#Jesus x Lazarus

[the-dance-of-italy]

Yeshua and Eleazar drawing right before holy week starts...;;

[wobspots]

i writ 😎

(this is a first draft dont look too close) (also the formatting is all janky but again. first draft) (i also used the comic sans trick and i actually think it made it a lot easier!!) (hehe :3)

           Entering the infirmary, the common-born surgeon of the Band of the Hawk can’t help but to be a bit awestruck – the interior looked almost like a cathedral’s. The high ceiling, ample space and polished marble floors combined to echo the small group’s hurried steps, their boots still dirty from the battlefield and the travel back to Windham Castle.

         The steely royal physician awaited them. Greying hair tied back, apron utterly spotless and leather gloves already on: he stood beside a rolling table whereon his tools were neatly set. He seemed admirable, professional, absolutely confident in his abilities. However, as with any serious job, he is a bit nervous and makes a conscious effort to hide it, for the sake of the patient. That, in this case, being the Hawks’ very own commander, Griffith.

– Here, gentlemen, set him down, if you will – the doctor motions to a bed more luxurious than any the soldiers had seen before, despite being only temporary.

Griffith tried to help his comrades transfer him from the stretcher to the bed, moving as little as possible. He dared not to speak; it was hard enough for him to breathe as it is. That is the first thing the older man notices in meeting Griffith. The second, of course, is his beauty. He had seen the illustrious white falcon a few times around the castle and at court affairs, but never had the chance to get close. “He really does look like an angel, or a doll... something undoubtedly beautiful, but fearsome, in a way.” – he thinks, before catching himself staring. He clears his throat.

– Sir Griffith, gentlemen, I am Doctor Lazarus. It is a pleasure to meet you, occasion aside.

         The young commander only nods, his breath shallow. He didn’t like it, to be fully conscious but have both his movement and speech restricted. The pain that stabbed in his ribs whenever he inhaled didn’t help, either. For the past four days of travel, he had to balance out the pain of a proper breath with the feeling of not getting enough air. Now, he was so focused on it that he could hardly keep up with both medics’ conversation.

         – Well, then. What happened?

         – He was thrown against a wall, Sir. Hit his back – they don’t look at each other as they speak, too busy undressing the patient. This could have been awkward if Griffith wasn’t used to being naked in front of others, and the doctors weren’t, well, doctors. – I believe he’s broken a few ribs, but nothing more. There’s a nasty bruise, but it doesn’t seem to be any notable bleeding.

         – Right. Were the fractures displaced?

         – A bit, but we set them right after the battle was over.

         – I see. Sir, please lift your elbows – Griffith does his best, allowing the royal physician to get a better look at his ribcage as he circles around the infirmary bed. There is a dark, ugly bruise along most of Griffith’s back; one he’d be glad he’s not able to see. Lazarus brushes the locks of white hair over the knight’s shoulder to see it in full. In that, he notices a section stained reddish-brown, and reaches out to feel the scalp around it – And the head?

         – Hit the ground when he fell. Knocked him out, but he awoke later with no other issues. –  Lazarus furrows his brows, making the field surgeon waiver – It looks worse than it actually is, Sir! We were also running low on water, so…

         – No, no, I understand. – Lazarus is reassuring –Was the bleeding excessive?

         – Not for a head injury, no.

         – Hmm…

         With a soft “excuse me, Sir”, Lazarus cups Griffith’s face in both hands, getting a bit closer. If this is a bit uncomfortable, the physician doesn’t notice, as he’s fully focused on the job at hand. He examines Griffith’s eyes, one at a time, gently pulling his lower eyelids down to see the underlying tissue.

– Looks pale… – he mumbles, more to himself than anyone else.          Right as Lazarus starts to feel in his own element, Griffith meets his eye. He doesn’t mean to, they’re just so close and he’s so curious about this promising stranger but can’t say anything…! Even so, he can’t help but feel a bit proud when the doctor freezes under his gaze.

Lazarus, on the other hand, is thoroughly unsettled, his thoughts racing a mile a minute. It’s a good thing he’s good at concealing his thoughts – it’s a vital skill, as a healer – it’s important to exude a sense of welcome safety for the patient, transmitting them the feeling that their caretaker has the situation utterly under control, even if that couldn’t be further from the truth.

Unfortunately for him, that is not enough to thwart Griffith’s sharp eye for deception/farces/insincerity – takes one to know one, after all. A sly glimmer runs through his eye: Griffith has power over this man, and he’s going to make the absolute most of it.

[rabbits-of-negative-euphoria]

Do people's souls have gender, do you think?

Yes, I do. Our souls are not intended to exist separately from our bodies.

It's not a perfect comparison, but consider a circle. The abstract or mathematical Form "circle" is real, but it is always expressed in Matter. One cannot encounter or possess a circle in the abstract, but one does encounter and possess a real wooden dowel, a rubber tire, or a porcelain plate.

Souls are much the same. They are spiritually real, but intended to always be expressed in bodies. If a body is male, that says something about the soul it is expressing. If a body is female, that says something about the soul it is expressing.

And much like a plate that is shattered ceases to be a complete circle, a soul severed from its body ceases to be a complete human being. This is why we all know and feel that death is a tragedy. After death, we are still ourselves, but only our Formal selves until Christ returns and resurrects + glorifies our bodies (yes, the same bodies we have today). If our souls were so separate from our bodies as to render sex irrelevant, there would be no reason for God to do this, rather than create for us totally new bodies perhaps with opposite sexes from our earthly ones.

[roryfrommybabysittersavampire]

these are all of the screenshots I took in the past hour

[slut4thebroken]

Urges

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Pairing | Jason Todd x reader

Summary | The Lazarus Pit had some unexpected side effects.

Warnings | 18+, sexual content, smut, grinding, in public, humiliation, light dubcon, multiple orgasms, no female orgasms, so much come, like genuinely so much, angst?, fluff, Jay is secretly a sweetheart and a simp, obviously.

Words | 2.8k

Notes | Based on this. (Lol imagine that’s you know what all over him in the pic🫣🤭)

Ao3 link | <3

Masterlist

The pit didn’t just give him trauma— it affected his body too, giving him enhanced strength, speed, durability, and healing. But there was another, lesser known side effect. 

Honestly he hasn’t even thought about it for the past few years- always too focused on recovering from fucking dying, then on revenge and helping Gotham the way Batman couldn’t. But once it hit him… it hit him like a ton of bricks.

He doesn’t know where Batman or Nightwing were and why they weren’t with you, but there you were, the Batgirl suit even more flattering on your now mature body, making his cock strain in his pants. And you— you stupid little girl— decided to go after him alone. 

He tried to fight it, really he did, but when he had you pinned under him in a matter of seconds, he couldn’t help the way he pushed his crotch against you, trying to get a little bit of relief. 

“W- Get off me, you fucking creep!” You yelled once you noticed. He didn’t give you an answer because he knew exactly what would shut you up. So he took off the helmet and tossed it to the ground as your eyes widened. “Jason?” You said through a breath, making him growl at the sound of his name rolling off your tongue. He parted your legs, then settled between them and leaned over you as he rutted against your clothed heat. He only lasted a few seconds before the tightness of his pants became painful, so he leaned up to open them and pull his cock out. 

“What the hell are you doing?” You gasped, but there was no malice in your tone. Just pure shock and arousal. He leaned back down, shoving his face in the crook of your neck and inhaling deeply, not able to control the way his hips started rutting against you  just from your scent. You still wear the same fucking perfume that always used to make his cock fatten up in his pants whenever he got too close to you. 

He was panting against your neck now, his cock, trapped between your bodies, growing so incredibly sensitive that it almost fucking hurt. And his balls— god, he doesn’t ever remember a time in his life where they were this fucking heavy and full and aching. 

It wasn’t long before he was nearing his orgasm, especially when he focused on your breath on his neck and the way the swell of your tits felt against his chest. He choked out a moan, not able to control the way he started whimpering- so fucking desperate for relief. His brows furrowed, mouth open in a silent moan as his cock started twitching, then shot out rope after rope of come. He’s had enough orgasms to know that the way this one felt was definitely not normal. Even after a few years without it, it shouldn’t be this fucking intense and long. 

“God- what the fuck?” He whined, hips still desperately rutting against you as he rode out the endless orgasm. He could feel the mess through his own layers of clothing and he knew that your suit would be fucking wrecked when he was done. But it didn’t stop. He came for what felt like hours, listening to the pulse in your neck, smelling your perfume, feeling the delicate skin on his lips. 

“Fuck,” He whimpered, still rutting against you, but the friction was starting to lessen because of his cock being completely soaked with come. His balls just barely lightened, still feeling incredibly full and sore. When he finally, finally felt his orgasm fading, his hips slowed to a stop as he panted, trying to catch his breath. 

“Jesus fucking christ-“ You moaned through a breath. His cock twitched at the sound of your voice, never even having a chance to start softening before his whole body burned with need again. He leaned up to examine the mess, finding the entire crotch area of both of your suits completely soaked, as well as most of your mid sections too. He looked down further, finding come still dripping down the flushed tip all the way to his balls. His cock was so hard, it was almost visibly throbbing and his balls looked almost as full as they felt. 

“Jason?” You asked quietly, making his eyes snap up to yours with a growl. Your cheeks were pink, lips red and swollen as if you were biting them and he wanted nothing more than to shove his cock between them and make you drink his come, but even with the primal urges overtaking his brain, he couldn’t do that. Not to you. So with another growl he flipped you over, his come making a slapping sound as you landed. This time he kneeled over your legs instead of between them and he laid over you again to hold you still as started rutting against your covered ass. 

If he thought the smell of your perfume was intoxicating, it was nothing compared to your hair. He took a deep breath and let out a quiet groan, remembering how he used to be able to smell it when you hugged him. But back then it didn’t make him feel like this— it didn’t make his cock throb and it didn’t make him start whining. 

“Jason,” You suddenly said, trying to push yourself up, but his entire body weight was holding you down. He didn’t want to listen to your protests— to your rejection, so he placed a hand over your mouth, making you release a startled moan. 

“Shh, I’m sorry. It’s okay, I just- I need this, baby— need you.” You whined against his palm, the sound sending a jolt to his cock. 

It took every fiber of his being to not tear your suit and fuck your cunt- fill you up with load after load of his come until you milked him dry. But through those thoughts, he could hear a quiet voice reasoning that he wouldn’t be able to come back from that and he would lose you forever. And even though his cock was begging to be buried in a tight, warm cunt— in your tight, warm cunt— he knew it was true. So this would have to do for now. Just thinking about fucking you had him barreling toward his second orgasm. 

“Oh fuck- oh my god.” He whined, resting his forehead on your shoulder. His free hand was clenched so hard to keep from touching your tits, or anywhere else, that his fingers were starting to hurt.  

Despite him pinning you down completely, you managed to push your hips up a little, pressing your ass even harder against his cock. The action had him gasping out as he fell over the edge again. He couldn’t hold in the whimpers and moans as his cock twitched between your ass and his pelvis, spurting ropes of come into the tight space. His balls were practically throbbing— pulsing with each shot of come that left his cock. 

He continued rutting against you desperately, trying to get the most out of this agonizingly long orgasm. While he could feel some of his come coating his cock, it seemed like most of it landed on the small of your back that was arched as you held your hips up. The ache in his balls was already starting to alleviate, but they weren’t empty yet, so he sat up on his knees to continue, groaning at the sight of the entire lower section of your midriff covered in his come.

“Jason?” You asked quietly, but he ignored you as he lifted you onto your knees, pushing you down by your upper back when you tried to rise on your hands. 

“I’m sorry- Just one more, I promise, baby, one more.” He whined, positioning you how he wanted, with your legs squeezed together. The sight of his come rolling up your back into your cape had his cock twitching in need, so he slipped between your thighs and immediately started fucking you. There was enough come covering his length that the friction didn’t hurt, but honestly he could’ve used a little more friction, especially because the material of your suit had him sliding in and out easily. 

His hands moved to your hips, gripping tight enough to make you whimper so that they didn’t drift to your ass. Bucking into you as he desperately chased relief again, his eyes trailed all over your body, mostly focusing on your ass through the skin tight suit, but moving up your come covered back too. His balls slapping against your thighs with each thrust was almost starting to hurt, but he couldn’t stop— not even if he wanted to. 

“Oh god- I’m so close. Almost there, baby. Just one more I think— Just one more and I’ll feel better.” He choked out, bucking into you wildly. The sound of his wet pants hitting your wet suit was deafening on the otherwise quiet rooftop. When you squeezed your thighs together even harder, he let out a broken moan, cock throbbing, anxiously awaiting the pleasure. 

“Oh fuck-“ He groaned, cock twitching between your legs as his come shot out, painting your stomach. Quickly pulling back, he fucked his fist, watching as his come covered your ass and dripped down your thighs. “Shit,” He whimpered, when it just didn’t stop. It was less than his previous orgasms, but still enough that you were practically kneeling in a pool of his come. The last few spurts landed on his fist, dripping down his hand to the puddle on the ground as he panted, trying to catch his breath. 

Releasing his cock, he watched the way it still twitched pathetically, but despite that, he knew he was done. What he didn’t know however, was how he was going to clean all of this shit up. His cock was slick with his arousal, dripping down to his balls, adding to the mess on his pants. His hand and clothes were in a similar state. 

“Jay?” You asked quietly, making his eyes snap up to you. 

“Shit-“ He helped you up so you were sitting in front of him. The come that was on your stomach had rolled up to your chest, coating your tits, making him hiss as his cock twitched at the sight. You were practically covered head to toe in it. “I- Are you…” You flung yourself at his body, wrapping your arms tight around his torso in a hug. He tried not to focus on the way that his come would now be on his chest too. When you pulled back— way too soon, he thought with a frown— you slapped his arm, making him grab the slightly aching spot. 

“Ow- What the hell?” 

“You have a lot of fucking nerve to be asking me that when you’re the one who needs to start explaining.” You growled, crossing your arms over your chest with a scowl. 

“…You’re mad?” He asked sheepishly, watching your expression start to shift into one of amusement before you hardened it again. 

“You’re dead. What the fuck, Jason?” 

“I’m sorry. Can we just- go somewhere other than here and get cleaned up, then I’ll explain?” He asked, gesturing to the pool of come you were both in. A light blush painted your cheeks when you glanced at the mess. 

“Fine.” 

He took you to his safe house and apologized profusely, promising to clean your suit for you. Only once you were both dressed in his clothes and sat on the couch did you suddenly realize that Jason is in front of you. Jason who you haven’t seen in years, Jason who’s older now, but still just as pretty as the day you met him. Jason who you couldn’t save.

“How long have you been back?” You asked, trying to hide your emotions as you crossed your arms over your chest and cleared your throat.

“I’m sorry I didn’t find you sooner. I had to… work through some things.” You tried to wait patiently for him to explain, but it didn’t seem like he was going to do that anytime soon, so you continued.

“Tell me what happened. I don’t understand how you’re here right now.” He sighed, glancing away from you. 

“Do you know what the Lazarus Pit is?”

“The thing Ra’s Al Ghul uses, right?”

“Yeah… He- put me in it. That’s how I’m back.” He muttered. 

“Shit- are you okay?” You’ve heard the stories of what it can do to a person and your chest ached knowing that he went through something like that. 

“I’m alive.” He shrugged with a dry chuckle. 

“I’m sorry.” You moved to wrap your arms around him in a hug, but stopped when he leaned back. When he saw your hurt expression, he rushed to explain himself. 

“It’s not you! I just- I can already smell you from here and it’s taking everything in me to not do something I’ll regret. Again.” Your brows furrowed in confusion but when you glanced at his crotch, your eyes widened in understanding. 

“I don’t understand how you can still be hard after that. Actually- I don’t even understand how that was possible in the first place.” 

“I didn’t know it was possible either… When I came back, I was different— stronger, faster. I guess that changed too.” He explained and you nodded in understanding even though it still barely made sense to you. “Plus the last time I came was like a week before I died so it’s been a while.” 

“Jesus- Jason, tmi.” 

“That’s tmi?” He scoffed in disbelief. “I just fucking came on you three times and that’s too much?” 

“Oh my god- stop.” You muttered, burying your burning face in your hands. “Why did you wait so long though? I mean, I’m assuming you had at least a little bit of time after you came back.” 

“The thought never even crossed my mind. Not until— until I… saw you.” He mumbled the last part so you could barely hear it, but you did. “Look, I’m really fucking sorry. I know it’s not an excuse to say I couldn’t control myself, but even then, I still shouldn’t have done it.” 

“You don’t have to apologize.” 

“Are you kidding? I assaulted you!” He exclaimed, making you roll your eyes. 

“Okay well maybe my mess wasn’t nearly as bad as yours, but if you’d bothered to check, you would’ve found evidence to the contrary.” His eyes widened slightly, lips parted in shock. 

“You-“ His eyes moved down to your pants as if he’d be able to see what you were talking about.  “I don’t… What?” 

“You’re so clueless sometimes, you know that?” You chuckled, giving him a small smile. 

“I’m not.. clueless. I was just distracted.” He muttered, a blush painting his cheeks. 

“Uh huh. I have a question.” You said, changing the subject. 

“Shoot.”

“Why me? I’m sure you saw plenty of other girls throughout the years so why did I make you break?” His lips curled up into a small smile and you couldn’t help but feel like there was an inside joke you weren’t a part of. 

“You’re so clueless sometimes.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” You frowned. 

“Jesus- I don’t know what job you have, but I really fucking hope you’re not a detective.” He chuckled and you hit his arm again. 

“Shut up. Just tell me.” His expression suddenly dropped into a more serious one and you felt anxiety start to twist in your stomach. 

“Because I’ve had a crush on you since we were like 14.” He muttered. You stared at him in shock and when he turned to finally look at you, you could see the moment where he realized he wanted to backtrack. “Which is really fucking awkward if you have a boyfriend or don’t feel the same way because I did not think this through nearly enough,” 

“Me too.” You said, putting an end to his rambling. 

“What?” He choked out. 

“I’ve had a crush on you too. But since we met, not since we were 14.” 

“You did?” 

“Yeah… Why did you think I was so fucking awkward around you?” You chuckled, making him smile. 

“I don’t know, I just thought you were awkward.” He shrugged. “Do you… still have a crush on me?” He asked coyly, as if he was giving himself the opportunity to pass it off as a joke. 

“I wouldn’t have let you come on me three times if I didn’t.” You said teasingly, your smile widening from his reaction. You liked turning the tables, making him blush for once. “Do you still have a crush on me?”

“I wouldn’t have come on you three times if I didn’t.” 

[brunchable]

LAZARUS SERUM || Steve Rogers x Enhanced!FReader [18+]

Part II

Part One | Part Three Words: 12.2K Themes: Angst, Drama, Violence (causing 1 death), Action (Fighting Scenes: With Steve and Tony), Hatred, Lovers to Enemies, Enemies to Lovers. Warning: Smut with The Winter Soldier. Choking, Spanking, Mild Degredation? Unprotected piv sex, hair-pulling, dirty-talking. Sneak Peak: “So,” you drawled, breaking the silence with a voice dripping in mockery, “The great Captain America finally graces me with his presence. I must say, I’m flattered. Though, I’m starting to think you only come around when your self-righteousness needs a little top-up.” A/N: The council has spoken and they said include the Bucky seggs scene. If you don't want to read that part, then just skip it? Let me know if you want to be tagged, yes? Thank you.

Tags: @needsleep3000 @vicmc624 @i-can-do-this-all-dayy @mrs-jjmaybank @strepsils123 @nesnejwritings @haruvalentine4321 @feelinthefic @niffala

The bar in Brooklyn was filled with the sounds of celebration. Soldiers clinked their glasses together, sharing stories of their latest victory, their laughter and cheers filling the air. But at a small table in the corner, Steve Rogers sat in silence, a drink in his hand that he hadn’t touched. The noise around him felt distant, muffled by the weight of his thoughts.

Bucky made his way through the crowd, a smile tugging at his lips as he spotted Steve. The relief of seeing his friend safe brought a warmth to his chest. He dropped into the chair beside Steve, clapping a hand on his shoulder. 

“Steve! Man, I can’t wait to see Y/N’s reaction when she finds out we’re back. She’s probably worried sick.”

Steve’s smile faltered, his grip tightening around his glass. He took a deep breath, the words he knew he had to say caught in his throat. 

“Yeah… she always did worry,” he replied, his tone withdrawn.

“I can see it now—she’s gonna give us hell, but she’ll be glad to see us, especially you.” Bucky didn’t notice at first, too caught up in the moment. 

Steve forced a weak smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. The knot in his stomach tightened as Bucky spoke, and he was afraid to confess, afraid of Bucky's reaction. He stared at the drink in his hand, the weight of his guilt growing heavier by the second.

Bucky finally noticed the tension in Steve’s posture, the way he avoided eye contact. His smile faded, replaced by concern. “Steve… What's going on? Something's bothering you.”

Steve exhaled slowly, his lips twitching as he shook his head, “Bucky… something happened before I left for the rescue.”

“Okay?” Bucky furrowed his eyes, a couple of scenarios reeling in his head, “Did you get Y/N pregnant?”

“What? No…” Steve shook his head vigorously, although he'd prefer to be in that situation compared to this.

“Then what happened?” Bucky’s concern deepened, his eyes narrowing slightly as he leaned in.

Steve hesitated, the shame now joined his emotions list. “Y/N and I… we had a fight. A bad one.”

“A fight?” Bucky echoed, a bit confused since a fight is normal in relationships. “About what?”

Steve struggled to find the words, but there’s no turning back. “I said some things I shouldn’t have. I questioned her loyalty. I… I let jealousy get the better of me. I asked her if she was only with me out of pity, or if… if maybe she had feelings for you instead.”

“Jesus, Steve…” he muttered, blinking his eyes in disappointment and Steve’s head dropped, his shame too heavy to face Bucky directly. Bucky stared at Steve, the shock giving way to a rising tide of anger. “You've got to be out of your mind if you really believe that.”

“I know, but… at the time, I was blinded.”

“Steve, do you remember when you first got that rejection letter from the army, and you were down in the dumps? Y/N was the one who picked you back up. She stayed with you for hours, talking you through it. And when you were sick with pneumonia, she practically moved in with you to help take care of you. She barely slept for days nursing you.” Bucky leaned forward, his voice growing more intense as he fought to control his emotions.

Steve nodded slowly, each memory a painful reminder of how much he had taken for granted, “I know, Bucky. I know she was always there for me.”

Bucky clenched his jaw, figuring out how to spit out what he wanted to say. 

“And I’ll admit it okay?” Bucky continued, his eyes looking anywhere but Steve. “I… I love Y/N. But she was too busy to notice because her heart was yours. Devotedly.”

Steve felt a squeeze in his chest by the shock of Bucky’s confession. He stared at Bucky, wide-eyed and stunned, struggling to process the words. He knew Bucky liked you but not love.

Steve’s chest tightened, the weight of Bucky’s words pressing down on him. “I was wrong. But that night… I couldn’t see past my own jealousy and fear.”

“Stop making excuses,” Bucky’s fists clenched at his sides, his frustration growing. “So what happened? You just let her walk away?”

Steve’s voice trembled as he admitted the truth. “No. I walked away. I left her alone, and in the morning her mother called me. She disappeared, and it’s because of me.”

Bucky’s world seemed to spin as the full impact of Steve’s words hit him like a truck. 

“Gone?” he repeated, allowing the word to sink in. “What do you mean by gone?”

“She's missing, Bucky,” Steve said, his voice thick with regret. “I tried to find her, but… she was just gone. And it’s my fault. I—”

Bucky staggered back, a mixture of emotions crashing over him like a wave. “How could you do that, Steve? After everything… how could you leave her like that? And then, in the midst of all this… how could you even dance with that fucking agent lady?”

Steve’s eyes widened slightly at Bucky’s outburst, the raw anger in his friend’s voice catching him off guard. “Bucky, I—”

But Bucky wasn’t finished. His emotions boiled over, and before Steve could say another word, Bucky slammed his fist down on the table, causing the glasses to rattle. His voice shook with animosity and he leaned in closer, his eyes blazing. 

“I’m not the one you need to apologize to!  But now… now you don’t actually get the chance. Now we both have to live with the fact that she’s missing? maybe dead? And for what?”

Steve flinched at the word, ‘dead’. Steve’s head dropped, his shoulders slumping under the crushing weight of his guilt. 

Bucky couldn’t process it, couldn’t reconcile the Steve he knew with the one who had let you slip away. He pushed back from the table, shaking his head in disbelief as the pain and anger twisted inside him.

“Get out of my way.” Bucky pushed a drunkard out of his way and stomped off.

The noise of the bar faded into the background as Bucky walked away, his heart heavy with the knowledge that the one person who had always been there for both of them was now gone. And as Steve sat alone, the victory they had fought so hard for felt hollow, drowned out by the guilt and loss that now ate him from the inside, out.

× × × ×

Steve and Natasha drove through the busy streets, the cityscape bathed in the golden light of the setting sun. The mission had hit a temporary lull. Natasha, ever the observant one, noticed the contemplative look on Steve’s face as he navigated the streets.

Steve had just found out that Bucky is alive and it was a lot for him to take in. Steve's mind was a storm—he was at some point relieved he's alive but at the same time, he wasn’t. How was it possible? His best friend, the man he had mourned for decades, was not only alive but had been turned into a weapon by HYDRA. The thought alone made his stomach churn.

He remembered the nights he and Bucky would wander the streets, talking about their dreams, their future—an uncertain future that had been stolen from them by the war. Now, everything felt different, tainted by the knowledge of what had become of Bucky.

Steve’s grip tightened on the steering wheel as a wave of guilt washed over him. He had failed Bucky—failed to save him, failed to protect him. And now, Bucky was out there, a shadow of the man he once was, driven by forces beyond his control. The weight of that failure pressed down on Steve’s chest like a vice, making it hard to breathe.

"So," Natasha started, her tone light but probing, "anyone special back home? Or are you still dodging those office setups with Agent 13?"

Steve chuckled lightly, shaking his head. "She’s nice, but… I’m not really looking right now."

"Come on, Steve. A guy like you—there’s gotta be someone," Natasha pressed, a teasing smile playing on her lips. "Or was there someone? Back in the day."

Steve’s smile faded a bit, and he glanced out the window, his mind clearly elsewhere. Natasha immediately picked up on the change in his demeanor.

"There was someone," he admitted quietly, his tone a mixture of fondness and regret.

Natasha raised an eyebrow, her curiosity piqued. "Oh? Now, this sounds interesting. Tell me about her."

Steve hesitated, the memories of the past tugging at him. "Her name was Y/N. We were together before the war—before I was Captain."

"Ooh, I didn’t know you had a girlfriend. What happened?" Natasha's expression softened. 

Steve sighed, his grip tightening slightly on the steering wheel. "I let her go. After I got the serum, I… well, I let it get to my head."

"What do you mean?” Natasha turned slightly in her seat, giving him her full attention. 

Steve exhaled slowly, he felt like he's reliving the massive mistake of his life. "I started getting attention from girls—more than I ever had before. And I liked it. I let my brand-new image get to my head, and started to think maybe I deserved it after everything I went through. But it wasn’t real, and I lost sight of what was important. I pushed Y/N away, even though she was the one who had been there for me before everything."

Natasha clicked her tongue in disapproval, but her eyes softened with understanding. "Steve, you were young, and everything changed overnight. That kind of shift… it’s hard not to get swept up in it."

Steve nodded, but the regret in his eyes was unmistakable. "I know, but that’s no excuse. I let her down. By the time I realized what I’d done, it was too late. She was gone, disappeared without a trace."

"Did you try to find her?" Natasha asked, her voice gentle.

"I did," Steve said, his voice thick with emotion, like he was reliving the time where he scoured every nook and cranny of Brooklyn for her. "I tried everything I could, but she was just… gone. Her mother called me, told me Y/N had disappeared the morning after I walked away. I can’t help but think that if I’d done things differently, she’d still be here."

Natasha reached over, placing a hand on his arm in a comforting gesture. "Steve, you can’t carry that guilt forever. You made mistakes, sure, but that doesn’t mean you’re not worthy of forgiveness."

Steve’s expression remained pained, his eyes filled with regret. "I wish I could go back and make it right, Nat. She deserved better than what I gave her."

Natasha gave his arm a reassuring squeeze. "You can’t change the past, Steve, but you can learn from it. If she’s still alive, you owe it to both of you to try and make things right."

Steve looked at Natasha, his gratitude clear, but the weight of his past still heavy on his shoulders. "If she is, I just don’t know if she’d ever forgive me. Or if I even deserve it."

Natasha offered a small, understanding smile. "Forgiveness is a two-way street, Steve. You’ll never know unless you try."

Steve just nodded.

As they continued driving, the conversation lulled into a comfortable silence, but Steve’s thoughts remained on Y/N. The memories, the regrets—they all mingled together, creating a complex web of emotions he couldn’t easily untangle.

Finally, Natasha broke the silence with a teasing jab. "So, if she’s alive? Are you going to apologize first or let her throw the first punch?"

Steve chuckled softly, shaking his head. "Knowing her, even with old age, she’d probably punch me first."

Natasha grinned, glad to see a bit of the tension lift. "Well, just remember—if you need a wingman, I’m here. But you’re on your own with the punching part."

× × × ×

The atmosphere was thick with tension as Alexander Pierce, the Secretary of HYDRA, stood before the Winter Soldier, his expression a mask of cold displeasure. Bucky stood at attention, his face impassive.

Pierce’s voice was low, laced with barely concealed anger. “I asked you for a report, Soldier. Why didn’t you eliminate the target?”

Bucky remained silent, his gaze unfocused, as though he were looking through Pierce rather than at him. This slight defiance, whether intentional or not, only served to infuriate Pierce further. He raised his hand, intending to deliver a harsh blow to snap the Winter Soldier back into obedience. 

But before his hand could connect, it was caught mid-air, gripped tightly by another—your hand. Your fingers squeezed Pierce’s wrist with a force that made him wince, the sound of bones grinding beneath your grip.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” you said, your voice dangerously calm. The room seemed to grow colder as you stepped closer, your presence commanding the attention of everyone around you.

Pierce’s eyes flickered from stunned to anger as he looked down at the woman who dared to intervene. “You dare—”

“I dare,” you interrupted, your smirk widening as you tighten your grip, watching with satisfaction as Pierce’s face contorted in pain. “Remember who you’re dealing with, Pierce. The Winter Soldier is valuable, yes, but don’t forget who has the real power here.”

The room held its breath as Pierce glared at you, his anger simmering. His attempt to maintain control was slipping, and you could see it in his eyes—the fear, the uncertainty. But it wasn't enough. You wanted to remind him, and everyone else in the room, who actually had the power.

You pretended to release his wrist only to grab him by the throat, lifting him off the ground as if he weighed nothing. Pierce gasped, his hands instinctively reaching up to claw at your grip, but it was futile. You held him there, suspended in the air, your eyes cold as you watched the panic rise in his eyes.

Around you, HYDRA operatives tensed, their hands moving toward their weapons. The sound of guns being cocked filled the air, and your ears caught it immediately. Instead of flinching or backing down, a low, rumbling chuckle escaped your lips, starting deep in your chest. Your laugh began to rise. It was a sound that started soft, almost like a private joke shared with yourself, but it quickly grew louder, filling the room with a sinister, echoing resonance.

It wasn’t just a laugh; it was a declaration. A reminder of just how dangerous you were. The agents hesitated, their fingers hovering uncertainty over the triggers. They knew what that laugh meant. That you're a woman not to be trifled with—this was a predator, toying with her prey.

As your laughter crescendoed, it took on a twisted, almost gleeful quality, as though you were genuinely delighted by the absurdity of the moment.

“Guns? Really?” you said, your voice dripping with mockery. “Go ahead, pull the trigger. Let’s see who’s faster.”

There was a pause, a moment where time seemed to stand still as the agents exchanged nervous glances. None of them dared to act, not with the lethal reputation you had earned within HYDRA.

Just as the tension reached its peak, your hand moved in a blur. Before anyone could react, you drew a dagger from your side and hurled it with deadly precision. The blade found its mark, embedding itself deep into the skull of one of the agents who had been foolish enough to aim his gun at you. The agent crumpled to the ground, dead before he hit the floor.

The remaining operatives stared in shock, their fingers frozen on the triggers, the reality of the situation crashing down on them like a ton of bricks. The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by your voice, now cold and taunting.

“What’s the matter?” you asked, your tone mocking as you glanced at the other agents. “I thought you were going to shoot me?”

No one moved. The fear in the room was heavy, each agent knowing that a single wrong move would mean their death. They were outmatched, outclassed, and they knew it.

You turned your attention back to Pierce, who was still struggling in your grip. His face had gone red, his eyes wide with fear as he realized the precariousness of his situation.

"You think you're in control here, Pierce?" you asked, your voice low and menacing. "You think you can order us around like one of your lackeys? Let me make this clear—I'm not just a weapon you can point and shoot. I'm the one who decides where the bullets land."

With a flick of your wrist, you threw him across the room, watching as he crashed into a table, sending papers and files scattering to the floor. Pierce groaned in pain, clutching his throat as he struggled to regain his breath and composure. But the fear in his eyes told you everything you needed to know.

Pierce’s expression darkened, but he knew when to back down. He rubbed his neck with a grimace. “You think you’re untouchable, don’t you?”

You rolled your eyes, he's still actually talking?

“I don’t think, Pierce. I know.”

For a brief moment, your eyes locked, a silent battle of wills. But in the end, it was Pierce who looked away. He knew better than to push you further.

You turned your attention back to Bucky, your expression softening ever so slightly as you reached out and gently caressed his face. The touch was light, almost tender, and as you did so, a name slipped from your lips in a whisper, one that seemed to stir something deep within Bucky.

“Bucky…”

For a moment, Bucky’s eyes focused, the faintest glimmer of recognition flashing across his face. But it was fleeting, gone as quickly as it had appeared, and his expression returned to the blank slate that HYDRA had molded him into.

You let your hand fall away, a hint of sadness in your eyes before you masked it with your usual cold demeanor. You turned back to Pierce, your smirk returning. 

“Remember your place, Mr. Secretary. For someone using us as a tool to make ends meet, I expect a little more. . . respect.”

With that, you turned on your heel, motioning for Bucky to follow you. He did so without hesitation, leaving Pierce and the operatives standing in stunned silence.

You and Bucky reached the door, then you paused, turning back to Pierce with a final, icy smile. “And as for Rogers… I’ll deal with him personally.”

Pierce’s eyes narrowed, his anger barely contained, but he said nothing as you and the Winter Soldier disappeared through the door.

When the door closed behind you, Pierce’s anger boiled over, but he knew he had to tread carefully. You were not someone to be crossed lightly, and if he wanted to keep control of HYDRA’s greatest assets, he would need to play his cards right.

But the look in your eyes, the way you had protected the Winter Soldier—it left him with an uneasy feeling. There was more to you than met the eye, and Pierce couldn’t shake the feeling that you were a force that even HYDRA might not be able to contain.

× × × ×

The sound of his powerful thrusts filled the room, each one accompanied by a wet, sensual sound as your pussy eagerly welcomed him inside. With every thrust his grip on your hip tightens, his metallic hand will leave a bruise but you don’t care.

His other hand closed around your throat too roughly, pressing the hardened ridges of the larynx against the epiglottis. A spasm in his fingers was all the warning you received before they clamped down, forcing more pressure. 

“Yes, just like that.” you moaned wantonly, you whimpered as everything tightened, the sweet tension built from the deep rhythmic strokes. You were gasping and frantic, pumping your hips. Reaching between your legs, you rubbed your clit with the pads of your fingers, trying to hasten your climax.

“Not so tough now, huh?” The winter soldier growls, his voice filled with desire and urgency. His thrusts grew more intense, his voice becoming more primal. "You want it harder?" he asked, his voice dripping with seduction. 

You could only manage a desperate nod as the pleasure intensified. The wet, rhythmic sounds of your bodies colliding filled the room, mixing with your moans of pleasure.

Bucky's grip on your neck loosened, allowing a cold rush of air to fill your burning lungs. But there was no time to recover—before you could catch your breath, he swiftly flipped you over, his arm coiling around your waist as he hauled you up on your knees.

SMACK!

He slapped your ass so hard you had a hard time suppressing a shriek. Bucky's hand tangled in your hair once more, yanking your head back until it was level with his. He leaned in close, his breath hot against your ear as he hovered menacingly behind you.

"Don't you feel like a slut, in here with me, getting fucked, while those morons think you’re indestructible?” 

SMACK!

"Answer me!" he growls, smacking you more in between, his grip on your hair tightened, it's beginning to hurt your scalp. 

"Yes," you moaned, so turned on that you could have come at any moment.

"Yes what?” he says through his gritted teeth, smacking you harder that it echoes in the room. 

“Yes I feel like a slut.” you choked out with a smile on your lips. 

“Good. You're going to come all over this dick, saying my name, yes?” he said, slapping your clit with his cock. With your thighs spread wide, the tip of his cock presses your entrance. The smooth head slides between your folds and rubs against your clit, intensifying your arousal. 

“Yes.” You moan, your head arching back, and he slowly enters you, penetrating you inch by slow inch. 

You gasp as he goes deeper, filling you again with his thickness. It feels good, so unbelievably good, and you moan again, tightening your inner muscles around his shaft. He groans, closing his eyes, and you do it again, wanting more of the sensation.

He begins to rock back and forth, causing his shaft to move within you ever so slightly, sending waves of heat throughout your body. However, each movement also serves as a reminder of the earlier beating, and a pained moan escapes your throat as your sore buttocks rub against his hard thighs.

He devours you with his kiss, swallowing your whimpers, his mouth now consuming yours with unrestrained hunger.

His hips rocking harder, adding to the pressure building within your core, "You like that, don't you?" he growled.

"Mmmm." you could only moan in response, lost in the pleasure that consumed you. Your own fingers assaulting your clit trying to match his rhythm.

Yanking your hips to meet his powerful thrusts, Bucky battered your tender sex with that brutally thick column of rigid flesh, his gaze dark and possessive, his breath leaving him in primitive grunts every time he hit your cervix. A trembling moan left you, the friction of his drives stirring your never-sated need to be fucked senseless by him. 

Long strokes. Pounding, pile driving impacts. Your pussy was so wet there was hardly any friction in or out, just the brutal slapping as he jackhammered you pussy remorselessly. Not fucking. Mating. Breeding. 

His other hand moves down your body, his hand spreading your wetness through your stretched slit before pressing his fingers moving small circular motions to gripping your clit between his thumb and index finger.

“J-James—O-h-h, F-u-c-k” you muttered in a broken moan as you flew apart.

Your orgasm is so strong, you can’t even make a sound. For a few blissful seconds, you're completely swamped by pleasure, by ecstasy so intense that it’s almost agonizing. Your body shudders uncontrollably under his body, your muscles clamping down his cock tightly, while your hips gyrate as his cock continues to pound you. Your movements trigger his own release.

“I'm damn close—fuck, I'm coming.” The sensation of you milking his cock is indescribable, the pleasure sharp and electric. It zings through him, hurling him in to reach his peak. Groaning harshly, he grinds his pelvis against you, “Oh I'm coming.”

“Yes! Fill me up—give it to me inside.” 

Muscles rippled and bulged along his shoulders and quads as he leaned forward, grinding every millimeter of thickness and length into you. A rough, guttural growl rumbled through your bones. Jet after jet of hot, potent cum deluged your ravaged, desperately spasming walls.

“Ready for more?” he whispers in your ear, his cock barely softening within you. He kisses your earlobe, and the tender gesture is such a contrast to what he’d just done that you feel disoriented. That wasn't normal winter soldier behavior.

× × × ×

You sat straddling Bucky on the leather couch, your breathing still heavy from fucking three times in a row. You began to move away, Bucky’s hands, which had been resting on your hips, suddenly tightened their grip. 

You felt the change before you saw it—It was subtle at first, the flicker in his eyes, the way his breath hitched as his gaze became focused, sharp. But there was something else too, something far away in his stare, as if he were trying to grasp onto a memory just out of reach.

"The man at the bridge, who was he?" Bucky's voice was low, but it carried a weight that made you pause. 

You had seen these moments of clarity before, rare glimpses of the man he used to be before HYDRA twisted his mind. They never lasted long, a fleeting reminder of the person buried beneath the Winter Soldier’s conditioning. You knew what HYDRA expected of you—what Pierce demanded—but as you looked into Bucky’s eyes, your best friend from a time long past, so lost and vulnerable, you hesitated.

“You met him this week on another assignment.” you replied, trying to keep your voice detached.

“I knew him.” His voice was stronger this time, he was certain.

“Look, Pierce is gonna want us to push it tomorrow—” You shifted slightly, trying to pull away from him, but Bucky’s forced you down on his lap, keeping you in place.

“But I knew him.”

You sighed deeply, frustrated. Grabbing his face roughly, you forced him to look at you, your fingers digging into his skin. "Listen to me, whatever is going on in your head, I need you to put it aside. If Pierce finds out about this, he's going to put you through electroshock to reset you, and I can’t let that happen.”

Bucky’s eyes bore into yours, searching for something, anything, that made sense. "Why are you doing this?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

You released your grip on his face, your fingers trailing through his hair as you brushed his brown locks out of the way. "Old sentiments," you muttered, the words bitter on your tongue.

But even as you said it, you knew it was a lie, a half-truth.

It wasn’t just sentiment, though, was it? It was the guilt, the buried rage at everything HYDRA had turned you into. You hated Pierce, despised SHIELD, and the mere thought of Steve brought a twisted knot of anger and betrayal to your chest. But Bucky—Bucky didn’t deserve this. Not after everything he’d been through, not after being twisted into something unrecognizable by the same people who had destroyed your life.

You weren’t doing this because you were good. You weren’t a hero. You were still the same girl driven by anger and resentment toward the world. But Bucky, he was the only piece of your past that still mattered, the only thing left that was worth saving. 

And so, as you looked into his confused, lost eyes, you made a silent promise. You would free him from this nightmare, only because he was your friend. 

“Just trust me,” you whispered, your voice softer now. “In due time, you will get the answers you want to hear.”

Bucky’s eyes searched yours, as if trying to gauge the sincerity in your words. Slowly, he nodded, though the uncertainty still lingered in his gaze, “I trust you.”

The fragments of his past flickered like dying embers in the recesses of his mind. He couldn't fully grasp who he was before HYDRA, couldn't make sense of the flashes of memory that haunted him in the rare moments of clarity. But there was something about you—something that tugged at his very soul, making him feel connected in a way that defied explanation.

He was a weapon, a tool shaped and controlled by forces he barely understood, yet whenever he looked at you, something within him stirred. It wasn’t just the physical attraction—though that was undeniable—but something deeper, something that made him feel almost human again. His heart remembered you, even when his mind could not.

Why did he feel so drawn to you, so protective, so...fond? It didn’t make sense. He didn’t have memories of you, no context for these emotions, yet they were there, strong and insistent. He was the Winter Soldier—cold, detached, and efficient—but around you, those walls seemed to crack, letting in warmth he didn’t understand.

His hands trailed up the small of your back and he found himself leaning in, compelled by a force he couldn’t resist. His lips found yours, and the kiss that followed was as much a search for answers as it was an expression of the remnants of love he has for you. He felt the warmth of your skin, the softness of your lips, and momentarily, it all made sense.

× × × ×

The streets were slick with rain, the neon lights of the city reflected off the wet pavement as Steve, Natasha, and Sam moved through the shadows. The mission was simple—take down the HYDRA operatives before they could unleash chaos. But nothing about this night was going according to plan.

A sudden blur of movement caught Steve’s attention, and he spun around just in time to raise his shield, blocking a powerful kick aimed at his head. The impact reverberated through the vibranium, the sheer force behind the blow surprising him. Whoever this was, they were no ordinary agent.

His attacker wore black from head to toe, a tactical mask obscuring your face, a hood pulled low over your eyes. Steve couldn’t see your face, but he could tell from the fluidity of their movements that you were highly trained—possibly even on par with him.

Without giving him a moment’s rest, you launched into a series of rapid strikes. Steve’s body reacted on instinct, parrying and blocking with precision honed from years of combat. But the ferocity and speed of the attacks were relentless, forcing him back step by step.

The fight was a brutal dance of skill and power. You used every inch of the narrow alley to your advantage, bouncing off walls, using the slippery ground to slide under Steve’s defenses, and striking at vulnerable points with deadly accuracy. Steve swung his shield in a wide arc, aiming to knock his opponent off balance, but then you ducked under it effortlessly, coming up with a knee strike that connected solidly with his midsection.

Steve grunted, the air forced from his lungs as he staggered back, but he quickly recovered, slamming his shield forward to create some distance between you. You leaped back with cat-like agility, landing silently several feet away. For a brief moment, you paused, tilting your head as if assessing him, before darting forward again with even more speed.

“Who the hell are you?” Steve growled, his voice low and filled with frustration as he swung his shield to intercept the incoming attack.

You didn’t respond, merely twisting your body mid-air, narrowly avoiding the shield before delivering a roundhouse kick aimed at Steve’s head. He barely had time to duck, feeling the rush of air as the boot sailed over his head.

In response, Steve drove his shoulder into your midsection, attempting to drive you into the wall, but you twisted your body, using the momentum to flip over him and deliver a brutal elbow strike to the back of his head. Steve stumbled forward, momentarily disoriented, but he quickly spun around, his shield raised defensively.

You advanced again, this time producing a pair of combat knives from your belt. The glint of the blades under the streetlights was enough to make Steve’s grip on his shield tighten.

“Knives, really?” Steve muttered, more to himself than to his opponent. He had faced down armies with just his fists, but this fight felt different—more personal, more dangerous.

You didn’t waste time with a response, instead rushing forward with both blades aimed at his vital points. Steve deflected the first strike with his shield, twisting his body to avoid the second, but you were relentless. You pressed the attack, slashing and stabbing with surgical precision, each strike aimed to cripple or kill.

Steve retaliated with a powerful swing of his shield, the force behind it enough to send most opponents flying, but you anticipated the move. You ducked low, sweeping your legs out to knock Steve off his feet. Steve managed to stay upright, but the move forced him to lose his balance, and you took advantage, driving one of the knives toward his chest.

In a split-second reaction, Steve angled his shield to deflect the blade, but the impact sent vibrations up his arm, nearly causing him to drop it. You didn’t let up, following up with a swift knee strike to his ribs, the force of it knocking the wind out of him.

Breathing heavily, Steve tried to reassess the situation. This was no ordinary operative—this was someone who had been trained specifically to counter him. And you were good. Too good.

“I’ve had enough of this,” Steve growled, pushing forward with renewed determination. 

He swung his shield with all his might, aiming to knock you off balance, but you were ready. You caught the edge of the shield with both hands, the impact skidding you back several feet, your boots screeching against the wet pavement. With a grunt, you twirled in the air, using the momentum to hurl the shield back at Steve.

Steve barely had time to react, catching the shield just before it collided with his face. But the force behind it was immense, pushing him back a few steps.

Before he could press his advantage, you were on him again, this time using a combination of grappling techniques and martial arts to try and subdue him. You were quick, switching between jabs, hooks, and submission holds with fluid precision. At one point, you managed to lock Steve’s arm behind his back, twisting it at a painful angle as you tried to force him to the ground.

Steve gritted his teeth against the pain, refusing to go down. He planted his feet firmly and used his strength to break the hold, swinging his elbow back to catch the figure in the side. The blow connected, but you barely flinched, countering with a vicious headbutt that left Steve momentarily dazed.

You went for another knife strike, this time aiming for his throat. Steve caught your wrist mid-strike, twisting it with enough force to make you drop the knife. But instead of recoiling in pain, you used the momentum to flip Steve over your shoulder, slamming him into the ground with a force that left him gasping.

He struggled to get up, his vision swimming from the impact. You stood over him, a boot pressing down on his chest, pinning him in place. In a move born of desperation, Steve reached up, grabbing the edge of your mask and tearing it off.

Time seemed to slow as the mask came away, revealing the face beneath. Steve’s breath caught in his throat.

It was you, all along.

The world came to a stop as he stared up at you, his mind struggling to process what he was seeing. You—alive, but different. Your eyes, once filled with warmth and love, were now cold and distant, filled with a darkness he had never seen before.

“Y/N?” Steve’s voice was barely a whisper, shock and disbelief flooding his features.

For a split second, your cold facade cracked, a flash of recognition and pain crossing your features. But it was gone as quickly as it came, your expression hardening once more. You took advantage of Steve’s shock, delivering a swift punch to his jaw that sent him reeling.

Before Steve could fully recover, you turned and sprinted toward the nearest exit, moving with a speed that left Steve struggling to keep up. He scrambled to his feet, his heart pounding as he chased after you, but by the time he reached the door, you were already gone, disappearing into the night like a ghost.

Steve stood in the doorway, his heart heavy with the realization that the woman he had once loved was now his enemy. The Y/N he knew was gone, replaced by someone hardened by pain and anger.

× × × × 

Steve stood frozen in the doorway, trying to make sense of what had just happened. You're alive—and he let you disappear into the night, leaving him with more questions than answers. Before he could fully process what he had seen, a familiar voice crackled through his earpiece.

“Cap, we’ve got a situation here,” Tony’s voice was tense, though laced with his usual sarcasm. “I’ve got a guest who’s a little too enthusiastic for my taste. Could use some backup.”

Steve’s heart skipped a beat. “Tony, who is it?”

“Not sure, but she’s got one hell of a right hook and a serious attitude problem,” Tony replied, the sound of metal clashing and blasts firing in the background. “And oh, did I mention she can jump like the Hulk?”

Steve’s eyes widened. He had a sinking feeling he knew exactly who Tony was dealing with. Without wasting another second, he took off in the direction of the commotion, his heart pounding in his chest.

Tony, clad in his Iron Man suit, was locked in a fierce aerial battle with you, who was now maskless and fully visible. Your face was set in grim determination as you leapt into the air, your powerful legs propelling you high enough to meet Tony’s flight path. Each of your strikes was calculated, aimed at the joints and weaker points of the suit.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa! Easy there, Wonder Woman!” Tony said, dodging a particularly brutal punch that nearly dented his chest plate. “I’m not a piñata, you know!”

Your expression remained cold as you twisted in midair, avoiding a repulsor blast and landing a solid kick against Tony’s side, sending him spiraling briefly before he regained control. 

“You’re gonna have to try harder than that!” Tony called out as he righted himself, flying in a tight circle around you before firing off another series of repulsor blasts. You dodged most of them with ease, but one caught you in the shoulder, causing you to grimace slightly. You recovered quickly, though, using the momentum to propel your back into the air, your fist aimed directly at Tony’s faceplate.

Tony barely had time to dodge, the blow glancing off his helmet with enough force to crack the HUD display. 

“Okay, now you’re just being rude!” he said sarcastically, as he adjusted his flight path to put some distance between you.

You didn’t give him much room to breathe, though. With a powerful leap, you closed the gap between you, grabbing onto Tony’s arm and using your weight to pull him down. Both of you crashed into the ground with a thunderous impact, the pavement cracking beneath you. Tony groaned as he struggled to push you off, but your strength was overwhelming, even for the suit’s enhanced capabilities.

“Ever heard of personal space?” Tony grunted as he activated the suit’s thrusters, attempting to blast them both back into the air. You held on tightly, twisting his arm at an awkward angle that caused the servos in the suit to whine in protest.

“You talk too much,” You finally replied, your voice flat and cold as you released your grip on his arm and delivered a sharp kick to his midsection, sending him flying backward.

Tony recovered mid-flight, his repulsors flaring as he hovered a few feet off the ground, rubbing at the dent you'd left in his side. 

“Yeah, well, it’s part of my charm,” he shot back, firing off another barrage of missiles in your direction.

You dodged with an almost effortless grace, leaping into the air once more and landing on top of a nearby building. You crouched low, your eyes locked on Tony as you prepared for the next move.

Tony hovered in place, watching you closely. “Seriously, what’s your deal? We just met, and you’re already throwing me around like a rag doll.”

Your expression didn’t change as you suddenly launched yourself off the building, your fist aimed directly at Tony’s chest. This time, though, you didn’t hold back. The impact was tremendous, sending Tony crashing through a parked car and skidding across the pavement.

Groaning, Tony pushed himself up, his HUD flickering from the damage. “Okay, that’s it. Playtime’s over.”

He activated the suit’s full power, repulsors blazing as he rocketed back toward you. The two of you clashed mid-air, exchanging blows at a speed and intensity that would have shattered ordinary opponents. But through it all, Tony couldn’t shake the feeling that you weren't giving it your all. There was a calculated precision in your strikes, as if you were testing him rather than trying to finish him off.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of trading hits, Tony managed to grab hold of your wrists, locking them in place with the suit’s enhanced grip. He lifted you off the ground, his repulsors ready to fire point-blank, “End of the line, lady. Let’s talk.”

You didn’t resist. Instead, you looked up at him with an unreadable expression, your body suddenly going limp. 

“Fine,” you said, your voice eerily calm. “You win.”

Tony blinked, taken aback by the sudden shift. “Wait, seriously? That’s it?”

You simply nodded, allowing yourself to be restrained by the suit’s mechanisms. 

“Take me in,” you said, your voice devoid of emotion. “I’m not going to fight anymore.”

Tony frowned, his instincts telling him something wasn’t right, but he didn’t press the issue. “Alright, let’s get you somewhere safe and figure out what the hell is going on.”

As Tony started to descend, Steve finally arrived on the scene, his shield at the ready. He took in the sight of Tony holding you, your face calm despite the situation, and his heart sank.

Tony looked at Steve and couldn’t help but say, “Well, look who decided to show up. Don’t worry, I had everything under control—just took a brief break to contemplate my life choices while getting pummeled.”

Your lips twitched a small smile at his comment.

Steve caught his breath as he assessed the situation. “Better late than never, right?”

“Next time, maybe give me a heads-up when you’re gonna leave me to play the lone hero. Could’ve at least brought popcorn to watch the show.” Tony shook his head.

Steve stared at your face, his eyes taking in every detail, even rubbing his eyes to make sure this was real. Tony furrowed his brows at Steve and exchanged glances between the two of you.

“So,” Tony finally broke the silence, his tone shifting to something more serious, “are we bringing her in, or are we just gonna stand here and play the ‘who blinks first’?”

× × × ×

The soft hum of the Helicarrier's engines was the only sound as the team gathered around the large, circular table. A few faces were still unfamiliar with each other—Natasha, Clint, and Sam exchanged glances as they settled into their seats. Tony, leaning back casually, eyed Steve, who stood apart from the group, a heavy tension radiating from him. It was clear that something weighed heavily on the Captain’s mind, something that no one had dared to address yet.

In the center of the table, a holographic screen flickered to life, casting an eerie blue glow over the faces of the Avengers. Fury stood at the head of the table, his expression as unreadable as ever.

"Listen up," Fury began, his voice commanding everyone's attention. "We've got a new player on the board, and she’s every bit as dangerous as the Winter Soldier."

With a tap of his finger, Fury brought up a series of video feeds on the screen, all showing various skirmishes involving HYDRA forces. But the common thread through each of these battles was a single figure: you. 

The hologram shifted, showing footage of you in action, moving through a battlefield. Bullets ricocheted off you, seemingly ineffective as you advanced on your targets with single-minded precision. The final clip showed you taking down an entire squadron of soldiers without breaking a sweat, your movements efficient and deadly.

"Meet HYDRA's new secret weapon," Fury continued, his tone grim. "We don’t have a lot of intel on her, but what we do know isn’t good. She’s been operating under the radar, but make no mistake—she’s a force to be reckoned with. No hesitation, no mercy."

The profile flashed on the screen, sparse and incomplete:

Name: Unknown   Age: Unknown   Origin: Siberia  

The room was silent as the team absorbed the information. Natasha’s eyes narrowed as she studied the footage, while Clint leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, deep in thought. Tony looked intrigued, his mind already racing with calculations and possibilities.

“She looks like she’s trained well. This isn’t someone who just stumbled into HYDRA’s ranks. She’s had years of experience.” Natasha commented before shifting her gaze to Fury.

“Years of brainwashing, you mean,” Tony added, his tone filled with dry sarcasm. “Another weaponized human for us to deal with. Just what we needed.”

Clint leaned forward, his eyes narrowing as he studied your image. "She doesn’t look like she’s been held against her will. If anything, she seems... committed.”

Fury nodded, his expression steely. “Our priority is figuring out her next move, because that,” he pointed at your live footage in the cell sitting calmly, “is not the type to surrender easily.”

Steve remained silent throughout the briefing, his jaw clenched tightly as he stared at the image of you on the screen. Fury’s words were sinking in, each one a painful reminder of how far you had fallen.

"We’ve already got her in a secure cell," Fury continued, his tone brokering no argument. "But I don’t think she’s going to stay quiet for long. Our best bet is to find out everything we can about her—where she’s been, what HYDRA’s done to her—and see if we can get ahead of this. We’re playing catch-up, and we can’t afford to stay behind for long.”

“How do you know if she’s going to cooperate?” Clint asked.

"We don’t," Fury admitted, his tone grim. "But that’s why we’re not taking any chances. She's locked down tighter than Fort Knox, and we're monitoring her every move.”

Fury’s gaze shifted to Steve, who had remained silent, staring intently at the image of you in the cell. The tension in the room was palpable as everyone waited to see if Steve would speak.

Finally, Fury broke the silence, addressing the room at large. "We don’t know what HYDRA’s endgame is here, but we do know they’ve put a lot of resources into this. We can’t underestimate her, and we can’t assume she’s alone. There’s more going on here, and we need to be prepared for anything.”

The team just nodded in unison.

Fury’s gaze swept across the team before he asked the question that was on everyone’s mind. "So, who wants the privilege of talking to her?"

The room fell silent as everyone considered the gravity of the situation. Natasha’s eyes narrowed slightly, her instincts telling her that this conversation would be more dangerous than any fight. Tony raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued by the challenge, but before anyone could volunteer, Steve finally spoke up, his voice steady but laced with emotion.

"I’ll do it," Steve said, his gaze never leaving the screen.

Tony glanced at Steve, then back at the image on the screen, and with a smirk, he added, "Well, she made Cap make friends with the floor, so I’ll come with. Can’t let him have all the fun, right?”

Steve shot Tony a look, but there was a hint of gratitude in his eyes. He knew this wasn’t going to be easy, and having Tony there might just make it a bit more bearable.

× × × ×

The interrogation room was cold, the walls made of reinforced steel, with a single table and three chairs bolted to the floor. The whole room was lit up, leaving no shadows around the room. You sat in one of the chairs, your hands cuffed securely in front of you, though the cuffs seemed more like a formality than a real deterrent.

Steve and Tony stood outside the observation window, looking in at you. Steve’s expression was tense, his eyes fixed on you, while Tony had a thoughtful look on his face, his usual humor subdued.

"You ready for this?" Tony asked, his voice unusually serious as he glanced at Steve.

Steve nodded, but there was a storm of emotions churning beneath his calm exterior. "Let’s get it over with."

They stepped into the room, the door closing behind them with a heavy thud. You didn’t look up as they entered, your gaze fixed on the table in front of you, as if you were lost in thought. But as they took their seats across from you, you slowly lifted your eyes, a faint, unreadable smile playing on your lips.

"Captain," you said, your voice cool and calm. "Mr. Stark."

“Hello Unknown—”

"Y/N," Steve replied, his tone heavy with the weight of your shared history.

Tony’s eyebrows shot up slightly at Steve’s use of your name, but he didn’t comment. Instead, his eyes flicked over to Steve with a look of mild surprise.

There was a moment of silence as the three of you sized each other up, the tension in the room palpable. Finally, Tony broke the silence, leaning back in his chair with a casual air that didn’t quite match the situation.

"So, Y/N," Tony began, quoting your name with his fingers, his tone conversational, almost friendly. "You know, I’m usually the one asking the questions, but let’s mix it up a bit. Why don’t you tell us why you decided to let us catch you?"

You raised an eyebrow at Tony’s question, your smile widening just a fraction. "Did I let you catch me? Or did you just get lucky?"

Tony smirked, twirling a fork he had slipped from the dining area between his fingers. "Oh, I don’t believe in luck. You’re too good to get caught by accident. So, what’s the plan? What’s HYDRA up to this time?"

"Wouldn’t you like to know?” You tilted your head slightly, considering your response. 

Steve’s jaw clenched at your evasiveness, but he kept his voice steady as he spoke. "Y/N, we need to know what HYDRA’s planning. You can stop this. Whatever they’ve done to you, we can help."

Tony’s eyes shifted between you and Steve, the curiosity deepening. He still didn’t say anything about Steve using your name, but it was clear he had taken note of it.

You turned your gaze to Steve, staring daggers into him. "Help? Like you helped Bucky?" The question was pointed, sharp enough to draw blood.

Steve flinched, but he didn’t back down. “We’re trying to save you.”

“Save me?” You let out a small, bitter laugh. “You can’t even save yourselves.”

Tony cleared his throat, drawing your attention back to him. “Speaking of saving, I’ve been wondering about something.” He held up the fork, “Let’s try a little experiment.”

You raised an eyebrow, curiosity flickering in your eyes. "A fork? How quaint."

Tony grinned, twirling the fork between his fingers. "Well, I figured we’d see just how indestructible you really are."

Before Steve could protest, Tony reached across the table and pressed the fork against your forearm, applying pressure as if to test your skin. You didn’t flinch or move, simply watching him with an amused expression.

The fork bent under the pressure, the metal warping against your skin as if it were nothing more than a cheap plastic utensil. Tony released it, letting the mangled fork drop to the table with a clatter.

"Well, that’s definitely not normal.” Tony glanced at the bent fork, then back at you, his surprise quickly masked by his usual bravado. 

"Satisfied?” You looked down at the fork, then back up at Tony, your eyebrows raised in a silent, almost mocking challenge. 

Tony leaned back in his chair, clearly impressed, though he tried to hide it. "Well, I’ve seen weirder, but that’s up there."

Steve, who had been watching the exchange with frustration, finally spoke up. "Y/N, you don’t have to do this. Whatever HYDRA’s done to you, whatever they’ve made you believe, it doesn’t have to be this way."

You leaned forward slightly, your expression hardening. "Steve, you’re still so naive. This world doesn’t care about heroes or villains. It’s about power, control. And HYDRA... they understand that better than anyone."

Tony frowned, leaning forward as well. "So what’s your endgame? What do you get out of all this?"

You looked between the two of them, your smile fading as you considered the question. "Endgame? You really think it’s that simple? I’m just a piece on the board, Stark. The difference is, I know it."

Tony shook his head with a smirk. "You know, it’s a real shame you’re a total piece of shit because we would have made great friends. No offense, Cap." Tony lightly patted Steve on the shoulder.

You chuckled softly, raising an eyebrow. "Oh, trust me, Stark, it wouldn’t have worked out. I don’t play well with others."

“Yeah, I'm getting that vibe,” Tony chuckled, clearly enjoying the banter. “But let’s get back to you, I will ask again and you answer. What’s your deal? Why’d you let us catch you? Was it my charm? Steve’s good looks? Or were you just bored of winning?"

You leaned back in your chair, considering his words. "Let’s just say I wanted to see what all the fuss was about. You know, see if the Avengers are really as impressive as they say."

Tony leaned in, his grin widening. "And? What’s the verdict?" 

You shrugged, your tone nonchalant. "You’re not bad. But I was expecting more... fireworks."

"Fireworks, huh?" Tony glanced at Steve with a smirk. "See, Cap? She’s got a sense of humor. Maybe we can work something out. Maybe you and I can grab a drink later, talk about how we both have a thing for breaking stuff.”

You shrugged, your expression indifferent. “Maybe in another life, Stark. But this one? Not a chance.”

“You’re more than just a piece on the board, Y/N. You always have been.” Steve’s eyes softened as he looked at you, his voice gentle but firm.

For the first time since the interrogation began, you seemed to hesitate, something flickering in your eyes. But it was gone as quickly as it came, replaced by the cold, detached mask you had worn since they had captured you.

"Believe what you want, Steve," you said quietly, leaning back in your chair. "But that doesn’t change anything."

Tony sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Alright, this is getting us nowhere. We’ll be back, Y/N. And next time, maybe you’ll be in a more talkative mood."

You didn’t respond, simply watching as Tony and Steve stood up, the door to the interrogation room sliding open with a soft hiss. A small, knowing smile tugging at the corners of your lips. Just as they reached the door, you spoke up, your voice smooth and casual, but with an undercurrent of something darker.

“You might want to keep your friends close,” you murmured, your words barely louder than a whisper but sharp enough to cut through the air, “and your enemies... even closer. Not everyone at the top plays the game fairly.”

Steve paused, his hand on the door, glancing back at you. 

Tony turned slightly, “What’s that supposed to mean?” Tony asked, frowning.

You just shrugged, your smile widening as if you were in on a joke they hadn’t figured out yet. “Just a piece of friendly advice. Sometimes the rot starts from within, and by the time you notice, it’s already spread too deep. But hey, what do I know?”

Steve exchanged a quick glance with Tony, the unspoken concern evident between them. But they knew better than to press you further—this was exactly the kind of mind game HYDRA would want you to play. 

“Come on, let’s go,” Steve said, his voice tight as he opened the door.

Without another word, Steve turned and exited the room, Tony following close behind.

As the door shut behind them, you could still hear Tony muttering to Steve, “You think she’s just messing with us, or should we actually be worried?”

Steve’s silence was telling—whatever you meant, it had left him unsettled, and the cryptic warning echoed in his mind, feeding a growing sense of unease.

× × × × 

Flashback: Brooklyn, 1941

The night air was crisp, the sky above a sprawling canvas of twinkling stars that seemed to stretch on forever. You and Steve lay side by side on a worn-out blanket, nestled together on the rooftop of your apartment in Brooklyn. The city’s usual noise felt distant, like a faint echo, leaving only the serene hush of the night and the rhythmic beating of your hearts.

Steve’s hand found yours, his fingers intertwining with yours as he gazed up at the stars. “You ever think about what’s out there?” he asked softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “What does it all mean?”

You turned your head to look at him, your face illuminated by the soft glow of the moon. “Sometimes,” you replied, a small smile playing on your lips. “But mostly, I think about what’s right here. Right now.”

“Well, if you’re not thinking about aliens or flying cars, I guess you’ve got your priorities straight.” Steve chuckled, the sound low and warm, and you felt it reverberate through the quiet night. 

You nudged him playfully with your shoulder. “And what about you, Rogers? Are you spending all your time up here daydreaming about little green men?”

Steve grinned, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Maybe,” he teased. “Or maybe I’m just trying to figure out how I ended up here with the prettiest girl in Brooklyn.”

You rolled your eyes, though you couldn’t help the warmth that spread through your chest at his words. “Flattery will get you everywhere, soldier.”

“I’m counting on it,” Steve said with a wink, and you both laughed softly, the sound mingling with the rustling of the breeze.

After a moment, the laughter faded, replaced by a comfortable silence. Steve turned onto his side so he could face you fully, his expression softening as he reached out to brush a strand of hair away from your face, his touch lingering as he tucked it behind your ear.

“Y/N,” he began, his voice suddenly more serious. “I know I’m not the strongest or the fastest... and I know I don’t have much to offer, but... I want you to know something.”

You squeezed his hand gently, encouraging him to continue. “What is it, Steve?”

He took a deep breath, his thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles as he spoke. “I care about you, more than I’ve ever cared about anyone. And I promise you, no matter what happens... I’ll protect you. I’ll stand by you. I’ll take care of you, always.”

Your heart swelled at his words, and you felt a warmth spread through your chest as you looked into his eyes, seeing the depth of his sincerity.

“Steve,” you whispered, your voice trembling slightly. “You don’t have to be anything more than who you are. That’s more than enough for me.”

Steve smiled, a mixture of relief and affection in his eyes. “You really mean that?”

“Of course I do,” you replied, squeezing his hand again. “But just so you know, I’m pretty good at taking care of myself too. So maybe we can take care of each other?”

Steve’s smile widened, and he nodded. “Deal.”

With a playful grin, you held up your pinky finger. “Pinky promise?”

Steve raised an eyebrow, amused. “Pinky promise? Are we twelve?”

You smirked, undeterred. “Just humor me, Rogers.”

Steve chuckled and linked his pinky with yours. “Alright, pinky promise.”

You both shook on it, the moment feeling almost sacred in its simplicity. When your hands released, you shifted closer, resting your head on Steve’s chest as his arm wrapped securely around you. The warmth of his embrace made you feel safe, as if nothing in the world could touch you as long as you were together.

“You know,” Steve said after a few moments of comfortable silence, “I’m pretty sure pinky promises are unbreakable.”

You grinned, your eyes still fixed on the stars above. “That’s the idea.”

Steve pressed a gentle kiss to the top of your head, his voice barely more than a breath. “I’ll never break it. I promise.”

For a while, neither of you spoke, the only sound was the soft rustling of the night breeze and the steady beat of Steve’s heart beneath your ear. The world below faded into nothingness, leaving just the two of you under the vast expanse of the starry sky, wrapped in the warmth of each other’s presence.

In that moment, everything felt right. The future, with all its uncertainties, seemed far away. All that mattered was the here and now, and the love you shared under the Brooklyn sky.

Present Day

Steve stood alone in the observation room, the weight of his guilt pressing down on him. His thoughts were consumed by the memory you shared together, of the promises he had made and the promises he had failed to keep. 

With a heavy sigh, he reached into the pocket of his uniform and pulled out a small, worn photograph. The edges were frayed from years of handling, and the image itself had started to fade, but it was still clear enough to see your smiling face. It was a picture taken long ago, back when things were simpler, back when the world hadn’t yet taken its toll on either of you.

In the photograph, you were laughing, your eyes crinkling at the corners in that way that had always made his heart skip a beat. You were leaning into him, and he had his arm around your shoulders, both of you looking so carefree, so happy. It was a moment frozen in time, a snapshot of a life that felt like it belonged to someone else now.

Steve’s thumb brushed over the image of your face, and he felt a lump rise in his throat. This photo had been his lifeline during the war, and later, in the years after he was thawed out, it had been his constant reminder of what he had lost.

Tears welled up in his eyes as he stared at the picture. He couldn’t reconcile the person in this photograph with the one he had fought against. It was like looking at two different people—one filled with love and warmth, and the other filled with anger and pain.

He clenched his jaw, trying to keep himself from breaking down. He couldn’t afford to lose control, not now, not when everything was on the line. But the pain was too much, the guilt too overwhelming. He had kept this photo with him through everything, as a reminder of what he was fighting for, of the life he wanted to get back to. But now, it only served as a cruel reminder of what he had failed to protect.

Steve sank into a nearby chair, his head bowed as he continued to stare at the photograph. The tears he had tried to hold back slipped down his cheeks, and he didn’t bother to wipe them away. All he could do was sit there, lost in his grief, mourning the girl he had loved and the girl he had lost, even though you were still alive.

The photograph trembled in his hands as he struggled to hold onto it, to hold onto the memory of who you had been. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t shake the image of what you had become. It haunted him, tearing at his heart, filling him with a despair so deep he wasn’t sure he could ever claw his way out.

× × × × 

0145 HRS

Steve walked back into the cell, the harsh fluorescent lights now turned on, casting cold, unyielding shadows on the walls. You were exactly where he and Tony had left you, your posture calm, almost unnervingly so. Your cuffed wrist rested on the table, fingers lightly drumming a rhythm that matched the distant hum of the Helicarrier’s engines.

Steve sat across from you, the silence between you stretching out like a chasm. The harsh fluorescent lights above cast unforgiving shadows on your face, but your expression remained indifferent, almost bored. You leaned back in the metal chair and watched Steve with a look that could only be described as disdainful amusement.

“So,” you drawled, breaking the silence with a voice dripping in mockery, “The great Captain America finally graces me with his presence. I must say, I’m flattered. Though, I’m starting to think you only come around when your self-righteousness needs a little top-up.”

Steve’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t rise to the bait. He simply stared at you, his blue eyes searching for something—anything—familiar in your expression. But the person he had known, the person he had loved, was buried deep beneath the venom you now spewed.

“You’ve changed,” Steve said quietly.

You laughed, a cold, bitter sound that echoed in the small room. “Changed? Oh, you have no idea, Rogers. But then again, you were never very good at noticing the little details, were you? Too busy playing the hero, too busy saving the world to see the knife twisting in my back. Or was it your shield?”

“Y/N…” Steve began, his tone pleading, but you cut him off with a sharp, derisive laugh.

“Save it,” you snapped, your eyes narrowing with malice. “You’re not here to save me, Steve. You’re here to soothe your guilty conscience. But don’t worry, I’ll make this easy for you—there’s nothing left to save. I’m not your little damsel in distress, waiting for her knight in shining spandex to swoop in and make everything better.”

Steve flinched at your words, the pain in his chest growing sharper with every vile sentence that left your lips. "I never saw you as someone who needed saving," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "You were always strong, Y/N. You didn’t need me to be a hero for you."

"Spare me the heartfelt bullshit, Steve," you sneered, leaning forward in your chair, your eyes blazing with animosity. "You wanted to be the hero because it made you feel good, made you feel important. But where were you when I needed you? Off playing soldier, marching to the beat of your outdated ideals while I was left to rot in the dirt."

Steve opened his mouth to respond, but you didn’t give him the chance. You leaned back, your gaze cold and calculating, a twisted smile curling on your lips.

"You know," you continued, your tone almost conversational, "there’s something deeply satisfying about watching someone like you squirm. All that virtue, all that righteousness—it’s like watching a statue crumble. Beautiful, in a way. Don’t you think?"

Steve swallowed hard, his heart breaking as he listened to you tear into him with every word. But he didn’t waver. He couldn’t. "Y/N, whatever HYDRA did to you, we can fix it. We can help you."

"Help?" you scoffed, rolling your eyes. "The only thing you can do for me now is get out of my way. Or better yet, go crawl back into whatever hole you came out of and stay there. You’ve done enough damage as it is."

"HYDRA twisted you, made you into something you’re not," Steve insisted, his voice growing firmer. "This isn’t who you are."

Suddenly, your eyes flashed with a fierce intensity as you leaned forward, your voice rising, "You think you know me? You think you understand what I’ve been through !? What you put me through!?" Your hands clenched into fists as you stood up and with a surge of strength, the metal cuffs binding your wrists snapped in half, the sound echoing through the cell.

Steve instinctively went on the defensive, his hand hovering over the duress button. The sudden shift in his posture—the instinct to guard himself against you—didn’t go unnoticed.

For a moment, the room was filled with a tense silence, your breaths heavy, your eyes locked on Steve. Then, slowly, a dark, humorless laugh bubbled up from your throat, filling the space between you.

"See?" you said, your voice laced with bitterness and scorn. "You’re no different from the rest of them. The moment I show you my true strength, you recoil like I’m some kind of beast. Because that’s all you see, isn’t it? A serum-made monster.”

You plopped yourself back into the chair, pulling the metal cuffs off of your wrist like it was a piece of paper and tossed them on the table with a clatter.  

Steve’s eyes widened, shocked when you mentioned serum. "Y/N, don’t do this. You don’t have to be this person."

You stared at him for a long moment, your expression hardening. “You’re right,” you said, nodding, “I don’t have to be this person. But I choose to be. Because this world doesn’t deserve anything better.”

Steve’s heart sank as he realized just how far you had fallen, how deep the hatred and anger ran in your veins. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice barely audible.

“Sorry?” you echoed, your tone mocking. “Sorry doesn’t fix anything, Steve. Sorry doesn’t undo the years of pain, the betrayal, the lies. Sorry is just a word, a meaningless sound that people like you throw around to make themselves feel better.”

Steve stood up slowly, his movements heavy with the weight of your words. “I promised I’d always protect you,” he said quietly, his voice thick with emotion. “And I’m not giving up on that promise.”

You rolled your eyes, a look of pure contempt on your face. “How noble. But I’m not the girl you promised to protect, Steve. She’s dead. And the person sitting in front of you doesn’t need your protection.”

Steve sat there, unable to move, as the weight of your words settled heavily on his shoulders. He had lost you, not just to HYDRA, but to the darkness that had taken root in your heart—a darkness that he had played a part in fostering.

“What do you want then?”

Your smile turned cold again, more sinister than before. "I want to watch this world burn. I want to see the so-called heroes fall, one by one. Starting with you."

With a heavy heart, Steve got up, seeing as there was no getting through to you. Steve’s expression hardened slightly, and as he turned to leave, he paused at the door, his hand resting on the cold metal handle. 

Without looking back, he spoke, his voice steady, “A serum, huh? Thanks for the information.” with that the door closed behind Steve with a final, echoing thud.

The smile that had been twisted in mockery only moments before now faltered, the edges softening into something more conflicted.

You had let it slip. 

You had revealed more than you intended—an error that was unlike you, and that fact alone gnawed at the edges of your mind. You had given Steve a piece of the puzzle, and that meant the game had changed.

Your lips curled back into a smirk, but it lacked the malice it once had. If Steve wanted to play the hero, to dig into the truth of what had happened to you, then let him try. Let him chase the shadows and secrets you had buried. But even as you tried to convince yourself that you still held the upper hand, the nagging doubt remained and it won't be leaving your head soon.

[pparacxosm]

something borrowed

(dearly beloved part 2: electric boogaloo ! ; tashi duncan x fem!childhood best friend!reader x patrick zweig ((x art donaldson?? a little?)); nonlinear narrative; playing fast and loose with tenses; where do i start; patrick and reader are their own trigger warning; tw pregnancy and childbirth; major major tw for talk of abortion; tw depression and antidepressant talk; cw breeding kink centric smut; more artashi wedding scenes; baby lily !! ; art donaldson #dadding out; grammy donaldson mentioned ! ; tw vomit again i’m so sorry lol; cw more menstrual talk; tw adultery but i mean come on; baby names; lasagna; we all have annie’s reblog to thank ((blame)) for this)

‘ JESUS: Judas—

JUDAS: You forgave Peter and bullshit Thomas—you knocked Paul of Tarsus off a horse—you raised Lazarus from the fuckin’ dead—but me? Me? Your “heart”? . . . What about me??!! What about me, Jesus?! Huh?! You just, you just—I made a mistake! And if that was wrong, then you should have told me! And if a broken heart wasn't sufficient reason to hang, THEN YOU SHOULD HAVE TOLD ME THAT, TOO!

JESUS: Don't you think . . . that if I knew that it would have changed your mind . . . that I would have?

Pause. ’

Stephen Adly Guirgis, ‘The Last Days of Judas Iscariot’

“Is it one of those ugly ones?”

You’re not special; you, too, hate hospitals. Not the least because your parents ralphed up all that cash for med school and you tanked like a castiron anchor. But there’s so much else to feel guilty for. You feel guilty for being alive while people are dying. You feel guilty for wanting to die while people are being born. You feel guilty, and nauseated, by this sickly visceral fume of birth and babyflesh, and the fact that you’re so upset.

You’d marked it on your calendar, is the thing.

March seventh, Doomsday, the purge, the end times.

Tashi Duncan’s Caesarean section.

Timely and clinical, fittingly so. You’d bought a little beanie for the occasion. The beanie is soft and grey and pink. It has a cartoon flower embroidered on the side of it.

But then this is the spawn of Art and Tashi Donaldson. The baby is inherently desperate, and eager, in that order.

It’s February twentyeighth.

It’s probably for the best, you think, while you and Art are on either side of the hospital bed, and he’s grasping Tashi’s hand more tightly than she is holding his, even though she is the one whose innards are being shat out. You don’t believe she could take another scar.

You grimace as she crowns. Art is sobbing and sniffing. He looks at Tashi like he’s getting to watch God populate the world with greenery. It makes your mouth tug sharply to one side, and you close your eyes, briefly, escaping the bright white light.

You watch the papery sheets go redder and redder with every gush from the cavity of her torso.

The baby is not rosy pink so much as she is carmine. Before this, as an idea, she’s existed mostly in black and white. Aminocentesis results on a MacBook screen. The sonogram on their coffee table. The concrete wall of your abject jealousy. The living colour of her, it shocks you more than her glass-shattering screech.

Art holds the baby first, of course, since Tashi is somewhat incapacitated. You soothingly caress her damp hairline.

“What was that like?” you whisper, wincing down at her.

Tashi sheds a few tears and manages a smile that’s part relief and all agony. “Remember…” she croaks, “Remember when Tre fuckin’… like, roundhouse kicked you up the crotch?”

You blink, quirking your brows. Then you snort in surprise, grinning. “Oh my God, yeah,” you giggle. “When Yas and Matteo got that trampoline.”

Tashi nods weakly, her desiccated mouth twitching at the memory, her eyes shivering gently closed.

The baby is tiny against Art’s body, cradled so carefully in his arms. He’s counting all her toes and fingers.

“Hey there,” he murmurs to her, like they’re the only two people on this earth Tashi made. Then he sinks down onto the stool by Tashi’s head, and holds this tiny, beautiful thing out toward her. “Say hi to momma,” he says, his voice soft as gauze.

Tashi reaches out. Her hands are trembling but all of her is trembling; both you and Art tried to get her on the epidural, but fuck if she’s not stubborn. She crooks the tip of her index finger into the fleecy receiving blanket, pulling it down just a little so she can see the baby’s entire pink face.

The baby opens just one bleary eye, only halfway, but it’s enough for her to see you, for you to feel yourself being seen.

Tashi sobs and Art sobs and you wonder, momentarily, if her obstetrician can reach up the cavity of your body, too, and tug out your heart.

So, of course you hate hospitals, and of course you feel guilty. For many reasons. Chief among them being how, the very moment your dear, gutted friend conks out, you’ve stolen to the hall to ring her ex. And he’s asking you, hopeful, if her fucking newborn is one of those ugly ones.

You sigh into the receiver, shaking your head all solemn. You’re sure any passersby think you’re delivering horrific news. “She’s beautiful,” you confess sadly.

“Fuck!” Patrick says forcefully, like he’s just stubbed his toe.

You can hear the hum of the highway on his end of the line, and he’s definitely a bad enough driver that he shouldn’t be calling you right now, because you don’t want to be back here at his bedside when he’s in a fullbody cast after a nearfatal accident—and you would come to visit, actually, if he were in the hospital; maybe that’d just be the guilt again—but this is pretty urgent.

You frown, tucking your hand under your armpit and managing a smile at a passing couple cautiously rolling their precious trolley to the NICU. “They named her Lily.”

Patrick scoffs. “Those fucking assholes.”

“Right?”

You appreciate his company in your deplorable sorrow. There’s a special corner in the firescape for the two of you, but at least it’ll be the two of you.

“That’s a beautiful name for a baby girl,” he says, practically insulted.

You sigh again. “I know,” you pout.

They’d planned the wedding, as they did all other things, a bona fide team. A well oiled unit. Art and Tashi. A&T. Handing off tasks with practiced efficiency, like another one of her hyperintensive drills, wherein he would sooner keel over heaving than drop the ball. The wedding planner was effectively ornamental once they really got into it.

And they really got into it.

Tashi was one of those little girls who stuffed a stream of toilet paper in her ponytail and pictured the vinyl flooring of her home’s warmly lit passage as a ceremonial aisle on the Amalfi Coast at sunset. Here comes the bride, aluminium foil wedding band, ramshackle wildflower bouquet picked from the backyard, et cetera.

Most times, she’d have you play groom.

But you don’t internalise that too much. Because she had you play a lot of things. And sometimes she’d have their senile Mastiff Mutt, Franklin, play groom, too. Really, the most important part was her having you at all.

And, apparently, as a little boy, Art used to page obsessively back and forth through the decrepit scrapbook of his grandparents’ Peoria union, the pictures frayed and hued dandelion. So it’s great that they found each other, and so many dreams were coming true, and everything was fine. Everything was better.

You’d been happy she was happy, really, you had. You hate big endeavours in your name. If she’d married you, you’d have made her elope to Puerto Rico.

And now she was all sprawled three-ring binders, pen behind each ear, Game Face On. And Art was there, talking place settings in full sincerity, so yeah. It’s fine. Better, even.

She let him intercalate all the mawkish, ubercorny bullshit—the Fleetwood Mac, the garter toss, the pictures of his grandmother at the centrepiece of every table. Because they were a team and it was his wedding as much as hers. And you’d told her, too. You’d told her that she’s going to have a mawkish, ubercorny bullshit wedding to a mawkish, ubercorny bullshit guy. But she’d waved you off with a dismissively sentimental smile. I just want to marry him, she’d told you, which had felt like a million and one serrated spurns all over.

A getaway car, really? you’d deadpanned. Then, leaning closer to her phonescreen, eyes narrowing at their shared twodozenpage Pinterest board, incredulous and disgusted, Are the cans really necessary?

Apparently so.

You were standing at the foreshore, toes all grainy, shoes in hand, pistachiorose and Patrick Zweig on your tongue, your ass still seadamp. Art and Tashi pulled up in front of you, cans rattling, like a justmarried Lyft order.

When you climbed into the backseat, they were in the middle of sharing in dulcet laughter over something or the other. Something that did not concern you. Which was fine, and better, and the flower arrangements were spectacular. And, anyway, you’re busy trying not to get sand on this vintage carpet.

“Shouldn’t you two be honeymooning?”

Art looked back at you, his arm outstretched, wrist resting on the bend of the wheel. He gave you this smile you couldn’t discern, which most of his smiles were, and are. He blew a raspberry from his rubicund mouth and tsked.

“What, without you?” he scoffed, wry but playful, and you realised that, though he teased, and wanted you to know as much, his goodnature was sincere.

And your fingers twitched to wrap his seatbelt—because he was wearing the seatbelt—around his rosy throat five or six or seven times and tug hard.

Tashi threw her head back and laughed into the humidity of the night, of their wedding night.

Tashi squirmed in the leather passengerseat of the ivorycoloured 1960 Ford Thunderbird convertible.

You were leaning over in between them from the back, straddling the armrest. And she watched Art turn his head and kiss you. His hand looked huge on the messy, delicate bone of your jaw. It felt cool and clammy, you remember. Tashi sucked in a breath. You two broke apart after a moment, laughing, your palm coming down on his forearm like he’d just made a joke.

“That,” you said, making a puerile face as he absently brushed a thumb over your cheek, “Was too far.”

Your eyes were still shining with tears.

Art nodded, grinning, slipping his hand from your face and running it through his sweaty shoresand hair. “Anything for you, baby, but maybe not that.”

Tashi was flushed and florid and tamping her thighs tighter together and she wanted you both to put your hands on her.

Her arm slunk across the centre console to press her palm into his chest. And she ran her nails along the tender skin of your inner arm. And Art looked back at you like he was asking for permission, which was the first time in a long time he’d done that. And probably the last time since. And you don’t know why you nodded, but you did.

He gave you another strange, cursory kiss on the corner of your mouth, then leaned across the centre console and nipped at Tashi’s earlobe. The whetted burst of pain sent a visible shiver through her bones. She bit her lip and sighed.

“Mrs Donaldson,” he’d murmured, all husky and low. His white buttonup was all sweatrumpled and unfurled. He looked handsome and disheveled like a fallen angel or those illustrations on the covers of erotic paperbacks.

You swallowed, overwhelmed by it all.

You pressed the seam of your lips to the skin where her neck met her shoulder and her lithe fingers encircled your wrist and guided it between her legs.

You and Art are friends—good friends, by now—but sometimes you feel more like business partners. Cofounders of Keeping Tashi Duncan Happy and Okay Inc.

So, when he cannot stomach all the vomit—so, so much fucking vomit—for all his earnest, anguished, tearful trying, he calls you. Because he and his hairtrigger loins can’t help her right now.

And you don’t tease, or berate, or say it should’ve been you.

And he doesn’t protest, or control freak, or remind you it wasn’t you, it was him.

He dips out to stock up on crackers and barley sugar sweets, and you stay with Tashi and stand sentry on emesis duty.

You hadn’t known that any one thing was capable of maiming her this way. Tashi Duncan, your impenetrable infanta. Fast to get up, faster, still, to dry her tears. But this baby is wringing her bone dry. She’s feeble, swollen, and practically debilitated.

You feel her spine shift as she shakes and heaves into the toilet. You hate her like this. At mercy to her bones.

You can’t help the archaic scorn. None of this, none of any of it, would’ve happened, had it been you. But it wasn’t.

You cradle Tashi’s feverish head in the bend of your knee. You thread your knuckles through her sweaty curls. You rub your fingers into her collar, tracing her bones where they have been swallowed by her plummy sallow skin. In college, you used to give each other lymphatic drainage massages.

You’re on Virginia Key Beach with T and her brothers, at the edge of the ocean. You’re, like, fourteen. Tevin’s mouth is a comically fluorescent shade of blue as he topes down a Slurpee. Tre hops over waves. Tre keeps saying the sharks will get you, they’ll smell it, blood in the water, blood in the water and Tevin keeps holding the Slurpee so high that the ultramarine of it obstructs the sun. And Tashi is yelling I’m not even on my fucking period! even though she is red and wet between her thighs, and give it to me, Tev, it’s mine, you took mine! as she reaches and reaches and reaches, unable to grasp what she wants.

There are some women unmoved by such trivialities as their own blood. Eightinch stilettos, eight months in. People will assume Tashi Duncan, pulchritude and powerhouse, to be one of these women.

But you’ll know better.

She’s so good at the tennis, ultimately, because she listens to her blood. She lets it move her. Lets it give her power. She is a mesmerising glass carafe of red.

But when it spills, it pours. When she breaks, she shatters.

Art Donaldson’s child writhes inside her, swills her blood. And you watch.

Patrick takes you home from the hospital. You were planning on sinking into the void of your couch while forking miserably into a whole tray of lasagna by yourself, but you feel bad. You feel guilty and lonely. So you invite him in.

You thunk your stoneware roaster on the granite of your peninsular countertop. He’s sat on a barstool and you’re standing across from him, and he wastes no time tucking in. You nudge at the broiled cheese with your fork.

You’re crying, which he doesn’t mind, but it’s a little distracting while he’s trying to eat, is all. He peers up at you, circumspect, as he chews.

You roll your eyes at him. “Please don’t make me cry alone,” you tell him.

He chews, swallows, licks some pasta from his gums. He rests the fork against the edge of the tray and dusts his hands off.

“I don’t cry,” he says, shrugging like it’s out of his hands. The corner of his mouth quirks up as you fix him with a sullen glare.

“I’ve seen you cry,” you say pointedly, dropping your own silverware.

He shrugs again. “Yeah,” he says, “One time. That was the only time I’ve ever cried. Ever.”

He has this way of saying things like he absolutely means them. This hamfisted sincerity, serrated deadpan. And, when you’re emotional like this, all husked and raw, it’s unfortunately an extremely effective way to make you laugh. His eyes gleam with victory as you duck your head and giggle wetly.

“You feel special?” he smirks.

You roll your eyes again, tears still trickling pools into the tender shadowed skin beneath your eyes. “I feel especially depressed,” you reply thickly.

He flits his eyes back and forth between the both of yours a few times. You’re reminded of the abject tedious torture of sitting through one of Art’s tennis games. “Are you really? Or are you just moping?” he asks you.

You reach into your pocket and pull out your little Effexor prescription vial, rattling it twice, and tossing it his way. It’s a sloppy underhand, but he catches it easily.

“Huh,” he muses, turning it between his fingertips. “That’s why you look so different? I thought you were just putting on sympathy weight.”

Your lips wobble, and your eyes burn and blur again, your throat swelling shut like fucking anaphylactic excoriation, and you catch your face with your hands and cry.

“Don’t be mean right now,” you blubber.

Patrick blinks, sobering with a smart, the humour seeping off his face and replacing itself with an almost comically disturbed frown.

“Okay, okay,” he says, his voice light with a culpable urgency reserved for a triggered, irate straitjacket patient. He reaches over the lasagna, the savoury brume warming his forearms, and he takes your wrists and peels your fingers from your eyes. “Hey, I’m sorry.”

You hiccup breathlessly. Your tears slithering down your cheeks in rills.

“I’m sorry,” says Patrick. He presses his thumbs into your pulsepoints, like he can quash your distress through your radial arteries. “You look hot, okay? Really, you do.”

For his part, he seems genuinely contrite, and utterly concerned, and he probably means it. He is rarely insincere, even when his tongue is in his cheek. But your sulky inner voice says he’s bargaining. How about I quit being an ass and you stop with the ugly crying and I can finish this pasta and hotfoot it out of here? But this is your house. And your pasta. And you think you should get to mourn his exgirlfriend’s womb, if you so choose.

You sob harder, shoulders quavering. His brows raise in quiet alarm when you wrest your arms from his fingers.

You snuffle and swallow. “Please stop,” you moan sadly.

Somewhere between the cake cutting—which walked that revolting, quintessentially Art and Tashi line between sweet and sexy; she daubed some frosting on his nose, he licked it off her finger—and your purloining of a slice or two for your and Patrick’s beachside bitchsesh, the speakers are thumping with ‘I Wanna Be Your Lover’.

Everyone is wasted.

You don’t even mean to, but one of Art’s cousins, who is clearly eking out his fraternity days that have long since started mouldering, keeps ordering you shots from the open bar. And you keep downing them, one after the other. He’s wearing a practically lurid red polo that really errs on the ‘optional’ side of Black Tie Optional, but he has a really charming smile, the light glistering off the white of his teeth as you dance.

And—fuck it—he’s hot. And he’s looking at you like he wants to kiss you in the middle of this dance floor, grinding against you like you’re teenagers at a CYO dance.

The lights are scintillating technicolour and the music is so loud you can feel it in your rib cage and it doesn’t take long for the room to start spinning like the world’s trippiest ferris wheel.

Cody—or Connor, maybe—goes to the bathroom to piss, and you track down the newlyweds on the other side of the room. Tashi’s beautiful eyes, already aglow, light up even more when she sees you.

“Hi, baby!” She kind of has to yell over the music. God, it’s been a while since you’ve seen her let loose like this. Either of them, really. They’re having a great fucking time. The Happy Couple. It makes you feel sick. “You good?”

“I’m fucked up,” you smile blearily, because all of a sudden the room’s spinning has increased in velocity.

You fight the urge to grab for her hand for some fleeting sense of stability. Because, if you do, you’ll tackle her to the ground and kiss her until someone hauls you off.

And her husband’s right there.

“Me too,” says said husband. He is flushed in the face, grinning elatedly, his eyes drunkenly disfocused, Tashi’s glossy, nudepink lip-print on his cheek.

Tashi, as ever, seems appreciably more put-together than Art looks and you feel. All silken and nitid. Art’s holding her with the desperate adoration of someone who knows, in the far far end of his bevvied mind, what you’re thinking right now. You narrow your eyes at him. Then,

“Do you wanna dance?” you ask on a whim.

“Sure,” Art shrugs, a sloppy smile curving on his lips. And by now Tashi’s turned to exchange polite smalltalk with some or other extended family member, so he impishly adds, “Let me ask the missus.”

He and Tashi have a short conversation that you can’t quite hear, and then she’s pulling you in by the wrist to whisper in your ear,

“Don’t let him drink anymore, okay?”

She pecks a kiss onto your cheek before you have time to question this rule, but you know her well enough to know she’s also surreptitiously telling you to slow down. You spitefully nab another shot on your and Art’s way to the dance floor.

Art’s a good dancer. You would certainly not have pegged him as one, if asked. But when he’s twisting and moving his feet and putting his hands on your waist in a halfway facetious impression of a slow dance, you realise it’s true.

“Congratulations, by the way,” you shout when you get close enough to his ear. “Happy for you.”

He winces at your volume, raising his fingers to his ear and laughing and looking at you and shaking his head. “No you’re not.”

Patrick watches you sob for a few more moments before smacking his hand against the counter.

“Let’s make one,” he says, declaratively.

You snivel and sweep some tears away, looking up at him. “What?”

“Let’s make one,” he repeats, more urgently now, “If we make one right now, it’ll show up before the end of the year, and we can still weaponise it. Come on.”

He’s sliding off the stool and reaching across the counter to grab your hand and tow you out of the kitchen.

“Patrick,” you whine in demurral, stumbling after him.

But he pulls you along even harder, making a decisive path toward the hallway. “Come on!” he insists, “I’m serious.”

“You’re broke.”

Which is true. He’s been snipped off from the trust fund, which you’d thought was purely the stuff of Murdochian nightmares. But he whipped out his Chase Mobile app and showed you the negative balance to prove it. He’d rather bum it out than suit up and schmooze. So he’s not spoiled for funds right now, nor is he spoiled for wins, and you aren’t equipped with great confidence in a potential future as his baby mama.

“They’re pissed, they’re not cruel,” he tells you, effectively shoving you into your room and kicking off his shoes. “I’ll be back on the payroll with a kid on the docket, I promise. My mom would love it, actually. My sister just had a hysterectomy, this’ll be like a family miracle. You’ll have the child support of a Kardashian.”

He grabs your head and kisses you sloppily—he tastes like tomatoes—clumsily walking you back into the bed.

You think he’s too old to be fingering you the way he is. Rubbing your clit all clumsy, like a faulty button on an old remote. You’re a little sticky, but not enough for what he plans to do here. He sighs and leans back.

“This isn’t working,” he says, all pensive, sitting back on his heels. It’s a little difficult, though, to take him seriously, when his cock is on the front end of halfmast and still rising.

When Tashi first started seeing him, you remember her barrelling into your room all stiff and saucereyed and clamorous. As though a particularly warhankering pigeon had just been elected president, or an alien society had been discovered in the thick of the Amazon. But no. She held your shoulders and shook them wildly and yelled, I’m telling you, it’s fucking huge!

She made a point to you that she’d never be caught dead gushing about his dick to his face. She said it was important to humble him.

So you want to maintain that tradition.

And, anyway, it’s a big dick, not the cure to cancer. You don’t even know what he needs it all for. It’s probably all he has left. You can’t imagine it even gets him very far.

People have frontiers. Parameters. Limits. To their patience, to their bodies. Patrick used to kill the sprinting drills, back in school. He likes going end to end, reaching those limits. But once you start pissing someone off and/or ramming into their cervix, everything else is probably a nonstarter.

You sit up, drawing your knees to your chest. “Uh, yeah. It isn’t.”

“Well, is there something I can do? Should I act like her? Will that get you going?” He asks, but he doesn’t wait for your answer. He huffs and crosses his arms and imitates Tashi’s angry moue.

And his dick is still hard, harder now, so you splutter into laughter. You laugh really, really hard. Then he guides your legs back open and swipes his fingers between them again.

And he grins and says, “Bingo.”

You got really into Pilates for about a month or two mid last year. You’re starting to think you should have kept at it. Your knees are hooked over his shoulders, the undersides of your thighs pressed to his chest. Your hips ache, but it feels, regrettably, really fucking great otherwise.

It’s eminently uncomfortable, sure. For your part, it hasn’t really occurred to you to let a man fuck you raw. Your lingering childishness still recoils a bit at the very idea. And it feels strange, that gauche drag of skin on skin. You’d need to be really wet for this to be working, and that hilarious necessity makes you wetter in response, and then he’s slipping in and out and fucking you raw and he doesn’t even seem to be trying too hard.

He’s a little relieved. You’re letting this happen and taking it like a champ and your pussy’s deep enough to give him room to work.

So he does. Because he knows how. He knows how to work things from here.

He’s had more sex than you’ve attended pilates classes.

The thought of you, splayed and tensile across a reformer, gets him pretty hot. Very hot, actually, and he can tell because the surface of his skin is bloomed pink, and your fingers blench away from his shoulders like he’s caught aflame.

He knows by now how tremendously warm he runs in these moments. He usually asks about a girl’s AC before things get going.

Should he say that aloud, or will it piss you off?

You probably see your appending to the convoluted list of unfortunate holes to sheathe the great penis of Patrick Zweig as a little beneath you.

This is his chance to remind you that Tashi Duncan doesn’t go back on her word for just any heavy pair of balls.

He angles your hips to get deeper, experimenting with ways to evoke a reaction. He’s working you like you’re paying him.

You’re trying really hard not to say anything too nice about his dick. But he’s plunging hard and fast into you, rolling his hips with all the dexterity of fucking Magic Mike, and—well—you wouldn’t be able to, even if you wanted.

The words you’re saying are not in the dictionary. You’re sweating, panting, tugging a little mercilessly at his hair. Patrick bends your legs and hoists your pelvis. He can’t keep a trainer right now, but some adrenalinefueled strength is allowing him to support your body like it’s nothing. He wasn’t bluffing about you looking hot. He’s groping you all over with the ferocious depravity of a necrophile.

There’s some real blasphemous perversion slipping off his tongue. Ersatz porno shit that should be giving you early onset morning sickness, but he’s going all Daniel Day Lewis with it, and you’re kind of buying it.

Fucking come-slut… fuckin’— fuck… gonna breed you… gonna put a baby in you.

You’re audibly wet. The air around you grows practically mephitic. You’re losing your fucking mind. If this shit falls flat, and he can’t get you pregnant tonight, and you dump and block him and never want to speak to him again, he at least hopes you remember this for a long time.

And—you know what—fuck it if that wasn’t memorable enough, he thinks, feeling his cock twitch as he slooshes molten litres into you. Because he’s pulling out, flipping you over, and hiking up your hips. Maybe this’ll be.

He fucks you, he comes in you. A lot. He needs a second to replenish.

You steal to the kitchen. Your inner thighs are chafed and viscid. You cover the lasagna dish and cache it away, and take a second to scoff at some vapidly controversial Twitter thread. You yelp when you feel his arms around you again, lifting you off the tile and carrying you back to the bedroom.

Patrick’s never really thought too hard about his come. It’s an ancillary deluge. A mess to clean most often. Maybe he’s considered meliorating his diet when someone’s gleaned a taste and gagged.

But right now it’s serving a purpose. And he is, among other things, relieved for that, too. He’s not gonna sit around and mourn this while it happens and ask you if you’d really have his child. He’d rather look you in your beautiful, milky pussy than a gift horse in the mouth.

He refuses to waste a drop of himself. He makes sure to coat your insides with it.

He lies sheathed inside you for many minutes after he comes, gripping your hips harshly to him, groaning like this were the real orgasm.

Afterwards, he holds your knees to his chest and lifts your ass and presses his palm to your cunt as if sealing an entrance, making sure nothing escapes. He’s trying to give his guys a fighting chance.

You were, at first—as in, after two or three rounds—a little amused by this stupid, elaborate routine. Something out of an old maid’s pastel mommy blog. You were amused, and frankly weirded out, by what seemed like a laughable lack of dignity on his part.

Now—now you’re feeling aroused by it. Because being aroused disrupts the dumb ritual and kind of annoys him.

When he is holding your knees up and your cunt twitches, he rolls his eyes.

“You already got off,” he chuckles, shaking his head. He sounds a bit spent, too. He’s usually flaked out by now, in his actual customary postcome routine. “Just stay still for a second.”

The fact that he doesn’t want you to come makes you almost desperately want to. He holds his palm over your cunt but he offers no friction.

The simple touch is enough, though. You can find your own internal rhythm.

Your head falls back against the pillow.

“Oh fuck.”

And maybe you’re being particularly loud and lewd in this moment, while he’s trying to be serious, and get something done. Because you’re still doing this longcon in calling his bluff. You don’t think he knows what he wants.

You don’t want to believe that you two are really so bitter as to start a life out of spleen.

You still don’t know if he knows whether or not he actually likes you.

“What the fuck?” he laughs, “I said don’t.” He squeezes your cunt like he wants to tear flesh from bone, trying to render you still again.

But it only makes you moan louder.

“Oh, fuck, that’s so good,” you mewl indecently, smirking a bit, because you’re joking, but you also sort of mean it, “It feels so good having your come inside me, I can already feel your little fuckass kid crawling around in there. He’ll grow up loving bagels, I just know it.”

These taunts are supposed to disgust him or hurt his feelings or simply turn him off, and Patrick does sort of look like wants to throttle you. Because he’s tired and a little grumpy and he knows you’re not letting him stay the night. But a part of him has always found you funny. So he just ends up getting hard again. Your crude, glib moaning brings him to such a pitch of want that he yanks you into his lap and fucks you roughly, gripping your jaw.

And you grin as he brings your head close. You feel it’s some kind of victory.

Even though you’re just prolonging this dumb, bitter, unfulfilling farce. Making sure there’s more of him inside you.

You two should not be parents.

By the eighth or ninth round, he starts getting conversational.

“I was one of those babies that never shut up,” he tells you, fucking up into you in cowgirl. He grunts and makes a thoughtful face. “Colic? Is that what it’s called? Yeah, I think I was a colicky baby.”

You make a face down at him. “I thought you said you’ve never cried,” you pant, rocking your hips back and forth.

He rolls his eyes again.

“Yeah, obviously I was lying. I cry all the fucking time.”

You consider this, your hips stilling, your palms resting against his hairy hotplate chest.

“Over what?” you ask, “Tashi?”

He blinks, scowling a bit, like he thinks you’re making fun. Then his grips your hips and starts to move you on his dick again. He doesn’t answer. Your pussy feels warm and raw.

Geez, how long have you two been at this?

He asks, absently, about baby names.

“I thought every girl had, like, a whole fucking list of them,” he says, pushing his semen back into your used cunt with his long fingers.

You don’t entertain that presumptuous conversation, but you don’t underestimate his commitment, either.

He’s back the next day, and the next, like clocking into a shift. He brings supplies. Sliced pineapple, fresh honey, ground cinnamon, cough syrup, two boxes of ClearBlue.

“I read acupuncture helps too,” he says.

“Absolutely not,” you say, but you let him feed you baby aspirin while you ride him in reverse on your couch watching Selling Sunset.

He feigns disinterest, but keeps tilting to look past your shoulder whenever the arguments start riling up.

“Ugh, Nicole’s a bitch,” he mutters.

Then he grunts and comes inside you, grasping your hips to sink you down and hold you still.

Her name, for the better or worse part of the first and second trimesters, was actually Stella.

Art’s grandma used to love that Philip Sidney poem, and Pam’s favourite film is Streetcar. It’s just that Tashi got sick of the name, and all other things, at a stage. So it didn’t stick.

They were oscillating between Lily and Rooney towards the end, and only made the final call when they saw her.

But, for a while there, she was Stella.

Stella’s craving peanuts, Stella’s the size of a rutabaga, Stella’s a kicker. And, boy, was she.

She’d ram her foetal feet into Tashi’s ribs over and over like she was on a treadmill. Which Tashi was starting to think of as karmic consequence for all the times she’d have Art doing cardio until he fainted.

You crouch down between her knees, resting your head against the amorphous motion of her distended stomach.

“Hey hey, Stella girl,” you whisper, “You wanna stop giving your mom a hard time?”

Tashi chokes out a wounded laugh from above you.

“That’s how Art talks to her.”

“Ugh, don’t ruin it,” you frown, moving to stand up.

But she sticks her leg out to halt you, grabbing your hand and tugging you back down, shifting her hips and spreading her thighs further apart.

You never could resist her sweet face when it was all crumpled up in asking. Because she got all soft and wet, like a flower caught in a gale.

She looks even softer now, over the horizon of her bloated body.

You gently tug her cotton shorts down and put your mouth on her and Stella stills.

“One more,” you say anxiously, eyebrows knitted in concern as Patrick sighs and unboxes a another pregnancy test—the fifth one—and you quaff down another glass of water to get your bladder teeming, because no way.

No way, right?

You’ve been taking him raw at all angles, and swigging shots of cough syrup, and weaning off the antidepressants, but no way.

“I don’t know what you thought was gonna happen,” he calls from beyond the bathroom door as you’re pissing on stick number six.

It’s just that you don’t feel anything.

You think you should be feeling more.

You think of Tashi, writhing and groaning like a bullet victim, miserably clutching her turgid body. You think of newborn Lily, her cottonsoft, tiny eye peeling open and seeing you. Deep steeped coffee, gleaming in the sterile light. Tashi’s eye. Tashi’s hair. Tashi’s baby. That tender absorption, that vivid creation.

If this kid is taking nothing from you, it’s gonna come out all Patrick. And—just—you don’t have the bandwidth to contend with such a prospect right now.

He drives you to the clinic every time. Every single time. One night, you rouse sharply from a morbid dream punctuated by the squall of wailing children. You call him. It’s 2 AM. He answers, and comes over, and drives you to the clinic, and tries not to nod off as you’re filling out the medical paperwork for the dozenth time. He also tries not to express any overt reaction to you changing your mind again.

Is it a kindness, to tease a man with the brutal decimation of his unborn progeny? No, of course not. His mum’s already preemptively enrolled the thing into a fancy German daycare.

But you hate that he’s given you an ultimatum and put it inside you. That’s the worst place, in relation to you, for an ultimatum to be.

If you tell Tashi, either he’s in, or you’re out. And those aren’t really odds you’re keen on rolling.

There are all sorts of ways to be a shitty friend. You opt for evasive gambits via claims of hectic work schedules and immovable errands. Any retching you do is that of guilt. You’re loathe to lie to her, to house this wretched zygote, to stay away. But she used to be able to tell when you’d changed your shampoo. She’d sniff him on you, in you, in a second. She’d just know. And she shouldn’t. She can’t. And if you could just unearth this presentient betrayal and toss it in a petri dish, she doesn’t have to.

You don’t know what matters more.

He drives you to the clinic. Teary teenaged girls, redcapped pickets out front. The receptionist knows you two by name by now.

Patrick slumps beside you. He’s still slogging through the first chapter of Last Child in the Woods. He’s pretty sure he’s never sat and read an actual, physical book to completion before in his life. But he’s too easily abstracted for Audible. So he’s working on it.

You’re groaning frustratedly and thunking the clipboard repeatedly against your skull. He absently slips a hand over your forehead, shielding the next few collisions before you huff and drop the board and turn to face him. He looks at you askance.

“You can change your mind,” he shrugs. Again, he generously omits.

You scoff at him, incredulous and a little irked. “I’m not gonna change my mind,” you grumble.

He shrugs again. “Okay.”

He knows what it’s like to have a mother in sackcloth and ashes. To be less of a son than a sentient thing of regret with little arms and legs. To not know what to do with that, or yourself. He wouldn’t do that to a kid.

You watch him thumb through Richard Louv for a few more moments.

Then, “You’re probably sick of me, aren’t you?”

He smiles a bit before schooling it stoic, slowly lowering the book and fixing you with this wry but incongruously tender look. “Of course I am,” he tells you.

“Get mad at me, then.”

He smiles again.

He knows what that’s like, too. Dad mad at mom. Stilted five course dinner. Dad telling him and Saskia what a goddamn headache mom is on the drive to school. Of course he’s sick of you, he’s always sick of you. But he likes you. And his head feels fine.

He turns back to the book, shrugging.

“Can’t,” he says simply.

You feel for baby Lily. She’ll never be able to get away with anything.

It’s Art who sniffs it on you, in you.

Tashi’s asleep upstairs when, after a fortnight and a bit, you rally up the guts to come over. Art opens the door and looks surprised for mere moments, and there is perhaps a flicker of concern, but then he smiles. And there’s only very mild ire there. The rest is fatigue and goodnature.

“Hello, stranger,” he smirks, turning to filch a set of keys from the marble catchall in the foyer. He is wheeling Lily out in the thirteenhundred dollar stroller he had lost six nights of sleep picking out. “You coming?”

So now you’re on a walk.

Lily lays on her soft belly in the stroller. The walls around her are a breathable mesh, and she fights to hoist her head and gawp at passing trees. This is, apparently, the only way she’ll do tummy time.

“And the only time she gets any sleep,” Art adds, jutting a finger over his shoulder in the general direction of their home down the street.

Lily’s wearing a ruffly lavender romper. Her skin is a healthy shade of linen and her hair is dark. Her fists have tiny moony fingernails that—when you comment how, Her nails are long. Like, sharp—Art explains how he keeps trying to cut them with a pair of tiny silver scissors. But they make Tashi nervous, their sharpness and its proximity to Lily’s fleshy hands.

“She said she wants her to get a grip on the world,” Art chuckles.

You snort, and you have to skip a bit to keep up with his brisk strides. “Oh, that’s definitely what she said,” you confirm.

Lily tosses and turns a bit in the strollerbed. She gurgles an impressive spit bubble, by Art’s standards. Most things she does are probably impressive to him, quite frankly. He tells you how, the other morning, she had thrown up breakfast onto his shoulder with such verve and accuracy that they’re already talking tennis lessons.

“Oh God,” you grimace. Not at the story, but at the memory of his nauseous pallor in the throes of Tashi’s own gravid sickness. “How’s that been for you?”

Art flashes a selfdeprecating simper. “I’m managing.”

When she casts her little coral taglet security blanket curbside, Lily scrunches up her face, grasping, gearing up for the Big Scream. Art sighs and says, “No, please?” as he stops to pick it up and give it back to her, and his arm, when he sticks it in, blooms with little ruddy strings as she claws at him.

He looks more than a little surprised she isn’t crying.

Apparently, in that meantime, you had jutted your fingers into the cot and offered her a pinky as a peace offering. Versailles-style, like you’ll be punished later.

But he seems content with how she’s chewing you and figures you guys can stop here, for a bit, beneath these treemottled springtime sunbeams. In the garden of the home in front of which you’re standing, huge orange bougainvillea loll their petaltongues in the breeze.

“I just…” Art flounders for his words, then scoffs a not unkind, but vaguely embittered, sort of laugh, shutting his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. “Why him?”

You groan. “Don’t ask.”

“How is he?”

“He’s—” you waver, then shake your head, before finishing, “Ugh.”

“Patrick’s ‘ugh’? Patrick? Wow. Should we call all the outlets? I mean, that’s never happened before. Patrick. Ugh. You’re blowing my mind.”

You snort, and Lily laughs, and Art informs you that that is a very hard reaction to glean. And he rubs his temples, because all the wails sort of tremor at that same migrainous pitch. No matter if they’re amused or rabidly apoplectic. But you can enjoy it, the laughter.

“Can you just tell her for me?” you frown helplessly up at him.

That flicker in his tired eyes that wants to agree is purely paternal, but he sighs and shakes his head. “You know I can’t.”

He’s genuinely sympathetic.

“She’ll forgive you,” he tells you. You roll your eyes and hang your head, kicking piteously at the wheel of the stroller. He intercepts your foot with his, lightly shoving it away before bending to search for your gaze. “Hey,” he says, “She really will.”

You huff. “She’s never had to.”

You instinctively press your fingers into your womb, through your shirt. You feel the strange sensation of something starting to swell beneath the flesh.

“You’ll be a good mom,” says Art.

It’s a small relief, for you, to feel your face screw into its shut-the-fuck-up-Art expression. It’s something you know how to feel, a well trodden path. Maybe, once they drop you like a bad habit, he’ll still send you those furtive pictures he likes to take of Tashi sleeping. And you and Patrick can dualmasturbate to them, pretending your swollen belly isn’t in the way.

What you like about them, all three of them, is that they have all always loved you so simply. Tashi is severe, and Patrick is flippant, and Art is occasionally insincere. But they each care about you, to varying degrees, in their own ways. And they do so without reservation, even when you’ve been an ass.

You think that’s how you’re supposed to love your child.

You should probably figure out how he does it in the next five to ten seconds.

You ask, “What makes you say that?”

And his eyes flick down to where Lily is still gumming your knuckle like a dog with a bone, then back up to you, and he gives you one of those smiles. Your face screws. Shut the fuck up Art. Then, he tells you, “You love harder than you give yourself credit for.”

Lily gags around your pinky.

[dickgraysongirlie]

When Jason Finally Comes Back (Smut)

Pairing: Jason Todd x Reader

Tags: smut, light angst, afab!reader, use of words describing vaginas.

A/N: short and sweet smut w/ a little, light angst. Jason's been out of town for a long while, and you really missed him.

It had been over two months since Jason left on his mission. You had known he’d be gone for a while, but this was beyond the pale. The first few weeks, you´d been able to throw yourself into work and see friends and fill your days. Then, a month had passed with minimal contact with the man you loved more than anything, and life was dragging. As much had you had worried before the fourth week came, it became overwhelming. For the past five weeks, all you could do was worry about Jason. It had begun affecting nearly every aspect of your life.

But, then, suddenly and beautifully he was back in your apartment, making it look all small again.

From the moment you flung yourself into his treetrunks of arms when he walked through the door, it had been like you were on cloud nine.

“Jay,” you breathed into his collarbone, unable to get another word out of your choked-up throat.

“Hey, darling,” he murmured back. “I missed you.¨

That's all it took for the dam to break. You became a babbling mess in the crook of his neck as he cradled your body against his like it was nothing. It was an incoherent mash-up of I missed you, I love you, and I was worried all paired with his name over and over again like some prayer

Jason let out a watery chuckle, “It’s okay, darlin’, I'm right here. I got you; I’m not going anywhere.”

That was a good hour ago, and now another type of reunion was about to happen.

Jason and you were getting hot into your makeout, his hand finally slipping into your panties, and you felt like you could already combust.

¨Aw, darlin', you’re already so wet. Been missing me that much?”

All you could do was desperately nod as his fingers began running through your folds  “Yes, Jay. Missed you so much, please.

“Please what,” he asked with that devilish smirk of his.

 “Please this?” Jason asked, finally dipping one of his massive fingers into your dripping cunt.

Had you been in a different state, you'd probably feel embarrassed by the fact that you immediately started convulsing around his digit, cumming as hard as if he’d been edging you for hours  Which, in a way, he’d been doing much worse over an even longer period of time. It was just, so big, so much, and too fucking long since the last time Jason had touched you.

“Holy shit doll, did you just cum?” Jason gasped before pulling you into a bone-melting kiss. “That's so fucking hot.” 

As you caught your breath, he immediately stole it away again by beginning to move that one digit around your still-fluttering pussy.

“Jesus Christ, baby, you're so tight, it feels like you haven't been touched since I left.”

You clutched his arm as it went in and out of you as you vehemently shook your head. 

“No? No what darling?”

“N-no..I haven't t-touched myself since you left. Co-couldn't.”

Jason stopped, looking at you gobsmacked as you writhed against his still finger, begging for more, “What did you just say?” He couldn’t look away from you. Your face all twisted with pleasure and he’d barely done anything to you at all. There’s no way you really, for two months, didn’t cum once.

But, you nodded, still trying to get him to touch you more. “I tried but it was too hard. Not as good as you. Made me think of you. Made me miss you too much.”

Jason pulled his finger from your core but before you could whine at the loss, he has both hands on your face and pulled you into a searing kiss as if he was trying to kiss you all the way to your toes.

When he pulled away, his eyes were filled with reverence as his thumbs stroked your cheeks. How did he, this Lazarus-filled murderer, get such a sweet thing like you? “You're the best thing that's ever happened to me. I love you so much.”

Tears started to fill your eyes again, and you werent surorised to se the emotion mimicked on Jasons. But, he pushed past the feeling of his heart bursting with love. After all, he had a very needy girl to please.

Quickly he pressed one last loving kiss to your lips before giving you a look that was pure filth. that almost had you cumming again. “Well, if my poor girl’s pretty pussy hasn't been getting enough attention, I have my work cut out for me. After all, I have to make up for all those lost orgasms, don’t I,” his voice that teasing kind of condescending that had you burning. “Let's see if we can get four more out of you, how about that, pretty girl?”

He didn't give you a chance to respond before his fingers descended back to your cunt.

[marrkopolo]

A Wise Man Once Said

Precious lost its ring in the scrap yard with no metal detector the lavender pussywillows hide the trolls

Hong Kong wheel of fate UW spinned it first Knights of Templar slaughtered at a mass concert of bloody crimson tide

Tithe on a full moon for 2x the glee The crash of waves against the rocks, like bodies slapping against each other during sex blood shooting through veins Hot heat, sticky, in Iceland together I too, know of these lands

Tax season says the King! blue knots on a tent red food buckets hung like death #four crosses in a foreign land alone is no place to exist

An underwater welder lying on the blue tarp, is like a union of troops led by a zebra.

Flying flags at Disney welcome to the world of water failed regret, emptiness and betrayal tattered flags get left to rot sew it in with the others together and the quilt becomes strong and scintillating

Crush you with your own history headless horseman and halo hair dark horse donuts This is as good as it gets!

Red-lipped lipstick cracked porcelain face You can't hold a candle to this

King of the Hill My pool stick is clean now true Kings swim in the swimming pool together King of the Hill Jack of Spades went with the stolen crown and robots learn to volunteer.

Pledge to a sanitizer salute to a gong beat your chest it's loud and strong Love at first sight or sounds like a good idea Wisdom of the crowd or individual motivation?

A rabbi with the yachts Fortified lamps sees all UFOs, telekinesis and even explosive lingerie. One denarius for a days work Why they get more? Stand while another sits. Then switch roles and you'll see why.

What sees with three eyes? The melatonin-like parental bond, third eye awoken, Moksha.

Insane Luke has a scar red dots that kill. Baldie takes biosphere crown the bald animal is cutting loose again Is doraphilia still fun to you?

I attempt to transform but the tea is too strong my hands have small heart Lying down a tiny raindrop falls into my ear swirling into the cochlea My whole world has changed!

Eczema stealing make-up twice North Face go north Racks of weapons are not enough this time

My mask is old but gold bars had paved my fortunate path …a fortunate path(whispering)

Tik Tok vault one exit is enough The eagle has docked into spray-painted madness. Not to fret I hear a falcon cry Jump when the law is bent it will help you fly

Six shooter Six pack 3 sewers 3 fires Twin-spirit 1 spacesuit

Mountain top king of the hill climb Nepal Hajj pilgrimage princess climbs like a pirate piggyback down the wedding aisle

Opposites attract

One fell to its doom down the abyssal void towards the bottom and a ghost ship lost in the Bermuda Triangle with Pandoras Box Lazarus

Gunpowder in shoes Footprints in the sand Jesus did not tap

Short and tall fat and thin Lookalikes Soundalikes Smellalikes the hunt of touch and taste What double currencies create the ultimate Yin Yang effect? AI said to cure pride and competition, exchange abacus rubik-cubed calculators instead of cash.

Echoes and reverberation voices become lightning WATTS= AMPS X VOLTS

Float your payloads into the troposphere with skinny vertical structures of contained saltwater Heat a planet with a satellite asteroid belt

A call for help QR codes morse code gun flare smoke signal what are your coordinates? R-E-B-O-R-N

Some ancients say gunpowder only made flee then gun made to kill Oil spills from bronze age to silicon chips flood the market cut the mall castle cake in half Zangief on a segway You win.Perfect.

Lawrence Groves copyright©2024

[geryone]

ok since you asked for dayspring thoughts.

deep inhale.

JESUS FUCKING CHRIST WHAT WAS THAT????? THAT WAS SO GOOD MY GODDDD OMG.......the mixture of shallow lust + mind-numbing devotion & all-consuming love my beloved !!!!! also was the narrator lazarus? because there are implications towards the end 🤔🤔🤔

i thought it was a little too long-drawn towards the end, but not annoyingly so. i mean. there are some books that drag on & on & on & no matter how good the prose is you sometimes want to throttle it !!!!! but dayspring was not as long-drawn as that so. thank u mr anthony oliveira !!!!!

also the vocab. man the VOCAB. i had to look up sooo many words up the dictionary and guess what i absolutely fuckin loved it !!!! got to know sooo many new words & syntax &c &c <33

but like. i think im a fujoshi at heart because when the scenes w jesus x narrator graphic fag sex came on i was sooo horny as well as simply unamused like. i was literally armand on the cuck chair ygwim??? + lots of asshole description. loved it.

also some of the lines......like.....grahhhhhh losing my mind !!!!!!!!!! something something the whole of my life before and since i have broken every promise i ever made so that i might more perfectly serve that one.......i was utterly lost i was utterly yours.......break my heart as many times as you need to i am yours here at last is the thing i was made for !!!!!!! KILL MEEEEE MR OLIVEIRA !!!!!!

some parts of it felt a little childish and immature but those were negligible as compared to the rest of the lovely, wonderful text. sometimes the writing felt too difficult (esp towards the end) but i felt like that was the vibe oliveira was going for (everything gets more complicated & fever dream-like as the narrator struggles to cope w life after jesus’ death, at least acc to my views) sooo not too many complaints overall !!!

exhale.

wow okay that felt good.

Hehehehehehe love seeing your thoughts!! This has been the book I can’t stop coming back to this year!! Definitely agree that there are various areas where it reads as childish & juvenile & that the ending felt feverish & hard to decipher at points!! I think the writing is at its best when it dives into the sections about love, devotion, & sex!! I was definitely most compelled by those parts & the parts about grief

[timeless-fanfic]

Hi can you write about Lazarus wife again maybe witnessing his resurrection

Hope Restored

Word Count: 1151

Lazarus x Reader

The days had been long, agonizing, and unbearable. You had watched helplessly as Lazarus, your husband, succumbed to his illness, his strong frame weakening with each passing hour. Even as you prayed, begged, and wept, the sickness did not relent. And then, he was gone—leaving a void in your heart that you feared would never heal.

The pain was still fresh, and though it had been four days since his death, it felt as if only moments had passed. You stood outside the tomb where he had been laid to rest, your heart heavy with grief. The weight of the loss pressed down on you, and no amount of tears seemed enough to express the sorrow that consumed you.

Martha and Mary stood nearby, their faces etched with the same despair you felt deep inside. The three of you had done everything you could—sent word to Jesus, hoped for a miracle—but He had not come in time. Lazarus was gone, and nothing could bring him back.

Or so you thought.

You wiped the tears from your eyes as you heard footsteps approaching. Turning, you saw Him—Jesus. He was finally here, His face a mixture of sorrow and determination. Though His presence filled you with a sense of peace, it was hard not to feel the sting of His delay. If He had been here earlier, maybe, just maybe, Lazarus would still be alive.

But before you could voice your thoughts, Mary fell at Jesus’s feet, her sobs echoing in the stillness of the air. “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.”

Jesus’s eyes filled with tears as He gazed at Mary, and then at the tomb. His sorrow was evident, but there was something else in His expression—something you hadn’t expected. It was as if He knew something you didn’t, something that would change everything.

“Where have you laid him?” Jesus asked quietly.

Martha gestured toward the tomb, and without hesitation, Jesus began walking toward it. Your heart raced, unsure of what was happening. The crowd of mourners, curious and hopeful, followed closely behind.

You stood frozen, watching as Jesus approached the stone that sealed Lazarus’s tomb. “Take away the stone,” He commanded, His voice firm but calm.

Martha hesitated. “Lord, by this time there is a stench, for he has been dead four days.”

You felt a fresh wave of pain at her words. Four days. Lazarus had been gone for four long days. The reality of death was undeniable—his body had already begun to decay. What could possibly be done now?

But Jesus’s response sent a shiver down your spine. “Did I not say to you that if you would believe, you would see the glory of God?”

There was a weight to His words, a promise that you couldn’t fully comprehend. But as the stone was rolled away, you found yourself holding your breath, unable to tear your eyes away from the dark opening of the tomb.

Jesus stepped forward, lifting His eyes toward the heavens. “Father, I thank You that You have heard Me. And I know that You always hear Me, but because of the people who are standing by, I said this, that they may believe that You sent Me.”

He paused for a moment, the air around you thick with anticipation. And then, with a voice that seemed to shake the very ground beneath your feet, He cried out, “Lazarus, come forth!”

The silence that followed was deafening. Time seemed to slow as you stared into the darkness, your heart pounding in your chest. It was impossible. Lazarus was dead. He had been dead for days. There was no way...

But then you saw movement.

Your breath caught in your throat as a figure emerged from the tomb, wrapped in burial cloths from head to toe. The crowd gasped in disbelief, and you felt your legs weaken beneath you. It couldn’t be... but it was.

“Unbind him, and let him go,” Jesus instructed calmly, as if this miraculous event was the most natural thing in the world.

You stood frozen, tears streaming down your face as the reality of what had just happened hit you. Lazarus—your Lazarus—was alive.

The crowd erupted into a mixture of gasps and cries of astonishment, but you barely heard them. All you could see was him, standing before you, blinking in the sunlight as if he had just woken from a deep sleep. His eyes searched the crowd, confused but alive, and when they found yours, everything else disappeared.

“Lazarus,” you whispered, your voice trembling with emotion.

He took a tentative step forward, his arms still bound by the cloths. The shock and disbelief on his face mirrored your own, but there was no mistaking the truth—he was back.

With a sob of joy, you rushed forward, unable to hold yourself back any longer. You threw your arms around him, burying your face in his chest as fresh tears streamed down your cheeks. His arms, still awkwardly wrapped in the cloths, tried to return the embrace, and you could feel his heartbeat beneath your touch—strong, steady, and alive.

You pulled back just enough to look into his eyes, your hands cupping his face as you tried to process the miracle that had just unfolded before you. “You... you’re alive,” you choked out, barely able to believe the words.

Lazarus blinked, his expression softening as he gazed down at you. “I... I don’t understand,” he murmured, his voice hoarse. “What happened?”

You glanced over your shoulder, your gaze locking with Jesus’s. His eyes were filled with compassion and love, and you understood in that moment that this was not just a simple resurrection. It was a reminder of the power of faith, of the love that transcended even death itself.

Jesus had done this. He had restored what was lost, given back the life that had been taken from you.

You turned back to Lazarus, your heart swelling with gratitude and awe. “Jesus,” you whispered. “He brought you back.”

Lazarus’s eyes widened, and he looked over at Jesus with a mixture of disbelief and reverence. But as his gaze returned to you, a smile slowly spread across his face.

“I’m back,” he said softly, his voice steady and filled with emotion. “I’m here.”

You nodded, tears still flowing freely as you pulled him close once more. It didn’t matter how or why. All that mattered was that he was here, in your arms, alive and whole.

In that moment, the world seemed to fade away, and all that remained was the overwhelming joy of having your husband returned to you. The pain, the grief, the despair—it all melted away in the light of this impossible miracle.

Lazarus was alive, and with him, your hope had been restored.

[the-dance-of-italy]

"Did you hear that the son of the carpenter recently married?"

From a small thought I had about if neither of them had died, they'd probably be happy together.

[cymorilcinnamonroll]

Awake O Sleeper (A Jesus x Mary Magdalene Romance)

The Asherah grove at the heart of the temple of Our Lady is full of olives and grape vines, in the sacred heart of our worship. Men come to do penance to the Goddess, worshiping us as the qadesh leads them into the bosom of the Mother. I often go to the well at the temple’s courtyard and wish upon the moon reflected in the still waters. She is beauty in the grips of Yahweh, bosom companion of our Heavenly Father.

Jerusalem is a bustling city, full of Canaanites and Samaritans and Jews and Philistines. This Bethany township is but an extension of the metropolis. Herod rules from his abode and the Temple is corrupted, and people are forgetting the old ways, cutting down Asherah groves at the root and pissing on her fig and olive trees. Where stands a temple to El, there rests an Asherah grove. From the Mount of Olives to our own temple in Bethany, where I left Martha and Lazarus behind to become a priestess, I have been trained in anointment and service to the Goddess.

Sometimes starlings roost in the roof and we clip their wings to keep as pets, and I am reminded, I do not live for myself, but for Her, and my body is but a vehicle of prayers. The grove has stood for mayhaps thousands of years, as the olive tree does, cut down then to spring forth from the stump. We prune, we worship, we sing hosannas and we do not weep.

There is nothing to weep over in the temple of the Goddess. Sacred whore, they say, woman of seven devils. It is true, there are demons in my mind, and I am wont to make love to the Damned as well as the angels, as all my fellow anointed qodeshah are, but that can break the body, disassemble the mind, leak out your wineskin until you take the shape of the emptiness of stars, and then, mayhaps, you die. But I survived the temptations of Samael, I have roosted in Lilith’s Huluppu tree, I have eaten flies with Beelzebub and tasted fish to fight back Asmodeus. I have consecrated my virginity to El and Asherah, and Asherah, dear Asherah, has staked her claim on my destiny.

There are rumors from Nazareth. From Egypt. From Galilee. From sea to desert to mountain strand. God walks in human form. Merely twenty, and I am eighteen. He goes by Yeshua, like Joshua of old, and I am Miriam Magdalene in this temple, a watchtower of the lord, Migdal Eder. Mary Magdalene as the Greeks who worship through me say. They say this young man preaches sermons on mountaintops and topples false idols and cuts down Asherah groves. Cuts the Goddess down by the root. Says he is El, says he is the Father.

I have no time for fools. I have no time for false messiahs. I know Asherah, I know El, and though the Messiah is promised, he does not live on manna alone. This Yeshua shits and bleeds, I am sure he fucks, and were he to come to my temple, I would take my teraphim and drive it through his heart.

God bleeds, after all, and Simon Magus is just as much a fool, levitation or not. So is that John the Baptist, beheaded someday soon, an Essene surviving on stale locusts and rotting honey and dumping bodies in the River Jordan.

I survive on the wilderness alone, the barrenness of my heart, for it is only by being empty that one can let the Goddess in. I am a vessel of dripping myrrh and a garden of lilies, oh Asherah. These cults come with passing moons and cycles of suns, and they wax and wane, Mithras and Cybele and Anath and Baal (there are many Baals, after all) and the strange peculiarities of the Romans. I say, stick with what is tried and true. Lady Asherah is Queen.

My brother Lazarus has taken up with this Yeshua, and I hate this false prophet for it. For stealing my impressionable, starry-eyed brother as some false disciple. They say Yeshua loves Lazarus so much he would raise him from the dead. Crackpot talk. Martha, my sweet older sister, has entertained this Yeshua at our rich home across the field. I refused to go. Why, perhaps because Martha wants to know the heart of God, and this Messiah, this Yeshua, has a strange draw on the practical types like Martha and dreamers like Lazarus alike.

They say he believes women equal to men. That his mother Mary and aunt Salome and friend Joanna and now my sister Martha are equal in his eyes, his radical ministry in the desert. They sew and preach and anoint. In his name, they cast out demons. This strange man that claims to be God may well be speaking parables of smoke and mirrors. Here at my temple, we give our bodies over to the Goddess. When has this Yeshua given his body, his blood, his Sacrament, over to God? If that happens, I shall fall to my feet and worship. But he goes around in tattered clothes, a wanderer, and has the woman radically engaged in his ministry. How strange.

Lazarus writes that Yeshua will not touch women. Resists worshiping the Mother. Does not know the way of the flesh, is a Rabbi yet will not take a wife. Will not even contemplate a woman to share in his ministry at its highest point. I think of the rumors flying around Jerusalem and the provinces often as I tend to the duties of the temple, sewing and cleaning and singing and worshiping in body, wine, and moon’s blood.

How can this Yeshua have sway over Martha and Lazarus, when but Asherah is the way and Yahweh, squeezed into a man’s body, would have but the world as his Logos? Were he to meet me, would he give in to the Goddess? Has this strange madman forgotten the way of our ancestors? For every Yahweh, his Asherah. Thus this Yeshua needs a bride. To neglect the Goddess, why, that usurps the whole sun and moon. That is light without the darkness of the womb.

A starling comes with a note summoning me from the High Priestess. There is a visitor. I must go attend to my temple duties. He has requested me to anoint him and be his vessel of worship. The High Priestess say he has paid handsomely for my Sacrament. Far more coins than ever spent on one of the temple priestesses. I wonder if it is mad Herod himself. That would amuse me more than anything.

I dress myself in scarlet, anoint my cheeks with rouge and lips with berries, line my eyes with kohl, and make a messy knot of my curls. My hair never behaves, auburn in that strange way of women burned in Egypt as witches and my eyes the light speckled brown of a sparrow. Once I am done preparing, bedecked in jewels as befit Asherah, I go to the qodeshah room.

There he awaits. Smiling like a lamb yet with the grace of a lion, dressed simply in dusty white, all lithe muscle and smiling dark green eyes that the fire dances in. Smoke clouds the room. I have the sudden urge to run my hands through his dark locks and kiss him senseless. Gravity overtakes me, that calling that drives me into ululations of ecstasy, only it is not one of the seraphim or cherubim that courts me, but divinity himself. Who is this stranger, eating grapes and draped like a Roman over dinner?

“Miriam, a glass of wine?” he asks with a voice like olive oil. He takes the carafe from the table and smiles bemusedly. The red sloshes into a bejeweled cup. His hands are like the milk from the cows of spring. Not the color, mind you, or the softness – they are tan and calloused, fingernails short like the poor. I would think him a carpenter or stonemason, someone who carves idols or builds temples.

I take the glass of wine and scrutinize him. “I am the one who offers wine and anoints you, oh mysterious stranger. Don’t you know the ways of Asherah?”

He laughs like an ewe. “Oh sweet Miriam, but that is not my purpose. My purpose is to do penance and devotions unto you. Come, sip the wine of my blood. It is to you I offer the first Sacrament. They will forget it was you who I offered the Last Supper to first, thirteen years before my death. Eat this bread, this loaf of my flesh.” He takes from his pocket a rich loaf wrapped in linen. I take it hesitatingly, dip it in the wine, nibble a bit, and it is somehow the best meal I have ever had as I chase it down with the goblet. Strange, this man, a mystic perhaps.

Suddenly, I smell blood. “What?” I ask, incredulous. I look down at the bejeweled cup and am horrified to find ruby blood. The bread I hold is a heart that is bleeding. I drop both and scream. This man laughs, laughs at my terror, laughs at his miracle, as if it is the most mundane thing a woman could ask for.

“Yeshua?” I breathe.

He beckons me to him. It is the most natural thing to curl up beside him. I am under a moonspell of Michael, and rushing water fills my veins, icy yet warm, like the River Jordan meets a desert night. We lay together chaste yet starstruck and I stare aghast at him, unable to resist his gravity.

“That is my name, yes, sweet Magdalane, my comely Bride. They will call you a Whore. But you are my Truth, the Gnostics will adore you, and the Cathars, troubadours, and Knights Templar will worship at your hips. You are Asherah. There is no need for this temple, not anymore, as I hold you here manifest in my hands!”

He runs a hand through my curls and unbinds them. “So it’s all true. You are the Lord made flesh…” I trail off, my tongue still bloody and warm with skin and meat and muscle and gore. The bread I dropped and my goblet of wine have disappeared. I am hyperventilating, barely cognizant in the overwhelming grace and fire of this stranger, yet I know him better in my heart than Yahweh, for he is the Father El, made Son.

Lazarus and Martha were right. Damn me a nonbeliever.

“I am but a man, at most, with a few tricks up my sleeve. You will be my comfort, dear woman. My apostle of apostles. My witness. Follow me out of this cursed ground and leave your seven devils behind. The ways of Asherah are over. For you are Asherah, not these statues, never these trees. To be material is a terrible thing! The ways of whoring out your body are done. It is the dawn of a new age, of my sweet Shekinah, my Wisdom, Sophia made New Eve. Cannot you see how red thread bears my loins and your womb together? They will whisper about us in hushed circles millenia down the line, write us poems and canticles and heresies and all agree that to me, you were above all the reason, my anointer, my best disciple, my most beloved. I will raise the dead for you. I will die for you. And you will grow old without me, and you will be my testament, oh Migdal Eder.”

His words are rapturous. His words are true. I cannot divine the future, but I feel the shape of it.

We burn the Asherah grove down with my oil lamp.

I leave behind any vestige of myself.

I follow him out of the temple, across the field, on a donkey out of Bethany, into the winepress night.

And never, ever, do I look back.

Thirteen years pass, and the Last Supper draws close. I am a mystic following in Christ’s footsteps, ever-weeping, washing the dust from his feet. Peter damns me for my passions, but Levi praises me, and Mother Mary holds me closest of all.

Rain outside the window of our kitchen, and Lazarus’ body is held up in the tomb for four days. My sweet older brother, a starstruck wanderer at Christ’s side, just as I cast my lots in with this mad messiah whose gristle and blood I drank down thirteen years ago at the tender age of 18. All to know redemption, as my Temple of Asherah burned and I left my wanton ways behind for higher ground, better things, blessed by doves. To become Asherah in my own might and right! The plague took Lazarus, a wasting away with pustules and jaundice and fragile limbs.

I thought with the Lord, all things were possible, but in his domain is death, and so in my quiet ways, I rage.

Martha and I have washed and dressed and anointed our brother in myrrh and linen – our wealthy parents died when we were but children, leaving us treasures beyond measure as merchants are wont to do and Martha and Lazarus to raise me. The whole town is in mourning over Lazarus, and our expansive household has been filled with mourners.

Yeshua has been at Jerusalem preaching to the masses, but I sent a pigeon from our dovecote with a letter to my Lord of his beloved’s death, our family whom he cherishes above all, and Christ wrote back in eager, wrathful script that even death has no hold on his disciples.

So we have prepared a feast for the other wanderers: dates, lamb, greens, bread, wine. Martha and I have been hard at work in the kitchen baking and cooking and mixing herbs and fruits and vegetables. I purchased vintage straight from Italy a local trader had traveled far to obtain, enough casks to hold a wedding feast like blessed Cana, only this is a funeral.

I can hear him rumble with wrath in the distance. My sweet Rabboni feels like an oncoming storm. Sometimes when I am debating and sparring wits with him over philosophy and pedagogy and theology, the sky suddenly darkens and thunder rumbles as Christ opens his lips, and out comes rains and retorts as lightning strikes. Once we were debating the virtues and vices of angels – how do they serve God, do they have free will, yetzer ha ra versus yetzer ha tov: is a teraphim able to care for its family or is it more golem?

I said I did not believe in free will, and Yeshua said: “Then what shall I die for but humanity’s freedom, my Migdal Eder?” and he laughed like a wine press and it began to gale and storm.

He took me into his arms and we danced by palms at the oasis in the radiance of the tempest, singing hosannas, and I was soaked to my underclothes and my red dress clung to my breasts and hips. Peter would call me an adulteress just for that. Christ’s dusty white robes were glued to his skin like a snake, Nachash be damned. Lazarus found us both dancing like plagues and begged us come inside and break bread with the other disciples, but we were lost inside each other, starved of the wrath of God.

Mother Mary brought us blankets afterward as we both rid ourselves of chills by the fire, Joseph laughed, and Salome made it a running joke: Mary and Yeshua have the tempers of storms, beware if they curse your fig trees or drive your demons into squealing pigs in the ocean’s squall. Salome and her dagger tongue! Judas remarked we could have been struck by the firmament, but Yeshua said: brother, I am God, can’t you see how the storm is my heart of darkness? Peter and Thomas and Luke and John and James paid reverence to Christ, but I was too busy staring into the fire we grilled fish on, eating my loaf, haunted by what would come when the sky darkened for Yeshua’s death.

My eyes tear up at that memory as I am tending Christ’s bread, which is his body, a small taste of what is to come. It is leavened and ready to be devoured. I set the table, the long wooden beauty my father picked up from some far northern country, was it Ing’s land? Who knows, but the Celts have such intricate eyes for knotwork. Living beasts in the legs. I would like to go to their province someday. To see where these curiosities come from. What strange gods and demons they worship.

There is a knock at the door. Salome is there with Zebedee, John, and James in tow. She looks like a gazelle, all proud and lithe lines, not a bit of wasted space about her. “Mary, Martha, we came as soon as we heard!” Salome explains, impassioned. There are tears in her, Zebedee’s, John’s and James’ eyes. She wipes at it with a cloth. “Lazarus was the best of us. How you two must mourn. Here, John, James, take the horses to the stable, Zebedee, why don’t you unpack and set up camp? Lord knows Miriam’s house is big, but not enough for all the disciples. Elohim took Lazarus under fair weather, so we will have no problem in the courtyard.”

I hug Salome close to me, this mentor of mine who was Christ’s midwife and the first besides Elizabeth to declare him the Son of God. In some ways she was first, first to catch the placenta and afterbirth and caul of Christ the King. Finger withered at his might.

No wonder he was a calamity come into this world that has been relentless ever since. He is my storm dancer. My soul. I can only imagine 33 years ago, Salome at 12, in a manger with blessed, tough-as-nails Mother Mary and nervous Father Joseph. Mary is never nervous. Never doubts. Always asserts. She is our strength, like Gav’riel, who favored her. Sometimes Gav’riel still visits her when he thinks no one is looking and they have long talks in the reeds – angels sound like panpipes and bells and regrets. I have caught her in quiet corners talking with that messenger of the archangels about Yeshua’ road to Calvary and ending in Golgotha. Gav’riel has prophesied as much, told us his days are numbered. Christ accepts it, with the bullheadedness of his mother.

That I will grow old without Yeshua.

It is something I do not like to contemplate much.

“Mary, my sweet daughter, in all my 45 years, I have never seen anyone with as much devotion to Yeshua as you, besides his own mother. He said he would raise the dead for you.” She hugs me hard with her whipcord muscles, then accompanies me to the kitchen and greets Martha.

“Martha, my other blessed daughter, do you not know what service you do to our Lord? Us ladies are the backbone of the ministry, after all. From our own funds we support these rambunctious men. I have tried holding James and John in check, but yet they go casting out demons and fishing for souls and preaching. Zebedee is easier to tame. That is why I married him, hah!”

Martha laughs and embraces us both. “Oh Salome, our family reunited, yet for such sad occasion. Having Lazarus gone, why, a missing limb. Wine without a glass, spilling constantly. Here, eat!” She takes a date and presses it to Salome’s mouth. Salome smiles and bites it mischievously.

“Let us go to the wishing well, girls. The women rode ahead. Yeshua held a lengthy sermon with the men, giving us time to charge ahead and prepare the banquet and speak to the angels. Joanna and Mary and Susanna await.”

“Oh!” I say, wiping away hot tears as I dwell on Lazarus. They say my tears could fill an ocean.

The peach pit in my throat lightens a bit at the thought of my spiritual sisters here to visit my Bethany township. We make our way to the well outside and see Mother Mary and the others divining in the well. They are staring coolly into its depths. Martha, Salome, and I join them in silence. The six of us peering into the silver depths and we summon an image: Lazarus alive, at the cost of Yeshua.

They are inextricably linked.

“A life for a life, my dears,” Mother Mary says, dabbing at her strong brow with her sleeve. “My son will give his life for Lazarus, for that is the only way to cheat the grave. But Lazarus is well worth the sacrifice. We all know what awaits at Golgotha. Perhaps the men doubt, but my son granted us all the sight. Women’s magic: prophesy. In dying for Lazarus, he gives life to us all, a way to Heaven. It is not what I would have chosen for my only child, but he is the Lord, and I will be living testament to his short life.”

We gather round Mother Mary, hugging one another in sisterly love. Salome grips her fiercely and I fall to her feet and kiss them. We then retire to the dining room until the men arrive.

“There was no choice in this, was there, Mother?” I ask Mary.

Joanna and Susanna share a look of wistfulness. Salome bites like a lion with fury into a bit of crusty bread ends dipped in olive oil. The two phases, or likewise feelings, surrounding what awaits Yeshua ahead: fury at Christ’s death or sadness. Or an interim like me, awe and resignation.

Mother Mary sighs. “No, Gav’riel told me as much, sweet Magdalene. My son’s life was never his own, but then again, neither are ours. We will be near deified, us outcast desert ramblers. I just hope I have prepared my loving son for the hatred and ultimate cost of his sacrifice. Joseph will take it the hardest. Joseph always does. Martha will take it the second hardest. Salome, you shall curse the ground the Devil walked upon. Susanna and Joanna, you two will be wed in memories and become some of the most eloquent in voicing his ministry, but they will forget you, just as they will hold small memories of Salome.”

Mother Mary takes a sip of wine, then looks to me with lambent eyes under her shawl. “Girl of Migdal Eder, yours is the most cursed fate. For asking Lazarus back, to you goes the blame. For your passion and devotion, they will mark you a whore. I can see how this all ends, centuries, nay, millenia down the line. Our ministry divided into a thousand fractured shards. Our legacy used for villainy and anything but radical love. They will snuff our teachings out at the bud and mark them heresies. Us women used as props and all but forgotten. They will say my son stood for hatred and oppression, yet while he walked this earth, he was hated and oppressed. And you, my Miriam. You will suffer the most out of love. Love is all our cross to bear. But I say, drink now, live well, and so be it!”

We all echo her and raise our glasses in toast, then chase down the wine. Martha’s eyes are fire. “I know what price I ask of Yeshua. I ask it anyway, so damn me to Gehenna. Lazarus needs to live, just as Yeshua must die for our sins. That was shown to us all in the well, my sisters sweet.”

There are muffled voices outside and the whuff of horses and call of hounds. The men have arrived. With a steel face done with crying, Martha goes outside to meet our maker.

I sit with the women who are closer to me than my own mother. “What Martha asks, what I ask of Yeshua, his will be done, a life for a life, flesh for flesh, blood for blood, a grave for a grave, perhaps they will look back on us and think us selfish. Perhaps they will believe us mighty. But asking never hurt anyone, I say.”

“The sun gives life but cares not who he burns,” Joanna and Susanna say in unison. They are always together, commiserating, sharing ecclesiastic knowledge, singing the Song of Solomon, speaking in rhyme and time. They are full of the Holy Ghost, moreso than any f us.

We all smile. “Makes the mustard seed grow, does the Son,” Salome says in but a whisper, and we all laugh.

There is weeping at the door. Levi clings to hunched over Martha, who looks like she has gone into labor of the soul. He practically carries her inside. Tears flow like gold from her blue eyes. “Mary, the Master is come, and calls you out.”

My heart stirs like a falcon. I walk out to the well. Yeshua stands alone, drinking water from a canteen. The other disciples are heard with Zebedee and James and John setting up camp in the courtyard. My Rabboni’s eyes have flames like Uriel’s sword in them. Some kind of samiel wind from Arabia. Without a word, he embraces me, then kisses me on the lips as he does his disciples when we need the Logos most. I cling to him. I will get in trouble for clinging to him someday, somewhere in a garden, with a stone rolled away, beyond the grips of death.

He laughs and strokes my hair. “Do not cling to me, woman,” he teases. I laugh through my tears and kiss him back. “What did you think, that I would let Lazarus lay dead? Oh my Magdalene, damn your doubts. For you I would raise the dead. It is for you I will die. It is for me you will live and be my witness. Can’t you see how our love will be consummated on the Cross? Me bleeding blood and water into your mouth. Pick up that sword that will stab me, sweet Mary, and become an angel of the Lord, with flaming blade and your red hair of fury. I want you to wreak vengeance with your words and wit when I am gone, my girl.”

I wipe my tears. “Yes, Rabboni.”

“I am not Rabboni now, not ever, Mary Miriam. Call me servant. Call me your lover. Call me your witness.”

“Witness, servant, lover, it doesn’t matter. You are my heart.”

“You are a stubborn girl, aren’t you? Remember when we met those thirteen years ago, I twenty and ever the fool, you 18 and priestess to a dead goddess? No, Miriam, the Shekinah is stubborn, Wisdom never gives up, Sophia is relentless. She comes with the greatest pearl of great price. Challenge me in your storm. Ask, and ye shall receive.”

“Give your death for my sweet brother, Yeshua. Raise him from the dead.”

Yeshua smiles and contemplates the lines on my palms clutched to his hands. “Thy will be done, my Migdal Eder. Where have you laid him?”

“In a cave outside town. The mourners are still there.”

We make our way to the stony entrance. People are red eyed and watery mouthed, wailing, commiserating, remembering, drunk off and stinking of wine. Lazarus was always the most loved, bookish neighbor of Bethany. He was the only one that died of the sickness, as if he was marked by the Lord to suffer. A bleeding wound of God’s tear.

Yeshua falls down weeping, wracked with sobs, and from his tears grow ivy. From his tears grow roses. From his tears grows vines ripe with red grapes. The sky darkens, and the familiar storm of our hearts engulfs from Galilee to Nazareth, with its dancing eye in Bethany. The surrounding firmament is tumultuous, but here where the sky parts, the sun glows, and there is a rainbow akin to God’s promise. The brilliance engulfs my Rabboni, and he curses the stone, and it rolls away of its own accord, revealing my brother’s corpse.

Martha and the disciples have heard the commotion, and Martha is bereaved. “Oh my Lord, he has been dead four days, how he must stink. Surely this is beyond even your glory!”

Yeshua chokes on his tears and roars, hitting the stone and then it fractures into hundreds of pieces. He swallows hard, Adam’s apple bobbing and turns to Martha with a feral smile. “I said to you Martha, that, if you truly believe, wouldn’t you see the glory of God?”

Martha is silent, just falls to her knees weeping, and nods. Salome and Mother Mary are by each of her shoulders, comforting and supporting her.

“Have faith in the Lord I have brought into this world,” Mother Mary whispers with her indomitable strength. There is a bit of Gav’riel in her eyes. Over the course of the years, her and her angel have both become messengers, almost yin and yang, Adamah and Chavah, one and the same. At this point, Mary is more queen of angels than human.

Martha blows snot into Mary’s sleeve. Unlike me, she was never a beautiful crier. That makes it more important, the messiness of it. No one would ever build a statue of Martha bereaved, but to me go the idols and repentant whores.

All the disciples and town are weeping. Ululations even, screams of Lazarus, but Christ’s sobbing and fury at that great enemy, Death, are strongest of all. He kneels down, shaking, in prayer, then looks to the swirling sky and violet and green of the parted clouds haloing Lazarus’s stinking grave and suddenly the light illuminates him like a candle flame in Samael’s darkness.

“Father, I thank you that you have heard me. This storm is testament to your wrath, my wrath, at that great enemy, Death. You who always hear me. You who fulfill the wishes of my people, and hence all the world, that follows and loves me. They believe in me through you. I believe in you through them. They are my brides, every one of them, and come New Jerusalem, I will wed the world. But there is a man whose time is not done. My beloved disciple. Lazarus, come forth!”

White light fills Lazarus’ grave, and suddenly my brother rises, rot and sickness gone, still bound in corpse clothes, and his eyes are near violet for a moment until they settle on their black, and Martha screams, and I laugh, and we all fall down in worship to the Christ. I cling to his feet and weep. He embraces Lazarus and undoes the cloth covering his face.

“Yeshua,” Lazarus breathes. “You kept me to your bosom for four days. I would like to return there on my true dying day, to become your marrow, but here I am healed and whole, my body restored, no longer hollow of soul. You talked long over these four days and nights of how Martha, Mary, and I will serve you.”

Lazarus and Yeshua kiss, and then Yeshua picks me up and kisses me. “Rise, my flock!” he says through fierce tears, then embraces and kisses every one of us. We are moved by the spirit and begin singing. The rain comes and we are soaked. Yeshua eyes me as he is kissing sweet, innocent Judas. There is a trickster fire in his eyes, just like Gavr’iel. It is a message I am not yet privy to, as if to say: this is my death, and you are my life, my Magdalene.

Later that night, past supper, Yeshua takes me out into the storm for one of our secret talks, the storm of his heart, and he kisses me, and he whispers in my ear: “In six days before Passover I shall return to Bethany. Wait for me here, sweet Magdalene. Peter may be my Sapha, but you are my Migdal Eder. Your rivalry: watchtower and cornerstone, is but the fight of Adamah subduing Chavah only for Chavah to be triumphant in the end of days. You will cry at my feet as you always do and anoint me as the Bride does the Bridegroom for my death. It is you I place this burden on: my witness. My accuser. My seducer. My destroyer.”

“You know not what you ask,” I whisper.

“Oh, but Miriam, I do. On the Cross I will make love to you finally after these long thirteen years, if only through my wounds nursing you. You will never bear my children as you want, Mary. We will never marry. We will never join as man and wife. I will leave you long behind when I take my place beside my Father, but you will always be faithful in ways Peter will forget. They will curse you. They will drag your name through the mud. But at the end of days, it will be you I wed foremost. It will be you who eats the final Sacrament. Can you promise me Mary, that you will not shy away from dressing me for the tomb? I promise you as Apostle of Apostles, Miriam of Bethany. I pledge my troth to you, though it is a strange and scary vow.”

“I accept it all, all the pain, all the testaments to you! I will anoint you with my own wanton red hair and costly myrrh. I knew this was coming. I bought the myrrh three years ago, sweet Yeshua.”

“Let us dance in this storm, my Magdalene.”

So we did.

[loupsgarou]

What would you have thought if The Chosen used Judas to make a statement about grief instead of Thomas? What would you have thought if Judas had been the one to lose a loved one instead of Thomas? And Judas' can't seem to get any real answers about why Jesus raised Lazarus but not his sister, from Jesus? At first, Judas takes it quite well, saying, “At least she’s being honoured by God in a better place.” But Jesus disputes this, causing Judas faith to be shaken. Then the priests seemingly try to comfort Judas by helping out his sister's family, and Judas decides to hand Jesus over because he thinks if Jesus is in a rough situation, He'll finally give out some proper answers.

first of all, i think you’re comparing oranges to grapefruits, Nonny.

Thomas and Judas’ losses were different… losing your parents is one thing, albeit a part of life, but your fiancé? and having to handle the serious fallout with your would-be father-in-law right afterward??

look, if you’re the same pedantic person who sent me an ask about the Chosen last weekend, then take your nitpicking somewhere else okay? i don’t have the energy to deal with questions that are designed to drive someone up a wall.

also nitpicking with total strangers on the internet? there’s a site for that, it’s called X/ Twitter.

dc care if you block me but i am not your hamster on a wheel, today. thanks for the ask 🙋🏻‍♀️

[traggalicious]

OKAY. so, first: thank you so much i love you. Second! Lazarus! Here’s a thingy I made for him somewhere else ^^

Character’s full name: Lazarus

Reason or meaning of name: Stole it from Lazarus (of the bible) who was a jesus type and died 4 like 3 days b4 jesus came n got him.

Character’s nickname(s): Laz, The Monster (as like. A title)

Birth date: I honestly didn’t think abt it cos it made my brain hurt

Gender: he/they dude! He’s fine w/ it/its but not 4 gender reasons.

Music for the mood: creature - half-alive, the nowhere king frm centaurworld, me and my husband - mitski

Basic rundown is he was made at a time where belos rlly wanted his curse *gone*, and had been researching ways to get rid of it. He came across that thing (the thing eda and Lilith did) to share the curse, and he’s like. Might as well try it. So he creates lazarus, and laz is a pretty loyal guy, like. Belos raises him w/ traits of selflessness and obedience, and ofc plays up the curse so when he finally tells him to do the curse sharey thing, Laz is all for it. It works well! Fortunately for belos and unfortunately for Laz. Laz is suffering, he nearly dies but the curse doesn’t let him, despite the fact that belos refuses to share palismen, and when he does (which is once) laz refuses for morality reasons. This is how he realizes “oh shit i was only made to die wasn’t i”, confronts belos, belos tries to kill him. But Lazarus is goopy. And we all know that belos being goopy means he’s still alive. And uhhh yeah he nearly dies, makes it out narrowly, and he lives in the woods on the isles, fuckin belos shit up, and experiencing a weird love-hate relationship w/ the bat queen and the locals!

Another thing that contributes to that is when he finds a scout afraid after they didn't do too well in training, and he decides to help, and he ends up having a mentor- like relationship w/ them-and one day they see his face. And at this point he's already got the rot creeping up his face, and. And they look terrified. They ask what happened. And he. He realizes. He scares them. He says it's okay, nothing's wrong- and even when they return to 'normal' he can't help but notice the glances they cast at the right side of his face, at the growing pink glow behind the mask he never takes off anvmore. <- He's so nice to the scouts bc he went thru it too. But younger. With higher expectations. And he doesn't quite get that not everyone has to deal w/ that. So he's just. Yeah. He mother hens them be he doesn't quite understand that many of them are the age he is now rather than the age he was. And they don't know he's their age physically. Like. Based on actual years he's like fuckin. He's like 5 or 6. And so basically that stress and emotional abandonment coupled with his experiences with the Curse and Belos leads to the Confrontation.

Palisman: His palisman is a jackalope named buck <333

On the topic of backstory n shit! I think that he’d have a frenemy relationship w/ Lorelei, in which she sees that he was also a victim but still resents him for her husband’s death, so its a very fragile relationship, mostly transactional in the beginning. Alas, she is a compassionate person, and over time they become…. Friends? Its an odd thing really. Also! Eda and Laz have a tentative friendship based on shitty curses and learning to deal with them. Laz helps protect the Owl House when he can, befriends Hooty (he finds Hooty So Interesting), and Eda takes the fall sometimes when Laz makes an oopsie. Also teaches him magic sometimes. ALSO. on the Eda x Laz thing, he’s around before Eda, but he ages slower and spends a lot of time regenerating after. Events. So yeah. He also ends up being the Fun Uncle of the HexSquad! Sad but funny thing is that Laz is so used to being called mean things that he hears Any Derogatory Term and his ears twitch like heh? Me? Poor guy. He does get a happy ending though! He is forever changed but he gets better.

Really wanna write smth for him at sm point -.- ANYWAY yeah that’s Laz!!! Sorry this is so long ahdgshdhddh. Here! Are some images (couldn’t find others i didnt feel like scrolling forever sorry <333)

[brettsinger]

American Jesus and More

My guest this week is comedian Zivan Vasquez! How great are Paul Dini and Bruce Timm? Are Brett's kids into comics? Is it weird to give your kind an iPod full of your own music? What are some good horror comics? What word does Stephen King use a lot in his novels? What came true in science fiction and what didn't? Will we ever get a Batman Beyond movie? What are some of the tropes we get from Batman? What makes Alfred such a great character? Who are your favorite civilian characters in Marvel and DC? Who doesn't love Willy Lumpkin? What is American Jesus about? What is DC Black Label? Do you linger on the art when you read a comic?

Reading list: The Dark Knight Returns https://amzn.to/3YjY9HV

Jonathan Hickman's X-Men run (free with Comixology Unlimited) https://amzn.to/3X3gJ5W

Batman by James Tynion IV https://amzn.to/3HxnR54

Something is Killing the Children (free with Comixology Unlimited) https://amzn.to/3Y0u6W7

House of Slaughter (free with Comixology Unlimited) https://amzn.to/3HuEpup

Department of Truth https://amzn.to/3XaV5wY

Nice House on the Lake (free with Comixology Unlimited) https://amzn.to/40DC2OK

The Walking Dead https://amzn.to/3Y4oGsW

Dan Slott's Fantastic Four https://amzn.to/3HvAf5C

The Stars, My Destination (novel and graphic novel) https://amzn.to/3wRNmsM https://amzn.to/3YrnbFf

American Flagg! https://amzn.to/3DHbjHc

Frank Miller's Ronin https://amzn.to/3JH0s3I

A Scanner Darkly by Philip K. Dick (novel and graphic novel) https://amzn.to/3YhDnbK https://amzn.to/3jBAOTc

Injustice: Gods Among Us https://amzn.to/3HVbocE

American Jesus https://amzn.to/3JEPtrl

Ultramega https://amzn.to/40wehYW

Aquaman Andromeda https://amzn.to/3js0Msv

Wonder Woman Dead Earth by Daniel Warren Johnson https://amzn.to/3JFtu3O

The Black Monday Murders https://amzn.to/3JB5mPP

The Silmarillion (not a comic book) https://amzn.to/3wVTMqK

Decker/Lazarus novels https://amzn.to/3YpNVpB

Mister Miracle by Tom King https://amzn.to/3DzAXgX

Strange Adventures by Tom King https://amzn.to/3Xi4jHP

Watch list: Justice League, Justice League Unlimited, especially J'onn J'onzz Christmas episode https://amzn.to/3HyGYeN https://amzn.to/3DIqxLV https://bit.ly/jonnxmas

Batman Beyond https://amzn.to/3JFScB8

Batman Ninja https://amzn.to/3X0GWSU

Powerpuff Girls https://amzn.to/3jwiuLe

Samurai Jack https://amzn.to/3YhFQmw

Check out Comics Who Love Comic Books!