Lane and all you heard over the course of the 5 days you weren’t there was about how perfect the specimen was.
You would laugh at all the texts Cat had sent the two of you while she outwardly debated hiding in one of your boxes so you couldn’t leave her for your own apartment. And when you tried telling Louis about the new specimen she merely scoffed and flicked your forehead, making you swear you would be her soulmate forever.
You of course pinky promised it.
But you were ready to throw that promise out the second you saw the interns looming figure across the bull pin as you walked in the Monday morning of the following week. Heck, you’d snap your own pinky if you had to.
“What a fine specimen.” Louis murmurs, gripping her coffee cup in one hand and nudging you with the other. “If either of us is his soulmate we have to share. Fair?”
But you couldn’t find the answer, you could barely find the words, your heart beating far too quickly in your own chest as your skin began to crawl with an electric feeling you had never felt before. This was it, you knew it. The adrenaline before you met him, it was your soulmate. and as if he was feeling the same effect, his head lifted from the desk he was currently standing at, looking at where you currently stood with your closest friend and you knew that you weren’t close enough. In order for the soul bond to snap in you’d have to make actual eye contact.
“This is it.” You whisper to Louis, handing her your cup as the intern began moving closer to you. By now your heart was in your ears; all you could hear as the world around you began to phase out. You were close enough to see a nervous smile beginning to work onto his mouth as he pushed his glasses up his nose.
And once you were close enough to actually make eye contact you prepared yourself for the feeling, locking into his gorgeous blue eyes as he shuffles closer and extends a hand.
His voice is breathless, and his hand shakes a little as you grasp onto his fingers with your own. “I’m C-Clark.”
Your mouth opens to say your own name, eyes still locked on his, before the piercing feeling in your skull robbed you of all vision. Your eyes shut quickly as the piercing feeling had you groaning out, your pulse beating through your ears and white blinding hot pain took control.
Clark’s hand were on you in an instant, pawing at your shoulder and head to assess whatever damage there was as your nose began to leak out thick red droplets, his eyes widening at the sight.
“Can I do anything?” He had asked, a sheepish lilt to his tone as your eyes watered at the pain.
“I’ll take her home.” Lois rushed out, moving to help you walk away. And the further you got from Clark the less pain you felt; but the more your heart ached.
If only you had the guts to tell Vivienne that you had in fact met the love of your life, that there was someone out there that you dreamed about and felt like the world just shined a little brighter around, only he was never yours and the universe seemed dead set on proving he would never be yours.
You can’t help but reminisce on the first few months Clark worked at the Daily Planet, when you seemingly refused to learn your lesson and wanted to prove he was in fact your soulmate. You tried, you really did. You took headache medicine before you would see him, you cut out sugar for weeks at a time, you even tried having conversations with him with your eyes closed.
But that white hot blinding pain never seemed to disperse when he was near.
Lois had caught up looking it up one night; trying to find reasons for it, and had outwardly laughed at your annoyance. Your aunt had told you that the universe was banishing you from him. “That means the universe has a soulmate for him. He is not yours and you need to remember that.”
And you tried, you really did, but you were obsessed with Clark. You wanted nothing more than to be near him, because ever with the searing pain he was always the one person on the planet that could make you feel better about anything. He was the first person you thought of when something good happened and you wanted to tell someone. You craved to know what his favorite foods were and what he liked to watch when he was bored.
You felt warmer whenever you read his articles and you got an electric feeling whenever you knew he was near.
Its the electric feeling you get down your spine that lets you know that Clark is in the office as you hop onto an elevator of the building, smashing your finger into the button as you feel your spine already beginning to ease. Melting into the comfort of the feeling, feeling an excited buzz begin to take over at the thought of seeing him.
The bell of the doors dings as they slide open to the chaos of the office floor, people rushing past you on the phone and typing furiously on their keyboards as you adjust to the noise and make your way through the cubicles all the way to the back where your columnist cubicle had been placed by a window.
Perry had heard about all the headaches and moved you, that had been 4 months after Clark started and it had been 3 years since you moved your desk here. “The fresh air might help” Perry had said, worried that it was the stress of the office getting to you.
The fresh air didn’t help since it was punishment for eye contact causing the migraines, but you would never tell Perry that.
“He’s not yours.” Your aunts voice rings through your head as you toss your bag onto the corner of the desk and plop yourself in the chair, smiling a little when you see the coffee cup with the packet of migraine medicine on the lid, a sharpied smiley face strewn onto the cup. “The universe has a soulmate for him, and it’s warning you to back off.”
“The coffee is gonna be cold.” Clark’s voice rings out, drawing your attention to where he stood by the wall of your cubicle, leaning over it with a sheepish smile, a blush already coating his cheeks. “I hadn’t realized you had an interview this morning.”
“Last minute schedule.” You explain, trying to convince yourself not to make eye contact. “I really appreciate the coffee though.”
“W-well…. Maybe I can take you down to get a fresh cup?” He asks, clearing his throat a bit as he shrugs as if the question didn’t have you nearly jumping out of your seat ready to scream like a cheerleader. “You can tell me about the interview.”
You can’t stop yourself, eyes tracing up his face until you stupidly lock eyes, feeling that surge of adrenaline before the pain sets in and you grimace. The butts of your hands are brought up to dig into your sockets in attempt to ease the pressure.
“I…. I’ll go g-get you some water.” Clark mumbles out, and something stabs at you in the way his voice sounded so depleted; hearing his footsteps retreat as he gets further into the chaos of the bullpen where his office sits.
You want to cry, from the mix of the pain and the feeling of guilt, leaning your forehead on the coldness of the desk as the tests began to fall.
Yes, maybe the world could finally let you take a break with the shovel and just eat you whole.
-
Today is the day, Clark tells himself. Today is the day that her side of the soulmate bond snaps in.
It had been a mantra for himself the past couple years, a single rope that he found himself mentally gripping onto as if it would help the devastating feeling of pain in his chest. It was ironic, really, the man of steel. A krytonian himself, finding it hard to breathe and focus due to the pain of a soulmate bond. An unrequited soulmate bond.
He had known the second you walked into the building that day; when you first met. Had felt every instinct within him tear up and prepare him for the moment he would meet his soulmate. And when he looked up to see you it was like his world had been fogged this entire time and for the first time in his life he was able to see clearly. Brighter, more vivid. Happier.
You were his……. Until you weren’t.
There was no explaining it, one moment his soul bond was clicking into place as his gaze locked on yours and the next you were in pain. Bloody nose, closed eyes.
He used the x ray vision to try and find any damage, but there was none he could see, only the rapid pace of your heart.
He figured it was a one time thing, maybe your soul bond had clicked in but it was just a lot in one go. That could happen, and so he spent most the night researching cases about it, though he didn’t find much.
But he was determined, the next morning he fixed his glasses and got to work early, rushing straight to your desk to say good morning and it had gone well. He could practically taste his own heart with the way it was lodged in his throat, and even the sound of your voice had him feeling like everything would be right in the world, until you made eye contact. And you were in pain once more.
He asked Guy, a terrible mistake to make since all he had to say was “sounds like the thought of mating you gives her pain”.
Terrific had a better answer; “soul bonds can take time. Just see what works and what doesn’t.”
And golly, Clark has never been one to give something up, and even though he prided himself on being kind and rational and giving, he was doomed to admit that he was far too selfish to let you go.
So he tried. He learned your coffee order and he tried having conversations without eye contact but he couldn’t help but search for yours at every second because he was addicted to you. He loved your eyes and your expressions. And even if it meant the conversation would be over he would be a liar if he didn’t admit that just the second of eye contact was worth it.
He tried committing them to memory, so that he could think of their color whenever life got a little rougher than normal, since he would never be able to gaze into them how any other soulmate would be allowed to.
Yes. Clark Kent had a soulmate.
An unrequited one.
“Wassup loser.” Steve greets, punching Clark’s shoulder as he passes on the way to the writers meeting, already chuckling at the joke running through his head. Clark doesn’t give it much thought, choosing instead to turn his head to see if you would be following soon and if you had gotten the water he left on your desk. “What is this crud?”
“Words.” Lois snarks, pushing past Steve to get into the room. “You should learn to read them sometime.”
“Of course your cousin backs you up Kent.” Steve huffs, making Lois roll her eyes as Jimmy rushes in with papers flying around him. “I just think Clark’s writing is soo… empty. How am I supposed to know how I feel?”
“By processing a basic thought of your own.” Your voice rings out, drawing an immediate smile to Clark’s face as he struggles not to turn and make eye contact. “I liked Clark’s article. Read it more times than I can count.”
There is something hidden in your admission, almost like you felt guilty to even say the words, like you would be ripped from this earth by admitting you liked his writing. Clark wanted to look you in the eyes, try to make you feel better over something he had no clue over. Try to figure out the problem and fix it like he always did.
He’s big blue for goodness sake, why could he solve everything but this?
“Enough chattering.” Perry calls, making the room go silent as you take a seat across from Clark. And though he pretends not to look he sees every movement of yours, and the water bottle he left for you earlier sat in front of you.
A small glimmer of satisfaction crossed through him at the thought of you using something he provided; the glimmer dying out when you rub at your temples.
Clark can’t concentrate on the meeting, doesn’t bother to hear other peoples pitches but rather listens to the sound of his own chest cracking at the pain. Fighting the urge to crawl over the table and attach himself to you until your bodies are merged as one and you can never leave him. He’s sure there are villains with the same thought, but he’s also sure he couldn’t live without you.
“Actually sir-“ your voice rings out, echoing in his ears like it’s the only sound he’ll ever have to hear the the rest of his life, pulling him back to the meeting at hand. “I was thinking maybe I could….. write about an unrequited soulmate story. Or…. Or maybe the effects of losing a soulmate.”
Clark feels like a rat put under the spotlight, caught. His breathing switches from automatic to manual, nearly stopping all together when your eyes flit up to his briefly before you look away in a panic. “I think it’d be-“
“Happiness.” Perry interjects. “We write the soulmate column for happiness. It’s what sells. People want to be filled with hope and joy at the thought of soulmates.”
“But sir; maybe people are sick of the same story over and over.” You rush out; tapping your pen quickly. Clark can see the way you fidget, the tight knot in your shoulder and the frown strewn across your face. “This isn’t Superman I’m writing about; I don’t have devoted fans. Maybe it’s time we branch out-“
“Say!” Perry gasps, pulling his cigar out of his mouth. “Superman’s soulmate.”
“I-I’m sorry?” You stutter as Clark’s eyes widen when most eyes turn to him.
“Has Superman ever mentioned a soulmate before?” Perry asks him, an excited spark in his eyes. “Does Superman have a soulmate?”
Yes. Yes he does.
And Clark must have said the answer out loud because everyone seemed to light up, clapping hands. “Is there anyway you can get our lovely soulmate columnist an interview? Think about it! Superman’s soul bond.”
Your eyes are wide, wider than Clark’s ever seen before and he’s beginning to panic. What if you get a migraine while making eye contact and put two and two together? He can’t help but push his glasses further up his nose, trying to keep them there as he begins to shake with anxiety.
He couldn’t do this interview. Too many risks. Not to mention your name would be attached to his and someone could come after you.
And yet, out of pure selfishness, he smiles and promises to set it up. Because he was a fool who would use any second with you he could.
His soulmate would be interviewing Superman on his soulmate. Without even realizing…..
-
Lois was going to catch the apartment on fire.
There was something about the way she managed to start a mundane task and completely lose track of it that always left you so confused considering you had once seen her spend 5 hours watching one interview to catch a lie and write about it. When it came to writing she was terrifying and unyielding. When it came to Mac n cheese on a Tuesday night she was okay with letting herself starve.
“Is this how you live when I’m not here?” You scoff, taking the pan off the stove and trying to find baking soda to ease the small fire that had formed, tossing it on with a glare to where she currently stood with a sheepish smile.
“I was hungry.”
“You’d be less hungry if you added water to the pan.” You can’t help the laugh that escapes you, watching her roll her eyes and open the drawer where you both hide all the takeout menus, flipping through them as if this hadn’t been her plan all along.
“Chinese. I’m feeling Chinese.” She mumbles to herself, pulling out your favorite places as your phone dings on the counter, making you practically jump for it with a surge of excitement
Your heart beats through your chest when you read Clark’s name on the screen; swiping your thumb to unlock it as quickly as possible to read the message.
Here’s the thing, you loved texting Clark. It was the only time you got to pretend that maybe he was yours….. there were no splitting migraines of punishment when it was over text.
Clark: Interview with Superman, did you actually want it?
Even the excitement of being able to talk to Clark didn’t stop the wave of irritation at the idea that was presented at the pitch meeting, your thumb hovering over the n ready to type out a simple no. But Perry demanded it….. and maybe Clark would be there considering Superman was pretty exclusive to him.
“Helloooo?” Lois calls, waving a pamphlet. “Chinese or no?”
“Yeah fine.” You call back, fingers diving across the keyboard to respond back to the boy with the glasses.
You: Perry would kill me if I didn’t. But only if you’re okay with sharing him for an interview? I know reporters get a little territorial about their sources.
It didn’t take long for him to respond, within seconds his text pinged through and you couldn’t stop the smile on your face as you read it.
Clark: For you? Anything. What’s mine is yours.
Your aunts voice, a terrible warning in the back of your head. “He’s not yours”
You: In that case I’d like your blue pen that writes smooth… and your glasses. I really think I can make em work.
Clark: Done and done.
And you try not to hear your aunts warning, you try not to notice Lois worried looks, as you make plans for the Superman interview. You take a moment to bask in Clark’s attention for once, the universe could kiss your ass for 5 minutes just this once.
-
Clark isn’t at the office for the next two days, which gives you time to focus on your work and not pine away in your hidden little corner.
It’s nice, not having a migraine, yet you still find yourself wishing he was close. Turning your head every time you hear the ding of the elevator in hopes it would be him coming through with his papers falling everywhere and his tie crooked. It never was.
But you managed to get the Vivienne piece done in time and were able to watch the reports of Superman saving the day once more on the television hooked onto the station. Watching the red and blue of his outfit like a flash in the sky as the cameraman attempted to follow the wounded figure.
“Where do you think he goes when he’s hurt?” Maya, the obituary columnist, mumbles from her cubicle beside you.
“No clue.” You answer truthfully, shrugging a bit. “Can’t be far right? He’s wounded.”
“Oh!” The excitement on her face makes you jump, watching her pen cup topple over on her desk as she spins her chair to face you fully. “You can ask him on your interview! When is it again? Saturday?”
Yes. Saturday.
“I can’t remember.” You lie, as if you hadn’t been dying over the anxiety of it. “And I’m sure I’m only supposed to ask him about soulmate stuff.”
“Says who?”
“I’m interviewing him for the soulmate column and I don’t want to step on Clark’s toes. He’s already being nice enough to help me score this interview.”
“Smallville would find a way to steal the moon if you asked. You’re too caught up in your illness to see the puppy dog look he gives you everyday.” She laughs, turning back to her work as you bite your lip.
Maya’s laughter fades back into the hum of keyboards and phones ringing, and you sink lower into your chair, chewing the inside of your cheek.
You shouldn’t care. You shouldn’t.
But your eyes still flick toward the empty desk across the room like a compass that can’t help pointing north.
He. Is. Not. Yours.
He. Is. Not. Yours.
-
Your shovel took the form of a text today, Saturday, the day of your interview.
Anxiety had pulled you from bed early, and you had nearly paced a hole in your apartment floor until Lois stormed out of her room to swat you with a slipper until you decided to head to the coffee shop and review your questions once more.
Finally the time came to start heading to the meeting point Clark had given you, somewhere a little hidden so that you would be able to ask questions, and you had made sure that Clark would be at the interview as well. Already worried you were stepping on toes.
It was halfway there when you got the message.
Clark: Something came up. I’m sorry.
As simple as that.
You: So no interview?
You didn’t see how there could be if Clark is not attending, there was no way you’d be able to interview Superman alone.
Clark: He’s still going. Just meet him there.
Shovel. Life had handed you another freaking shovel. You don’t bother responding, choosing instead to quicken your pace in an attempt to get to the meet up earlier so that you’d have a moment to calm yourself down. That seemed like a good plan.
Only; when you arrive you are shocked to see Superman himself already standing there, earlier than you.
“Hello.” You breathe out, nodding slowly as you take in his figure; watching his shoulders visibly relax before a patient smile covers his own face.
“Hello.” He repeats, his tone deep and easy. Almost like he was trying to calm a nervous animal. But there was something about his voice that had you tilting your head. Something soooo….. close. “I was hoping once you got here I could fly us up-“
He takes a moment to point to the tower, your eyes following his hand to see just where he had in mind before you nod, already looking for a staircase or elevator, missing the part of about him flying.
“Perfect. You ready?” He asks, stepping closer until you begin to panic.
“Wait. No we can-“ but it’s too late; in an instant he has you in his arms already shooting off into the air as you scream out. The wind slams into your ears and your hair flies everywhere as the sound of cars dies out to nothing. Making sure to keep your eyes closed and keeping a tight grip onto him until you feel your feet land on something beneath you. The roof of a building.
“You can open your eyes now.” He confirms, letting you hold onto him as long as you need. And when you finally crack them open you find him smiling at you as you remain hugging his chest.
Then you realize you’re practically a koala on someone else’s soulmate and rip yourself free, avoiding eye contact as you right yourself. “Sorry.”
“No need.” He laughs, taking a step back before gesturing to a spot you’d both be able to sit.
It’s then you realize Superman is a gentlemen, which wasn’t really a shock considering he was the savior of Metropolis.
But he waits for you to move first; he makes sure you’re comfortable before taking a seat himself, allowing you a moment to bring out your notes while smiling like it’s no time at all.
“Oh, Clark asked me to give you this.” He smiles, reaching an arm out to hand you the smooth blue pen that your coworker always uses to annotate his work.
Of course he did. Because Clark was out of this world.
The pen is warm in your grasp, a silly thing to notice but you swear by just holding it you can feel the faintest echo of him. You can see the ink stains on his hands and shirt and can practically smell the coffee scent he always carried with him. Even just holding it you feel a burst of confidence, as if he were here himself cheering you on and this burst leads you to finally look up and make eye contact with Superman.
The world tilts the second you land on his blue eyes.
There is a dizzy feeling, like the planet itself is spinning around you two as butterflies erupt in your stomach and your skin jolts with an electric feeling. The rest of the world blurs as your eyes melt into his, watching Supermans face pull into a serene smile as if he had just been welcomed home.
Soulmate.
You had just met your soulmate.
Out of all things you had just met your soulmate in THE Superman from an interview about-
Wait.
This is an interview about Superman’s soul bond.
“No.” You gasp out, watching his face pinch into one of confusion as your eyes water quickly, panic setting in when you stand so quickly your notepad goes flying across the roof. “No!”
“What’s-“ His voice is softer than you expected, almost human, almost tender, and that makes it worse.
You shake your head, stumbling back as though space itself might undo this. “No, no, no. This isn’t- you can’t-” The word soulmate burns on your tongue like it’s too big, too impossible, too dangerous to name again.
Superman’s brow furrows, but his smile doesn’t vanish. it lingers in the corners of his mouth, hopeful and devastating. He takes a step forward, cautious, as if you’re the one who might break. “You felt it too.”
And oh, you had. The warmth in your chest, the static humming under your skin, the instinct to step into him, to close that inch of space. Every part of you screamed yes all the while your brain shouted no. Because it was supposed to be an article. A byline. A story. Not destiny snapping into place under the watchful eyes of the Superman. Who already had a soulmate.
Your heart pounds against your ribs, and you take another step back. “This can’t be happening.”
He. Is. Not. Yours.
“Your…… your soulmate. I’m supposed to ask you-“ A wave of nausea passes you, nearly making you topple over as you fall to your knees to try and keep balance, the world still spinning as sobs begin to rack your body.
He takes a step, ready to come help you, you don't need to look to know because there was a soul bond there. You just mated with an already mated man.
Another step; his boot hitting the roof like your heart slamming against your ribcage. You don’t wait to see his face, don’t risk another breath in that suffocating pull between you. You bolt.
The door is the only option, the flimsy red handle your salvation, your escape, and you throw yourself through it as if the world might reset on the other side. The stairwell swallows you whole, echoing with the ragged sound of your sobs and the muffled call of the hero you can’t bear to look back at.
He’s not yours.
He can’t be yours.
And still, even as you flee, the bond thrums hot and alive beneath your skin, a cruel reminder that the universe doesn’t care what’s fair.
-
There’s a moment of devastation, a split second where his entire world crumbles, but that’s all he allows himself before the need to fix it kicks in.
The roof rattles when he shoots off to fly, bringing himself down to the ground level of the street, allowing his vision to track you through the building as you ran for the exit he currently stood outside of. The metal door swings open with a bang before your tear streaked face greets him as you run out, straight into him.
Your body goes to bounce off him from the impact but his arms reach to catch you in an embrace, holding you to him as you sob into his chest.
“I’m sorry.” You sob, making his chest ache from the pain; he’d felt better with Kryptonite lodged in his stomach right now. That he is sure.
“Don’t be. I’m sorry.” He hushes you, holding you close. “What did I do? How can I fix this?”
“You’re already mated.” You sob, pulling yourself from his arms. “You’re not mine.”
“I……” oh. Oh of course. This was supposed to be an interview about a soulmate. “I am but- wait-“
You don’t. Of course you don’t.
While he stumbles over his words you flee the scene, dashing to safety and leaving Superman behind.
-
It’s late when the knock comes.
You had been expecting it since you got home honestly, waiting for the moment either Lois came in to see you in pure misery or Clark came to give you a piece of his mind for ruining the interview.
It’s the ladder that comes first, knocking on the door, he however did not look angry or upset at all. He merely looked understanding as he took in the swollen puffy cheeks from the crying.
“Might I come in?” He asks, avoiding eye contact as he fidgets with the glasses on his face.
“I’m sorry Clark.” You begin, letting him walk past you into the apartment as you take a deep breath in to explain yourself. But before you can his glasses are set on the counter, and he turns to you with a nervous smile as you connect eyes.
It’s Clark staring at you, you know this, you just let him in. But it’s Superman currently in your living room….. because Clark is….. Superman.
“I’m…..” lost for words apparently with the way you stood gaping at him. “Clark.”
“The glasses.” He huffs. Nodding his head as if the answer was clear as day.
“Clark.” You whisper out, the only work you can really form as he stares at you with those eyes. The very same eyes that make your world tilt upside down.
“Four made me these glasses. They help protect my identity. Hypnosis glasses.” He explains, rubbing at the back of his neck in shame. “I never realized they were hindering your connection…… they were messing with the soulmate bond.”
“The…… the headaches.” You gasp out, watching him inch closer to you.
“The headaches.” He confirms softly, and his hand is trembling when he tilts your chin up, guiding your eyes to his.
The world slams into place.
The static that had been buzzing under your skin your whole life erupts into warmth, spilling through you like a wildfire that finally found oxygen. The ache behind your eyes vanishes in a rush, replaced with clarity so sharp it nearly makes you stumble.
Clark’s breath catches at the same moment, his thumb brushing your jaw like he’s not sure you’re real. “I never meant to keep this from you. I thought I was protecting you, hiding this side of me, but-” His voice cracks, quiet and raw. “All I did was hurt you.”
Your heart is still racing, but for the first time it’s not from pain. It’s from him. All of him.
“The glasses. This entire time. It was the glasses. I went through nightmare after nightmare thinking it was a one sided bond.”
He’s. Not. Yours.
Except he was.
“You’re mine.” The words spill out before you can stop them, a whisper and a prayer, your hands sliding up his arms until they land firmly against his chest. “I was right. You are mine.”
The ground seems to tilt under your feet, but it isn’t the ground at all. It’s him. The air shifts as his arms tighten around you, lifting you as if gravity no longer dares touch either of you. His heartbeat thunders under your palms, strong and steady, anchoring you even as the world falls away beneath. And when your eyes meet, the truth burns brighter than the city lights below: you were never falling alone.
The moment your words fail you, Clark doesn’t hesitate. His mouth is on yours before your next breath, like gravity itself had been waiting for this second to pull you together. It’s not just a kiss, it’s the kiss, the one that sears through skin and bone, the one that rewrites every lonely heartbeat you’ve ever carried. His lips move against yours with a kind of reverence, like he’s afraid to break you and desperate to memorize you all at once.
Heat flares beneath your skin, the bond roaring awake in full, and suddenly you can feel him everywhere. His wonder, his relief, his aching need for you all woven into the press of his mouth. The air hums like a storm breaking, like the earth itself sighs in recognition. His hands frame your face, trembling, steadying, pulling you closer as though he could fuse you into him if only he held tight enough.
And when you finally part for air, foreheads pressed together, you realize your lips are tingling with more than the kiss. They’re glowing faintly, the mark of your souls locking into place, the universe branding you both with undeniable truth.
You’re his. He’s yours. And nothing can unmake it now.
-
It’s the click of a pen that seals the deal, the moment a concept became real and there was no backing out.
3 months. 3 months of being Clark Kents soulmate. 2 ½ months of Clark being able to look you in the eyes with his new glasses and not give you a life splitting migraine. 1 month of living together, albeit kind of quickly but you both agreed that you had waited long enough for eachother.
1 minute into your interview with Superman on his soulmate.
You had both played it off to Perry, Superman had some life saving business to attend to and would reschedule the interview. Your boss didn’t need to know that you had spent that entire night learning to commit each and every one of Clarks facial expressions to memory. Your boss definitely didn’t have to know about the soul bond that you found once he stripped the glasses, or the way you sealed it once you stripped him of his clothes.
Now it wall is in place.
“Ready?”
“Bring it on. Space case.” He teases, pulling a lighthearted groan from you before you lean forward to press the record button and prepare the blue pen to write.
“Superman, what can you tell me about your soulmate?”
“For starters? She is absolutely everything to me.”
Dreamweaver's Note: Welcome, wanderers of fate, to the Soulmate AU Event! We will be celebrating the harvest moon today with this event. ✨ Each tale within this constellation of stories will explore a universe where bonds are written in the stars.
💫 Whether it’s first touches, matching marks, or fateful encounters, every character will have their own thread in this tapestry of soul-bound magic.
📩 Requests are open in the Stardust Inbox....if the cosmos stirs a soulmate idea in your heart, whisper it my way, and perhaps it will find life among the stars.
The Lynx constellation is a faint constellation in the northern sky. It's named for the animal, the lynx, because its stars are so faint that you'd need the eyes of a lynx to see them
Hidden in plain sight, waiting for the right eyes to notice.
18++++ BONUS CHAPTER
Orion - Bucky Barnes
The Orion constellation, also known as "Orion the Hunter," is a prominent constellation visible in the night sky, particularly during winter evenings. Sometimes parts of the Orion constellation might appear to be "missing" or less visible, at least temporarily or from certain vantage points
Even the brightest stars can hide behind shadows.
18++++ BONUS CHAPTER
Pisces - Johnny Storm
The Pisces constellation is depicted as two fish tied together by a cord, a symbol of escape and transformation in myth, where the goddess Aphrodite and her son Eros leapt into the waters as fish to flee the monster Typhon.
Swapping Places is the only way to see sometimes.
18++++ BONUS CHAPTER
Chiron - Yelena Belova
The Chiron constellation, often associated with the mythic centaur, represents the Wounded Healer, a being who bore pain not as weakness, but as understanding.
To feel another’s pain is to learn how to love them better.
Pleiades - Steve Harrington & Part Two
The core of the Pleiades cluster contains seven major stars, each one young, hot, and most electrically charged stars in the sky.
Even in the dark, seven little stars can charge a whole universe.
“Come on, baby….Just a little sound for me…..I know you can do it.” Steve’s voice was a low, breathless rasp against the shell of your ear. Beneath him, you were a beautiful, quivering statue. With your nails scoring deep, desperate tracks down his sweat slicked back, but your lips, those soft, bitten rosy lips, remained pressed in a tight, silent line.
He shifted his weight, grinding his hips down in a slow, deliberate circle that made your eyes flutter shut and he watched a tremor roll through you. A soft, hitching breath escaped your nose. But no sound. Not the one he was chasing anyways.
A small wave of frustration coursed through him as he narrowed his eyes at your figure, growing more and more determined with every movement.
He was going to hear you one way or the other.
It had started an hour ago, the quiet hum of a Friday night in his apartment. You had been curled in the corner of his couch that had become your little haven, a book in your lap, lost in some other world. Steve watched as he always did, a familiar, fond ache in his chest. You were always like this, so still, so contained. He loved your calm, the peaceful counterpoint to his own loud, chaotic life. But in the bedroom… he craved to crack that serene shell. To see the raw, unfiltered woman underneath. He knew you were in there somewhere and he needed it, he craved it. He would get it.
He’d slid onto the couch beside you, nuzzling into the soft curve of your neck. “What’re you reading?” He didn’t need to ask, he’d already gone behind your back to hear about it from Robin so that he’d have a way to impress you if need be.
“Mm.” A non committal hum slipped from your lips, making him stifle a smile, the tip of your fingers sliding up to prepare to turn the page.
He could be a good boyfriend and leave you to the book…… and yet….. He let his lips travel the line of your jaw. “You know what I’m reading?”
“What?”
“You.” He’d whispered it, pulling the book from your limp hands. “And right now, you look like you need something a lot more interesting than words on a page.”
Your smile was small, private and if a stranger looked at you they’d think you were steady and bored, but he knew how to read you bow. He watched in real time as your eyes darkened, pupils swallowing the soft haze. That was all the invitation he ever needed.
He’d kissed you then, deep and slow, pouring every ounce of his intent into it. His hands mapped the familiar territory of your body from the dip of your waist to the swell of your hips under those soft cotton shorts that always managed to drive him nuts. You responded, as you always did, with a fervent, physical silence.Your mouth opened for him, and your tongue was eager to meet his, while your body arched into his touch. But your sounds were stolen, swallowed down before they could ever truly form.
That’s when the mission crystallized. Tonight, he’d decided, sliding a hand under his shirt that you currently wore to palm at your breast, feeling your nipple peak instantly against his palm. Tonight, I’m getting a symphony.
Now, tangled in the sheets of his bed, the mission was in full, desperate swing. He had you pinned, with your wrists gathered gently in one of his hands above your head. Your chest heaved, skin glowing with a fine sheen of sweat in the lamplight. He worshipped you with his mouth, trailing open mouthed kisses from your collarbone down to the soft plane of your stomach.
“Steve…” It was barely a sigh, a whisper of air.
“Louder,” he murmured against your hip bone, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin there, smiling a bit when he feels your body jolt. “I want to hear it.”
He moved lower, hooking his arms under her thighs and spreading them wide for his view., for his tongue. He didn’t dive in immediately. He just looked, drinking in the sight of you, glistening and flushed and utterly his. He blew a soft, warm stream of air over your most sensitive flesh.
Yourr entire body tensed. A sharp, silent gasp.
Yet….Not enough.
He lowered his mouth, and finally let his tongue find it’s goal. Not a tentative flick, but a long, slow, flat stroke from bottom to top, circling the tight, desperate bud of your clit.
Your hips jerked off the mattress and youer legs trembled against his shoulders. A choked, guttural sound,almost a moan, caught in your throat.
There. That was the crack and he zeroed in on it, his focus narrowing to that single point of pleasure. He licked and sucked, varying the pressure, the rhythm, mapping every tiny, responsive twitch of your body. He slid two fingers inside, curling them just so, and your inner muscles clamped down around him with shocking force.
Then your breath came in ragged, audible pants. Little whimpers escaped with each exhale and he could feel the tension coiling in your belly, the telltale sign of your approaching climax. He redoubled his efforts, his tongue working in tight, rapid circles.
Your back arched clear off the bed while your freed hands flew down, fingers tangling violently in his hair, not pushing him away but holding him right there. “Oh… oh god…”
The words were broken, raw, and loud. Music to his damn ears.
You shattered with a sharp, keening cry that seemed to surprise you as yourr body convulsed, waves of pleasure rolling through, milking his fingers as he kept his mouth right where it needed to be, gentling his touch until the last tremor subsided.
He crawled back up your body, his own need a throbbing, urgent ache. He kissed your stomach to your sternum and took an extra moment to feel a frantic pulse in your throat with his lips on the shell of your skin. You were limp, boneless, eyes dazed and wet.
“See?” he panted, nudging your thighs apart with his knee, lining himself up at your slick, swollen entrance. “Was that so hard?”
You could only shake yourhead, a breathless laugh escaping yourlips. It was the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard.
He didn’t wait. He pushed into your heat in one smooth, deep stroke, burying himself to the hilt. The feeling was exquisite, from your heat to your tight silken grip, the way your body still trembled from the last climax.
“Steve.” His name was a full, proper moan this time, dragged from the depths of your lungs.
“Yes,” he growled, the triumph surging through him. He began to move, setting a ruthless, driving pace. Each thrust was aimed, purposeful, designed to drag more of those gorgeous sounds from your lips. He watched your face, your mouth falling open on silent cries that soon found their voice.
He leaned down, nipping at the tendon of your neck. He enjoyed when you yelped, the sound pitching higher. “More,” he demanded against your skin.
He shifted, hooking your legs over his elbows, sinking even deeper. The angle wrenched a sharp, surprised sob from you. The cries grew louder, less contained, tumbling out in a ragged, desperate rhythm that matched his thrusts.
He was close, the pressure building at the base of his spine, white hot and urgent. But he held on, focused entirely on you. On the slick, filthy sound of your joining, on the way your breasts bounced with each powerful drive of his hips, on the tears of overwhelming sensation gathering at the corners of your eyes.
“Who makes you feel this good?” he rasped, his control fraying.
“Y-you,” You sobbed, arching your back at a harsher thrust as his control slips at the sound of your voice. “Only you, Steve, please…”
“Then let me hear it. Let me hear all of it.”
He slammed into you one last time, and your climax tore through you with a scream that was pure, unadulterated release. The sound, raw and beautiful, pushed him over the edge. His own shout joined yourss as he spilled deep inside yoiu, his body shuddering with the force of it.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of your shared ragged breathing, the damp heat between you both. He collapsed beside you, pulling your limp, pliant body against his chest. Your cheek was damp as you laid your head against him and let him kiss at your damp hairline.
You nuzzled into him, her voice hoarse and wondrous. “I… I didn’t know I could sound like that.”
Steve’s grin was wide, triumphant against her temple. “Oh, baby,” he whispered, his hand stroking soothing circles onyour back. “I always knew you were in there.”
The worn fabric of the Eddie’s sofa was a familiar landscape under your back, the faint smell of weed and cheap leather filling the air in the familiar scent that normally filled your hangouts. On the TV screen, some low budget sci fi movie played after Eddie had begged for at least 10 minutes to rent it at the store, but neither of you had paid it any attention for the last twenty minutes. Not a shocker when the two of you were involved.
The argument had started over something trivial, the merits of practical effects versus the sutupid cgi effects you knew nothing about just that Eddie had large opinions on it, t had quickly devolved into the timeless battle for the remote control.
Eddie loomed over you, his long, wiry frame pinning you down, his knees bracketing your hips. His dark curls brushed against your forehead as he strained, his fingers desperately trying to pry yours from the plastic device as you both cursed under your breaths.
“Give it up, you traitor!” he growled, a playful smirk twisting his lips. His band t shirt, faded and soft from countless washes, stretched taut across his chest. “The hero’s ship is about to get boarded by space pirates! This is cinematic gold!”
“It’s cinematic garbage and you know it!” you shot back, laughter bubbling in your throat, making it hard to maintain your grip. You bucked beneath him, trying to dislodge his weight, but he was surprisingly solid. “This is why I voted for that documentary on deep sea fish!”
Even Steve Harrington managed to talk you down from that choice at the store but you knew the mention of it would irk Eddie all the more and you’re one goal in this life was to bother your best friend enough to ruin his days for the rest of yours.
The struggle was a familiar dance. You twisted, he countered, his body shifting to keep you contained only this time, something was different. The energy had shifted, the playful shoves becoming something slower, more deliberate. You ground your hips up to throw him off balance, and instead of moving away, he pressed down, meeting your movement with one of his own.
A sharp, electric jolt shot through you.
The air in the room suddenly felt thick…charged. The sounds of the movie faded into a dull hum. All you could hear was the ragged sound of your own breathing and his, mingling in the scant space between your faces.
Your grip on the remote slackened before it clattered to the floor, forgotten.
His eyes, dark and intense, held yours. The playfulness was gone, replaced by a raw, hungry curiosity. And you could do nothing but wait for him to pull away, maybe clear his throat and try to pretend that none of this had just happened, the game you often played when neither of you wanted to admit this was far more than just a friendship. The game the two of you had been playing for months not.
Only he didn’t move away. Instead, he settled his weight more fully onto you, and your bodies aligned perfectly. The hard ridge of his jeans pressed firmly against the growing heat between your legs.
A soft, involuntary gasp escaped you.
Oh.
His eyes widened slightly at the sound, his pupils swallowing the warm brown of his irises. He shifted again, a slow, experimental roll of his hips that sent another dizzying wave of sensation straight to your core. The rough denim of his jeans, the solid pressure of him….God, the way he fit against you….t was maddening.
Your hands, which had been braced against his chest to push him away, now curled into the soft cotton of his shirt, holding him there in an attempt to anchor yourself. Needing to feel the solid reality of him as this unreal tension snapped and crackled between you.
“Eddie…” you whispered, his name a question and a plea.
He didn’t answer with words but rather he answered with another deliberate, grinding thrust of his hips, this one harder, more confident. A low groan rumbled in his chest, a sound you felt vibrate through your own body. It was a sound you’d never heard from him before, not in all the years of friendship. It was utterly, devastatingly hot.
Your head fell back against the armrest, a moan catching in your throat. Your eyes fluttered shut, every nerve ending laser focused on the point where your bodies connected. The friction was exquisite, a building, coiling heat that threatened to consume you. You could feel the muscles of his abdomen tense and relax with each movement, the shift of his thighs against yours.
One of his hands released its grip on the sofa and slid down, his palm flattening against your side, his thumb stroking a slow, hypnotic arc just below your rib cage. The touch burned through your thin shirt. His callouses, from guitar strings, scraping so gently against your skin.
You were clinging to him now, one hand fisted in his shirt, the other sliding up to curl around the back of his neck, your fingers tangling in the sweaty curls at his nape. You pulled him down, not to kiss, but to bring him closer, to eliminate any last bit of space between you. Your foreheads touched, and you could feel the frantic beat of your own pulse thrumming against his skin.
His movements became less rhythmic, more frantic. His breathing was a ragged pant against your cheek. “Fuck,” he muttered, the word a harsh, broken sound. “You feel… fuck.”
You could only whimper in response, arching your back to press yourself more firmly against him, chasing the delicious pressure. The coarse seam of his jeans rubbed against your clit through your own clothing with every thrust, and you saw stars behind your closed eyelids. The world had narrowed to this: the smell of him, the weight of him, the incredible, building tension coiling tighter and tighter in your lower belly.
You were so close to something, teetering on a dizzying edge you’d never approached with him, with anyone, like this. The psychology was simple, stripped bare: years of friendship, of trust, of unspoken things, exploding into pure, physical need. It was a hunger you’d both ignored, now demanding to be fed.
His hand on your side slid lower, fingers splaying over your hip, gripping you hard, holding you in place as he drove against you. His other arm trembled where it was braced next to your head. You could feel the tension singing through his entire body, a mirror of your own.
“Don’t stop,” you breathed, the words barely audible. “Please, Eddie, don’t you dare stop.”
A shudder wracked his frame. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his hot breath fanning over your skin. His hips stuttered, his control visibly fraying. “You’re gonna be the death of me,” he groaned against your throat, his voice thick with a desire you’d only ever dreamed of hearing.
The coil inside you was ready to snap. Pleasure radiated out from your core, a white-hot wave about to break. You were right there, so close, his body the only thing anchoring you to the earth.
And then his voice, ragged and desperate, whispered right against your ear, “Look at me. I need to see you.”
His voice, a raw, desperate command, shatters the last of your coherent thoughts. Look at me. I need to see you. It was enough to break you completely.
Your eyelids, heavy with pleasure, flutter open at the command, desperate to please him. Eddie’s face is inches from yours, his dark curls damp with sweat, his intense brown eyes holding yours with a ferocity that steals the air from your lungs. They’re not brooding now as they normally so often are, they’re blazing, a wildfire of pure, unadulterated want. You can see every emotion swirling in their depths….the years of friendship, the shared laughter, the quiet moments of understanding, it was all igniting into this single, consuming hunger.
“Eddie,” you breathe, the word a broken sigh.
His calloused fingers, the ones you’ve watched fly across guitar frets a thousand times, are no longer just tracing patterns. They slide purposefully up your side, under the hem of your shirt, his touch igniting a trail of fire across your sensitive skin. The rough pads of his fingertips scrape gently over your ribs, a tantalizing contrast to the softness of your own flesh, and you arch into the sensation, a desperate, wordless plea for more.
His eyes never leave yours as his hand travels higher, his thumb brushing the underside of your breast. A sharp, ragged gasp catches in your throat. The air in the room is gone, replaced by the thick, charged heat of your shared panting. You can feel the frantic, galloping rhythm of your own heart, and you’re certain he can feel it too, hammering against his chest.
With a look that is both a question and an answer, he slowly, deliberately, pushes the fabric of your shirt up. You don’t stop him. You can’t. You’re paralyzed by the intensity in his gaze, by the sheer physics of his want. The cool air of the trailer hits your heated skin, raising goosebumps, but it’s nothing compared to the searing heat of his palm as he finally, finally cups your breast over your bra.
A low, guttural sound tears from his throat. “Fuck.” His eyes drift shut for a moment, as if he’s committing the feel of you to memory. When they open again, the hunger is staggering. His thumb finds the stiff peak of your nipple through the lace and cotton and brushes over it, once, twice, a slow, torturous rhythm that has you writhing beneath him.
“You have no idea,” he rasps, his voice gravelly and thick, “how many fucking times I’ve thought about this.” His hips give another slow, grinding roll against yours, the thick ridge of his denim clad erection pressing perfectly against the aching center of your need. The dual sensation of his hand on your breast, and the hard pressure between your legs is overwhelming, a sensory overload that pushes you closer to the edge.
Your hands, which had been clinging to his shoulders, slide down. Your fingers fumble for the hem of his faded band t shirt, gripping the soft, worn cotton. “Off,” you demand, your own voice sounding foreign, choked with desire. “Take it off. Ef=ds please.”
A wicked, breathless smirk flashes across his face, a ghost of the playful friend you know, but it’s instantly consumed by the raw need. In one smooth, surprisingly fluid motion, he leans back, kneeling over you, and pulls the shirt over his head. It joins the forgotten remote on the floor.
Your breath hitches. He’s all lean muscle and pale skin, a landscape of sharp angles and wiry strength you’ve only ever glimpsed. A few dark curls dust his chest, trailing down his taut abdomen and disappearing into the waistband of his jeans. He is beautiful, and the sight of him, bare and wanting above you, sends a fresh jolt of pure lust straight through you.
He doesn’t give you long to look. He descends upon you again, his body covering yours, skin to skin this time. The feel of his chest against yours is an electric shock, so intimate it makes your head spin. He captures your mouth with his, but not in a kiss. He buries his face in the curve of your neck instead, his lips and teeth grazing the sensitive skin there as his hand resumes its exploration, slipping under the cup of your bra now.
The direct contact is your undoing. His calloused palm against your bare breast, the rough scrape of his rings against your tender nipple, it’s too much and not enough all at once. A broken cry escapes you as your back bows off the couch. Your hands scramble over the hot skin of his back, feeling the muscles there tense and shift with every movement of his hips, every stroke of his hand.
“Eddie, please,” you beg, though you’re not even sure what you’re begging for. More. Less. Everything. Nothing.
He understands. His fingers hook into the front clasp of your bra, and with a deft flick, it comes undone. He pulls the loosened garment away, tossing it aside without a second glance. His dark eyes drink in the sight of you, bare and trembling beneath him, and the look of sheer, reverent awe on his face is the most erotic thing you’ve ever seen.
“Christ, you’re perfect,” he groans, lowering his head.
His mouth is hot and wet on your skin, trailing a searing path from your collarbone down to your breast. His tongue flicks over your nipple once, a teasing, lightning-fast touch that makes you jerk and cry out. Then he takes you into his mouth, sucking deeply, and the world completely whites out.
The sensation is everywhere, the pull of his mouth, the rough scratch of his stubble against your sensitive skin, the relentless, rhythmic grinding of his hips. You are unraveling, completely and utterly. One of your hands fists in his wild curls, holding him to you, while the other claws at his back, desperate for an anchor in the storm he’s unleashed.
You can feel your climax building, a terrifying, wonderful pressure coiling tighter and tighter in your core. The sounds falling from your lips are incoherent, just his name and pleas and gasps. He switches his attention to your other breast, lavishing it with the same desperate hunger, his hips never ceasing their perfect, maddening friction.
“I’m close,” you pant, the admission torn from you. “So close.”
He lifts his head, his lips swollen, his eyes glazed with lust. He shifts his weight, and you whimper at the loss of friction, but then his hand is there, sliding down your stomach, past the waistband of your pants. His fingers dip lower, past the elastic of your underwear, and find you. Hot. Soaking. Desperate for him.
The touch of his fingers on your bare, slick flesh is an explosion of sensation. You buck against his hand, a wordless sob of relief and need. He lets out a shuddering breath, his forehead dropping to yours as his fingers circle your clit, his touch achingly deliberate.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, his voice ragged against your lips. “I know. Me too. Come on, let go. I’ve got you.”
His words are the final key. The coil snaps. Pleasure detonates through you, a blinding, white hot wave that crashes over you, pulling you under. Your entire body seizes, convulsing around nothing as you cry out, the sound muffled against his shoulder. He holds you through it, his fingers working you gently, drawing out every last shuddering ripple of your orgasm until you’re boneless and trembling beneath him.
As the aftershocks subside, you’re achingly aware of the hard, urgent press of him against your hip. His breathing is ragged, his body trembling with the effort of holding back. He looks down at you, his eyes dark with a mixture of awe and desperate need. His voice is a rough, broken whisper, laced with a vulnerability you’ve never heard from him before.
Dreamweaver's Note: This is a Cosmic post, which means it has already been published once but due to being hacked I had to start over since I lost everything. -Ultralight
Aemond Targaryen had a bad habit of dreaming absolute terrors.
It wasn’t a habit he bragged about, in fact he kept this to himself most of the time since his mother and brother would probably take it as a sign of weakness. But it was definitely a problem.
Most nights he didn’t sleep and any night he managed to close his eyes and slip into the world beyond he was drawn back panting and screaming. Tonight was one of those nights.
He had stayed with you throughout the day and had been so calm from your presence he thought he could slip into his chambers and fall between his sheets without a panicky night. He had been wrong. It was the exact opposite, a dream so brutal he woke in a cold sweat.
He was walking with you through the gardens, just as he did every morning, your hand on his elbow as he smiles down at you. It had never been a secret amongst the court on just how pretty Aemond thought you were. He had even announced such matters on the day of your tourney where he won your hand.
Ever since he had taken to escorting you anywhere you wished to go, desperate to spend time with you as your wedding was planned by his mother. A walk in the gardens would be considered normal, but something about the day seemed to cling to his skin.
The clouds were covering the sun, so the flowers seemed to wilt under the harsh shade and the smell of rain just before it hit began to fill his senses. But he persisted on walking with you, claiming that if it would rain that you both would find shelter.
You said something about how beautiful the roses were, turning away from him to move and pluck one from the stem, Aemond taking this chance to look to another row of flowers before you would find your way back to him.
But after a moment of no sound he turned to check on where you were, only to find you huddled to the stone ground beneath and sobbing. He is lunging for you in a moment, voice gently asking what had happened as he pried your hands away from his face.
Just as your hands fall you release a violent scream like none he has heard before and show the blood pouring from your eye, an eye that was missing.
He shouts out for help as his hands come up to cover the wound but you scream and tear away from him, crying as you scream at him over and over. “HOW COULD YOU?!”
Before he knows it he is launching up from his pillow, ragged breaths filling the air as he tried to catch up to his lungs, salt from tears leaking down his cheeks. He has one hand clutched to his chest while the other grips a pillow as he finally catches his breath, shaking a bit as the memory of the dream surfaces.
Before he can truly process what he is doing, Aemond struggles from the bed, grabbing the candle on the nightstand and lighting it before making his way to the secret alcove. Pressing it softly to enter the tunnels within the castle as he follows the chalk path he made along the walls to your room.
When he finds the hidden entrance he debates for a moment whether this was a good idea, but he needed to see you otherwise he would go mad, so he takes a breath in and presses the door gently as to not make sound.
He steps in softly, looking around in the dark before he finds your figure laying in the bed, breathing evenly. His entire body relaxes, releasing a sigh of relief as he sees you, moving closer to tuck the hair out of your face.
He watches you for a moment, loving the peaceful sight of you, before he would move to make his exit as to not wake you. But before he could take two steps away you are moaning as your eyes squint to the dark, a groggy lilt to your voice as your hand reaches out to catch his. “Prince Aemond?”
“Yes my love?” He whispers, heart beating rapidly at having been caught. “I am sorry to wake you, I just had to make sure you were okay.”
You sniffle, wiping your eye as you try desperately to wake up. He kneels down and runs his thumb across your bottom lip, smiling as you kiss it softly before tugging his arm. “What’s wrong?”
You don’t answer, instead you lean to place the candle on your nightstand before tugging him until he is on the bed with you, pulling him into you and wrapping around him. “Then I demand you sleep here.”
“It would be improper.” He argues, though he gets comfortable as he drags you closer, breathing you in as his entire body relaxes into you.
“You will just have to leave through the secret door you thought I did not know was there.” You smile sleepily, kissing his chest before letting sleep claim you once more.
Aemond falls asleep with a small smile, and though it was a late start it was still the best sleep he had ever had.
Dreamweaver's Note: This is a Cosmic post, which means it has already been published once but due to being hacked I had to start over since I lost everything. -Ultralight
⚠️Fae-Bound Triggers: Bad writing. Smut Use of Y/n, i am so sorry I wrote this before i destroyed the habit.
⏳Length of the Spell: 1.1k+ words
✨What the Stars Foretell: A small blurb written for Halloween 23'
The devil stood up on the steps of the throne, beside where the king sat, keeping his arms locked behind his back as he watched the dance before him. A black leather mask covered his face, fangs and red serpentine eyes with horns larger than life, his head cocked to the side as he watched one dancer in particular.
Where Aemond Targaryen looked every bit beastly you had been the beauty.
Decked in a golden dress with a gold mask that covered only half your face in the shape of butterfly wings, your hair extravagantly done. It didn’t matter where in the room one stood, you drew everyone’s attention with every smile and twirl.
Dozens of dukes and lords had been fighting for the chance to dance with you tonight, and you had been nothing but happy to appease them, smiling from ear to ear as you turned the ballroom floor into your own personal haven.
Aemond loved this, loved watching you enjoy yourself and throw everyone in this god forsaken kingdom into awe.
And he allowed you to have your fun, smiling under the mask that covered his entire face as two lords rip their own masks off to scream in eachothers face on who would dance with you next.
The bell chimes midnight, and before either men can draw their swords Aemond is moving down the steps with an easy grace, catching the attention of the people. The music goes silent, his boots clicking against the ground as you stop your dancing and wait for him at the center.
A Cheshire smile covers your lips as you bow, putting your hand in his own hand when he reaches it out and blushing a bit when he pulls it up to place his lips upon it. His kiss lasts a little longer than normal, but he makes sure to look up at you and tilt his head in a way that he knew you liked. And though you could not see his eyes he knew that you recognized the game.
The beauty and the beast.
The music starts up again and he wraps an arm around your waist, shivering when your hand traces up his arm until it lands on his shoulder with your nails digging into the leather. He keeps a firm hold on your other hand, and begins the waltz.
You both move in harmony as the music starts. Going from the waltz to the natural dragon dance, staring at each other intensely as everyone else begins filling the floor to copy your movements, still giving you both a wide berth.
“How are you enjoying your Hallows Eve?” He whispers during one of the spins, his fingers tracing your spine before you are dragged apart to fan your arms out like dragon wings. You bite your lip, and his blood runs hot, watching intently as you move closer.
Another round of waltzing and you lean to whisper into his ear. “I am enjoying it quite a bit, but I would have enjoyed it more if my darling husband were to join in.”
“Is he not in attendance?” Aemond asks, spinning you around once more.
“No, poor thing left me with the devils of the night.” You smile, shivering when his fingers graze over your chest quickly.
“Meet me in the tunnels.” He whispers, enjoying your widened eyes. You don’t argue, merely nod the slightest before the beast of the night disappears and leaves the beauty behind.
-
You carry a candle as you pick up your skirts, walking down the tunnels with a chill running down your spine at every sound.
Aemond is waiting in your regular spot, leaning against the wall with the mask twirling in his fingers.
“The beauty of All Hallows Eve.” He mocks, watching you take off your mask and move closer.
“The beast.” You tease, dropping the gold mask to the dirt beneath you and moving your hands to the leather of the jacket. “How will you have me tonight?”
A low chuckle slips from his lips, and you can do nothing but watch as he bends down to pick up your skirts, his fingers grazing across the skin of your thighs as he lifts the dress slowly. He bunches the skirts at your hips, pushing his own into you and using his free hand to untie the trousers of his own outfit.
“Are you ready for me, Beauty?”
“As always, my beast.” You gasp, feeling him press into you, his nose against your own as you breathe in the minty smells of his breath. “You must hurry, before my husband-”
He enters you in one swift motion, a grunt falling from his lips as his hands tighten on your hips in a brutal grip. You moan, head falling back into the tunnel walls as you wrap your leg around his own hip for better purchase, nails digging into the leathers on his shoulder.
The echo of skin slapping against skin fills the silence as he grunts and gasps at the feeling of you wrapped around him.
This dance is nothing but brutal, him leaning forward to bite and nip at your lips before one of his hands fly to your throat and squeeze.
You moan loudly, tightening around him as you come undone before he follows closely. His thrusts slow and he lets you ride out your high before moving back and retying his trousers.
“Happy All Hallows Eve.” He whispers, pressing a quick kiss to your collarbone as your eyes begin drooping.
-
You awake in your bed the next morning, the gold dress from last night laid carelessly on the floor beside a pair of leather riding boots. Blinking slowly, you move to sit up, smiling to yourself when you realize you woke up just in time to see your lord husband emerging from the bathing chambers.
“Good morn, Lord Husband.” You sigh, sitting on the edge of the bed as he moves forward, spreading your legs to stand between them, keeping his thumb and forefinger on your chin.
“Good morning, Lady Wife.” He leans to kiss your lips and you reach up to trace your fingers along his face, thumb rubbing at his scar, enjoying the shiver that runs through him.
“Have you time this morning-” You moan out, already eager for him. He smiles at you knowingly and shakes his head.
“There are pumpkin pastries out on our table for breakfast. I want to hear all about your adventure last night.”
“Oh, I met a fearsome beast.” You whisper, hands slipping into his wet hair.
“Were you scared?”
“Very.” You smile, enjoying the way he smiles back. Safe to say you didn’t end up eating the pumpkin pastries until that afternoon.
Dreamweaver's Note: Omg I actually have noooo clue what got into me here but I decided to pick up this project.
💫 Each character I write for was randomly paired with a contestant on this season of DWTS and I will be writing an imagine based on the song the couple dances to as we eliminate them one by one. Literally have no clue I just needed something to write.
