Summary: The problem with memory isn't just what you forget.
Major Tags: Angst, amnesia.
Additional tags: My entry for the @marvelrarepairs Marvel Rare Pairs Round 5. Card MRP-127.
Links: Wattpad, Ao3, Spanish version.
@saiyanprincessswanie
My native language is Spanish, so I wanna improve my English writing skills. Please let me know if you notice any mistakes, and I will correct them.
I don’t grant permission for my fics to be posted on other platforms or in different languages (I personally translate my work) or for the use of my graphics (my dividers are included in this. I created them exclusively for my fics; please respect my work and refrain from stealing it. Some people here create dividers that anyone can use; mine is not of this type, so please look for the dividers created by others. The only exceptions are those I gifted 'cuz now belong to someone else. Please let me know if you find any of my works on a different platform and are not one of my accounts. Reblogs and comments are always welcome.
DISCLAIMER: I don't own Marvel's characters (unfortunately), except for the original characters and the story.
Add yourself to my taglist here.
My other media where I publish: Ao3, Wattpad, ffnet, TikTok, Instagram, Twitter.
If you like it, please vote, comment, and provide feedback to help me improve my skills. Consider reblogging as well.
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Square: I2 “Damned if you do, damned if you don’t”.
Rating: Teen.
Summary: Steve has a dilemma, and Brock helps him.
Major Tags: Angst, tough decisions, dilemma.
Additional tags: My entry for the @marvelrarepairs Marvel Rare Pairs Round 5. Card MRP-127.
Links: Wattpad, Ao3, Spanish version.
@saiyanprincessswanie
My native language is Spanish, so I wanna improve my English writing skills. Please let me know if you notice any mistakes, and I will correct them.
I don’t grant permission for my fics to be posted on other platforms or in different languages (I personally translate my work) or for the use of my graphics (my dividers are included in this. I created them exclusively for my fics; please respect my work and refrain from stealing it. Some people here create dividers that anyone can use; mine is not of this type, so please look for the dividers created by others. The only exceptions are those I gifted 'cuz now belong to someone else. Please let me know if you find any of my work on a different platform that is not one of my accounts. Reblogs and comments are always welcome.
DISCLAIMER: I don't own Marvel's characters (unfortunately), except for the original characters and the story.
Add yourself to my taglist here.
My other media where I publish: Ao3, Wattpad, ffnet, TikTok, Instagram, Twitter.
If you like it, please vote, comment, and provide feedback to help me improve my skills. Consider reblogging as well.
Like the kind of decisions that, no matter how you make them… always turn out wrong.
Steve Rogers stood in front of the window, watching the raindrops slide down the glass in irregular lines. His reflection distorted with every movement of the water, as if not even his own image could hold steady.
He held the file in his hand.
Crumpled at the edges from the force with which he’d been clutching it.
He hadn’t opened it again.
He didn’t need to.
He already knew what it said.
He already knew what it meant.
The door swung open without warning.
“You’re getting wet without even being outside.”
Brock Rumlow’s voice filled the room.
Steve didn’t turn around.
“No.”
“Of course you are.”
Brock shut the door with his foot, letting the sharp thud announce his presence.
“That kind of look…” he continued, stepping closer, “always means the same thing.”
Steve clenched his jaw.
“I don’t need an analysis.”
“No, but you’re getting one.”
Silence.
Brock stood beside him, looking out the window too.
“What is it?”
Steve hesitated.
A split second.
Long enough for Brock to notice.
“It’s serious.”
“Yes.”
“And you’re overthinking it?”
“Yes.”
Brock let out a small laugh.
“Then it’s definitely serious.”
Steve finally turned around.
He handed him the file.
Brock took it without haste, opening it with an uncomfortable familiarity.
His eyes scanned the pages quickly.
Data.
Locations.
Targets.
Estimated collateral damage.
And then, he paused.
A slight raise of an eyebrow.
“Wow.”
He closed the file with a soft thud.
“Yeah… this is ugly.”
Steve crossed his arms.
“If we act, civilians die.”
“And if you don’t act?”
“The target moves.”
“And does something worse.”
Steve didn’t answer.
He didn’t need to.
Brock tilted his head.
“So, we’re in a classic scenario.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
He tapped the file lightly.
“Whatever you do… You lose.”
“There has to be another option,” Steve said finally.
Brock looked at him.
“Sure.”
“What is it?”
“Accepting that there isn’t one.”
The answer was immediate.
Cutting.
Steve shook his head.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“It doesn’t work that way.”
“It works exactly that way.”
Brock took a step closer.
“The world isn’t clean, Rogers.”
“I didn’t say it was.”
“But you act like it is.”
Steve held his gaze.
“I act as if it could be better.”
“And that’s what gets you into these kinds of situations.”
A pause.
“Because you want to save everyone.”
“Because it’s the right thing to do.”
Brock let out a brief laugh.
Without humor.
“There’s no such thing as ‘right’ here.”
“Of course there is.”
“Not on this page.”
He held up the file.
“There are only consequences here.”
Steve clenched his fists.
“Then we choose the lesser one.”
“And you decide which one that is?”
“Someone has to.”
“Yes.”
Brock took a step back, studying him more closely.
“And that someone is you.”
It wasn’t a question.
It was an accusation.
Steve didn’t defend himself.
Because he couldn’t.
Because deep down… it was true.
“If we attack,” Steve said, “innocents die.”
“Yes.”
“If we don’t attack, the target escapes and could cause something worse.”
“That’s true, too.”
“Then tell me,” Steve looked him straight in the eye, “what would you do?”
Brock held his gaze.
One second.
Two.
“I attack.”
The answer was immediate.
Without a doubt.
“Without thinking.”
Steve frowned.
“Of course I’d think about it.”
“Not enough to stop me.”
He stepped closer again.
“Because I understand something you’re still trying to avoid.”
“What is it?”
“That sometimes there’s no way to win.”
“So, you just… choose?”
“Yes.”
“And you live with that?”
Brock shrugged.
“Or you ignore it.”
“I can’t do that.”
“I know.
“If you do, Brock continued, it’s going to haunt you.
“I know.
“And if you don’t…
“It will too.
Brock nodded.
“Exactly.
He pointed to the space between them.
“There you are.
Trapped.
Steve closed his eyes for a second.
The rain kept falling.
Constant.
Unrelenting.
“I don’t want to choose who lives and who dies.”
“No one does.”
“You don’t seem to have a problem with it.”
Brock let out a small laugh.
“Oh, I do.”
“It doesn’t seem like it.”
“Because I don’t stop.”
Steve opened his eyes.
“I do.”
“And that makes you better.”
A pause.
“But it also makes you slower.”
“And sometimes,” Brock added, “slowness kills more people.”
The words hung in the air.
Hard to ignore.
Steve looked at the file again.
Then at the window.
Then at Brock.
“If I do this…”
“Yes.”
“There’s no turning back.”
“There never is.”
“And if I don’t…”
“Neither.”
Silence.
The rain.
Steve took a deep breath.
“I hate this.”
Brock nodded.
“Good.”
“Good?”
“Yes.”
He crossed his arms.
“If one day you stop caring… then we really have a problem.”
Steve exhaled slowly.
He looked at the file one last time.
And made a decision.
“I’m going to give the order.”
Brock watched him.
Assessing.
“Yeah… that’s what I thought.”
Steve didn’t smile.
There was nothing to celebrate.
“And I’m going to take the heat for this.”
“I thought so too.”
There was one last silence.
“Hey, Rogers,” Brock said before turning toward the door.
Steve looked up.
“What?”
Brock glanced at him over his shoulder.
“Welcome to the point where no matter what you do…”
Summary: Steve and Brock are in trouble after a failed mission.
Major Tags: Angst, blood loss.
Additional tags: My entry for the @marvelrarepairs Marvel Rare Pairs Round 5. Card MRP-127.
Links: Wattpad, Ao3, Spanish version.
@saiyanprincessswanie
My native language is Spanish, so I wanna improve my English writing skills. Please let me know if you notice any mistakes, and I will correct them.
I don’t grant permission for my fics to be posted on other platforms or in different languages (I personally translate my work) or for the use of my graphics (my dividers are included in this. I created them exclusively for my fics; please respect my work and refrain from stealing it. Some people here create dividers that anyone can use; mine is not of this type, so please look for the dividers created by others. The only exceptions are those I gifted 'cuz now belong to someone else. Please let me know if you find any of my work on a different platform that is not one of my accounts. Reblogs and comments are always welcome.
DISCLAIMER: I don't own Marvel's characters (unfortunately), except for the original characters and the story.
Add yourself to my taglist here.
My other media where I publish: Ao3, Wattpad, ffnet, TikTok, Instagram, Twitter.
If you like it, please vote, comment, and provide feedback to help me improve my skills. Consider reblogging as well.
Just that thick, metallic smell, clinging to his throat as if the air itself had turned to blood.
Steve Rogers recognized it before opening his eyes.
And when he did, it came in fragments.
The cold concrete beneath his back. The gray sky was barely visible between collapsed structures. A persistent ringing in his ears, as if everything were happening underwater.
And then… movement.
A few meters away. A silhouette.
“…Rogers.”
The voice was unmistakable.
Steve blinked several times, straining his eyes until the face took shape.
Brock Rumlow.
Covered in dust.
In blood.
Too much blood.
The memory came flooding back.
The explosion.
The collapse.
The impact.
Steve tried to sit up, but the world tilted dangerously. A violent dizziness forced him to stay where he was, bracing himself with one hand.
Bad idea.
The pain in his side responded immediately.
“Don’t move,” Brock growled from the ground.
Steve ignored the order. He always did, especially when they came from Rumlow.
“How long…?” he tried to say, but his voice came out weaker than he expected.
“Minutes,” Brock replied. “Maybe.”
He didn’t sound convinced.
Steve managed to sit up, taking a deep breath as he assessed his condition. Bruises, cuts—but nothing he couldn’t handle.
Then he looked at Brock.
And he understood.
The blood wasn’t just superficial.
It wasn’t a minor injury.
“No,” Steve murmured, moving immediately.
The dizziness returned, stronger, but he ignored it. He crawled over to him.
“Hey,” Brock’s voice tightened. “Take it easy, Captain. You don’t look any better than I do.”
Steve didn’t answer.
He was already assessing the wound.
Side entry.
Deep.
Irregular.
It wasn’t just a cut.
It was internal damage.
“We need to stop this,” he said, more to himself than to Brock.
“Good luck.”
The reply was curt, but there was no mockery in it.
Just… reality.
Steve took off his gloves, his hands steady despite the slight tremor that was beginning to set in.
He pressed on the wound.
Brock exhaled sharply, his body tensing under the touch.
“That’s not going to be pleasant,” he murmured.
“It doesn’t have to be.”
“Always so optimistic.”
The blood wouldn’t stop.
It seeped through his fingers, warm and steady.
Too steady.
Steve increased the pressure.
“Look at me,” he ordered.
Brock didn’t respond immediately.
His gaze was fixed on some undefined point.
“Rumlow.”
That made him react.
He turned his head slightly.
“I’m still here.”
“Then stay.”
A small curve appeared at the corner of Brock’s lips.
A sort of faint smile.
“I wasn’t planning on leaving… yet.”
Time began to warp.
Every second stretched out.
Every breath became more conscious.
Steve could feel Brock’s pulse beneath his hands.
Irregular.
Slower than it should be.
“You’re losing too much blood,” he said.
“Yeah, that usually happens when you get stabbed.”
“Shut up.”
“Not my style.”
But his voice no longer had the same strength.
It was fading.
And Steve knew it.
“Listen to me,” he said, leaning in a little closer. “I need you to stay awake.”
“Always giving orders.”
“It’s not a suggestion.”
Brock let out a breath that was almost a laugh.
“You know… I always thought that if this happened… it would be more… dramatic.”
“Don’t talk.”
Steve clenched his teeth.
He didn’t say anything.
But he didn’t stop pressing.
The blood was starting to cool in his hands.
That was worse… Much worse.
“Hey,” Brock murmured.
Steve looked up.
“What?”
“You look… worried.”
“I am.”
“Interesting.”
“It isn’t.”
Silence.
Just breathing.
Irregular.
Fragile.
“I never thought it would be you,” Brock added, more quietly.
“What?”
“The last person I’d see.”
Steve didn’t answer.
Because there was no right answer for that.
The surroundings remained unstable.
Structures creaked.
Dust fell in small cascades from above.
“Don’t fall asleep,” Steve said.
“I’m not sleepy.”
He was lying. It was obvious. His eyes were no longer focusing properly. His body was losing the fight.
“Brock.”
“Yes, Rogers.”
“Stay with me.”
Another small smile.
Weaker.
“Always so convincing.”
Steve shifted the position of his hands slightly, trying to slow the flow.
It wasn’t working enough.
He needed more.
But there was nothing.
Just debris.
Silence.
And time is running out.
“This isn’t enough,” he murmured.
“You’re trying.”
“It’s not enough.”
“It never is.”
Steve shook his head.
“No.”
“Yes.”
Brock closed his eyes for a second. Just one, but it was enough for Steve to react.
“No.”
He shook him gently.
“Look at me.”
The eyes opened again.
With effort.
“I’m still here.”
“Then stay.”
The rain started suddenly.
Light at first.
Falling between the cracks in the concrete, mixing with the blood, diluting it, dragging it away in tiny red threads.
Summary: Steve’s emotional, physical, and psychological shock… and on how Phil Coulson becomes that strange hybrid of fan, agent, and anchor.
Major Tags: Angst, new era.
Additional tags: My entry for the @marvelrarepairs Marvel Rare Pairs Round 5. Card MRP-127.
Links: Wattpad, Ao3, Spanish version.
@saiyanprincessswanie
My native language is Spanish, so I wanna improve my English writing skills. Please let me know if you notice any mistakes, and I will correct them.
I don’t grant permission for my fics to be posted on other platforms or in different languages (I personally translate my work) or for the use of my graphics (my dividers are included in this. I created them exclusively for my fics; please respect my work and refrain from stealing it. Some people here create dividers that anyone can use; mine is not of this type, so please look for the dividers created by others. The only exceptions are those I gifted 'cuz now belong to someone else. Please let me know if you find any of my works on a different platform and are not one of my accounts. Reblogs and comments are always welcome.
DISCLAIMER: I don't own Marvel's characters (unfortunately), except for the original characters and the story.
Add yourself to my taglist here.
My other media where I publish: Ao3, Wattpad, ffnet, TikTok, Instagram, Twitter.
If you like it, please vote, comment, and provide feedback to help me improve my skills. Consider reblogging as well.
He sat up in bed, straight, awake, waiting for something that never came.
An attack.
An explosion.
Orders.
Nothing.
Just that hum.
The door opened at six o’clock sharp.
Exactly.
Not a second before. Not a second after.
And there was Phil Coulson.
A folder in his hand.
“Good morning, Captain Rogers.”
Steve didn’t respond right away. He just looked at him.
“Do you always walk in without knocking?”
Coulson blinked.
“I can do that if you prefer.”
“I prefer to know when someone enters my room.”
“Understood.”
He wrote it down.
Literally.
That was weird.
Coulson stepped inside.
“We have a light schedule today. Medical evaluations, basic orientation, and… a cultural update.”
“Update?”
“Yes, sir.”
Silence.
“How long was I…?”
“Approximately seventy years.”
“I see.”
He didn’t see it.
But he said it anyway.
Coulson knew it.
And he didn’t correct him.
The next day, the screens were the problem.
Too much information.
Too fast.
Brighter colors.
Louder sounds.
Everything is more immediate.
Steve leaned forward.
“This is live.”
“Yes. Real-time broadcast,” Coulson replied.
Steve shook his head slightly. He didn’t like that.
“Can everyone see this?”
“In theory, yes.”
“That’s not safe.”
“No, it isn’t.”
On the third day, Coulson changed the routine.
It wasn’t on the agenda.
“This wasn’t part of the plan.”
“I thought it would be useful.”
The museum was empty.
Soft lighting. Still air.
And there was Steve.
But not him.
A uniform.
A shield.
Photographs.
“The First Avenger,” he read softly.
He didn’t sound proud.
He sounded detached.
Coulson approached the exhibit.
“There’s an entire section dedicated to his missions.”
“Have you read them all?”
Coulson stood still.
“Yes. More than once.”
Steve glanced at him sideways.
“You’re a fan.”
Coulson tensed slightly.
“I’m a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent.”
“Uh-huh.”
He didn’t press the issue. But he understood.
By the fifth day, the exhaustion wasn’t physical anymore. It was something else—maybe more emotional or mental; he couldn’t quite describe it. There were simply too many questions, too few answers, and too much information—but that didn’t mean it was all useful.
“I don’t belong here.”
They were in a training room. Steve was already done, but he wasn’t leaving.
“That’s normal,” Coulson replied.
“No. It’s not normal. Everything’s faster. Louder. More…”
“Different.”
“Wrong.”
Coulson frowned slightly.
“Wrong?”
“Like I’m in the wrong place.”
“The world has changed, but that doesn’t mean you’re out of place.”
Steve looked at him.
“That sounds like something you were told to say.”
Sinopsis: el choque emocional, físico y psicológico de Steve… y cómo Phil Coulson se convierte en ese punto extraño entre fan, agente y ancla.
Advertencias: Angst, nueva era.
N/A: Esta es mi entrada al Marvel Rare Pairs Round 5. Carta MRP-127.
Links: Wattpad, Ao3, versión en inglés.
Si te gustó, por favor vota, comenta y rebloguea.
No doy permiso para que mis fics sean publicados en otra plataforma o en otro idioma (yo traduzco mi propio trabajo) ni para el uso de mis gráficos (mis separadores de texto también están incluidos), los cuales hice exclusivamente para mis fics. Por favor, respeta mi trabajo y no lo robes. Aquí en la plataforma hay personas que crean separadores de texto para que cualquiera los pueda usar; los míos no son públicos. Por favor, busca los de dichas personas. La única excepción serían los regalos que he hecho, ya que ahora pertenecen a alguien más. Si encuentras alguno de mis trabajos en una plataforma distinta y no es de alguna de mis cuentas, por favor, avísame. Los reblogs y los comentarios están bien.
DISCLAIMER: Los personajes de Marvel no me pertenecen (desafortunadamente), excepto a los personajes originales y a la historia.
Anótate en mi taglist aquí.
Otros lugares donde publico: Ao3, Wattpad, ffnet, TikTok, Instagram, Twitter.
Al día siguiente, las pantallas fueron el problema.
Demasiada información.
Demasiado rápido.
Colores más brillantes.
Sonidos más fuertes.
Todo más inmediato.
Steve se inclinó hacia adelante.
—Esto es en vivo.
—Sí. Transmisión en tiempo real —respondió Coulson.
Steve negó apenas. Eso no le gustó.
—¿Todo el mundo puede ver esto?
—En teoría, sí.
—Eso no es seguro.
—No, no lo es.
El tercer día, Coulson cambió la rutina.
No estaba en la agenda.
—Esto no estaba en el plan.
—Consideré que sería útil.
El museo estaba vacío.
Luces suaves. Aire quieto.
Y ahí estaba Steve.
Pero no él.
Un uniforme.
Un escudo.
Fotografías.
—“El primer vengador” —leyó en voz baja.
No sonó orgulloso.
Sonó ajeno.
Coulson se acercó a la exhibición.
—Hay una sección completa dedicada a sus misiones.
—¿Las has leído todas?
Coulson se quedó quieto.
—Sí. Más de una vez.
Steve lo miró de reojo.
—Eres fan.
Coulson se tensó apenas.
—Soy un agente de S.H.I.E.L.D.
—Ajá.
No insistió. Pero lo entendió.
Para el quinto día, el cansancio ya no era físico. Era otra cosa, tal vez más sentimental, o mental, no sabría describirlo, simplemente había demasiadas preguntas, pocas respuestas, demasiada información, pero eso no significaba que todo fuese útil.
—No encajo aquí.
Estaban en una sala de entrenamiento. Steve ya había terminado, pero no se iba.
—Es normal —respondió Coulson.
—No. No es normal. Todo es más rápido. Más ruidoso. Más…
—Diferente.
—Incorrecto.
Coulson frunció ligeramente el ceño.
—¿Incorrecto?
—Como si estuviera en el lugar equivocado.
—El mundo cambió, pero eso no significa que usted esté fuera de lugar.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Sinopsis: El problema con la memoria no es solo lo que olvidas.
Advertencias: Angst, amnesia.
N/A: Esta es mi entrada al Marvel Rare Pairs Round 5. Carta MRP-127.
Links: Wattpad, Ao3, versión en inglés.
Si te gustó, por favor vota, comenta y rebloguea.
No doy permiso para que mis fics sean publicados en otra plataforma o en otro idioma (yo traduzco mi propio trabajo) ni para el uso de mis gráficos (mis separadores de texto también están incluidos), los cuales hice exclusivamente para mis fics. Por favor, respeta mi trabajo y no lo robes. Aquí en la plataforma hay personas que crean separadores de texto para que cualquiera los pueda usar; los míos no son públicos. Por favor, busca los de dichas personas. La única excepción serían los regalos que he hecho, ya que ahora pertenecen a alguien más. Si encuentras alguno de mis trabajos en una plataforma distinta y no es de alguna de mis cuentas, por favor, avísame. Los reblogs y los comentarios están bien.
DISCLAIMER: Los personajes de Marvel no me pertenecen (desafortunadamente), excepto a los personajes originales y a la historia.
Anótate en mi taglist aquí.
Otros lugares donde publico: Ao3, Wattpad, ffnet, TikTok, Instagram, Twitter.
