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Author's note: So I was thinking to myself. What the hell, right? Drabble compilation, for those snippets that aren't going to be more than just snippets. Because I have too many unfinished writing in my plotbunnies folder.
Chapter 1: Steve/Natasha soulmate au, for iavenge.
Summary: There's a tag and a pull, but no one has ever told them that they are written in the stars.
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tell me again about the stars
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There is a whole different way to the way he looks, when he's like this.
This close to him, she can see streaks of black in between the blueness of his eyes and the way his eyelashes sweep against his cheek when he takes a deep, calming breath. His lips are chapped and red because no one has ever accused her of being gentle. She has always been rough edges and everything else in between. She has always been the fire, the force of destruction, the storm. He has always been the breeze, and the tower and the ruins at the same time. His mess doesn't bleed out like hers. His is covered beneath the stillness of water, and he says—
"This isn't going to work, is it?"
She doesn't smoke. But she wants to. She likes to see the curling of smoke in the air, flying higher and higher. She thinks behind all those smoke from the cigarette she would never smoke his gaze wouldn't be so sharp and she wouldn't be caught with a strange feeling in her chest. She bristles. Something in him ticks her off, makes her uncomfortable, skin suddenly too tight and veins thrumming with something she can't decipher. She hates it. He knows that. He knows that she hates him.
"No," she answers, trying to bite back harsher words and spite. This is not his fault. Sometimes she can't remember that, not when he is bare before her and the identical mark is staring at her from just under his breastbone. She sometimes wants to know what he thinks, when he sees the mark on her body. Covered by a gunshot wound, yet still as clear as day. It would be way easier if he hates her too.
(He doesn't. She both knows and hates that he doesn't.)
She's not a pawn to be played by destiny and no amount of bullshit about soulmates is going to change that. Especially not when the universe is playing a joke on her. Him and her? Now, that's just a disaster bound to happen. There's a tag and a pull, but no one has ever told them that they are written in the stars.
He hums. His fingers are resting on the crook of her neck, thumb digging slightly into her right shoulder blade. She is breathing out words as sharp as knives and wondering what will become out of this mess. His breath is warm against her skin.
(She tells herself she is not inching closer. But she is. She is.)
"It's fine," he whispers. She can smell the lie from miles away. See the crookedness of his smile. Their story is a goddamn bad omen that she would laugh at from the grave. "I know it wouldn't."
He's looking for a happy ending. She tells him there isn't one. Yet he comes back the next day, and she doesn't slam the door shut in front of him.
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End.
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