#[spoken: spectre]

[deities-anew]

spectre, messenger, what are you two?

a whore

a monster fucker

[idkyetxoxo]

Cregan Stark - Northern Frost Southern Sun

Summary - In the unforgiving North, a Southern princess struggles with her political marriage to Cregan, feeling like an outsider. As she voices her insecurities, their bond deepens, transforming their alliance into a passionate connection that bridges the divide between their worlds.

Pairing - Cregan Stark x Martell reader

Warnings - Sexual content (smut!)

Word count - 2124

Masterlist for Cregan • House of the Dragon General Masterlist.

Born into nobility, my life had always felt scripted—a path inked not by my own desires but by the hands of the men around me. 

My father, my uncle, my brother, even the echoes of my grandfather shaped the walls around me. 

As a daughter of House Martell, the rulers of sun-drenched Dorne, my existence was predetermined, my fate a strategy in the game of thrones woven by my father, Prince Qoren Martell himself. 

A Martell daughter, after all, was a prize to be bartered, and he had chosen a formidable match.

He pledged me to Cregan Stark, Lord of House Stark, in the distant, unforgiving North. 

A union as calculated as it was unfeeling, our marriage was intended to bind the desert heat of Dorne with the ice and shadows of Winterfell. 

It was a pact, a quiet promise to fortify our realms and maintain a precarious balance in the ever-shifting powers of Westeros. My father assured me it was for our people, for peace. 

But I knew what the alliance would cost me: the endless winds that sliced through bone, the chill that would burrow into my soul, the lonely shadows that clung to Winterfell's walls like phantoms.

The North was all I had dreaded—an imposing land where silence lingered thickly in the air, and winter settled in more than just the stones. 

Every breath was laced with frost, every glance held a guarded judgment, as if they wondered if this southern-born woman could ever survive in a world so different, so grim. 

And always, there were whispers—"the Dornish wife"—spoken softly yet deliberately, trailing me like spectres through the dim corridors.

Yet amid the cold and the solitude, Cregan Stark surprised me. 

He was not the man I had envisioned: distant and unyielding, a creature as cold as the land he ruled. 

Instead, Cregan had a quiet strength, a kindness that seemed out of place in such a harsh land. He understood, perhaps better than I, the challenges I faced here. 

With subtle gestures and quiet assurances, he tried to ease my discomfort, his attentions more thoughtful than I'd dared hope. He never pressed, but he was there—a grounding presence, a warmth that, little by little, began to soften the edges of my isolation.

A moon had passed since our union. I was neither entirely happy nor entirely sorrowful; I was simply... here. 

Somewhere between contentment and restlessness, caught in a place that wasn't mine yet somehow, piece by piece, was becoming so. 

Winterfell was no closer to being home, but Cregan's attentions made the frigid halls more bearable, his patience an anchor as I drifted, my heart searching for familiarity in a sea of foreignness.

One evening, as twilight painted the snow in hues of indigo and grey, I stood on the balcony, gazing out across Winterfell. 

The frosty landscape stretched endlessly, an ocean of cold where dawn seemed forever on the edge of arriving but never quite here. 

As I watched the endless expanse of snow, I remembered the hot, golden sands of Sunspear. 

In Dorne, the sun-kissed our skin, the scent of ripe figs and sea salt filled the air. Here, every corner held a chill, every shadow seemed to whisper secrets.

In that stillness, I heard a voice—a voice I had come to know well, warm yet edged with the subtle command of a lord.

"What's on your mind?" Cregan's words reached me, low and tender.

Startled, I turned to see him leaning on the railing beside me, his gaze thoughtful. His presence was a welcome warmth, and yet I found myself instinctively closing in, the winter wind cutting through my gown.

"Nothing," I replied, a feeble defence as my voice carried softly into the chill.

He studied me quietly, his eyes catching the slight shiver that ran through me as the wind nipped at my shoulders. 

"Doesn't look like 'nothing,'" he said, his voice low. "You're cold. Come inside." 

Without waiting for my reply, he draped his cloak over my shoulders, guiding me toward the warmth of our chambers, stopping by the hearth as the flames crackled to life.

"I don't belong," I murmured, staring into the fire. My fingers traced the thick Northern fabric of my gown—a cloth I'd hoped would make me feel less like an outsider. 

The weight of the words hung between us as if spoken aloud for the first time, stirring the silence in the dim room.

"What do you mean, my love?" Cregan's voice broke the quiet, a softness I hadn't expected. 

He turned to face me, his eyes searching mine with a rare vulnerability as if my answer mattered more than the words themselves.

I took a long, steadying breath, watching the flames dance and trying to gather the right words. 

"They still see me as different," I whispered. "A stranger, from a land they neither know nor trust. I try to blend in, to be... what I think they want. But sometimes, I wonder if they'll ever truly see me as one of their own." 

My voice trembled as the truth spilt out, deeper than I'd intended. "They whisper, Cregan when they think I can't hear. They don't trust me. And some days, I'm not sure they ever will."

Cregan listened in silence, his gaze steady and unwavering. 

Without a word, he reached for my hand, his calloused fingers rough yet gentle as they enveloped mine, grounding me in the midst of my insecurities.

"Give them time," he said softly, his voice like a balm. "The North can be as harsh as winter itself, slow to warm, but it's not unyielding." 

His hand lifted my chin, guiding my gaze up to meet his. In his eyes, I saw not just kindness, but an unwavering strength, as if he could will my doubts away by the force of his conviction alone.

"You belong here, with me," he said, his voice a quiet promise. "No whispers or frost will ever change that."

I felt his words settle over me like a cloak, their warmth reaching parts of my heart I hadn't realized were cold. But still, uncertainty lingered, stubborn and unrelenting. 

Perhaps sensing my hesitation, Cregan shifted closer, his presence wrapping around me like an unbreakable fortress.

He cupped my cheek with a tenderness that both surprised and soothed me. 

"You are the heat I've always been missing," he murmured, his voice low and thick with meaning. 

Slowly, his hand drifted down, sliding under the folds of my gown with a touch that sent a shiver through me—a sensation born not of the cold, but of something deeper.

"What are you doing?" I asked, a laugh escaping as I fought back my nervousness.

"Showing you." His voice was gentle, a playful glint in his eyes. "Showing you that you belong."

With a tender confidence, his hands moved, sending ripples through me that melted the tension from my body. 

His touch was warm and steady, his fingers tracing up my sides, and for the first time since coming to the North, I felt my fears begin to ease as if his presence alone could erase them. 

The doubts, the whispers—they all faded as his hands explored, each caress a quiet reassurance.

His gaze held mine, unwavering, and in that moment, there was an intimacy that transcended touch, a promise woven in the quiet between us. 

He leaned in, his lips finding mine, capturing them with a gentleness that made me feel like I was being seen for the first time. His kiss was both soft and fervent, his lips warm as they moved against mine, igniting a fire that outmatched any northern hearth.

As his hands roamed over my body, rough and calloused from years of wielding steel, they were uncharacteristically gentle, tracing the lines of my skin as if memorizing each curve. 

His fingers held a kind of reverence, as if I were something precious, not just the wife bound to him by a political alliance but a person who was cherished.

In that moment, he lifted me, guiding me slowly towards the bed, never once breaking the kiss. 

I felt myself sink into the softness of the furs as he laid me down, the flickering fire casting its amber glow across the room, cocooning us in its warmth. 

There was a tenderness in his touch as he caressed me, his movements slow and purposeful, each gesture a quiet declaration.

The world outside the chamber ceased to exist; there was no cold, no looming suspicion, no whispers echoing down the corridors. 

Only Cregan and the fire between us, burning bright and fierce.

His lips trailed down my neck, each kiss a spark that sent warmth radiating through me. He paused, his gaze seeking mine as his hand found the ties of my gown, his touch both reverent and questioning. 

I met his eyes, giving him the permission he silently sought, and with careful, deliberate movements, he began to untie it, each pull of the fabric a slow unveiling.

As the gown slipped away, leaving me bare before him, I felt no vulnerability, only an overwhelming sense of being cherished. 

Cregan's eyes held nothing but admiration, and in that look, he banished every doubt, every whisper that had haunted me since I'd arrived in the North.

"You're beautiful," he murmured, his voice raw and thick with emotion. "So beautiful."

His words soaked into me, warming those fragile places hidden within, and I felt myself drawn to him, my fingers threading into his hair, pulling him close. 

His warmth was a balm, a grounding presence I needed as his lips found mine, slow and deliberate, speaking promises only we could hear.

With a practised, fluid ease, he shed the last of his clothes, his gaze never breaking from mine. 

His bare skin met mine in a press that was both electric and soothing, each inch of contact igniting a surge of feeling, of completeness that made me gasp. 

His hands traced down my sides, exploring the curves and lines of my body, as if they held secrets he'd yearned to know. 

Every touch, every brush of his fingers sent shivers across my skin.

He lowered himself, aligning our bodies with a reverence that made my heart ache. 

When he settled between my thighs, his touch shifted, moving from a delicate exploration to a quiet, steady possession. 

His grip on me tightened, anchoring me beneath him, and his eyes held a ferocity that was matched by the tenderness in his touch. He was wholly mine, and I, his.

"You're mine," he whispered his voice a low growl that sent a thrill through me. "Mine."

"Yes," I breathed, my fingers pressing into his shoulders as I clung to him, letting myself believe it. "Yours."

He moved with a deliberate rhythm, each thrust a declaration, an unspoken vow that silenced the doubts within me. 

Every part of me, every fragment I thought too broken to matter, felt seen, treasured. 

The warmth grew between us, winding up in intensity as he continued, his movements steady, yet laced with a simmering need that built with each passing moment.

His hands roamed over me, possessive yet reverent, fingers tracing gentle lines along my skin. His lips left trails of warmth, soft whispers mingling with our breaths. 

The connection between us thrummed with a strength that felt sacred, binding us beyond words, deeper than the physical.

Our rhythm intensified, his hands gripping my waist, his lips capturing my moans as we chased the rising wave together. 

The air was thick with the sounds of our bodies, the soft crackle of the fire, the murmurs of our whispered names.

In that moment, there was no North or South, no whispers of "the Dornish wife." There was only Cregan and me, bound together by a love that had taken root in the most unlikely of places.

When the climax came, it hit with a force that left us breathless, a bliss that surged through us like fire and water, fierce yet softening. 

He held me through it, our breaths mingling as we trembled in the aftermath, our hearts beating as one.

Cregan collapsed beside me, his arms wrapping around me as he pulled me close. We lay there in the afterglow, our bodies entwined, the fire casting a soft glow over us.

"You belong here," he murmured, his voice a soothing balm to my soul. "With me."

"I do," I replied, my heart swelling with a newfound certainty. "I belong with you."

As I drifted off to sleep in his arms, I knew that no matter the challenges we might face, we would face them together. 

The North might be cold and unforgiving, but with Cregan by my side, I felt a warmth that could withstand any storm. 

And in his embrace, I found not just a home, but a love that would endure.

A/n - I am such a sucker for any Dornish reader works 😝

Cregan tag list - @veesuguru

[wordstome]

the execution of lady jane grey

I got drunk and Tiktok showed me history_alice's video about this painting by Paul Delaroche. And since God has cursed me for my hubris and my work is never finished, have some medieval executioner König x fem mc. Also, Lady Jane Grey was executed by Mary Tudor (Bloody Mary), not by Henry the VIIIth (the one with the six wives), but I blended the stories just because I can.

1.3k words

König doesn't ask questions.

It's never been his job to ask questions. The king points, and he does the dirty work. Most of the time, he takes pleasure in it: thieves, rapists, murderers, they all answer to his justice. And sure, a true loyal citizen might argue that he's simply enacting the king's justice, but it's König who swings the axe, is it not? In the end, König decides their fate.

In theory, anyway. In practice, this is simply his job. He keeps his head down and does what he's told. He stays quiet about the king's secret executions, the ones that happen in the dungeons instead of out in the open courtyard where the smallfolk gather to watch. It's hypocritical, honestly. They all look at König like he's a monster, some spectre of death among men, but when there's a public execution to be held, are they not the ones clamoring and pushing to be at the front?

There are some times when the king's executions are more...dubious. An advisor who voiced dissent one too many times. A thief stealing barley from the royal stables to feed his family, made an example of. A young man, just a boy really, accused of murdering four grown men—convenient, considering all four men's wives had been found in the king's bed at some point or another.

Those are the executions König prefers not to think about. The ones that haunt him in his dreams anyway. Those are the ones that make him yearn for his days in the army: when the people he killed were as faceless as his hood was to them, when he didn't know them and didn't have to think about the loved ones they left behind. König's never claimed to be a good person, the opposite in fact. But sometimes when he brings the blade down, he imagines a different, more royal neck on the block instead.

He feels this way now, as he watches her make her way to the block.

She's ethereal in her petticoat, the soft silken material reflecting what little light there is in the cold stone room and bathing her in a warm glow. Gentle and obedient into her own grave.

The king's wife. Sent to the block for treason, of all things. But everyone knows the truth: he's only killing this poor woman because he plots to put his latest mistress on the throne. Just a few weeks ago, this sweet young thing was the king's main obsession. She stood no chance at all, the daughter of a local lord currying favor with royalty. And now, she's being put to death through no fault of her own. The injustice grinds König's teeth, and takes his mind to a dark, dangerous place.

If she was his, he would never so much as let another woman cross his mind again. He's seen her about the palace grounds, with her beautiful bright eyes and lively smile, skirts trailing behind her like the tail feathers of an exotic bird. Just watching her had made him feel young again, no longer the brutish old soldier everyone averted their eyes from.

He's only spoken to her once, but he'll never forget it. He had been in her way, but she was the one who apologized. Most people would have seen the hood and backed away in fear, but not her. He watched, frozen and unable to say a single word, as she curtseyed and looked at him with, of all things, a shy curiosity. For one still, breathtaking moment, he held her gaze in his, and he felt like they were the last two people remaining on earth.

Then her lady in waiting had touched her on the elbow, and the spell was broken as they continued on their way. But König had never forgotten.

That same lady in waiting is here now, eyes puffy as she holds the queen's elaborate dress and jewelry in her lap. She had chosen to take it off, so as not to stain the expensive fabrics with her blood. How can she be so considerate of others, when the whole world has failed her so?

She turns to him, trembling like a little bird, and meets his gaze. The words come out before he can help himself.

"I beg your forgiveness," he blurts out, and almost immediately mentally scolds himself. What right does he have, of all people, to ask for her grace?

"Of course, sir," she says, her voice clear and sweet. Surely, he can't feel any more wretched than he does right now...and then she speaks again.

"I only pray you dispatch me quickly..." She turns a fearful eye to the wooden block, sitting almost innocently on top of the straw laid down to soak up her lifeblood. "Will...will you take it before I lay me down?"

"No, madam," he whispers.

She nods, and with a sudden streak of iron will, ties the blindfold about her head. König knows this is a kindness: she'll never see him coming. And yet his heart aches to see her cover up those beautiful eyes.

A loud sob comes out of the lady in waiting, watching her young mistress fumble around blindly. König's heart shatters when she lets out a little cry of confusion as the lieutenant of the prison rushes to hold her steady. "What shall I do? Where is it?"

König feels a sudden streak of anger, at the gentle way the lieutenant lowers her to the ground. The man clearly knows this is wrong, and yet will not lift a finger to help her.

Guilt strikes him yet again as he remembers that neither is he.

Or is he?

He stares down at her, this vulnerable little lamb sent to the slaughter, her pretty neck exposed for his blade, and he knows what he has to do.

The lady in waiting cries out in anguish as the blade lowers to the queen's head, causing her to gasp as the cold metal brushes against her skin. But instead of cutting her head off, König slices through her blindfold with a deft precision.

"What is the meaning of this?" The lieutenant demands as the queen scrambles from her kneeling position. König offers his arm, and she takes it, her hands warm against his sleeve as she stands up. The confusion is writ plain on her face, but her eyes shine with an innocent hope that only steels König's resolve.

"You," König says, pointing his axe at the lieutenant, who shuffles backwards nervously. "You will tell the king that she has been executed. If he asks for a body, find one: I don't care which one. And if you tell anyone what happened here today, I swear to you that I will water the earth with your blood, and the blood of every family member in your line." His eyes narrow at the lieutenant. "Do I make myself clear?" The man nods, stuck still with terror.

The queen's lady in waiting rushes forward, pressing jewels into her hands. "My lady, you will need these," she says urgently. "For wherever life takes you next." She gives König a determined look. "Take care of her, sir."

The queen's eyes go wide and round as she looks up at König. "I don't understand."

He kneels to her height, taking her hands in his. "I am taking you away from this place," he tells her, his voice low and urgent. "But you need to trust me."

She closes her eyes, and takes one deep, trembling breath before opening them again. "I trust you."

"Good." She yelps as he picks her up in his arms, hands instantly darting about his shoulders. "I am sorry, my lady, but we don't have much time."

She giggles, giggles, in his arms. "I don't mind," she says, with a mischievous little look that invites trouble. God, he is utterly fucked, isn't he?

"I can give you time, but not much," the lieutenant says. "Go!"

König doesn't need to be told twice.

To be honest with you, I have no idea what this is. I wrote this in, like. An hour. I think a demon possessed me. I don't think I'm going to write more of this au, but who knows!

@danibee33 @kneelingshadowsalome @crowbird @poohkie90 @cumikering @iytatsworld @papaver-decervicatus @anxietyrain @riotakire @ax0lotly @cookiepie111 @kacchasu @no1runawaymilkdad @chthonian-spectre @backwards-readings @yxllowtxpe @garbau @hexqueensupreme @queenthorin1 @violetstyless @her-majesty-theking @vegan-peppermint @peonytarian @ghostslittlegf @euuuuuuun @e1x03 @kokonoiwife @deaddainish @dragonfang @teehee-47 @catluvwr @keiva1000 @waves-against-a-cliff @channelsoph @cutiecusp @itsagrimm @dins-riduur-anthe @mantishymns @lexuria

[dcdreamblog]

This is probably getting a little outside your purview, but the same book of Weird War Tales I read about the Creature Commandos in also had an entry on something called the Haunted Tank, a WW II tank crew lead by a man named Jeb Stuart, who claimed to be advised by the ghost of his ancestor, Civil War general J.E.B. Stuart.

Is there any credence or proof to this? I know the Spectre is a thing and the JLA had someone who claimed to be an actual angel on it, but I can’t tell if this is stretching things or not.

There's an absence of evidence, but that doesn't by itself prove an evidence of absence as any good scientist will tell you. Let's break it down. There's two general stories surrounding the Haunted Tank, the WWII version and the less well known modern version.

(Movie poster for The Haunted Tank, WB Pictures, 2009. It was ok. OOC: u/thejedibugs on Reddit)

The original WWII version of the Haunted Tank story followed the crew of an M3 Stuart light tank commanded by Sgt. Jeb Stuart. Stuart claimed until his dying day that he was guided by the spirit of his grandfather, Confederate general J.E.B Stuart. Sgt. Stewart claimed that he received advise from his military ancestor. Painting the words "Haunted Tank" across his machine in white paint and hanging a Confederate Flag from the turret while the tank and its crew served with distinction across North Africa and Western Europe, including Operation Torch, the Normandy Landings, and the Battle of the Bulge.

Sgt. Stuart's crew have gone on record saying they never heard or saw the spirit in the flesh as it were and Stuart's insistence made him seem slightly off his rocker to his comrades BUT having complete faith in their commanding officer's combat ability they played along and many of them have recounted tales of events that they could not otherwise explain in the heat of combat. (Such as multiple occurrences of the tank aiming and firing itself at the correct moment to save their lives without anyone being in the vehicle)

Records at the time are slim. The tank was successful in its missions and as such was rarely questioned by commanding officers.

A reconstruction of the tank (the original was destroyed near the end of the war) is on display at the American Heritage Museum in Hudson, Massachusetts.

(Image of the second Haunted Tank produced for the History Channel's "War that Time Forgot" series)

The second Haunted Tank was and is an M1 Abrams deployed during the 1st Iraq War. This tank was commanded by one of Jeb Stuart's own grandchildren, Sgt Jamal Stuart. (The WWII Jeb Stuart actually has 2 living Grandchildren, the other a woman named Jen Stuart who is also a lieutenant in the armed forces).

Their tank was rescued by the spirit of J.E.B Stuart during an ambush by raiders after falling behind an American convoy due to mechanical failure.

Jamal Stuart has been much colder in his take on his ancestors interference. Since, as the name implies, Jamal Stuart is a black man. (Technically mixed race, his mother is African American) and has spoken at length about having to come to terms with the legacy of his ancestor appearing right in front of him. Whatever actual agreement they came to is ultimately a private matter but Sgt' Stuart's Abrams also became known as The Haunted Tank and also flew a Confederate Flag out of the vehicle's turret for the length of their deployment.

No generation of modern Stuarts seems ecstatic at the associations their stories create (The WWII Stuart had a black soldier among his crew despite official rules against army integration, one of his own children married a black woman and his grandson IS black). And yet the story is what it is, whether you or I or anyone else like it or not.

[luvrodite]

milk teeth (833)

on returning to gotham, and old ghosts that haunt you

After it all happens, your parents whisk you away.

It amounts to a betrayal you never quite forgive them for and despite their efforts, the move doesn’t quite scrub Gotham from your grief stricken memory. It remains forever in the rearview mirror, a taunting spectre at your back, a permanent black spot that seems to jeer, you’ll be back. You cannot outrun me.

Some days, she is benevolent. In dreams, she coaxes you back with promises of home, nudges towards you the days that had once made up your childhood. Memories of what had once been, but could never be again, are offered to you on a plate. Return to me, return, return, return…

She shows her viciousness, too. When sweetness does not deliver you back to her threshold, she reveals her teeth. Fury driven by what has been stolen from her, you bear the brunt of her scorn. Child of smoke and water, you were never meant to leave the bounds of her domain.  

Sunsoaked and dripping in artificial colouring, the West Coast is nothing like your gray, grim city. It’s lit in technicolour, yellows and blues too bright for your retinas, Brighton weakened, unused to anything beyond the pale smog and acid rain. Flash burns make a home in your vision, oil spills in the corner of your eye that linger long after you’ve withdrawn, sitting in the dark of your room with the curtains pulled taut. 

The name that sits in your hollow chest is never spoken aloud. 

Not by you, nor your parents who barely dare to look at you, as though you will shatter under the very weight of their gaze. It festers there, the restless spirit of the blue eyed boy who had held your hand on the first day of high school, wrathful at being forgotten. What prayers you muster go unanswered. How can one gain forgiveness from the dead?

Little bird with a wounded wing, you flinch from any and all attempts at consolation. Memory and imagination blur together, visions procured that haunt your nights and whittle you into something unrecognisable. 

Where has my baby gone?

There is no answer that will satisfy your mother’s tears, no energy to fashion a lie that will comfort her agony. Not when your own peels you back, an unending flagellation that shows no intention of relenting. 

This is a grief not meant for the young – to love and lose, this should have come in the winter of your life. But the baby fat of your cheeks has yet to slim out, milk teeth not all lost. You do not know crow’s feet, nor silver strands that thread through your mane.

Grief, you come to find out, cares not for whom it afflicts. You come to know her well.

The California sun, over the years, becomes tolerable but it does little to put your heart to rest, to quiet the press of phantom fingers and wisps of blue black hair that brush against the curtain of your memory. 

Your lost boy lingers, your graveyard of bones calls you home and Gotham takes you back into her arms, a near decade after Jason is killed.

It threatens to topple you over, a knife lodged beneath your breast when you take your first step off the bridge and onto the island. 

All around you the city thrums with frenetic energy, a spirit that has run undercurrent to the lives of its inhabitants long before the first slab of concrete was laid down. Steam hisses and bellows from pipes in buildings above your head. You are jostled by the foot traffic, hurried pedestrians casting derisive looks over their shoulder and muttering beneath their breath. Someone yells down the road, a too harsh laugh makes your eardrums ache and the ghost of your first love stands beneath a light pole, smiling.

He looks just as he had, that last day. It nearly brings you to your knees, staring at the curly haired angel leaning against the steel, a toothy grin curving a rosebud mouth upwards. 

Somebody shoves you with a yell to stop hogging up the path that you barely hear. By the time you look back, he’s gone.

In street lamps, under the cover of store awnings and atop buildings guarded carefully by stone gargoyles. The flutter of fabric in the wind rings in your ears and the world takes on a blue quality, the muffled echoes of a dying laugh reaching you through a veil. 

That same gap toothed, crooked grin that you’d known in your youth meets you from across a convenience store and you drop the can of soda in your hand, 13 years old and blustering under the weight of a nosy store owner’s gaze – shouldn’t you both be at school?

You walk out empty handed and twelve years older, with bright purple stains on the canvas of your sneakers and difficulty steadying your breathing. The bright blue eyes on your back stay there the whole walk home.

is this anything? idfk. i have pilates in 3.5 hours and i haven't slept all night. yikes! anyway. here's whatever this is. it's unedited btw but i wanted to post something because i haven't in almost a month and i'm going crazy cuckoo bananas over it

[nburkhardt]

Wrote most of this while high, so it’s a silly thing! 🥰

Face flushed and mind on pause, heart beating fast. Eddie’s eyes are a little wide, watches as Steve smiles before falling back on his side of the couch. There’s giggling as he brings his hand to his mouth to muffle it, it’s a losing battle though.

It’s like all the sound around him is gone and only Steve’s giggle is all he can hear as his mind finally reboots, Eddie shakes his head before focusing his eyes back on the other boy. Steve’s still giggling, hand finally away from his mouth and there’s a twinkle in his eyes.

“Did you- did you really just say boop and proceeded to boop my nose?” Eddie finally finds his voice again, finger touching his nose.

Steve nods, giggle starting to fade and all that’s left is a smile. “Yeah, what about it?”

Opening his mouth and then closing it, Eddie just shakes his head, leaning back on the couch. He just looks at Steve.

Maybe it’s the weed, maybe high-Steve is a silly giggly type. Has a thought and immediately does it, kind of person. It’s gotta be that, but he still asks; “Why?”

Steve shifts to sit up, smile still in place. His hand moves and wraps around Eddie’s wrist.

“Got a cute nose, it needed to be booped”

Eddie’s gaze snaps up to meet Steve’s and finds the twinkle. This time, it brings a flush to his face. “Yeah?”

Steve nods, looking way to serious for this, “I really wanted to do that, like, all day.”

He hums, looking back at Steve’s hand on his wrist before shaking the hand and moving it to hold hands with Steve. “Wanna do anything else?”

“Maybe, will you freak out?”

Eddie shakes his head, “if what I’m thinking is right, I don’t think I will”

It’s quiet as Steve nods and moves closer to his face, it’s slow and Eddie can barely breathe as Steve brings his free hand to his face and Eddie’s eyes close.

It’s a little quick thing and Eddie’s already obsessed. Yet, all Steve did was a simple kiss; a chaste kiss. But the thing that makes him obsessed, makes him want more is the after.

Steve leans his forehead against Eddie’s and when Eddie opens his eyes again, Steve’s are closed and there’s a content smile.

“Stevie, think we can do that more?”

The smile on his face grows, and immediately shifts to press his lips against Eddie’s again. It’s simple, it’s easy, it’s filled with something more that shouldn’t be spoken just yet.

I’m gonna end it there because if not I’m gonna go on forever. I saw a thing saying “booping noses & giggling” and while high decided “that’s STEVE!!” So this came to be! Hope everyone enjoys it 🥰

Also, just so you know, I could not for the life of me type out “chaste” it was in my head just swirling around but my hands and mouth refused to work it out. I ended up finding the word in a fic and copying it. Does that happen to anyone else?? Like the word is there in your head, but you cannot get it out?

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[ivystoryweaver]

Spectre

A Moon Knight Halloween Love Story

Event #8a: Us

prev | Fic Masterlist | My Masterlist | next

Event #8a Summary: is it really you?

Pairing this chapter: Marc Spector x f!reader (alters mentioned)

Word count: 1.5k

Content: romance, the least angst to date in this story, fluff-adjacent, not beta'd

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PREVIOUSLY on "Spectre"...

Warmth met your skin - your flesh met his.

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Marc groaned at the sound of his phone’s alarm, realizing someone forgot to silence it for their day off…if it was, in fact, their day off. Sometimes it was difficult to tell first thing in the morning. Reaching for the night table, his hand collided with the cool glass of a…fish bowl?

“The hell?” He muttered, silencing the shrill alarm, while quickly checking the date. Steven must have been around the past day or so. Flopping his arm over his eyes dramatically, he groaned, wishing for a few more minutes of rest.

Then something tickled, ever so lightly brushing his opposite arm. His eyes snapped over - he thought he felt something warm.

Something soft and feminine. The hair he knew framing your face, bunched up fabric and smooth skin.

He sucked in a breath at the sight of you.

“Oh god. ”Marc could feel your breath against his neck like the sensual warmth of a sauna.

"W-what?" He gasped, rolling onto his side to face...you.

Not your visage. But you.

He whispered your name, his lips parted as he exhaled in a rush. His beautiful dark eyes darted from your own gaze down to the fullness of your lips.

Could you really be alive?

"Marc…"  His name on your lips, spoken with wonder and adoration - the low sensuality of your voice set his every nerve ending on fire. This was your morning voice. The way you sounded after sleep.

Your trembling fingers gripped his bicep, and for the first time since you departed this earth, Marc reached out and touched you.

He gripped your arm - the warmth of which you could feel even through the sleeve of his old hoodie, which had somehow materialized along with you.

Tentatively, Marc reverently reached out and caressed your delicate cheek, nearly whimpering as his thumb brushed your plump, pouting lips.  

"Baby..."

Long, luminous lashes fluttered once, then twice as your glassy eyes met his.

"Marc?" You murmured, your eyes darting around you, before locking with his again.  

"Hi," he whispered, his eyes glistening in the morning sun that streamed in through the window. He was so close to you that you could feel his warm breath on your face.

As if not trusting his own five senses, Marc dragged calloused fingertips over the angle of your jaw to caress your throat, which electrified you utterly.

Dark eyes filled with tears as he allowed himself to feel the pulse of life; the heartbeat of his soul - you.

You had a pulse.

You knew nothing in the world except that you could feel.  Marc was solid and broad and warm and you melted against him as he pressed himself against you fully, side-by-side on the bed.

"Am I in heaven?" You whispered with child-like innocence.  

He breathlessly laughed, wondering himself if he had died and woken up in paradise. One arm slid around you, pulling you securely against his cotton-covered chest. 

You must have left the dark place and gone to the light. How else could you feel so blissfully enveloped?

As his arm flexed against your back, he could feel your lungs expand with each breath of life you drew.

"Marc," you whimpered.  "I-I can feel you."

"I know, baby," he nodded, pulling your bottom half closer still, pressing every inch of you against him possessively, while tenderly caressing your cheek once again.  Your eyes cut the minuscule distance to his large palm and you swallowed, tentatively easing your hand over his, brushing the backs of his fingers with your fingertips while leaning into his touch. 

Your lips trembled as you pressed a kiss to his palm, interlacing your fingers there on your warming cheek. His thumb affectionately wiped the puddle of tears that had filled and overflowed, wetting your joined hands.  

"Don't cry, baby," he pleaded, paying no mind to the fact that he was crying as well.  

"I can cry," you gasped, the beauty of the moment engulfing all your senses at once.  "How? How did we…”

"We love each other," he simply replied, answering out of pure instinct.  

The tiniest sob of joy escaped your throat as your pressed yourself closer to him at every point possible.  "I love you," you murmured, your breath caressing his lips.  "Are you sure you can feel me - that…that I'm really here?"  

He brushed his mouth against yours, the taste of you completely tantalizing. "You feel that, don’t you?" he whispered against your cheek.

"Yes," you whimpered. "Do it again.”

Marc instantly complied, melding his parted lips with yours.  You responded with fervor, entirely overwhelmed by your returned sense of taste and the delectable flavorful essence of him.  Your hands longed to discover every part of him, touching him everywhere until your fingers finally found a home in the thick mess of waves behind his ears.  You pulled him deeper into a passionate kiss, opening your mouth to him as your body arched upward.  

Marc tenderly tumbled on top of you, gasping as your velvety tongue slid across his for a real taste.  You were soft and sweet and sexy, and Marc found himself dizzy with heat; both the hot flick of your tongue inside his mouth and the sweltering heat consuming him wholly.

The sensation of you overwhelmed him - flattened him like a tsunami...

...Which made him tear away, gasping for breath, a low moan of approval resounding in his expansive chest at the sight of you beneath him, lips parted and panting for more - more tasting, more touching, more of him.  

You whimpered at the loss of contact between your bodies, unwilling to give up your favorite rediscovered sense of taste so soon.  Marc held himself still over you, drinking in your beauty, allowing himself to reason that if you were real, and so recently returned to him, that perhaps you might be fragile, somehow, and he could not afford to lose control so easily.

"Marc, please - "

"Let me see you."  His tone was soft but commanding.  

But you didn't want to look; you wanted to taste, to feel as much of him as you could get your hands on; to make sure he was real.  You felt frantic with need for him, your hands gripping his broad shoulders to pull his mouth back down where it belonged. 

There was absolutely no way he could refuse you; nor did he want to, opening his mouth hotly over yours again, giving in to the sensations of your pliable lips moving insistently against his own; your ragged breath searing his lips, his tongue, every part inside that you touched and licked.

You spent a brief eternity in an intimate embrace, tasting and feeling and seeing and smelling until you were certain your five senses were intact and that Marc was here, with you, in the same space and time somehow.    

"Missed you. Missed you so much," he finally panted, a short while later, easing down beside you - dizzy with desire and disbelief.

“I love you so much, Marc,” you whispered in a rush, a million emotions and sensations firing in your mind and body. But one thought stood out above all others. "How long do you think we have?"

Wetting his lips, his brow knit in concentration. "'Til what?”   

"Until I maybe…disappear again."

Marc’s heart dropped to his stomach at the mere thought of losing you.  His partner was somehow returned to him - real and right here, in his arms.  He hadn't even stopped to consider that you might not linger.

"I - honestly, I hadn't thought about it."  He glanced at the window, wondering what time it might be, and how many precious moments he had left with you. 

You nuzzled close, whispering against his mouth, "I love touching you. I just don't want it to ever go away."

So many things to consider.  

Slowly nodding, Marc kissed your soft lips again, reassuringly. "I'll do whatever I can to keep you with me."

Staring deeply into your eyes, he granted you a gentle smile - one more peaceful than his usual grumpy pout. "I wanna kiss you forever."

You smiled dreamily. "I never want to move from this spot…except maybe to venture outside of this room for a change."

"I think that's a great idea," Marc chuckled.  "I guess we could get cleaned up and then go anywhere.  Anywhere you want to go, I can take you," he sweetly offered. There were definitely a few things he wanted to do, but they involved staying in bed. Or the shower. Or both.

But you frowned.

"What is it?"

“I’m scared to move,” you explained in a strained whisper. “I’m afraid that maybe I’m dreaming.”

“I’m real,” he assured you, running his hands down the curves of your body, touching you all over reassuringly. “You’re here with me…somehow.”

You sighed dreamily, brushing his cheek with your soft hand.  "Maybe you brought me to life.”

next

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

🎃HAPPY HALLOWEEN!🎃

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[deities-anew]

Minecraft soundtrack?

What about Celeste soundtrack?

....

...

Undertale soundtrack.

Undertale soundtrack.

[alpydk]

ALPY! My genius friend.

I've just had a truly angsty idea but I've got a lot I need to write at the moment! So I thought I'd see if you want it? Be warned, it's a dark one.

Prompt - It has been years and years since the defeat of the nether brain and the ascendancy of Dekarios the Divine.

Tav is now settled down with a family, which includes an ambitious youngster with an arcane gift.

Gale Dekarios, Tav's former love and The God of Ambition, pays a visit. Looking to select a new chosen of their own...

Riiiiggghhht - I am hoping I have gotten this to a worthy enough standard for you. - Really though, thank you for the prompt because this was an enjoyable challenge. I have tried my best with the angst and I hope it will provide you with what you need/want.

1648 Words - Angst, God!Gale, No comfort, Sad Ending. You've been warned.

As she cried in pain from childbirth, he stood unseen by her side, nothing but a cool breeze through the closeness of the summer heated cabin. His hand was a soothing balm to her brow as the sweat beaded under her hair, strands which in the past he had pushed gently aside before kissing at flushed cheeks. He had believed godhood was worth losing all this, and it was only in that one moment he faltered, watching his daughter come into the world.

Each day he had watched her from his throne, eight mortal years of seeing the child from afar. The young girl with the chestnut curls and deep chocolate eyes. But what was eight years for a god? Seconds had become decades; decades had become millennia. Eight years was now an eternity for him, and yet still Gale Dekarios watched over her.

It was so long ago at the party that he’d last spoken with Tav. The memory of the taste of fresh wine and the sound of Milil’s harp were now a faded spectre in his mind’s eye. The small glimmer of hope he’d had of her joining him in godhood had vanished to nothing at the sight of her swollen belly, on the growing child he would only ever see from a distance. He’d offered her everything: the sun, the moon, the stars; but she’d denied him, her only request being that he give up the crown and come back to her.

Weak and pathetic.

She didn’t cry any tears on their first night apart, or the second. He knew this because he’d gazed at her from his astral pedestal, watching, waiting, hoping that she would pray for him to come back to her. Weeks passed and still nothing came from her lips. Had she even really loved him? Had it all been a lie, just as Mystra had lied to him? “I love you. You should never doubt that.” He shook his head. He was better than this, better than to be pining over some worthless mortal. She didn’t have a scrap of magic in her, so what importance was she to him? And yet still he kept his eyes on her.

This is what you wanted.

As she cried in pain from childbirth, he stood unseen by her side, nothing but a cool breeze through the closeness of the summer heated cabin. His hand was a soothing balm to her brow as the sweat beaded under her hair, strands which in the past he had pushed gently aside before kissing at flushed cheeks. He had believed godhood was worth losing all this, and it was only in that one moment he faltered, watching his daughter come into the world.

Mystra, as expected, had been quick to get involved in his affairs, striking quickly at the infant with the Weave. Words had been shared between the two gods and followers had been sent to their deaths in their name, the first of the many battles between the two previous lovers. It mattered little to either of them how many died, but such were the games between deities. He had learnt quickly that godhood was in some ways similar to lanceboard: take your time, plan ahead, and make sacrifices where needed, and for this, he would eventually be victorious. Ambition was not something to be trifled with.

Achieved it all.

There were elements of godhood he’d not been so prepared for though: the eternity of it all was the biggest issue. Time seemed so short when he was alive, living as if each day was his last, but now, for eight summers, he had watched the child grow, some days stretching on further than he cared for. Seeing the girl skin her knees and hide the tears from her mother, just as he’d done with Tav on lonely nights when his nerves had been aflame from the orb, was one such day. These moments had been insidious, worming their way under his skin, drawing out a dormant sensation from deep down. Guilt? Regret? Sadness? He refused to focus on them. He’d whisper instead to her that tears were a weakness, that she was to aspire to greatness just as she was destined, and with each day she was getting stronger. She was competitive, despite Tav’s objections, and she was headstrong, curious, and easy to manipulate. She was willing to serve him.

Now broken and alone.

Sending a follower was not an option to collect this one. This he would do personally, and he allowed himself to take the form of the weak individual he’d been before his ascension, quietly walking the forest trail towards the house. Were the purple robes too much for the guise? Had his skin always appeared so enervated? The dusty path was lined with wildflowers, purple petals guiding him onwards to his destination; their star-shaped blooms, a cruel reminder of all he’d given to his love so long ago. She had not cared about him, and now he felt nothing for her. There was only the child and their destiny of becoming his chosen.

---

“You came back…”

He’d felt Tav’s presence long before she had even spoken, but he observed the quaint hovel for a short while longer in the hopes she would fall for the deception. “But of course, my love. Even godhood would not let us part souls from one another.”

Doomed for nothingness.

Her arm reached up, a tentativeness he had not seen during his life on Toril. She was testing him, testing the illusion that stood before her. He could see the hope in her eyes, the tears never shed from that night at the campsite burning brightly under the glistening sunlight. Eight years of pain and longing beating through the heart of the woman in front of him, each thump a whisper behind the din of the universe. In another time, maybe his heart would have stirred for hers and yet he stood there with the mask, the charismatic smile she knew from the disrupted portal now set in place. “You look as beautiful as the day we first met,” he spoke, the enchanting smile drawing her in further.

He stepped towards her, a wanted energy building in the air between them. The summer sun held its shadows amongst the trees, and the breeze fell to nothing around them. Birds no longer sang, and the cicadas halted their monotonous chirp. All this created just for her.   

Come to me. Give me what I want.  

She placed her hand on his cheek, soft and inviting as she had all those years ago, and he rose his own to hold her closer to him, his face pressing into the warmth of her palm. She looked at him as if no time had passed between them, eyes full of love, her lips as flushed as he once remembered them being. But the longer she gazed, the more she saw. He could not hide the emptiness of eternity that bled through his sight, the disdain he now held for her and those beneath him. She tried to pull her hand away from him, only to be held in place; her strength nothing when compared to that of a god.

“Now, my love… Remember, one can’t always be a gentleman.” His eyes flickered a cruel metalic sheen and he kept his grip on her as he pulled her into the small home, ignoring the glow of a buried emotion as it was pushed beneath the waves of contempt.

---

As Tav had sat holding their daughter, he had wondered why he’d even come down to the mortal plane to collect his daughter. He didn’t need Tav's permission to collect the girl, didn’t need to advise anyone of the consequences or even what his specific wishes were. He simply had to retrieve the child, have her say yes, and then she would step in line as chosen were fated to do; a pawn on the lanceboard, ready to be moved into position. So why was he even here?

That which I have lost.

The girl cried, not understanding her mother’s anger, not knowing who the man was sitting in front of her. The air crackled, and she fell quickly silent, seeing his eyes watching her, cold and judging, realising that this was the moment she was about to join him.

He was growing impatient hearing Tav’s arguments. She seemed to want to remind him of who he used to be, nagging like a mosquito during a humid evening. At the party, this may have meant something to him. Now, though, there was nothing to remember of what he had once been other than the image that sat before them, the greying hairs at his temples, the tattered robes he loathed being seen in. She begged him, pleaded with him not to take the girl, but he did not care. He hadn’t cared for any he had taken before. Why would this one be any different?

All that was left.

Tav stood in anger, her voice rising, her dagger pulled from its sheath and he watched as she tried to plunge it into his chest, the blade snapping on the point where the orb had once lay, where delicate kisses had once been offered.

He observed her as she collapsed to the ground, as the child rushed over to offer comfort. Guilt? No. Pity… He took the arm of the child, her hesitation only a moment before she felt the power in his hand, and he swept one last gaze over Tav before focusing his sight on the young girl. “What fools these mortals be.”

As he vanished away with their daughter, Tav released a desperate keen, her voice tearing through and ringing in his mind. Her sobs and tears were cried out to the gods, prayers shouted into the void, and he smiled, knowing they would never be answered.  

Now broken and alone.

Years passed in the Astral planes and his new chosen served him well. Each time he looked upon her, he felt a wave of nostalgia, her eyes reminding him of his own. It was curious, the way she carried herself, the way she controlled the Weave, the way she never cried like others of her age did.

Seconds had become decades; decades had become millennia. The years were now an eternity for him and yet all the God of Ambition did was watch. Watched the ants as they crawled on the surface.

Doomed for nothingness.

---

Weak and pathetic. This is what you wanted. Achieved it all. Now broken and alone. Doomed for nothingness.

Come to me. Give me what I want. That which I have lost. All that was left. Now broken and alone. Doomed for nothingness.

[anika-ann]

Back and Forth - part 4.2

Part 4 - Setback 2/2

Type: series; agent!reader, inhuman!reader

Pairing: Steve Rogers x reader    Word Count: 12600

Chapter summary:  In which you're hurt - but at least you're not alone.

Series masterlist

Warnings: pain and descriptions of pain, blood, gunshot wounds, canon-typical violence, mentions of death and dying (Steve and 'reader'), very questionable medical treatment, comic book science, unholy amount of swearing, brief raised voice by a man, selfworth issues, crying, and believe it or not, fluff

A/N: ALWAYS MIND THE WARNINGS; dividers by @firefly-graphics 💕; moodboard is for the vibes and does not necessarily reflect reader’s appearance

A/N2: As you might have noticed, this is… another long chapter. I could split it, but I like how it works now. If you do wish to split it, I suppose I can recommend do to so at the divider (about one third of the chapter).

Breaking through the darkness usually felt like swimming in molasses, thick and sticky substance surrounding you, heavy limps slowly forcing their way through; the progress was achingly slow despite your muscles burning with effort, dampened senses gradually clearing up as the layers of thickness grew thinner and thinner.

Pushing through this white darkness felt strikingly different. It was but a split second, the moment of breaking through the water surface; all your senses were assaulted at once, lips hungrily drinking every molecule of air after seemingly endless hours under water. Except it wasn’t your lungs that burned; it was everything. Cacophony of images, sensations, sounds and pain consuming your very being.

As you tasted and smelled nothing but blood, both of which you knew too well, as your vision drowned in tears, the one other familiar sensation became prominent: the burning in your legs. That and the sound of Steve’s shouts and rattles of chains, the violent noise swallowing the barely-there sneer of the man who had shot you.

“Stay down,” the fuzzy figure dressed in all black ordered, as if you weren’t curled on your side, clutching at your wounds and rendered motionless bar the rapid rises and falls of your chest.

Steve’s voice, distant and yet so close, was growing clearer by the minute despite the ringing in your ears.

“Leave her alone! Don’t hurt her! Spectre?!” he shouted, insistently tugging at his bounds if the brutal cry of metal was anything to go by, followed by a heavy thud and a clank. The last sound was followed lovechild of a groan and a gasp; then, a somewhat frustrated growl.

“It’s not your time yet,” the man uttered, almost floating out of the room in your hazy vision.

You squeezed your eyes closed as the door clicked shut, feeling your face damp with both the sweat gathering in your hairline and the tears staining your cheeks. It was nearly impossible to swallow your sobs with every gasp for air, but god were you determined not to give them the satisfaction of letting them hear. Because they could hear, there was no doubt now.

Fuck Hydra.

The sound of your name, your actual name, spoken softly at first, with an edge of what could only read as desperation, had you blink your eyes open; then, twice more, called out in almost a plea to be answered.

You licked your lips before biting your tongue, recognizing that whatever would leave out now would be a deafening scream. Steve didn’t need to hear that; you didn’t need your direct superior to hear that.

There were other, much more pressing things at hand, in your hands. In your hands, shaking violently as your gaze fell on the awfully real red blood staining them with no chance to escape it. You were no stranger to injuries, not at all, but in the past months, you had gone soft. You got used to knowing that while your spectre’s injuries hurt like son of a bitch, while you bled from them, while the pain of them lingered, you couldn’t bleed out from them; you’d snap back, unconscious due to the contradiction in your mind and the shock to your body.

But there was no coming back from this and the pain was no lesser; the pain was more if possible.

Two fundamental instincts raged in a battle inside you as you tried to will your hands to press against your wounds – the survival instinct and the instinct to not cause yourself more pain. You knew, by logic, that the former should always win; but your muscles didn’t seem to listen, until you gritted your teeth to not release a single whimper and finally applied enough pressure to stop the bleeding effectively. A pitiful sound fought its way out anyway as the pain struck you like a bolt of lightning.

Okay, fuck that hurt.

Over the deafening thump-thump-thump in your temples, you heard your name again, in frantic whisper.

“Say something. Anything,” Steve’s voice demanded, a strange husky quality to it you couldn’t remember hearing before. Any other day, it might pique your curiosity, but you had genuinely no capacity, too focused on keeping silent; besides, you and Steve didn’t talk that much. Not to mention that the loud thud you had heard before could have been him doing something very unwise and reckless, resulting in whatever you were hearing in his voice. “Please, just let me hear that you’re-- just make a sound.”

Well since he said please, you snarked in the back of your mind, fresh tears rolling down your cheeks nevertheless. Ever the gentleman, wasn’t he?

You eased the pressure on your thighs – and wasn’t it funny, you must have looked like some kind of a fucked-up bride of the underworld, with torn gown in the colours of approaching night and crimson pouring down your skin, through your fingers, making the fabric dark as the night itself – and you allowed yourself to utter a single word.

“Captain.”

“Oh thank god,” he responded in kind immediately, his breath of relief so loud it was almost comical. The way his voice seemed to crack a bit less so. He must have hurt himself trying to fight his bounds; you had no doubt he’d tear a muscle trying, hearing the gunshots. Fighting to rush to the rescue, like the proper hero he was. “What-“

“Thighs. Both,” you reported dutifully, hearing his sharp inhale and a curse on his lips – one you echoed with your own, forcing your eyes to stay open as you tried to tell yourself that the pain was fading and it was time to stop being a baby. To act like an agent, to focus on survival, yours and Steve’s, on your Captain’s survival, on the vital member of the Avengers. You just needed to press against the- “Holy fuck that hurts-”

“Spectre. I know it hurts, but put pressure on that. Right now,” Steve barked, and it was like a switch had been flipped. Mission alert, goal-oriented – the Captain indeed. Too bad; maybe you had liked the Steve better. Then again, maybe the Captain was what you needed to get your head straight. The gala, whatever pretence it involved, was long over after all; this was a mission. You were an agent. “That’s an order, you understand?”

“Yeah, I’m trying.”

“Try harder!”

Your head snapped back with a frustrated growl, a flare of anger igniting your body – you really, really wanted to snap at him to try it himself, to fucking try to at least imagine what it was like to be in your skin now; but he actually had been there before. He had probably fought off pain like this more than once, and he had done so as if it was but a minor inconvenience. He knew exactly what it was like. Andhe must have known that you realized that and that you couldn’t throw it back to his face and he was truly getting on your nerves.

“Always so damn--- bossy,” you hissed, but obeyed, dark spots dancing in front of your eyes as you did so.

“Sorry.” What? “Talk to me. Tell me what to do. How can I make it better?”

The switch had flipped again; his tone urgent, but less commanding indeed. And yet, what was more interesting was his words. He was chained – and without his strength which you had stolen, he couldn’t do a single thing. His offer, however sweet, made no damn sense.

Not that all the things he had ever done did make sense; it was often the opposite, but you supposed you were one to talk.

A chuckle escaped you, bitter but no less amused at the situation. After all, what he said might have just been the funniest thing ever. You couldn’t afford to cry anymore and break down – so you fought to take one of the opposite routes. As usual. Grasping at whatever straw you were offered, even if it was a suggestion as tempting as hilarious.

“Me tell you what to do? Well, damn, that’s a first,” you chuckled again, realizing that the pain had changed; the pulsing seemed to slow. Cold sweat of horror covered your back, but you refused. You refused to even consider that it might be a bad thing. It would be with this kind of injury in an ordinary human, but this could have just been some protective reaction of the serum. It had to be. “Is that my Make-A-Wish foundation gift?”

“Shut up. Don’t you dare to even-- don’t.”

The temperature in the room dropped at least twenty degrees with how frost-covered Steve’s words were despite their white-hot edge and even as you scoffed, you felt guilt gnaw at your gut.

He was right; the last thing either of you needed was your attitude. Then again, his own wasn’t exactly stellar, so at least it was fair.

“Talk to me. Shut up. Make up your damn mind, Rogers,” you spitted out, rolling over. Pressing harder to the wounds sent a brutal tug of pain through your whole body, but you bit down on your cheek to stifle the cry; that wouldn’t help anyone.

“Why are you always so-” Steve lamented, but cut himself off, his weary sigh washing over you. For some absurd reason, the sound brought a ghost of a smile on your face for a split second. “Okay. If—if you somehow have my abilities, there’s a big chance you’re going to start healing soon. Not instantly, but soon. Did the bullets go through or stayed lodged in?”

There was something in his voice, something very familiar, something that usually brought comfort along.

A plan was forming in his head, you could almost hear the gears in his brain frantically spinning.

The problem was that you had a slight inkling as to what the plan was and the mere idea had your stomach. But you had no reason to lie – as much as you hated it. As much as you hated even inspecting the signals of your body i you a very clear answer to that question.

“In.”

“Okay. That’s both good and bad. Only one point of entry means less bleeding.”

Really Captain Obvious?

Also, you weren’t quite looking to increase the suffocating feeling squeezing your chest, but there seemed to quite enough of blood, alright. You wished he could see it to reconsider his words, since he sounded like Mr. Expert himself. Maybe he had a medical degree he had forgotten to mention.

“But it also means that with the bullets still in… I know it hurts like a son of bitch, but you need to dig them out.”

The shudder than ran down your back was everything but tender; it seemed to rattle your very spine.

You knew he was right.

Deep down you knew, because it made sense with everything that was happening, but you snapped anyway because there was no chance in hell you’d dig around in your leg for a bullet. Twice. You were in enough agony as it was, thank you very damn much.

“No fucking way. They tell you to never do that because the bullet works as a stopper if it’s lodged.”

Ominous silence.

It felt like Steve counted to three at least before he answered; when he did, his voice was absurdly soft, as if coaxing a baby deer from under his tires and you were having none of it. If you were the deer, you’d rather have him run you over, because there was absolutely no way that what he was suggesting was happening.

Ever.

“Yeah, it does,” he said, the regret lacing his voice only adding to your desperate need to shut him up. “But, well, I’m an exception-”

“I know, aren’t you fucking always-”

“Oh for fuck’s-! Forget about hating me for a second!” he snapped at last, starling you when he actually raised his voice. “Forget that you think I’m--- the arrogant Captain Perfect who doesn’t deserve an ounce of his fame, that I’m just a glorified science experiment or whatever you think and listen to me! I’m—” He took a shaky breath, swallowing heavily and when he spoke again, the urgency remained – but the volume did not. “I’m an exception because the tissue can start healing over the bullet and it might cause it to start moving and do more damage as it does and-“

“I know,Steve!” you cried out.

As you finally pushed to prop up on your hands and sit up, the world swayed with the sudden movement. However, you didn’t pass out, so you’d count your blessings. That was if you could call the opportunity to play doctor without proper tools or medication with your own body a blessing.

“I mean… I know.”

The silence that settled over the room – both his and yours – was only interrupted by your own harsh breaths. Steve’s own must have caught in his throat; but the figurative sound of the neurons in his brain firing had turned high-pitched as he was probably trying to decipher if you were saying what you were saying.

With a sigh and shaky hands, you pushed away the fabric of your dress from your legs, instantly averting your gaze at the sight of the blood still oozing from the gunshot wounds, nausea swinging your stomach.

Against your better judgement – and grateful for any distraction – you went to confirm Steve’s suspicions.

“I’m sure you’re aware that all agents go through first aid courses on the regular. I… asked. If there are any specifics.”

“You… asked about specifics about me?” he asked reluctantly.

He sounded much timider than you had ever imagined he could, let alone when speaking to you. If you had any energy to do so, you’d smile; because the image of his face when he spoke so softly, even as you had never seen him like that so it was only a figment of your imagination, was endearing, sending a flutter through your pounding heart.

Too bad you only found energy to sigh, risking another glance to your injuries. That was not a good idea, but it sure as hell made you press against them to reduce the bleeding further. The flow was weaker now; which was both a good thing and a bad thing, as Steve had pointed out. The healing process was slowly starting. You had no time to waste.

You’d love to have some.

“Yeah, well, as you so aptly pointed out, Captain, you too feel pain and get hurt and get shot sometimes. I know to get the bullets out to kickstart the healing and ensure it heals correctly.”

Doesn’t mean I want to do the same for my body right now.

“…thank you,” he said.

He sounded so stunned you wanted to laugh; so stunned it was almost insulting. Did he really think you were such a monster that you didn’t care how to save his life specifically, when you had learned how to save everyone else’s? Maybe you should take it as flattery – you had kept your distance so well he would have never guessed you cared, or how much. You should consider going undercover.

“Now get the bullets out.”

Your hands automatically covered the wounds as if to protect them from his hands, sending a throbbing pain all the way down your feet. Yeah, that was not happening. You were not about to dig into that. Fuck everything. Let it kill you. At least you’d go out in what used to be a pretty dress with and Steve’s voice in your ear; you imagined there were worse ways to die.

“No way in hell. You weren’t kidding about the pain.”

You could almost hearthe ‘Yeah, no shit’ screaming from his mind despite your own starting to buzz with thousands of whispers, but he clearly swallowed the remark. His voice was like a steel when he spoke up again; strict and uncompromising.

“Spectre. Do it. Now.”

A lump grew in your throat, the instinct to follow his orders – because he really was just trying to save your life for god’s sake, you knew that – forcing you to press your index finger of your dominant hand into the pulsing tender flesh.

The fresh tsunami of white-hot agony slammed into you, goosebumps erupting all over your body as you swiftly retreated your shaking hand; tears sprang from your eyes, rapid breaths giving way to a choked sob. And then another one.

And another one.

“No. Can’t.”

The countless memories of feeling almost as helpless and weak and incapable of standing up after being kicked down flooded your brain, wrapping you in a fog and making it harder to breathe, your own voice a distant pathetic echo. Begging never help, it only brought laughter or profound disappointment, from others, from yourself – but you couldn’t, couldn’t---

“Please, please don’t make me.”

“Hey, hey! Okay, easy,” Steve called out gently, his tone only making you squeeze your eyes shut. How did he not sound condescending, but genuinely compassionate and alarmed at once? You were being a fucking baby, but god, did it hurt- “Easy, doll.”

Another sob fought its way out before you could hope to stifle it, the endearment like a caress you knew you didn’t deserve and never saw coming.

Pathetic.

You were being pathetic and you needed to do better and you could work with pain, you worked through so much pain before, so why was this one instance so damn hard? Why were you scared like never before? Why were you shaking so bad? Why did the red on your hands felt so much more violent than all the time before combined?

“I know it hurts and I know--- I probably can’t imagine how much, but you have to do it so we can get out of here. And I know you can do it too, even if it seems impossible now. You… you’ve done amazing things and barely broke a sweat. You’ve pushed through a lot. You can push through this too.”

How? you wanted to ask, but couldn’t catch your breath.

You could hear his words, you would agree with some of them, hell, you’d revel in him saying that, preening at the praise, especially from the barely human person he was, but you weren’t him. You weren’t perfect. You bled, you hurt, you felt fear, you failed, and you… you felt really cold.

You were, despite Steve’s words, drenched in sweat despite the goosebumps raised all over your skin; and yet, you were shivering, feeling not only your hands having grown cold, but you whole body too. Cold that came from within.

That was not good. That was not good and the brain fog was growing thicker, with no way of fighting it. Your adrenalin must have been wearing off. You licked your lips, a bitter salty taste on your tongue, your eyes fluttering open. Heavy eyelids. You were crashing out; and you wouldn’t bet a single penny on waking up from that.

“I’m… I think I’m cold now,” you admitted shakily, only to be met with a resolute protest, contrasting sharply with Steve’s previous comforting words.

“No. No, you are not.”

“Don’t fucking gaslight me, Rogers,” you hissed in return, feeling a rise of spite in your gut. What the hell did he know? “I know what I feel.”

The frustrated noise from behind the wall might have as well been a wolf’s growl. “Okay. Okay. If you won’t do it, coach me through astral projection and I’ll do it for you.”

That had you sit up straighter, like a lightning bolt striking mere feet from you and raising instant alert.

“…what?”

“Think about it. We still don’t know what exactly happened, but there were two parts of the artifact. We both felt the jolt upon touch. If you feel the effects of the serum, if you became a supersoldier, and at the same time, if you couldn’t project before, maybe I have acquired your abilities.”

You blinked, allowing yourself the luxury of pondering his words.

He thought that you didn’t… steal his powers? You exchanged them? It was almost embarrassing you haven’t thought of that, because as he said it, it made the perfect sense. If you ignored the fact that it sounded completely insane, it was, in fact, an entirely plausible scenario. Yes, your and Steve’s mutations were very different, came from different sources, but it would explain why you couldn’t project and felt so detached from your spectre; you no longer had it. Steve did.

Still. It was completely crazy that the Kree would create an artifact that could cause that. Sure, they had created an Inhuman who could control all of the other Inhumans, but power swap?

The blue idiot alien race had to be joking.

“What, like some kind of a supernatural Freaky Friday?” you breathed out, still doubtful – and feeling like an idiot yourself since you made a reference Steve was very unlikely to understand.

Then again, the man lived not only to irritate you, but to surprise too.

There was a smile in his voice, even if brief. “Yeah, a bit like a supernatural Freaky Friday. Maybe. It would be worth a try.”

Would it really?

“Steve, I-“

“Tell me how to use your powers,” he coaxed, the undertone of urgency still present, causing the lump in your throat grow – and another essential issue arise in our mind as your gaze flickered to the fluorescent lamp and the small device attached to it.

“They’re listening,” you said lowly, hoping he’d hear. “If we-“

“I honestly don’t give a damn at this point,” he said matter-of-factly. “We can deal with that once I know you’re not bleeding out.”

Gulping, you eased the pressure on your wounds, for the first time grateful you had something to focus on besides the conviction in Steve’s voice when he basically said your life took precedence to Hydra finding out Avengers’ secrets and the feeling it stirred in your belly.

“So, would you please let me help? Tell me how it works. Can you do that, doll? Can you describe how big the room is, what’s in it and most importantly, can you tell me what to do to get to you?”

The soft deep commanding timbre felt like a warm hug, the irrational certainty of everything working out just fine in the end because he’d make it so with your help choking you when you tried to resist one more time.

“Steve, even if you’re right about this whole… power switching, it took me months of hard work to perfect it and it’s still not… perfect.”

He sighed.

“I know it did and you did perfect it. But we don’t need perfect now,” he pressed before making a pause and when he spoke up, it was an unyielding power of a gentle command. “The choice is yours. Remove those bullets yourself or tell me what to do.”

You huffed. You had to say, one of those things sounded a lot better. You could just really do without the former following the latter either way.

And maybe you could.

You blinked through the fog as the realization hit you. Gritting your teeth, you sat up straighter and moved your legs to have better access despite the sharp pain it elicited. You could do this. You could do this. You had been through worse. And now you had – at least to some extent – the power of a supersoldier. You had start acting like it.

If Steve damn Rogers could work through pain like this, you could too – even in a much more pathetic tear-stained way. He was here with you. Which meant that not only you weren’t alone in this mess, but you also weren’t alone in this mess. Captain Rogers didn’t have his usual powers, meaning he couldn’t get out on his own and he was left dangerously vulnerable.

You’d be fucking damned if you’d be the reason the world lost its most inspiring hero.

You could do better.

“Spectre? Are you-“

“I can do you one better,” you announced flatly, almost laughing at your stupidity, at not suggesting it before.

“…how?”

You weren’t sure if the bewilderment you could hear in his voice was caused by the sudden clarity of your own or by your words.

There were at least two other options if Steve was right.

God, you really had the blood loss short-circuit your brain, didn’t you?

“If your hands and arms were free, would you be able to break out from the chains?” you demanded, the fog in your mind dispersing as fresh adrenalin, fresh hope flooded your veins.

“I don’t think so. Not without… my usual strength?”

You hummed. That was the worse option; then again, if had he been able to project himself just outside of his bounds and attempted to free himself, he might accidentally touch himself and, much like you had done the first time it happened, proceed to pass out at the contradiction of simultaneously initiating and receiving the same touch.

The other option it was then. Still far from useless.

“Alright then…”

“What are you thinking?” he asked cautiously and the wary tone almost made you smile. Almost. If it only wasn’t for what you had to do while his spectre could explore wherever you were being held, hopefully able to send some kind of signal to the team.

You had no doubt he would find a way; he was crafty like that when he wanted to be.

In fact, projecting to the hallway might be the better option of the two after all; if it was only his projection sneaking around, his physical form would remain mostly unharmed if he ran into trouble.

“I’m thinking that… I’ll try to the extremely insane thing you suggested I do, that being digging into my own quadriceps, Jesus Christ--- and to distract myself form it, I’ll tell you how to appear outside of my cell. And yours too. I got a good glimpse when-” they shot me, Hail fucking Hydra, “the door opened.” 

Two beats of silence; two beats of silence in which Steve Rogers probably wondered if you had finally lost your mind completely and frankly, you were doing the same as you hiked up your skirt properly, taking a deep breath though the fresh wave of nausea rising up your throat.

You could still back out. You could still tell Steve to project to you, to do this instead, and then you’d have a perfectly good excuse to have complicated feelings about him. Hell, maybe you’d convince him to knock you out, provide you with the oldest form of anaesthesia.

Maybe-

“…okay,” he said at last, halting your absurd thoughts and maybe, just maybe you tried to steal some of the determination in his voice for yourself. “Okay. Tell me.”

Breathe.

In. And out. You bit your cheek hard enough to draw blood as you forced two of your fingers slide into the wound on your left thigh, the wrench of pain strong enough to blind you for a moment; but the pain was soon but a dull echo of the sharpness that had come with the hit. That or you were already too close to death to actually feel anything.

In and out. Breathe.

Nice and slow.

“Okay. Okay, Steve. Have you ever tried meditation?”

Of course he had managed to project.

You should have known.

Within minutes, he figured out what had taken you days to achieve. Sure, that was the goal – to have him create his spectre so he could inspect the hallway for any possible escape routes or anything else remotely helpful – but that didn’t make it any less irritating that while you struggled with his powers, he took yours as his own as if they had always been exactly that.

Steven damn Rogers projected into another room like it was the easiest thing in the world, while you had to will yourself to do every minuscule movement, near hyperventilating by the time he had tried to open the door to your cell – to no avail, of course.

In fact, the whole projection turned out to be a dead end. The hallway was as plain as your cells, bare walls bar the lights and cameras and three doors lining one of them – one door to his cell, one to yours, one to what you assumed was another cell, all locked without a key in sight. And at the end of the corridor, one large heavy door opening in Steve’s direction, locked as well, and so completely unyielding that neither you nor Steve thought it would be a good idea to try the same stunt you had attempted to pull with yours.

But there was one positive outcome, you supposed – or two, if worked really hard to look at the bright side.

One of them was that your theory was confirmed now – you had clearly exchanged your abilities when you had touched the artifact, as improbable as it sounded even to you, a person who received her original powers though a transition initiated by an ancient alien artifact.

The other was that next to your shaking thighs now lied two blood-stained pieces of what you assumed was lead-aluminium alloy; two bullets dripping blood. Your vision zeroed on them with sick awe as you couldn’t quite believe you had pulled that out of your body with your bare hands, the fact giving the ordinary pieces of metal almost a supernatural glow. The rest of world was a blur, shaking due to your own exertion; you had returned to lying on the floor a long time ago, your muscles having given out as your body tried to save the last remnants of energy to actually stay awake. 

You knew that in theory, removing the bullets should have helped. But having trouble keeping your eyes open, with your head spinning at the mere idea of as much as propping up on your elbows, you weren’t so sure it worked the same way for you as it usually had for Steve.

Steve. That gorgeous talented bastard. He could probably project and bring something back with him when he snapped back, so fast to learn that he could probably break the limits of your powers with his left pinky alone, and achieve the one thing you had never achieved yourself.

He was simply perfect at everything.

You wished you had enough strength to despise him for it.

“Okay, so… I’ve never made it work so far, but… try the Tower. You’re clearly a natural,” you drawled, not sure if he could actually hear you, let alone understand you.

Were you talking quietly or screaming? Were you genuinely suggesting he did that or just talking, having gathered a little bit of spite to sass him? It was getting harder and harder to tell.

Scoff came from the other cell; Steve apparently had not only heard you, but disagreed.

“Don’t oversell it. I had you to coach me through it, knowing exactly how it works, getting step by step instructions. And still, I barely made it a few metres. I don’t have a tenth the level of your skill,” he said, frustration bleeding into his voice.

You supposed you couldn’t blame him – despite the fact he had outdone himself, again, it was no use in the end and here you were, still asking more of him.

It didn’t help that some of the dread that had gathered in your stomach resided in him too; you were getting out of options and the clock was ticking, for you more than him.  He might not care that much for you personally, but you weren’t that much of an idiot to think he didn’t care if someone, let alone someone on his team, bled out on his watch; or in this case, in his earshot. You tried to ignore the ice-cold feeling creeping up your spine as it became clear that it was likely with every passing moment.

Physically, you were beyond drained. But mentally, you were growing tired too; of helplessness, of waiting for a miracle. You didn’t see anything you could do to make for a miracle of your own.

Maybe Steve could. He could do fucking everything, even if he might be grumbling as he did so.

“Even if I was half as good, even if I could reach the Tower, I’m not leaving you here. Not without any chance of knowing what’s happening while I’m out, I’m not leaving you here just hoping for the best,” he said, growing more agitated by the minute. “There’s no place I could lead the team, since we still don’t know where we are and I wouldn’t be able to bring anything back, nothing that would track or location, so how on Earth would projecting to the Tower even help?”

One, two, three… four frantic beats of your heart, spent in stunned silence.

Then, a sudden roar of rage growling inside that you took you by surprise – and so did its potency.

Your fist hit the floor hard, sending dust and smashed concrete flying before you even knew you had raised a hand. You sure felt the bite of pain as the impact broke your skin though – but you didn’t care.

Because seriously?

Seriously?!  

“I don’t know, Steve, okay?!! Just because I have your abilities it doesn’t mean I have all the answers like you always do!” you exploded.

Your own voice came back to you in a dull echo, blood buzzing in your ears. The sudden movement of your upper body had your head spin violently, nausea pulling at your insides and causing you to heave; it only fed the vertigo as one of the statements repeated in the biannual first aid courses filled your head with panic and stuffed your ears with cotton.

In case of approaching critical blood loss, the bloodstream redistributes blood from non-essential organs such as extremities and digestive system to support the vital organs, which might cause intense nausea and vomiting.

A whimper fought its way through your lips even before you even allowed the thought to take root.

“Spectre?! What’s happening?”

Nothing, you wanted to snap back, realizing you didn’t seem able to form a single word.

When had your tongue started to feel so heavy?

When had your lips turned so numb?

When had the pain became but a slight nudge in the back of your mind? Even as that was something you had trained for, to get the pain you often felt to exactly the stage where it moved to the background so you could function and just keep going, you didn’t think it was a good thing now.

This wasn’t your will. This was your body shutting down.

“I… I think I’m going to pass-“

“No! No, you aren’t! That’s an order!” Steve spat like a child demanding his toy back with a stubbornness that would make a mule seem like a pleasant opponent in discussion. “You stay awake, goddammit!”

Perhaps your brain wasn’t a vital organ either, because it illogically supplied you with an image of Captain Rogers closer to throwing a tantrum that you had ever seen. An image of Steve long before he became the hero the whole world knew; a hundred-pound short man, a ball of righteous rage, swinging around his bony fists to protect those who didn’t have the strength to do so themselves and spewing countless colourful curses around in the process. You heard he had been like that; the image was almost endearing.

And it wasn’t that you never heard Steve Rogers curse at things these days; you had just never heard him swear as much as today.   

“Wow… another swearword… how many is that… in the past hour?”

“Oh for god’s--- Spectre. Do not close your eyes,” he ordered again, a funny edge to his voice you couldn’t be bothered to decipher.

Instead, you closed your eyes despite his command, eyelids as if made of lead.

What was the point? It wasn’t like you could see anything nice in the empty room, not like you needed to have a visual. You could stare into the void with your eyes closed just the same.

And yet. The faintest ghost of a smile tugged at your lips as Steve’s words didn’t make any sense.

“It’s a myth, you know,” you muttered, words getting harder to form with every shallow breath. “If your body… decides to crash, you--- no amount of yelling… helps… to stay conscious.”

The sigh that reached your ears carried exhaustion of a hundred-year-old man who actually looked and felt his biological age; one who was worn to a bone and sure as hell did not look as good in a suit as the Steve you knew did.

“Yeah, I know,” Steve replied, voice having turned much softer; but still with the undertone of that something you were too tired to investigate. “I know first aid too.”

Who would have thought Steve Rogers could sass you back in a situation like this? Who would have thought he would agree with you as he did so?

You might feel cold still, but the insistent tug on the corner of your lips felt warm. Like reconciliation and absolution at once.

“So why bark orders?” you asked half-heartedly.

“I don’t know. I… I need you to talk back, okay?” he whispered sincerely, and this time it was not your lips that felt warm; it was your very being. Warmth you’d normally shield yourself against, no matter whom it came from, because it was not safe to let it in. But you were tired of fighting; and it felt so good to let it wash over you, felt so good to let the illusion pull you in. To allow yourself to think, for a moment, that he genuinely cared for you. “Need you awake and snarky. I’d miss that.”

“Hm… such flattery.”

And it was.

I’d miss that that didn’t sound like I’d miss your abilities on the team.

I’d miss that that sounded like I’d miss you.

And the forbidden fruit tasted damn sweet against the bitter tang of long-lost adrenalin on your tongue. Maybe, just maybe, you’d allow yourself to believe that that was what he was saying: I’d miss you.

That was a sweet thought, wasn’t it? That anyone would miss you for you in the first place.

“Just… keep talking to me, alright? Tell me… everything about the room you’re in.”

Your felt your features twist a bit at his request, the faintest confusion. “It’s plain… told ya’.”

“I don’t care. Tell me again. Everything,” he demanded with sudden urgency and you huffed, opening your eyes with effort, squinting against the ever-present annoying fluorescent light.

The illusion could have lasted longer, you thought bitterly; you could have rested while willingly in its clutches. Apparently, there was no rest for the wicked anymore.

“Bossy…”

Despite the single uttered word, the instinct to obey was stronger; and your heart did flutter a bit as you realized why Steve had asked you to do that. Why he pressed you for every detail, the dimensions of the room, the colour of the walls, where in the room you were lying curled up.

You knew it was a trick to keep your eyes open despite the fact you had both stated that it wouldn’t have helped you to fight off unconsciousness, but you accepted the game anyway. If you kept your mind focused, if you talked, Steve knew in every moment that you were still conscious.

You could grant him that much of a professional courtesy.

It really was nice, you thought distantly, to see he truly cared about the well-being of his team, about bringing everyone home, no matter how he felt about them. It was nice to feel it too, even as it was barely any news; it had always been in his every gesture, in his careful planning of missions, in his observant gaze in training, in everyday life, especially in his care for his friends – always watching, always seeing, always doing his best to fix the situation, to fight demons that weren’t his to fight, but he felt like they were, because they bothered someone he cared for, someone he felt responsible for.

He always stood in the light; and where there was no light, he fought to bring it himself. Despite your differences, there was no denying that even merely basking in that light felt like a privilege; that despite feeling the pressure, the unshakable drive to be at least half as good, to measure up, to be better than you thought you could ever be, the light his presence emitted was a pleasant one. Obtrusive at times, but kind and warm.

Not like the lamp.

The lamp, dammit. You didn’t realize your eyes had slid shut again until you heard a whisper of your name, horrified almost as if he could see you cheating.

It was funny, truly; because when you opened your eyes again, there he was, in all his glory as your mind had conjured him, kneeling by your huddled form, his perfectly fitting three-piece still on even if dusty, scruffy and torn, the annoying light shining from behind him making him look like every bit of an angel who was sheepishly hiding his wings to blend and yet standing out among the crowds anyway; large, magnificent and ready to protect.

It was no wonder you would have hallucinated him like this, down to the suit. He had looked so damn handsome the night of the auction – it felt like forever had passed since then – although you had been reluctant to say it even under the veil of a common courtesy. He had smiled when you had done so, a little crinkle in the corner of his eye, adding to his glow.

Now, his handsome features were twisted into the mask of concern and damn near horror. He spoke your name again, gently touching your ankle.

And you felt the touch.

A very, very realtouch that made you jump and scramble away even as you elbows gave out and you nearly cracked your head open as you fell back down; except the back of your head never hit the ground, Steve’s hands quick to catch you, brows furrowing further at your breathless cry of pain.

“Careful-“

In an instant, you felt like you had never been more alert in your whole damn life, eyes wide open, vision clearing – and mind as well.

Your body had really had to decide brain wasn’t important if you hadn’t used it to figure out why Steve had wanted to know about the room. You should have known it had had nothing to do with you staying awake; it was about projecting to you. A feat which he, naturally, managed without a single issue, this time without any further instruction on how to do it.

God, that crazy, infuriating bastard, with his firm grip on your shoulders and entirely believable concern. You couldn’t believe him.

What the hell did he think he was doing? And why were you so happy to see him anyw- no.

This was a cardinally idiotic idea.

“Steve… get the hell out. This isn’t helping us get out and you’re left unprotected-“

“I’m chained in there, there’s literally no difference,” he hushed you, eyes roaming your body, his Adam’s apple bobbing, face gaining an ashen undertone at the sight you made. “I can take care of you at least. Come on.”

You really wanted to be pissed – you wanted to scream because this was exactly the kind of thing you knew Steven damn Rogers would do. He’d get the perfect handle on your damn superpowers mere minutes after gaining them, because of course he would, he was perfect at everything, ready to walk en pointe with few grands jetés en tournant thrown in when in your shoes; and he’d be a hypocrite again, leaving himself even more vulnerable than before.

But it was so so hard to be truly mad at him when he did all that to treat your wounds, to make sure you were as alright as the situation allowed.

When he touched you so damn carefully, gingerly sliding one arm under your knees, the other under your arms.

When he gritted his teeth to lift you, but made no comment, no sound, not besides a breathy apology for causing you more pain as he did so.

When you hummed it was alright, more of an instinct than anything else, and it occurred to you through the fresh wave of pulsing pain that he was used to putting in much less effort, now missing his strength – but he didn’t complain.

You could tell due to the slight tremble to his muscles that it was a strain for him; you could tell because he had carried you countless times before, even if you had been barely conscious and thus barely aware of it. But this you remembered. You remembered because it haunted some of your dreams; much like the combination of his cologne, musk and something distinctly him.

The loss of the warm solid muscle as he manoeuvred you to rest your back against the wall almost hurt more than the process of putting you down; but if you’d ever get a chance to dream again, you were certain your subconscious would recall it with startling clarity. 

You still winced unwittingly at the pull at your thighs as he stretched your legs with utmost care, staying on his knees by your side.

“There we go,” he hummed soothingly, meeting your gaze, eyes serious and sincere with a promise. “I’m going to take a look at the wounds, alright? I promise to be as quick and as careful as possible.”

A barely-there nod was the only confirmation he needed if he had been looking for one in the first place.

He dropped his gaze and moved his hands to your skirts, hiking it up again as it had slid back, tearing your already destroyed thigh-highs for better access.

The pulse of heat in your abdomen as his fingers slipped under the thin fabric and ripped was all kinds of inappropriate and indecent; but despite the scolding in your mind, you had to regretfully admit you were only human and the memory of another dream, where he had done this in completely different circumstances, with his lips at the shell of your ear whispering filthy praise and with his deft fingers teasingly sliding considerably higher than they were now, snuck up on you before you could fight it off.

You distracted yourself by watching his face instead, the wrinkle between his brows as he frowned, lips in this line with their corners turned slightly down. A bruise was forming on his cheek under his right eye, a small cut above his brow – small injuries that would have normally been long healed had he still had his powers.

Your hazy mind still had trouble processing this was real, the scene so absurd and surreal that it was hard to believe this wasn’t just another figment of your imagination; on the other hand, this was the kind of shit Steve would pull.

And the pain shooting up all the way up your spine as he tugged at something that reached deep into your flesh felt terribly real and had you release a pitiful whine you had no chance stifle since you hadn’t seen it coming – because you were too busy staring at Steve Rogers’ goddamn pretty face.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I have to do this,” he whispered frantically, a true apology in his tense voice.

You couldn’t see his expression now, eyes squeezed shut as whatever he had done happened again, causing you to recoil and try to push his hands away as you bit down the hiss this time. His hand, sticky with blood, caught yours instead, pressing something very thin and relatively small – a piece of thread? – into your palm.

You blinked your eyes open, morbid curiosity getting the best of you; it was indeed a blood-soaked thread, probably from your dress, that must have caught in the wound. One that had probably begun to grow into the tissue as the healing had started.

You stared at it mutely, the throbbing pain in your left leg pulsing in sync with your heartbeat, dark spots in your peripheral vision. In your head, you admitted you understood why would that have to be done; but you truly didn’t want to say thank you for that even as you felt you should have.

You winced when Steve’s fingers moved to your right leg, as gentle as his touch to the flesh was, your eyes snapping shut again, lips pressed into a thin line.

For a brief second, you wondered if in some twisted sense Steve took sadistic pleasure in digging into your wounds with the excuse of treating you, but you dismissed the thought as soon as it nudged your mind.   

“I’m sorry, sweetheart, it’s all done now,” he whispered, the regret lacing his voice only confirming the absurdity of your fleeting thought, offering you a whole new surreal thing to ponder.

Did he just-

“The other shot seems clean,” he added, as if he hadn’t just confused the hell out of you.

You should have probably focused on the good news of him not planning to poke in your flesh anymore, but your brain zeroed on a completely different word he had said before that.

For all the swearwords he had graced you with today, this was the second term of endearment, even sweeter than the last one.

You had heard Barnes call women dolls before, a slip of a tongue in most instances, a glimpse of the flirt he had used to be in his time if the stories you had heard were at least half truthful; nothing but a dated word they had used daily back in the late thirties and forties.

But never Steve.

And definitely not like this.

“Sweetheart?” you questioned lowly as his touch disappeared at last, his gaze snapping to yours half-lidded.

Unless your eyes were deceiving you, there seemed to be a tinge on pink in his cheek; a hazy memory of the same image flashed through your mind, a memory of him complimenting the dress you had chosen.

Except this time, something mildly teasing twinkled in his eye even as his small smile appeared sad.

“Would you prefer sourheart?”

Your own huff of laughter took you by surprise, but it was certainly worth it since the corners of Steve’s lips rose slightly higher.

“Feels more accurate,” you hummed, your heart skipping a beat as he began to shrug off his suit jacket, revealing the white shirt and vest underneath.

If you weren’t mistaken, his shirts normally barely stretched over his wide shoulders and large biceps; the muscles now seemed less defined, the little trick the artifact had done having actually taken a toll. Not that you had spent a lot of time observing Steve Rogers’ arms. It was simply… a vague observation made in order to further analyse the artifact.

But you were probably focusing on the wrong details; you had no idea why Steve was taking off his clothes.

“Maybe it would have, if you hadn’t told me you didn’t mean at least half of the things you said,” he said, lips curling up in a brief smirk as he shook the jacket before dropping it next to him. “No takebacks.”

Your eyebrows jumped, another chuckle – mildly insulted – bubbling in your chest.

Anyone ever told you you’re a little shit? you almost asked, biting your tongue last second.

He was being friendly, joking even, to distract you from the pain; the same way you had thought he had wanted to keep you talking before. He was being his perfect self again – but for once, you could forgive him for that. You were grateful. Because god knew you needed that, even as you shouldn’t have, even as you should have handled this just fine on your own and shouldn’t have needed a knight in a three-piece suit to come to your rescue.

You nearly sprang forward to stop him as the reached for the fabric of his left sleeve covering his bicep and tugged roughly, an irrational don’t ruin the expensive shirt scolding on your tongue; but you bit down again, settling for frowning. It was a real shame to tear such fine piece of clothing, almost as much as ruining your dress; the shirt, even with the stains of the blood and ash, still looked superb on him.

He managed to tear off the sleeve at last, ripping it further at the seams to create a long strip – an improvised bandage, you finally realized. He repeated the action with his other sleeve, revealing a few cuts on his arm.

He had shielded you when you had hit the glass display; and he paid for it dearly, his cuts never getting a chance to heal. Regret coiled in your gut along with anger; he had told you he wasn’t hurt. Of course he fucking had. As long as he wasn’t bleeding out from at least three separate gunshot wounds, he was all breezy, wasn’t he? That stubborn piece of-

Damn him. Damn him and how handsome he was despite all that, even with cuts and bruises and torn off sleeves, once again seeking your gaze to tell you what he was about to do.

“I don’t exactly have a tourniquet on me to stop the bleeding but it would probably be counterproductive at this point anyway. This will keep the tissue edges near each other to mend easier,” he informed you, adding a half-hearted smile.

Not knowing what to say, you made a non-committal sound and braced yourself for more pain, even as it was evident that he was doing everything he could to minimize your suffering. As he began to wrap the fabric around your thigh, he was so careful about moving you as little as possible it was almost laughable given your situation.

Except you weren’t laughing; tears gathered in your eyes as you watched his face instead, your gut clenching, a suffocating weight settling on your chest. Now that he wasn’t talking to you, the traces of worry were clear in his features again; he seemed laser-focused on his task, only taking a glance on your face every now and then to check you weren’t giving into the exhaustion you had felt earlier.

You weren’t. You tried to keep as awake as possible even as the sleepiness slowly returned with your nerves calming and firing at once.

Worn to a bone and probably looking like hell, you still felt alert, even as you had leaned back to the wall, your head lulling a bit, eternally grateful Steve had propped you so you could relax without lying on the floor. Your gaze remained sharp despite the tears – and full of him.

He was painstakingly beautiful from such proximity when he wasn’t yelling; and if it were possible, kindness shone from his eyes more than ever.

You knew he was good – irritatingly, untouchably so – just like you knew he wouldn’t do what he could have. Yet, it still stunned you.

He could have taken sick pleasure in your agony indeed, because you weren’t friends; if anything, you resembled frenemies, reluctant colleagues at best, ones who had clashed more than once.

He could have got quite a few kicks out of seeing you like this, could have punished you for your incompetence, displays of weakness or insubordination – could have easily made you hurt.

But he didn’t.

Like the angel he had appeared when you first saw him materialize in your cell, he would never.

He did the exact opposite; his large hands, bar the moments he had tugged at his shirt sleeves until they tore, were almost delicate in his touch. A touch of an artist.

A ghost of a smile settled your lips, two tears running down your cheeks as you recalled the times you had caught a glimpse of him with a sketchbook. Those moments made you smile too; it was the most gorgeous way of passing his downtime. You wished you could see his sketches, even if you might find out he was only drawing people as stick figures, which you knew he didn’t – he was no doubt talented.

He was gifted in everything; it truly was annoying.

But god, he was so profoundly good, breathtakingly handsome and unbelievably tender as he wrapped the fabric around each of your thighs, wary of touching you higher up your legs than was strictly necessary, because of course he would be so damn respectful even in a situation like this.

There was only one person in the room who had indecent thoughts about the other before, because even if Steve Rogers ever had indecent thoughts, they certainly didn’t concern you.

He didn’t seem to mind your staring, glancing up once he was done with a soft smile on his lips, carefully laying your leg down again.

“There you go. You should feel occasional tug in the wounds, but that only means the healing process started,” he explained lowly, speaking slow, making sure you registered every syllable as your eyes closed again, a soundless thank you on your lips. “You’re welcome. You did a really good job, you know? Not many people would have been be able to do even half of what you just did.”

The weight on your chest only grew, heart quivering – and briefly, so did your lower lip, the sincere praise breaking something deep within you. You felt like you had done everything but a good job. You had needed handholding through survival. That was the opposite of a really good job since survival and saving other people was literally what you had been trained for.

But then there was the fact this was Steve Rogers. Steve, who rarely said things he didn’t mean; Steve, who was practically perfection personified; and he told you that you had done well. One did not dismiss that and scoff over it. When someone like him praised you, you couldn’t but feel the words sink into your very bones, a whole another part of you than your legs healing a fraction.

“Hey…”

A soft sound of your name, a painfully gentle touch to your forehead, a strand of hair, sticky with sweat and blood as you had tried to push it away earlier, moved to side; another touch, this time to your jaw, pushing your chin slightly up to sit straighter, calloused thumb pressing against the tear rolling down your cheek.

You blinked your eyes open, this time certain you were dreaming. But he was still there, as real as you, cradling your face and watching you with intent gaze, a tight-lipped concerned smile.

You needed to pull yourself together. He had already crossed almost every boundary there was, pushing himself lightyears out of his comfort zone just to support you in any way he thought you needed; both verbal and physical. And technically, spiritual too, even as his astral projection was more tangible than he himself had ever felt.

“You’re being very brave, doll. But stay awake. You’re doing great.”

“So why am I bleeding?” you questioned breathlessly with a slightly arched eyebrow.

It felt ungrateful on your part; but handling so many kind words at once was becoming unbearable, a suffocating feeling in your ribcage.

He grimaced at your question, retreating his touch hesitantly as if he was worried you’d collapse entirely if he stopped supporting your head for even a few seconds.

It wasn’t a completely invalid concern; and perhaps it was the blood loss speaking, but you’d consider doing just that if it only brought you a few more seconds of this treatment.

Alright, you really, really needed to get a grip.

Mentally, you patted your cheeks harshly, forcing your eyes wide open – it was time to stop daydreaming about things that were to never come again.

“Are you still cold?” Steve asked, already reaching for the suit jacket he had discarded before you could answer, the action bordering on mother-henning.

You couldn’t stop the quirking of your lips despite the tug at your heartstrings.

“You gonna cuddle me if I say yes, Rogers?”

It was meant to sound like a tease, putting distance between his seemingly genuine care and your heart, but the sarcasm got lost in translation, the words sounding more like a plea.

Luckily, Steve let it slide. He simply shook his head, something akin to a proud smile adorning his face at your attempt at spite.

“Not sure, Spectre. You’re the one who goes through first aid courses on the regular. You tell me whether sharing body heat helps…”

Your lips twitched further. Sassy bag. It was honestly difficult to keep your head straight when he was like this. Too good to be true and yet so painfully solid.

He really was the most infuriating man, wasn’t he? Helping you slide into his jacket, the scent of everything that was him replacing the ever-present smell of blood and sweat. Smoothening the sleeves, a small smile still playing on his lips despite the crinkle of worry returning, bringing the word cute at the forefront of your mind.

He indeed was scandalously, unfairly pretty.

No one should look so charming with blood and smudges of ash on their face, hair messy, dressed in a now-sleeveless dirty shirt with and an unbuttoned vest. No one should be able to convey such warmth in their gaze; especially not when it had to be a lie if they were looking at you, not when you knew this was him and he probably considered all this a common courtesy, the jerk, just so casually, irritatingly kind-

“Better now?”

The same warmth that shone in his eyes, the same warmth his jacket offered, was in his voice. His hands were warm too, a sheen of sweat glistening in his hairline, so you supposed he wasn’t cold and would indeed be willing to share some of his body heat.

Jokes aside, a cuddle sounded most lovely; definitely crossing a line, entirely inappropriate, in the worst possible place and probably with the worst possible person, but still heavenly. Against your better judgement, you’d trust him; you always trusted him. You trusted him with your life and you had a distant feeling you could trust him with anything; the problem was you couldn’t afford to take such leap, not when every time you had taken a leap of faith, there was no one there to catch you in the end, the landing breaking what you thought couldn’t be broken further.

Protect your heart. Protect yourself. Especially from men like him, a voice whispered in the very back of your mind, pushing through the sea of musing to be heard.

A man like him wouldn’t want anything less than perfect. He’d deserve nothing less either.

And yet, when his hand brushed over yours, the rapid beats of your heart could not only be blamed on the blood loss, nor could the way your pulse thundered in your ears. The cold of your skin might have though and it clearly bothered your companion; Steve moved to cover your bare legs with your skirts as much as he could before taking off his vest as well, spreading it over your shins and feet.

“You’re going to be alri-”

The sound of footsteps reached your little bubble of surreal reality too late – barely a second before the key rattled in the lock and the door was swinging open just as the startled cry erupted from your lips.

“Steve-!”

He only managed to whip his head around, moving but a fraction.

As the time seemed to slow for a long moment and you became a mere observer of the scene, you noticed, much to your irritation, that Steve’s minuscule movement was towards you. To shield you again.

He never got that far when the sound of a gunshot tore through your very soul, his body thrown backwards at the impact.

A single bullet to his chest.

You choked on the scream of his name, tears springing from your eyes as you tried to launch forward – but his body never hit the ground.

It disappeared into thin air.

You panted, violent shudder shaking your body, your eyes squeezed shut as you failed to get the scene you had just witnessed from where it got burned into your retinas.

The only thing you achieved was that it was now replaying behind your closed eyelids, claws of terror digging into your flesh, tearing at your heart.

The shock of the pain must have made Steve snap back into his body. That was all, that had to be what happened.

It had to.

You knew, rationally, that Steve was likely fine, because such was your experience with the powers: his physical body remained unharmed bar the pain, as unpleasant and exhausting as it was. He was alright, because you would have been.

But fuck.

The horror of seeing him shot in the chest right in front of you. Steve Rogers, who – except for the past few minutes – had only ever been in his physical body, tangible and real, to whom getting shot in the chest meant real damn consequences which could and would equal death.

And what if it doesn’t work for him the same way it does for you? a tiny but very loud voice screamed in your head, causing your hands to shake harder, the dried blood on them now a pleasant sight in comparison of imagining Steve’s own blood oozing out of his chest.

You hadn’t taken all of Steve’s enhancement – you hadn’t grown two feet taller or gained a hundred pounds of muscle and he hadn’t changed back into the state before given the serum. What if your abilities in his body worked differently? What if he managed to project and now snap back, but the injury stayed with him, transferring back to his actual body?

What if he was bleeding to death?

What if he was dead?

You swallowed the sob fighting its way out over the lump in your throat, desperate to grasp at any resemblance of rationality instead of panic. Gritting your teeth, you willed yourself to focus on the sounds on the other side of the wall with all your might, hearing nothing but the rapid thump-thump-thump-thump-thump of your own terrified heart.

Breathe, breathe, breathe, dammit.

Breathe, Rogers, or I’m going to kill you myself!

Could you hear his ragged breaths of was it just your wishful thinking?

He had to be still breathing. There was no time for his spectre to lose blood – the most likely outcome was that Steve’s chest hurt like hell, but hopefully he was still alive and conscious. And more importantly, he wasn’t bleeding to death.

Right?

Right?!

“In case you still need it,” a rough voice hummed from the doorway, causing your eyes to snap open.

You caught a glimpse of an object flying your direction from the corner of your eye, a dark one, then a transparent one. One landed with soft thud, the other with a hard one; a small first aid kit and a bottle of water.

You didn’t give a damn, even if water – or anything to drink really – sounded like salvation. Instead, your glare snapped to the man. The first proper look at the bastard who had the fucking audacity to shoot Steve.

For someone being so daring and such a pain in the ass, he was desperately boring. Average height, dark hair, dark eyes, no expression at all on his face; dressed all in black, the Hydra emblem sitting proudly on his biceps, as if that was the only thing that could have separated him from the pain of being so awfully ordinary.

Someone should really tell him that joining Hydra to achieve being extraordinary had been a step in the wrong direction, because ethe only thing it had made him was an extraordinary dick.

He glanced at you without as much as mild interest, already moving backwards; eyes still on you.

But you didn’t give a damn. Let him see you as you gritted your teeth and pushed up on your arms, Steve’s vest sliding down your legs as you tried to get to your feet despite the sharp protest of your damaged muscles.

Sometimes people just needed the right motivation to outdo themselves; and the desire to snap the asshole’s neck was plenty motivating.

You still couldn’t tell if the echo of Steve’s harsh breaths was your own imagination or a real thing. You’d deal with that later.

The Hydra man arched his eyebrow, stopping mid-step, something akin to faint amusement on his face.

“I wouldn’t do that. You’re hurt. Lost a lot of blood,” he reminded you as if the smell of copper didn’t tickle your nostrils with every breath, as if you couldn’t feel muscles shaking with exertion when you as much as tried to fold your legs under you to stand up. The surge of adrenalin was potent, but not almighty. He tilted his head a you managed to rise up. “Not to mention that one word and the Captain won’t live long enough to say as much as a goodbye. If you stay down, we’ll just make sure that he’s not… able to jump around this compound. Maybe.”

Your breath hitched, relief flooding your veins.

He was alive. Steve was alive.

This excuse of a human being had plenty of reason to lie to keep you obedient; but you didn’t think he did. If they hadn’t killed Steve until now, they had no reason to--

“Mitch?” the man called out, giving you precisely one second to wonder who the hell he was talking to or what kind of a signal that was and then it became terrifyingly clear.

Another gunshot rang in the air, this time from the other room.

The helpless cry of NO erupted from your throat, your blood turning into ice, heart stunned. You didn’t realize your hand flew up to cover your mouth until you tasted the dried blood on your lips.

All but a hiss of pain from behind the wall.

One second ticked by. Two.

And then you were urging forward, a pathetic but wholehearted attempt to charge after the bastard despite the blinding pain and weakness.

You were back on the ground before you could take a single step, pain exploding in your nerves in burning circles heading straight into your open wounds. Your head pounded, a soundless scream on your lips, the figure once again disappearing from sight, at the very same angle like the last time; with you on the floor, shaking and unable to get up.

But this time, you lied closer to the wall; and were terrified for your Captain. For Steve. Kind idiotic Steve who had insisted on taking care of you and had caught two bullets for his trouble; one to his chest and the other… you had no idea.

Unsure how to control your movements, hands and feet twitching in the aftershock of the taser shot, you managed to all but creak Steve’s name.

You weren’t sure if it was him or the heavens above who heard you. But when he responded, you thanked the latter.

“Yeah. I’m… I’m here,” he choked out in between heavy breaths.

You could hear it clearly now, every ragged breath; you prayed his troubles was caused only by the lingering pain in his chest and not the other gun--- you swallowed, blinking away tears, guilt twisting your stomach.

They hurt him. They hurt him because he had been trying to help you. How was that fair? Hydra didn’t play fair, people like them rarely did, but they had really crossed a line there. 

“Steve? What-”

“Just a shoulder. I’m fine,” he assured you swiftly.

You truly wanted to be mad at him and yell the fuck you are, you the relief and guilt bulldozed the anger quite effectively.

They shot him because of me.

You hoped he couldn’t hear your absolutely embarrassing sniffle even as that was the smallest of your concerns right now.

Just a shoulder. Just a shoulder. Not the chest. The injury didn’t transfer back to his actual body.

“They--- I’m so sorry.”

“Not your fault. In fact,” he panted, a breathy chuckle escaping him and you didn’t know whether to hysterically laugh or scream, “you warned me. Feel free to tell me I told you so. Are you-“

“Just a taser,” you mimicked his words, hearing his sharp inhale. Propping on your elbows, you tried to shuffle closer to the wall so you could sit up again. With his jacket still on, you could feel fresh sweat trickling down your back. But at least his scent was comforting in certain way. “Definitely not cold anymore. Not feeling peachy enough to say I told you so. Is there a way you can put pressure on that?”

Please say yes. In fact, but a pressure on that right now. That’s an order, you wanted to throw back, managing to only groan as you pushed up and let your back hit the wall again with a blissful relief.

Steve sighed in between his gasps. “Not really, no. But I think it’s just a graze. And it serves its purpose. I’m don’t think I can project again.”

You couldn’t exactly say you blamed him. It was unfortunate though, projecting now would work well for him – if he projected to the room he was in, he might still not be able to free himself, but he might be able to put pressure on that wound. Maybe. Unless he’d pass out.

Jesus fucking Christ, how had you gotten into this mess again?

Don’t say it-

“That’s okay,” you said instead, taking a deep calming breath, realizing your roles were reversed now. As strange as it was, he needed your support now. Or maybe he didn’t need it, but you’d be damned if he wasn’t going to get it. “Just hang on, okay? I know it hurts like son of a bitch…” and you didn’t only mean his actual gunshot wound, “but I know you’ve pushed through worse.”

“Yeah, sure.”

His chuckle, no matter the scoff that followed it, made you smile a bit and eased your nerves. He’d be fine. He had fought off worse.

The question was, how long he could hold on without the serum?

Stuck now more than before, you prayed to every god you knew, including the Asgardian ones, for the Avengers to somehow be on their way even without your trackers at hand.

Because the scary reality was your body might be healing, but Steve was only about to lose more blood. And you had no idea if he wasn’t downplaying his injuries in his very own Steve Rogers fashion – after all, you had seen it happen just five minutes ago.

And lastly, despite having too many theories circling through your head, you were terrified at the fact that you no idea what the Hydra’s real plan was; what was it they were wating for, why the only thing they had done so far was hurt you both and observe.

You had no idea how much time you had before they changed their mind about letting you idly sit in a cell and chat and bleed, and moved on to something considerably more deadly.

Next chapter

Series masterlist // S.R. masterlist

Hurt and comfort let's goooo.

Not going to lie, as much as I enjoy their bickering, I was very very much looking forward to some more soft&protective!Steve🥰

Also, some of you guessed the plot-twist (some of you shared it too). Now I can finally admit that the initial title of the fic was meant to be “Walk a Mile (in My Shoes)” but that would have been just too revealing right away, wouldn’t it? 😁

(I can also disclose where the inspiration came from (except for the obvious one Freaky Friday and it being a trope) – from this ancient TV series called Charmed, where Piper and Leo just fight and fight, until the Elders have them switch their roles/abilities for them to find more understanding for each other again. In another earlier episode, the three sisters accidently switch powers, and one of them actually calls is a Supernatural Freaky Friday. Just for reference.)

Thank you for reading and potential feedback💕

And please, let me know if you feel like I missed a warning, I'll add it :)

[strawberrybasilsorbet]

Jilytober Day 9

Finished this @jilytoberfest story a little late again! This microfic went in a darker/sadder direction than I expected (CW for funeral planning), but I really like it. Hope you enjoy!

October 9th Prompt: "You literally checked your phone 3 seconds ago"

"Sirius Black."

Lily picked at her roast beef. James bounced his leg, looking at the mirror in his palm.

"Sirius Black. Padfoot. Sirius Bl—"

"He said that he'd call you when he got home," said Lily. "James, the food is getting cold."

Lily, her fiancé, and the spectre of Sirius Black sat in the kitchen of her three-room flat, allegedly eating supper. The man himself was off someplace in London, sneaking into his brother's funeral.

After a pause, James turned to face the table, setting the mirror upright against his glass. He spooned some potatoes onto his plate and took a bite. "It's good," he said.

"Thanks." And they fell again into uneasy silence.

There had been no announcement in the Prophet, but — through some pure-blood whisper network that was opaque to Lily — the Prewett brothers had heard. A small service, family only. Closed casket.

Sirius had claimed to be looking for an answer: whether his brother's body had simply been mutilated beyond repair, or whether the rumors were true, and the House of Black hadn't been able to recover a body at all.

James hadn't wanted him to go. He was convinced that Sirius's Death Eater cousins would discover and attack him, and had told him so, repeatedly. When this line of persuasion had failed, James had tried to insist on coming along as backup, but Sirius had refused. He hadn't given a reason.

Out of options, James had insisted that Sirius take the Cloak, at least. An invisible man would be less conspicuous than a giant dog, and in this rain, it was likely that at least part of the ceremony would be indoors.

"Sirius Black."

"James, you literally checked the mirror three seconds ago."

"But what if—"

"Sirius is a grown-up," Lily snapped. "He told you he'd call when he can."

James gave the clock on the wall a pointed look. "Lily, it's been four hours."

"Maybe the funeral's not over yet."

"It's after six."

"Maybe he needs a minute, James!"

James stiffened, snapping his face back toward Lily. At least he'd stopped bouncing his damn leg. "What the hell is your problem?"

"I haven't got a problem. You're being ridiculous."

James gave her a long look. "Fine," he said. Then, deliberately, he turned his back on her. "Sirius Black."

Lily shoved her plate away, stood, and stomped out of the kitchen.

She didn't understand why she was so upset. Lily had never even spoken to Regulus Black. If it weren't for his distinctive resemblance to his brother, Lily might never have noticed him in school at all. He'd been skinnier than Sirius, and he'd had a gaunter face  — but with his dark hair and gray eyes, the resemblance between Regulus and his estranged brother had been as plain as the resemblance of the gibbous moon to the full. (Tuney had always been thin).

Lily dragged her hands over her face and took a deep breath through her nose. She counted to four, held it, then breathed out again, as Alice Longbottom had taught her after that battle when a curse had nearly ripped open her torso.

(Tuney had always been thin. It was the one thing she'd always been able to lord over her talented, popular sister, leaving magazines open to photos of Twiggy and boasting about her dress size.)

Sirius hadn't spoken to his brother since he'd finished school, more than a year ago. Lily hadn't spoken to her sister in at least as long. Petunia's invitation to her wedding had been returned, unopened.

And her fiancé hadn't understood. You don't deserve to be treated like this, James had said firmly, gently, as he'd held her against his chest. Lily had been crying her eyes out, clutching the sealed envelope. Your family is supposed to support you, Lily. They aren't supposed to be cruel.

The worst part hadn't even been his words, but the horrible weight that they had lifted from her heart. The immensity of the comfort — the relief — that she had felt; the warmth, like she had finally found a home.

If James had spoken such poison to Sirius, whose brother was now dead — well. It was no wonder, to Lily, that he did not answer.

A chair scraped in the kitchen, and she heard her fiancé's loud footsteps as he followed her into the sitting room. Lily wasn't surprised. Neither she nor James were the type to let a provocation lie; it was one of the reasons they fit together so well. He had barely entered the room before Lily rounded on him.  

"If the Death Eaters murder me," she spat, "will you invite Petunia to the funeral?"

James stopped dead. He'd entered the room with his mouth open, ready with some argument that Lily had cut off, and his chin bobbed awkwardly as he processed the unexpected question. Like a fish.

"Well?" It was an accusation. "Will you?"

Raindrops tapped against the sitting room window. James stared. Finally, he said, "You aren't going to be murdered."

Lily raised her chin, although it trembled. "I could be."

"You won't."

"But I could be." When they'd buried Edgar Bones and his little children, the service had been in a magical village. Muggle-Repelling Charms had blanketed the entire Wizarding quarter of the town, including the churchyard. "Would she be able to come, even if you did? If I die in this war, James, will my sister even be able to see the grave?"

A bitter hiccough of a laugh escaped her. James tugged on his hair with both hands and closed his eyes. The fight went out of his posture, and he seemed to let out all of his breath at once, like a flag when the wind is gone.

Without a word, James took a few steps toward her, put both of his hands on her waist, and walked her to the sitting room couch. Collapsing into it, he pulled Lily sideways onto his lap, wrapping an arm tightly around her waist. He rested his forehead against her temple, burying his face in her thick red hair.

They listened to the rain.

Lily could not tell how much time had passed before James spoke. "My family are all buried in Godric's Hollow," he said quietly. "It's been half-magical since before the Statute of Secrecy was passed. There are Muggles buried in the graveyard there, too. It wouldn't be like the Boneses."

Lily swallowed. "I didn't think you'd—"

"Noticed?" James took her left hand with his free arm, lacing his fingers through hers. He turned his head to look at the ring there. "I did. But if I'd never known you, I probably wouldn't have."

He squeezed her hand and released it, then turned his face back into her hair. "Anyway," he said, still quiet, "that's probably what we would do. But if you wanted something different—"

"No," Lily cut him off. "No, that's— that's fine."

"Okay," James said. He took a shaky breath, but when he spoke again, his voice was steady. "As far as the rest of it — I don't think Petunia would need an invitation. I imagine she'd be the one writing them."

"She...would?"

"If she were willing," said James. He shrugged. "I think she'd be better at that part than me. Obituaries, flowers."

"You hate Petunia."

"I don't hate her." Lily turned to face him, skepticism in her expression. Behind his glasses, James's hazel eyes were sincere. "I don't. And...and even if I did, I—." He looked down as his voice broke. "I wouldn't do that to you, Lily."

She looked down, too. "Oh."

"I promise. I wouldn't."

"I...I believe you. Thank you." James nodded but did not speak. The rain lulled, and the silence was suddenly unbearable. Lily swallowed. "What...part would you be better at?"

"What?"

"You said my sister would be better at flowers."

James raised his eyebrows. "Tracking down the bastards who'd murdered you."

"Oh. Right."

"Right."

James's left arm was still wrapped tightly around Lily's waist, but with his right, he began to run his hand up and down the side of her body, from her shoulder to her hip and back again. "Lily. It's not the same."

Of course it wasn't the same. It wasn't the same, because Regulus Black had been a pureblood and a bigot and a child of money, and none of it had saved him.

What did Lily and Tuney have?

It was like peering into a cracked mirror. It had been ever since she'd heard. And then, there was Sirius — who was popular and talented, who was different from his family, who'd gone away, who'd been rejected — Sirius, whom she should have been able to connect with, to understand—

And yet.

"The idiot should never have joined in the first place," he'd told Gideon Prewett, tossing his head. "He deserved it." Whether Sirius had been trying to avoid damnation by association, or whether he'd meant every word, Lily could not guess. But the words had been a cold knife in her gut.

She'd really been starting to like Sirius.

"Lily? You're shaking," said James, still running his hand along her side. "What is it?"

She looked away from him. "Tuney wouldn't even come," Lily said in a wobbling voice. "She'd call me a freak and say that I brought it on myself." James said nothing. "You know she would."

He crushed her to his chest. Lily burst into sobs.

James rubbed circles into her shoulders as he rocked her back and forth. Lily took quick, gasping breaths against his chest, soaking the front of his robes with tears and snot. She didn't know if she was wailing for herself or Tuney or James, for Regulus Black or Edgar Bones or Bones's little daughter — didn't know if what she felt was fear or grief, or if it was the childish voice that cried out inside her, had been crying out for years and years, because sisters were supposed to be forever.

"I love you, Lily" James said, his voice choked. "I love you. I love you. I love you."

And they sat, until she'd cried herself out and he'd trailed off and the rain had finally stopped. Still, they did not rise, but held one another in silence.

"James Potter."

They both jumped.

Sirius's voice, emanating from James's pocket, was hoarse. "James Potter." James looked at Lily uncertainly. His eyes were red.

"It's okay," she said, shifting off of his lap and wiping her nose on her sleeve. "Go. Tell him I send my love."

James hesitated for another moment before nodding. He pressed a kiss to Lily's forehead, then stood, taking the mirror from his pocket as he left the room. "What took you so long?" she heard him say, but she could not make out the reply. Both voices grew quiet as James walked further into the kitchen.

Lily looked around the sitting room from her perch on the sofa, not quite lost, not quite found. She grabbed a throw pillow and hugged it tightly to her chest.

On the coffee table, there was a vase of flowers. She reached out to touch them, coaxing their petals to open and close beside one another on the stem.

[writtenjewels]

Coffee

Kaidan stifled a yawn as he headed into the mess. It was early enough that he wasn't expecting to run into many of the other crew. Which was why he was startled to discover that the coffee was already brewing. He moved in closer and found Shepard sitting with a mug. The commander looked up when Kaidan approached.

“Morning, Lieutenant.”

“Commander,” Kaidan returned with a nod. He found a mug and poured himself a cup of coffee. “Anyone else awake yet?”

“Nope. Just you, me, and this delicious coffee.” Shepard inhaled deeply before taking another drink. Kaidan smiled around his mug and mimicked the commander. The coffee did taste pretty good. “Now that we have Garrus and Tali on the ship, we'll have to make sure we're stocked with dextro foodstuffs.”

“That's true,” Kaidan agreed. “A human ship accommodating alien dietary needs. It seems like such a small thing, but it'll mean a lot. It'll show the rest of the galaxy that we can all work together.”

“And here I was just worrying about groceries,” Shepard remarked with a chuckle. Kaidan smiled back at him. “You think they'll mind the smell?” Shepard wondered after a moment.

“I doubt it. Garrus worked with humans at C-Sec; he's probably been around coffee before. And those filters on Tali's suit probably keep out any odors that would cause her harm.”

“Good.” Shepard's lips moved into a playful smile. “Because I really don't think I'd be able to get through the day without my coffee.” That made Kaidan laugh. Shepard's eyes twinkled at him, looking pleased with himself. It only made Kaidan smile more. He really liked Shepard's sense of humor.

“You're a Spectre now. You probably have access to the best beans in the galaxy.”

“That's a good point.” Shepard looked at him in surprise. “I didn't expect you to suggest I abuse my power like that, Kaidan.” For some reason, hearing his first name spoken so casually made Kaidan feel a little flustered. It took him a moment to respond.

“With coffee on the line, I think you can bend the rules a little.”

“Glad we can agree on that.” Shepard grinned at him.

Kaidan's face felt warm. This conversation didn't quite have the feel of playful banter anymore. No, he had to be overthinking things. He let silence fall as he drank the rest of his coffee.

“You usually awake at this hour?” Shepard asked him.

“Yeah, more or less. I like it when it's quiet.”

“Good to know.” Shepard got up and stretched. “Better get to our duties,” he said. “See you back here tomorrow.”

“That an order, Commander?” Without meaning to, Kaidan had spoken the words with a teasing lilt in his tone. Shepard's lip curled up in a smile that made Kaidan's heart flutter.

“I was talking to the coffee.”

Kaidan was caught off-guard. He laughed, Shepard grinning at him. His heart was still fluttering, his face warm, when Shepard walked away.

[pico-farad]

Secret Identities AU #3

revolver, soulburner, kusanagi, and ghost girl

SIAU tag

⇀ Revolver

So the reason I didn't address Revolver in this AU before is because with the other characters (Yusaku, Naoki, Go, Aoi) I tried to keep them recognizable. The changes made are mostly in their circumstances, but their core traits are the same.

That's not the case with SIAU Revolver.

In a secret identities story, half the fun is how characters show off a different side of themselves. People love Contrast, so I was disappointed that with Vrains, Aoi is kind of the only one who takes advantage of that (and then it drops off after season 1). You could argue Takeru but... I want a true old fashioned Alter Ego, where the secret identity is something that frees you to become someone else.

Anyway, I want to make IRL Ryoken a pathetic, unsocialized, sopping wet cat.

I want him to be a basement-dwelling, chronically on Reddit and StackOverflow, miserable little nerd who only goes outside to eat hotdogs. You can keep Revolver exactly the same with his smirks and his monologues, but when he logs off of Vrains, he has a nervous breakdown over the landscaper making eye contact with him through a window.

It's absolutely bait, and people would gobble it right up. The ultimate Yugioh meow meow. 

He may be a hacking genius, but he can't take care of himself. The Knights of Hanoi look up to Revolver-sama with utmost loyalty, but outside of Vrains he's useless and they have to do everything for him. They beg him to make one relationship outside of Hanoi, so of course he just goes with the boy from the hot dog truck, the only person he sees semi-regularly.

Secret identity stories thrive from betrayal. Ryoken will never recover from the betrayal that the hot dog guy is Playmaker.

And while I'm at it, I think it would be fun if mid-series, he shows up at Yusaku's school as a transfer student for Hanoi Reasons. You weebs know what I'm talking about. Yusaku's mind is drifting in class as he thinks about how there's been no sign of Revolver since The Confrontation. The teacher announces that they'll be having a new student in class. Yusaku looks up, their eyes meet, and he thinks to himself Oh hell no. And Ryoken is having an even worse time.

Think of the possibilities, okay?

⇀ Soulburner

I had some comments on the first SIAU post saying that they'd love to see Takeru fitting into the Yusaku Defense Squad, but the thing is, Takeru isn't really a character I would have created if I was actually making SIAU from scratch.

Like I've said before, Soulburner was added to Season 2 because Yusaku needed a real "best friend character." But in SIAU, he already has Naoki, he has Go, he has Aoi, he even has Kusanagi and Ai. Making him Yusaku's best friend would not only be redundant, but it would undercut the friendship arcs that were developed and earned through "Season 1."

Originally I thought that I would have just cut him out completely, but I've come up with a better idea. This one's also going to be quite divergent from canon.

While I was doing research, I read a lot of fan reactions from when the episodes were coming out live, and the widespread theory about Soulburner... was that he would be the Bakura of Vrains. That is, a character who was friendly, but either reveals themself as or becomes something twisted and antagonistic. It's not a rigid definition, but some classic examples would be like Ryou from GX, Kiryu, Rei from Zexal, and Sora. A lot of people were waiting for the other shoe to drop with Soulburner, but it never did.

I'll sign onto it though. I'm not sure how I'd make it work exactly. IRL Takeru, the "facade," can be the soft-spoken, normie glasses guy that we see in Vrains, but I don't think I'd make Soulburner as... unhinged as the Bakura usually is, since Spectre already exists. I might model his personality more off spiky Takeru, the one we see in the Blood Shepherd flashback. Intense, angry, unstable, prone to lashing out whether you deserve it or not. And well, maybe he can be a little unhinged too... as a treat.

Ultimately, Soulburner should be an antagonist, so it makes the most sense to put him on the side of the Ignis. I'd erase the Bohman stuff (sorry Bohman likers...) so that this conflict is represented by Yusaku being in conflict with Soulburner, and Ai being in conflict with the rest of the Ignis. I think it also makes for a more compelling story if the Ignis are a united faction, and Playmaker and Ai are stuck in the center of a three-way conflict between SOL, Hanoi, and the Ignis. It makes Ai's conflict much more poignant, that all of the Ignis are asking him to join their side against humanity, but he can't make that decision. The Ignis dynamic would also be interesting to explore in this scenario, with Lightning, Aqua, Windy, and Flame actually being on the same side. 

As for what Soulburner is doing on the Ignis's side, I'd have to... develop the plot a lot more... Maybe the Ignis are using him? It would require the Ignis to be more sinister, especially Flame. It could be connected to the Ignis targeting their Lost Incident counterparts; rather than the SOLtis route, they plan to use actual human bodies as hosts. That would be pretty compelling, and it's a Yugioh classic. I'd be so down for Kusanagi dueling Lightning in Jin's body, and Earth facing Spectre to try and steal his body (maybe even succeeding and infiltrating the Knights of Hanoi? That could be fun). The Flame and Soulburner relationship could also be fascinating in this iteration, although I'm not exactly sure where I'd go with it.

Open to other thoughts on how to make Bakura!Soulburner work!

⇀ Kusanagi

I want him to have more of a surrogate brother dynamic with Yusaku. With a greater emphasis placed on Yusaku's secret identity, Kusanagi being the only person who knows that about him becomes even more important, as someone who knows both sides of his life and can see how each affects the other.

I think it's clear that Kusanagi feels like he failed Jin, and I think it would be poignant for that to bleed into how he sees Yusaku. Because he's thinking about the life that Jin should have lived. 

He's the one who encourages Yusaku to make friends with the Duel Club, and translates normal high school interactions for him when Yusaku doesn't understand them, and worries about him balancing being Playmaker and his personal life.

Since Zaizen stays an antagonist in this AU, I would give that confrontation to Kusanagi instead: about how Yusaku is a child and a victim and should leave this to the adults.

At first, Kusanagi just sees Yusaku as an ally to find those responsible for the Lost Incident, but as they grow closer, he sees Yusaku as his brother, someone who was hurt, who's still a child, who should be living a normal high school life, and feels more uneasy about Yusaku taking on the heaviest burden in pursuit of his revenge. Zaizen's platitude of "Leave this to me, you don't need to do this, I'll find those responsible" carries more weight if Kusanagi is the one saying it to Yusaku.

The fallout drama... immaculate.

⇀ Ghost Girl

In SIAU, I want there to be a greater emphasis of different factions in conflict not just with Yusaku but with each other. And I want Ghost Girl to play for all of them because she deserves to backstab as many people as possible.

Also, since there isn't a true "secret identity plot twist" so far, I think it would be fun for Ghost Girl to be the one. By which I mean her true identity is revealed to be someone who's been under our noses the entire time. Corny I know, but it's Yugioh. I think it would be fun.

Specifically I want her to be that secretary with a crush on Akira. Hayami. I want her to be spilling coffee on Akira and blushing and going "Oh Chief Zaizen!" while inserting dubious USBs into his computer behind his back. I THINK IT WOULD BE FUN, OKAY?

I'm not sure if I would include Blood Shepherd in this AU, I don't know if he would add anything. But I'll always be a sucker for a complicated sibling dynamic, so who knows? Maybe he infiltrates SOL at the same time as her and they're both fighting over the dubious USB behind Zaizen's back LMAO

[turian]

garrus's position as what is essentially a police officer puts him in the line of fire of various tired copaganda tropes. worthy of note is the "cowboy cop" trope, which can be summarized as a renegade police officer who breaks the rules in favor of vengeance, justice, or righteousness. the "cowboy cop" is usually framed as being in the right; this trope largely belongs to antiheroes. "cowboy cop" is considered by tvtropes to apply to both garrus vakarian and renegade shepard. garrus, though noted as being more "polite and soft-spoken" than those the trope generally applies to, is a character who defies authority and values his own sense of justice above the law. he voices his preference for killing criminals rather than letting them slip away. his personal quest in me2 is heavily related to this - he seeks to hunt down and kill a man who he perceives (whether or not he is correct is not relevant; all that's relevant is that garrus believes wholeheartedly in this conviction and this method of justice) was responsible for horrific human rights abuses. as a paragon or renegade shepard, you can either aid garrus in this or stay his hand and insist that you seek another more measured form of justice.

garrus has, by this point in the narrative, essentially become a vigilante. he is a dog with a bone when it comes to his view of justice, and he is not capable of letting an investigation go because beureaucracy - or hierarchy - dictates he must. this is why he quits c-sec, so that he can chase justice along shepard's side. after shepard and him are separated, garrus, rather than resuming a c-sec career, decides to go clean up crime on omega. he is granted the nickname archangel. these exploits nearly get him killed - it is only shepard's intervention (which occurs just in the nick of time) which save him from near-certain death. even with shepard's help, he does not leave omega unscathed - he has, by the end of his recruitment mission, taken a rocket to the face, and for the rest of the game series, carries those scars.

garrus's story would not be terribly out of place in gotham, though its politics differ from batman's. the "cowboy cop" trope doesn't technically apply to bruce wayne. bruce wayne's vigilantism, gothic or not, is shown to be directly in community with police. batman serves the empire in which he lurks. batman may take issue with some corruption in that system, but he naively believes in good cops. batman is elevated by one thing only - his refusal to kill. that said, he is happy to hand victims of his justice to institutions that will kill.

garrus vakarian has oft been called the batman of his universe, but should instead be likened to jason todd, aka red hood. red hood is fuelled by anger at a system that failed him, and seeks to work outside of that system. however, even in working outside of that system, jason carries the system's view of justice with him when he dispenses his own violent form of vigilante justice. red hood fights the same people that batman fights - the only difference, really, is that jason fights with bullets rather than batarangs.

garrus's motivations are alleged to be a desire to stand against and work independently of corruption. and to be clear, taking a stance against corrupt police is good. violence against corruption is good. violence against police is good. however, based on garrus's aims and actions, it seems clear that garrus is not against policing, nor is he necessarily against corruption in all its forms. garrus is instead against being controlled. garrus would like to step outside of the system, but unwittingly brings the system with him when he makes that move. quoting from tvtropes:

Paragon Shepard's influence can inspire [garrus] to rejoin C-Sec with a new appreciation for playing by the rules, in addition to reapplying for Spectre candidacy (which happens either route you take). Renegade Shepard's influence, conversely, will encourage his tendencies to the extent that he envies Shepard's lack of problems with red tape.

garrus's frustration may be with c-sec and corruption within c-sec in part, but garrus is distinguished from corrupt officers only through his disdain for anything he perceives as leashing him. it's made clear by his respect for renegade shepard and the ability of a pro-police paragon shepard to sway him back c-sec's way that garrus is more than fine with the police. his disdain for them is in no way radical. it should also be noted that garrus leaves c-sec to serve the alliance military, who are enforcing laws in their own right. garrus simply moves to doing the same things he's always done in proverbial international waters.

characters like garrus and bruce wayne (and, for that matter, jason todd) act with authority based on their own convictions. because they operate within stories and are intended as sympathetic characters, their convictions go largely unquestioned by the narrative. batman is right because he's batman. red hood is right because he's red hood, except when batman is right instead. shepard is right because they're shepard. garrus is right because he's garrus, except when shepard is right instead. the question mass effect really poses in garrus's arm of the story is as follows: should garrus dispense violence for the system within the system, or should he dispense violence for the system while pretending he exists outside of it?

[luvrodite]

a fire, the forest and the witness watching it (920)

To be seen, to have been known – and  unflinchingly, at that. You are made, unmade and formed anew. Though he does it unwittingly, Jason could not have expected any other outcome.

There was no other end to this story. 

Mine first, you think meanly, when you sink your teeth into his bottom lip. 

tags: gn!reader infidelity, obsessive + possessive behaviour, delusions, non-graphic sexual intercourse

minors, blank or ageless blogs dni as you will be blocked!

How to describe it – the burning.

These days, you moved through a smokescreen of placid smiles, words coloured by artifice. The world now a burning landscape, ash settles on your tongue and makes a home behind your teeth. Reassurances are spoken to your reflection through blackened gums, steady enough that you can ignore the soot, the whites of your eyes stark against the smog. Now a fragmented picture of the person you’d been before this, you're patched back together by hands that cannot remember, entirely, what had stood in its place before. 

What had lived here, before its ruination? 

Perhaps someone who would have thought twice – or someone who would not have considered this at all. Lines, so strict once they were as good as branded – white hot, searing, burnt into your palms – now brittle, easily smudged by scarred palms, crushed beneath a selfish heel.

You do not delude yourself into believing you were once porcelain, but filth taints you now, you are certain of it. 

You could justify it if you tried, though the remaining dregs of your rationality reasons that it would be poor justification.

He was mine first, seems juvenile – and reductive. 

That the sands of time, the constant turn of the hourglass over what had spanned years could be so neatly packed into four words is laughable. The abyssal depth of devotion, meant to be gleaned from a petty claim of ownership. You know it will never carry across. 

How to describe it. All that there is to be said has already been spoken, stolen from you by the greats, beating you to it by centuries. Your own epithets are meagre in comparison, too pale and clumsy. 

Love, if what plagues you could be something so pure, drives you mad.

Reverence, perhaps. Devotion that nears blasphemy – no longer a man but that which carved your existence with his own hand. All-powerful, holding sovereignty over your every heartbeat and breath. There is no inch of you that has not known the press of his fingertips. No cell a stranger to his touch, no stone unturned by a probing hand. 

At your best. More importantly, at your worst – raving, ranting, phlegm and snot and tear stained – 

He sees it all.  

Your worst sins laid bare, soaked up by teal irises like stones sinking in water. This I will bear with you, not only yours to carry. Your wants, your needs. He takes it all. 

To be seen, to have been known – and unflinchingly, at that. You are made, unmade and formed anew. Though he does it unwittingly, Jason could not have expected any other outcome.

There was no other end to this story. 

Mine first, you think meanly, when you sink your teeth into his bottom lip. 

The phone on his bedside table lays face down, silent, switched off. You feel no need to share his guilt – you are taking what is owed, after all, what has always been yours. What will continue to be.

Your hand on his chin, a palm covering his mouth when the guilt threatens to outweigh desire – loyalty nearly ousted by fickle reason. For a moment your irritation bleeds through – is it not you that has seniority here? Is it not you that had long since staked claim over him? He should not think of any other.

(It’s you and me, remember?) 

You gather he does by the tent in his trousers, the swell of his length between your legs. However reluctantly, his body recalls yours and responds. Shuddered breaths panted into your mouth, fingers twitching by his sides before sinking into the softness of your hips.

This new being, the spectre which replaces you, is pleased. Your lips curve into a smile against his. Leading him to ruination comes with a frenetic sort of satisfaction and when he sinks home, you see white. That you are not alone any longer, that you have reunited, that you have ruined him for all else, too – you reach your own Elysium in the shadows of his bedroom.

There’s veneration to be found in the slide of his cock against you, the stickiness of bare skin pressing, moving, carving. Unwilling to meet the gravity of his transgression, he tucks his face into your neck, panting against the hollow of your throat. You can smell the faint acidity of wine on his breath, heady notes of fruit ghosting over your skin. 

His shame is pale in comparison to the press of his fingers. You’re certain there will be welts when he lets go. He pins you to him, holds you against where you meet and cries out when your nails sink into his shoulders. 

And you think perhaps he’d known when he’d let you in that there was no chance of this resolving any other way. He had not bothered to attempt to persuade you, to compromise, no shameful pleas of don’t leave any marks. He had known that he’d come home to you. That your steps across the threshold was a foothold gained once more – that this time you would not let it crumble beneath you as it had all those months ago. 

When he comes, it’s with a whimper. Fealty sworn, you look down and find the traces of an oath renewed in the warmth of his spend between your thighs. In the smears of milky white against skin, you guarantee his ruination and rebirth. 

When you reach up to cup a hand around his cheek and bring him closer, his kiss tastes like salt.

erm. 'he's my dean!' but make it jason x reader ? anybody? no? i'll see myself out.

anyway i've been working every single day this week and i'm blaming this on my being left alone with my thoughts for 9 hours everyday for 5 days straight. something about not being able to let go of something who's seen so much of you. the humiliation of being known, but also the delusion that where something passionate once burned, it surely must continue forever, right?

[bucketsofmonsters]

The fact that a spectre that had never seen human anatomy or spoken to one could locate the clit, dudes have no excuse.

lmao so real tbh