#Wilson’s Facility

[xtruss]

Wilson worker Lindsey Kiene cuts leaf-shaped panels that are tapered at both ends. These will be sewn together to make the iconic oblong shape of the football, a key feature that reduces the ball’s wake and drag.

Step Inside The Factory Where The NFL’s Footballs 🏈 🏈 🏈 Are Made

Few Have Seen Inside Wilson’s Facility where Dozens of Expert Craftspeople Meticulously Put Together a Product Whose Design Hasn’t Changed For About a Century.

— By Terry Ward | Photographs By Christopher Payne | February 9, 2024

What’s more American than cheering as your football team sends a long bomb tightly spiraling toward its end zone target? It’s a tradition that stretches back to the late 19th century.

While today’s “pigskin” is no longer made with the pig’s bladder of football’s late-1800s origins (all pro and collegiate footballs are now constructed from cowhide leather with synthetic rubber interiors), the shape and dimensions of the NFL football have remained the same for roughly 100 years.

Sewn Footballs are sent down this conveyor to the lacing department at the Wilson factory in Ada, Ohio.

Leather arrives every week from the Horween Leather Company in Chicago. The leather is stamped to give it a pebbly feel, and tiny W’s are embossed on the leather to ensure authenticity.

NFL and NFC names are stamped in foil on leather panels before being sewn together.

That the design from a century ago still perfectly suits the needs of today’s sport is a kind of “historical accident,” says Dr. Rabindra Mehta, chief of the experimental aero-physics branch at NASA Ames Research Center. “Compared to a baseball, a football is a more aerodynamic shape by design.”

Footballs are made from four individual panels of leather, leaf shaped and tapered at both ends, which are sewn together inside out. Next, the leather is steamed so that it becomes soft enough to turn right side out. An air bladder is then inserted and the football is laced together by hand.

A football’s shape is not actually a ball in the spherical sense of the word, but a prolate spheroid: oblong, with pointed ends that make it easier to grip. This shape and the way air flows around it helps the football to travel great distances.

The panels move to the stitchers, like Stephen Brownlow here, who sew the panels into halves and then sew the halves together with heavy brown polyester thread to make an inside-out football. Sewing them inside out makes the seam invisible and more durable.

Characteristics of the football’s surface–including the pebbling of the leather, the stitching of the panels, and the laces themselves–also allow airflow to stay attached longer and minimize drag, compared to something spherical like a baseball ⚾️.

Picture a baseball traveling right, with air traveling past, moving left—this would be what’s called laminar flow, where air travels in a regular, smooth path. In a controlled environment (like a wind tunnel) the airflow would go straight left until it meets the ball, where it bends around until it reaches the “far side” of the ball (this point is called the “apex”). Then the air returns to traveling straight left, past the ball, without touching that far side of the ball 🏀 ⚽️ .

When this happens, there’s a pressure difference between the front and back of the sphere which results in drag, the force that slows the ball down as it’s flying through the air. Golf ball manufacturers tackle this on spherical golf balls by dimpling the ball’s surface to help airflow stay attached longer, reducing drag, therefore letting the ball fly farther.

Keaton Miller, a turner, has the strenuous task of turning the ball right side out. To make the job easier, they use a steam box to loosen the leather and a pneumatic hammer to make the pointed ends more pliable before it is reversed forcibly by hand on a metal pole.

Left: The turner finishes by rolling the seams on the pole to flatten them out. An experienced turner can do this in about 30 seconds.

Right: These Wilson GST balls, the official ball of over 180 NCAA programs and 54 high school football state associations, are ready for lacing.

The thin layer of air on the ball’s surface is called a boundary layer, and a turbulent boundary layer creates turbulent flow—where a football’s design shines. Air meeting a football, with its textured surface and curved shape, would flow around the ball, staying attached longer to its surface than it can on a baseball’s. If the air is flowing left (and the ball is moving right) the air will move up, left, and down along the football’s bowed surface.

While the air may not hug a football’s curves all the way across, airflow does remain attached past its apex, resulting in a minimal wake and less drag. On a baseball, the air only makes a connection on half the ball, creating more of a wake and drag.

Drag can be “challenging to predict, particularly in odd-shaped objects like a football,” says Anette (Peko) Hosoi, Pappalardo professor of mechanical engineering at MIT. Drag depends on the shape of the wake, which, in a football, can vary depending on such factors as its orientation through the air, the velocity at which its thrown, and surface roughness.

Left: Nicole Tedrow, a lacer, inserts a polypropylene bladder into the ball and pushes a nipple through a small hole so the ball can be inflated. The lacers use an awl to pull the laces through the holes and close up the football.

Right: The final step is molding. Nearly completed footballs are placed inside a pressurized chamber that molds them to the correct, uniform shape, removing any residual lumps, crinkles, or rough edges, and inflates them to their correct pressure at 12.5 – 13.5 Psi.

Density of the surrounding air–a function of air temperature–also affects the boundary layer of a football and in turn its aerodynamics, Hosoi says.

“Warm air is less dense than cold air. If the air is less dense, there is less drag, so footballs may fly further on warmer days,” she says, adding that the phenomenon has been well documented in baseball, which clocks more home runs during hot and humid weather than the contrary.

A tight, spiraled throw wobbling not at all is indeed a thing of beauty, no matter the weather around it.

”The axis of the spin is aligned with the direction the ball will go,” says Mehta, likening it to the way a bullet flies. ”That’s what the quarterbacks are really good at doing.”

Left: These are the actual footballs that will be used in Super Bowl LVIII. The official balls are waiting to be stamped with the winning team logos pending the outcome of the AFC and NFC Championships, and shipped out early so the teams will be able to practice with them.

Right: These cut brass dies were used to emboss the Super Bowl LV logo in 2020.

[trapangeles]

Lil Durk Arrested on Federal “Murder-for-Hire” Charge in Connection to Death of Quando Rondo’s Cousin Lul Pab

Broward County, FL— In a dramatic turn of events, Grammy-nominated rapper Lil Durk, born Durk Derrick Banks, has been taken into custody by U.S. Marshals and is being held at Broward County Correctional Facility in Florida. He faces extradition to California, where federal authorities have leveled a serious charge of "murder for hire" against him. The high-profile case is linked to the death of Lul Pab, cousin to fellow rapper Quando Rondo, in what prosecutors describe as a violent, retaliatory act related to the 2020 death of Chicago rapper King Von.

The Allegations: A Retaliation Plot for King Von's Death

Federal prosecutors in California announced the indictment on Thursday, revealing that the charge stems from an August 2022 incident in Los Angeles in which Quando Rondo’s cousin, known as Lul Pab, was fatally shot. Prosecutors claim the motive is rooted in the November 2020 altercation in Atlanta, where King Von, a close associate of Lil Durk and an influential figure in Chicago’s drill music scene, was shot and killed by Lul Timm, a known associate of Quando Rondo, after a brawl broke out.

Authorities allege that Lil Durk’s group, known as OTF (Only The Family), orchestrated a plot to exact revenge for King Von's death. The indictment suggests that OTF members sought retribution by placing a bounty on Quando Rondo’s head, an alleged conspiracy to commit murder for hire aimed at avenging their fallen friend.

Federal Indictment and the OTF Connection

Five men reportedly affiliated with Lil Durk's OTF label have also been indicted on conspiracy charges for their involvement in the alleged murder-for-hire plot. Those named in the grand jury indictment include:

Kavon London Grant (aka "Vonnie")

Deandre Dontrell Wilson (aka "DeDe")

Keith Jones (aka "Flacka")

David Brian Lindsey (aka "Browneyez")

Asa Houston (aka "Boogie")

According to prosecutors, these individuals used a credit card associated with the OTF label to fund their travels from Chicago to California. Court documents allege they booked flights to Los Angeles after discovering Quando Rondo's whereabouts, intent on carrying out a targeted attack on him. The group reportedly coordinated with precision to locate and ultimately eliminate their target, prosecutors claim.

A Long Shadow Cast by King Von’s Death

The 2020 murder of King Von had a profound impact on Chicago’s music scene and the personal lives of those closest to him. In the wake of his death, tensions between affiliated groups in Atlanta and Chicago escalated, setting off a chain of violent encounters. Authorities suggest that the August 2022 shooting was fueled by those same tensions, framing it as a calculated and highly organized act of retribution by individuals still deeply affected by Von's passing.

The timing of this indictment and Lil Durk’s arrest has already sparked significant discussion and debate across social media, particularly within the hip-hop community. The legal repercussions and public scrutiny surrounding this case highlight the ongoing violence that has affected many artists and the far-reaching impacts of these rivalries.

Awaiting Extradition and Legal Proceedings

Lil Durk now awaits extradition from Broward County to California, where he will face federal charges in connection to the case. The indictment against him, coupled with his ties to the alleged OTF conspirators, marks a pivotal moment in his career and may have significant legal implications for the influential Chicago-based rapper. If convicted on the murder-for-hire charge, the penalties could be severe, with potential sentences ranging up to life in prison.

The Ongoing Impact on Hip-Hop and Street Culture

This high-stakes legal case is another reminder of the intersection between the music industry and street culture, with both fans and artists deeply invested in the unfolding narrative. Lil Durk’s arrest underscores the cyclical violence that continues to plague the hip-hop community, especially within the competitive drill scene. This case serves as a stark example of how past incidents can continue to influence and shape the lives and careers of those involved, often with tragic outcomes.

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[karmaspidr]

I'm trying to think of a title for an AU where Matt Murdock adopts Laura Kinney after Fisk hires her to assassinate Daredevil.

That's pretty much the gist of it. No fancy narrative. Just Matt trying to be a dad to an under-aged killing machine with the evil science people looking for a way to get her back. Also maybe throw in Peter Parker for good measure.

[thatmexisaurusrex]

Just Sam and Bucky, giving Sarah, Cass, and AJ a tour of the new Avengers’ campus.

[kittenlittle24]

Courthouse

Request by @schnitzelbutterfingers: Tritter assaulting f!reader after finding out she is House’s weak point and then she just became completely depressed and then House kind of forces out what happened to her

I do apologize, I changed it a bit.

As usual, gif not mine, I adore comments, likes and reblogs

Masterlist

Parking the car, you angrily slammed the door shut before making your way to the detention facility. You paid the clerk the $15,000 bail before leaving to wait outside.

You leaned against the car, foot tapping anxiously, arms crossed. Limping down the stairs at the entrance to the building, a grin on his face upon seeing you.

“I called Wilson!”

“You’re an arrogant idiot.” You told him and entered the car.

You drove in silence, every time he tried to talk, to justify himself you were sure, you raised your hand to shut him.

You dropped him at the entrance to the hospital and waited for him to get out.

“I’ll see you in the office.” You informed him quietly.

He raised his eyebrows in surprise and opened his mouth to say something but instead shut it back up and nodded once before leaving your vehicle.

Later that day House got a call about Tritter who got a search warrant for his house and found a stash of about 600 pills, which of course made Tritter add trafficking to the charges.

Convinced that House is an addict and decided to apply pressure on his co-workers to testify against him.

When Wilson found out House had stolen his prescription pad to write himself prescriptions he came straight to you, he told you he lied, and said he signed them himself, however, Tritter noticed that the signatures didn't match, and as a result his car was impounded and accounts froze.

When the diagnostic team refused to turn him in as well, Tritter decided to go after all of your weaknesses: he went after Cameron by appealing to her love for House, not knowing it was no longer there. He went after Foreman by promising to help his brother get out of prison, and Chase by making it look like he has already co-operated, not that any of you believed that. The only one he has yet to try was you. Which made everyone uncomfortable.

Due to clubbed fingers, House diagnosed the patient with lung cancer, and tests confirmed small cell lung carcinoma, which has metastasized. The patient only had a few months to live. Cameron volunteered to break him the news which allowed you to leave for the day.

You made your way to your car, searching your purse for the keys. You jumped as you looked up and saw Tritter leaning against your trunk.

“Oh good you didn’t forget me, I was insulted.”

He half smiled as he chewed his nicotine gum, “Did you hear that I searched Dr. House’s apartment,”

“I’m aware.”

“Are you also aware of the fact that I found 600 Vicodin pills in his apartment?” Pushing himself to stand upright and fully smiling, “Should I say, your apartment? Found a picture of you and your mom in a drawer on a bedside table. I assume you wouldn’t want your boyfriend to go to jail and lose his medical license. It wasn’t Dr. Cameron that’s in love with him, it’s you. You know that lying to a cop is a criminal offense?”

Crossing your arms across your chest, “You think threatening me will help you convince me to help you put House behind bars?”

“If you don’t, you’ll face the same consequences as your colleagues. Just one phone call away from having your account frozen as well.”

Moving to open your car door, you tossed your purse to the seat next to the driver, “Good thing I went grocery shopping yesterday.” You snarked and entered the car.

“Is he worth your medical license?” He yelled.

Turning the engine on and reversing out of the parking space, you pulled the window down, “I’ll see you in court.” And drove away.

Entering the apartment, threw the keys on the counter, your purse was tossed aside and you walked straight to the bedroom.

House looked up from the piano, slightly confused at your lack of greeting. Marching back to the living room you dropped his pillow and a blanket on the couch before turning to face him, “You’re sleeping here until this mess clears up and you apologize to Wilson.”

You went back to the bedroom and slammed the door shut.

You woke up in the middle of the night, at first you weren’t sure what pulled you from sleep but you did when you felt the bed dipped.

“Get out.”

He laid down and put his arm around your waist, he kissed your shoulder blade.

“Come on, don’t be like that.”

Moving his arm off of you, you pushed the blanket back and sat up.

“Fine, you take the bed.” You said as you left the room.

He rushed after you as fast as he could without his cane, holding onto his thigh.

“Don’t you think you’re being ridiculous?”

Turning sharply to look at him, “Wilson got his car impounded because of you, that’s the only reason I came to bail you out. He cannot write prescriptions, everybody’s accounts are frozen, my license is on the line because Tritter searched the apartment and you don’t give a crap.”

He took a step closer to you, “He threatened you?”

Sighing, you rubbed your hand across your forehead, “Doesn’t matter what he did.“

“He’s a bully.”

“I don’t care House! You caused this mess! I’m going to sleep, don’t come after me because I don’t want to see your face right now.”

Sitting down heavily on the couch he saw his bottle of Vicodin on the coffee table. Reaching, he popped it open, shook two pills out, and tossed them back before lying down and settling to sleep.

After a week of separate sleeping and House and Wilson fighting due to Wilson cutting a deal with Tritter. He was offered to go into rehab, but no jail time. Of course, he believed that Wilson was only cooperating with Tritter to get his practice back.

You unlocked your apartment door, tired and cranky. It was dark and quiet. You assumed maybe your boyfriend used the opportunity you weren’t home to go to sleep in your shared bed.

You shut the door and entered the living room to see House passed out on the floor near his vomit, along with the prescribed oxycodone that he stole from Wilson’s dead patient.

Rushing to his side to check if he had a pulse, he turned his head to look at you with hazy eyes.

Tears streamed down your face as you looked down at him, “I can’t anymore.” You whispered, got up, and left the apartment.

The next day House went to Tritter to take the deal, but Tritter turned him down. Tritter found out about the stolen oxycodone, so he didn’t need yours nor Wilson's testimony to prosecute House.

He came back from court, he stood next to you in the kitchenette. You moved to sit on the opposite side of the table, as far away from him as you could while still being in the same room. House didn’t take his eyes off you the whole DDX. Soon as he ordered tests you were the first to flee the room.

A few days later, following Cameron’s visit the team performed electroshock therapy on the patient. He remembered his name after the treatment, but little else. You let his brother and Amy into the room. He didn’t react negatively, but he didn't recognize them.

The patient was getting better, despite his memory loss. The only side effect was that his voice had gotten higher. Wilson came to see House again and even brought him a new tie for court. House apologized to Wilson because he knew that Wilson was trying to do what he thought was best.

You ran into Wilson in the elevator on your way to the clinic after he came back from seeing House and was on his way to leave work.

“Did you force him into rehab?” He asked.

Shocked you turned to face Wilson fully.

He looked at you slightly horrified, “You didn’t know he was there?”

“Tell me what’s going on.” You demanded.

“House entered rehab voluntarily. A few days ago. I thought you had something to do with it, he said you haven’t been home since the oxycodone fiasco.”

You shook your head just as the elevator doors opened to reveal the hospital lobby and clinic. Instead of going to the clinic, you press the floor for the rehab center.

You found him vomiting in the bathroom, sitting on the floor, and looking miserable. He glanced up at you before lowering his gaze back to the floor.

“Didn’t think you’d come.”

Stepping forward, you crossed your arms across your chest, “Because you told everyone not to tell me you’re here.”

He shrugged once, “Tritter came to visit.” He shared quietly.

You sat down opposite him on the floor.

“Told me, he doesn't give addicts another chance, and even my actions are a lie.”

“You caused all of this.”

He nodded, “I know.”

Getting up, “Good luck with the trial.”

“Will you be there?”

You paused at the bathroom doorway, “I haven’t decided yet.” You said honestly and left.

You got to the hearing as Tritter gave his testimony about House taking another patient's drugs. You sat beside Wilson and he held your hand in silent support. Everyone paused to stare at House as his phone rang, the team (minus you) called House in court to say that the patient’s memories were false. House ignored the judge’s instructions to give up his cell phone and made a smarmy comment to the judge. You rolled your eyes and looked at Wilson in despair. He then left the courthouse and the judge found him in contempt.

On his way out of the courtroom, he noticed you sitting and winched, making you even angrier.

House came back to find Cuddy on the stand. She told the court that she had the pharmacist substitute placebos for the oxycodone because she was afraid that House would be in a particularly vulnerable state. She even had an inventory report to back it up. Tritter accused her of perjury, but she only held back the inventory report because she didn't expect the matter to go this far, she said and looked at you this time. The judge chastised House and dismissed the charges, not before instructing the bailiff to incarcerate House overnight for leaving the courtroom, and ordered House to return to rehab upon release from jail.

You went with Cuddy and Wilson to visit House in jail. Cuddy, furious that she had to perjure herself, told him that she would be working him harder than ever and left.

Wilson gave him his withdrawal medication, which you figured out was actually Vicodin.

You waited further back until Wilson left, only then you neared the bars separating the two of you.

“Great way to celebrate our one-year anniversary.” You told him.

Sighing, he put his hands on top of yours through the bars.

“It’s just one night.”

“You didn’t even learn anything from what happened, those were still Vicodin and you got your way.”

“No, I got out of jail. Well, sort of at least. I hurt you along the way and I am sorry about that.”

“You should be.”

He chuckled, “I’m sorry.”

Reaching between the metal bars, you cupped his cheek, “You’re going to make it up to me. For the last few weeks as well as being stuck in a jail cell on our first anniversary.”

“Anything you want.”

[guilty-ff]

𝐒𝐡𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐁𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐏𝐭.5

ᡕᠵ᠊ᡃ່࡚ࠢ࠘ ⸝່ࠡࠣ᠊߯᠆ࠣ࠘ᡁࠣ࠘᠊᠊ࠢ࠘𐡏 ˚⁎⁺˳ .

Previously: After years of brutal torture by Francis, Y/N finally escaped, fighting her way out of the lab and fleeing into the dense woods. Each step was a struggle, but she knew she couldn't stop. With the guards on her heels, she disappeared into the shadows, determined to reclaim her life.

This story takes place between the second and third movies (warning: not 100% movie/comic accurate)

Pairing: Wade Wilson/Deadpool x (fem!)Reader

Genre: Angst, revenge, Fanfiction, Marvel

Warnings: Movie Spoilers! Explicit content, swearing, torture, mental health, weapons

Word count: 3640

The slums were from now on her home. Y/n had escaped from the clutches of the facility, but the scars of her past- both mental and physical- were still engraved deeply in her body. The nights were the hardest, when the world around her was quiet and the memories screamed the loudest. She lived in a cramped, old apartment, the flickering neon lights outside her window casting shadows on the walls.

It had been weeks since her escape, weeks of hiding and laying low, blending into the filthiness of the city. Here, she was just another face in the crowd, another soul struggling to survive. But she was different. She could feel the darkness within her, the uncontrollable power that surged through her veins. She had to find a way to control it, to suppress it before it consumed her.

Y/n spent her days looking for information, piecing together bits of knowledge about mutants, about powers like hers. She searched through the back alleys and seedy bars, listening to rumors and whispered conversations. Slowly, she began to understand the nature of her abilities, the twisted gift that had been forced upon her. But understanding was not enough. She needed control.

One night, in a ed bar that reeked of sweat and stale beer, Y/n finally found a lead. She had been sitting at the counter, nursing a glass of cheap whiskey, when she overheard a conversation between two men at the next table. They spoke in low tones, their words slurred from alcohol, but Y/n's ears caught every word.

"Essex House... that place was a nightmare," one of the men muttered, his face half-hidden in the shadows. "They did some real messed up shit there."

The other man, a burly figure with a ashen beard, nodded grimly. "I heard they had a way to control mutants. Some kind of device."

Y/n's heart skipped a beat. She leaned closer, pretending to adjust her coat as she listened.

"Yeah, I know a guy who used to work there," the bearded man continued. "Big guy, real quiet. He hangs around here sometimes."

Y/n did not waste any time. She slid over to their table, her movements smooth. "Mind if I join you?" she asked, her voice low and steady.

The men exchanged a glance, then shrugged. "Sure, why not?" the bearded man said, gesturing to the empty seat.

Y/n sat down, fixing them with a piercing gaze. "I couldn't help but overhear. You mentioned Essex House. I'm looking for someone who worked there. A guard, maybe?"

The first man, looked her up and down suspiciously. "Why do you want to know?"

"Let's just say I'm looking for answers," Y/n replied, her tone leaving no room for argument. "If you can help me, I'd appreciate it."

The bearded man scratched his chin, his eyes narrowing. "I don't know his name, but he's usually around here. I'd be careful, though. He doesn't like to be bothered."

"Point him out," Y/n she said, her eyes scanning the bar.

The bearded man nodded toward the far corner, where a large figure sat hunched over the bar, nursing a drink. "That's him."

Y/n followed his gaze and saw the man- a huge, muscled frame with a shaved head and a face that looked like it had seen more than its fair share of violence. He was a mountain of a man, his broad shoulders hunched over as he downed another shot of whiskey. There was a darkness about him, an aura of danger that warned others to keep their distance.

Y/n thanked the men and made her way toward the bar, her eyes never leaving the figure in the corner. She did not approach him directly, instead choosing to observe him from a distance, waiting for the right moment. 

The man continued to drink heavily, oblivious to the world around him. It was not long before he started to show signs of drunkenness- his movements sloppy, his head nodding as if fighting off sleep.

Now. This was her chance.

Y/n moved swiftly, her steps silent on the worn wooden floor. She slipped behind the man, her hand reaching into her coat to retrieve a small vial of chloroform and a cloth. In one fluid motion, she pressed the cloth over the man's face, her other arm locking around his throat.

The man struggled, his instincts kicking in despite his drunken state, but Y/n was quick and precise. Within seconds, his body went limp, his heavy frame slumping against the bar.

She wasted no time. With the strength born from desperation, Y/n dragged the unconscious man out of the bar, navigating through the back alleys until she reached her hideout.

The basement of an abandoned building, it was cold and damp, the walls lined with old newspapers and broken furniture. She had set up a small, makeshift interrogation room- just a chair and a bare light bulb hanging from the ceiling.

Y/n tied the man to the chair, securing his wrists and ankles with thick rope. She stood back, her heart pounding as she waited for him to wake up. The adrenaline was still coursing through her veins, her hands shaking slightly as she paced the room.

Finally, the man moved slightly, his dazed eyes blinking against the harsh light. He groaned, tugging at the ropes before realizing he was restrained. Panic flickered across his face as he looked around, his gaze settling on Y/n, who stood before him with a cold, determined expression.

"What the hell—?" he began, his voice stammered from the lingering effects of the chloroform.

"Shut up," Y/n snapped, stepping closer. "I'm the one asking questions. You're going to answer them."

The man's eyes narrowed, anger replacing his initial fear. "You've got no idea who you're messing with."

"Oh, I think I do," Y/n replied, her voice icy. "You used to work at Essex House. You were a guard there."

The man's expression hardened, his jaw clenching. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Y/n's patience was wearing thin. She had spent too long hiding, too long searching for answers, to be stonewalled by this brute. She leaned in, her face inches from his, her voice low and menacing.

"Don't lie to me," she hissed. "I know what they did in that place. The experiments, the torture. I know about the children. If you think I'm bluffing, you're sorely mistaken."

The man's boldness stopped for a moment, but he quickly recovered, sneering at her. "You don't know shit."

Her hand moved faster than he could react, striking him hard across the face. His head snapped to the side, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.

"I said, don't lie to me!" Y/n shouted, her voice trembling with fury. "I know what kind of monster you are. I know what you did to those kids. Now tell me about the device that suppresses mutant powers."

The man spat blood onto the floor, glaring up at her aggressively. "Even if I did know, I wouldn't tell you."

Y/n's fist connected with his jaw again, this time with more force. The man groaned, his head lolling forward as he struggled to stay conscious.

"You have no idea what I've been through," Y/n said, her voice barely above a whisper. "The things I've seen, the pain I've endured. If you think for one second that I won't make you suffer, you're dead wrong. Now, talk."

The man's resolve began to crumble under the weight of her words, the fear returning to his eyes. He took a heavy breath, finally giving in.

"There's a wristband," he muttered, his voice barely audible. "It was designed to suppress mutant powers. But that place... it's gone. Some kid blew it up, the whole building came down."

Y/n's heart raced as she absorbed his words. "Where can I find one?"

The man hesitated, his gaze darting around the room as if searching for a way out. Finally, he sighed in defeat.

"Maybe there's still some in the storage rooms beneath the building. But it's dangerous. The whole place is crawling with security, even now."

Y/n stared at him for a long moment, her mind racing. She had what she needed, but the anger still burned within her, the memories of those children haunting her every thought.

"And one more thing," the man added, his voice a broken whisper. "There were others involved in that explosion. A man in a red and black suit... mutants from the X-Men... and some scary guy with a teddy bear."

The mention of the man in the red and black suit made Y/n's blood run cold. Wade. The man responsible for her suffering. But she pushed the thought aside, focusing on the task at hand.

"Thank you," she said coldly, before slamming her fist into his face one last time. The man's head snapped back, and he slumped in the chair, unconscious.

"You deserve much more, you little piece of shit," Y/n muttered, her voice thick with disgust. She untied him and dragged him out to a nearby street, leaving him there to be found. She had no use for him anymore.

•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈•

The ruins of Essex House stood before Y/n like a tombstone, a monument to the atrocities that had taken place within its walls. The once impressive structure was now a gutted shell, its walls burned and crumbling, overtaken by creeping vines and nature's slow reclamation. The air was thick with the stench of decay and rot, a fitting aura for a place that had been a living nightmare for so many.

Y/n moved silently through the rubble, her senses heightened, every sound increased in the stillness of the night. The moon hung low in the sky, casting long, sinister shadows that danced across the broken ground. 

She had checked out the area earlier, avoiding the main entrances, which were still patrolled by security teams guarding whatever was left in the aftermath of the explosion, a few months ago. She needed to find the storage rooms beneath the building, where the guard had said the wristbands might still be.

Her heart pounded in her chest as she walked through a craggy opening in the wall, her eyes scanning the darkened interior. The building's skeleton remains were a labyrinth of broken beams and collapsed ceilings, the floors plastered with rubble and shattered glass. Every step was a calculated risk, the floorboards creaking ominously beneath her weight.

Y/n made her way down a long corridor, the walls covered in peeling paint and faded sceneries that had once depicted happy, smiling children- an ironic touch for a place that had been anything but.

Her breath stuck in the throat like there's a blockage as she approached a large door at the end of the corridor, its frame cracked and splintered. The guard's words echoed in her mind, urging her forward. She pushed the door open, and stepped into a vast chamber that had once been a laboratory.

Y/n's breath stopped as her eyes landed on the twisted metal chair in the center of the room. It was unmistakable- a torture device designed to restrain and torment its victims. The cold steel of the torture chair, the searing pain of electric currents coursing through her body. The sight of it brought a wave of nausea crashing over her, memories of her own time in such a chair flooding her mind, the mocking laughter of Francis as he watched her suffer in agony.

Flashback

She was strapped to the chair, her wrists bound with cold, hard metal. The room was dimly lit, the air thick with the smell of disinfectant and blood. Francis stood before her, his cold eyes glinting with sadistic glee. He was dressed in his usual black combat gear and white coat, his arms folded as he watched her struggle against the restraints.

"Ready for another round, sweetheart?" he sneered, his voice dripping with malice.

Y/n's heart pounded in her chest, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps. She was drenched in sweat, her body trembling from the aftershocks of the last session. She had lost count of how many times he had done this to her, how many times he had pushed her to the brink of death, only to pull her back and start again.

"Please... no more," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Francis chuckled, his laughter a cruel, grating sound that echoed in the small room. "Oh, I'm just getting started," he said, reaching for the control panel beside the chair. His fingers danced over the buttons, and a low hum filled the air as the machine powered up.

Y/n's eyes widened in fear as the currents of electricity surged through her body, her muscles spasming uncontrollably. The pain was unbearable, like being ripped apart from the inside. She screamed, the sound tearing from her throat, but there was no one to hear her, no one to save her.

Francis watched with detached amusement, his expression one of mild curiosity. "You know, it's fascinating," he mused, his voice calm and measured. "Watching how much pain a person can endure before they break. You're tougher than most, I'll give you that."

Her vision blurred as the pain reached a crescendo, her mind teetering on the edge of unconsciousness. But she held on, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing her broken. She had to survive, had to escape, no matter what it took.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the currents stopped, and Y/n slumped in the chair, her body limp and exhausted. Francis leaned in close, his face inches from hers.

"Don't worry, darling," he whispered, his breath hot against her skin. "We'll keep doing this until you learn to behave."

Present

Y/n snapped back to the present, her hands trembling as she stared at the torture chair. The memories were like a vice around her chest, squeezing the air from her lungs. But she could not afford to break down now, not when she was so close. She forced herself to move, to search the room for the wristband.

The storage room was hidden behind a steel door, half-buried under rubble. Y/n unlocked it with a crowbar she had found earlier, using all her strength to pull the door free. Inside, she found a small, windowless room lined with shelves. Dust coated everything, the air stale and suffocating. She searched through the shelves, her hands moving frantically as she searched for the device.

Finally, her fingers closed around a small, sleek wristband, its surface smooth and cold to the touch. This was it- the device that could suppress her powers, that could give her the control she so desperately needed.

But as she pulled the wristband from the shelf, a shrill alarm pierced the air, the sound reverberating through the building. Panic surged through Y/n as she realized she had triggered a security system, her heart racing as the distant sound of footsteps echoed through the halls.

She had to get out, and fast.

Y/n bolted from the storage room, clutching the wristband tightly in her hand. She sprinted down the corridor, her mind a blur as she searched for an escape route. The footsteps were getting closer, the shouts of guards filling the air.

She spotted a window at the end of the hall, its glass cracked but still intact. Without hesitation, she launched herself at it, her shoulder slamming into the glass. The window shattered with a deafening crash, and Y/n tumbled through the opening, her body twisting in midair.

The world spun around her as she rolled to her feet, glass shards cutting into her skin. But there was no time to stop, no time to recover her injuries. The guards were right behind her.

Y/n ran, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she sprinted through the darkened streets. The sounds of pursuit faded into the distance, but she did not stop. She could not stop. Not until she was safe.

Finally, after what felt like hours, she slowed to a halt, her body aching and exhausted. She had made it. She had escaped, and she had the wristband. But as she stood there, alone in the shadows, the memories of Essex House lingered in her mind, a reminder of the horrors she had endured- and the revenge she would soon unleash.

•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈•

Y/n sat in her dimly lit hideout, the cold, metal wristband clasped tightly in her hand. She had waited for this moment, the promise of control over her powers finally within her grasp. With a deep breath, she slipped the wristband onto her wrist. A series of tiny, almost inaudible clicks signaled its activation. She felt a slight hum of energy ripple through her body, a sensation that was both foreign and strangely comforting.

"Okay, Y/n," she whispered to herself, her voice barely more than a murmur in the silence. "Time to see if this thing really works."

Her heart pounded in her chest as she picked up a small, sharp knife. She took a moment to steel herself before pressing the blade against the palm of her hand. Slowly, deliberately, she drew the knife across her skin, wincing as a thin line of blood welled up. She braced herself for the familiar agony of her powers activating, but to her astonishment, the pain remained localized. The cut did not heal as it usually would.

"It works," she breathed, a mix of relief and awe in her voice. "It actually works."

She wrapped her hand in a bandage, her mind already racing with the possibilities. For the first time in years, she felt like she had a measure of control over her life, over her destiny. She was not just a victim of her circumstances; she could be the master of them.

Over the next two years, Y/n threw herself into training with a passion that bordered on obsession. She perfected her combat skills, mastering various martial arts and weapons. She trained with knives, guns, and swords, each session pushing her limits further. Her hideout became a makeshift dojo, littered with training equipment and weapons of all kinds.

Her reputation in the slums grew as she took on hitman jobs to fund her training. She became a ghost, an unseen force of retribution for those who could not fight back.

One evening, she was approached by a woman with bruised arms and tear-streaked cheeks.

"Please," the woman begged, her voice trembling. "My husband... he beats me. I can't take it anymore. Please, make him stop."

Y/n looked into the woman's eyes, seeing the same helplessness and desperation she had felt so many times before. "What's his name?" she asked quietly.

"Jack. Jack Thompson. He works at the docks," the woman replied, her voice barely above a whisper.

Y/n nodded. "Consider it done. He won't hurt you again."

•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈•

Two years had passed since Y/n had escaped from Francis, two years of relentless training and hard-earned survival. She decided it was time to visit her own grave, a symbolic gesture to honour the person she once was. She made her way to a small flower shop, her mind set on finding the perfect bloom.

As she approached the counter to pay for a single white lily, she saw a woman laughing and chatting with the shopkeeper. The sight made her freeze. It was Vanessa. Alive and well, her smile as bright as ever. Y/n's heart clenched painfully in her chest, pulling her hood that covered her face even more down. She quickly paid for the flower and fled the shop, her mind a whirlwind of confusion and anger.

She reached her grave, a simple, unadorned headstone with her name etched into the cold marble. The vase next to it was empty.

"I see," she whispered, her voice cracking with emotion. "Forgotten and abandoned, even in death."

She knelt down, placing the lily in the empty vase. "I can't remember my old self," she said softly, tears welling in her eyes. "She truly did die, as well as her trust in you."

Her thoughts turned dark as she slowly stood up. Wade had saved Vanessa, she realized, her mind piecing together the puzzle with cold clarity.

He must have used Cable's time travel device during the Mutant Rehabilitation incident to go back and save her... but he left me to die.

As she turned and walked away from the grave, she could feel a rising tide of hatred surging within her, anger directed at Wade for abandoning her, for choosing Vanessa over her.

Later that evening, Wade approached the same grave. He was dressed in his red and black costume, the weight of his grief and guilt heavy on his shoulders. In his hand, he held a brand-new flower and a polished vase. He had not missed a single visit, always coming back to this lonely, forgotten corner of the cemetery to leave a token of his sorrow and love.

As he knelt down to place the new flower in the vase, he noticed the fresh lily already there, wilting slightly in the cold night air.

"Who...?" Wade muttered to himself, confusion furrowing his brow. He looked around, but the cemetery was empty and silent.

He placed his own flower beside the lily, a pang of sadness piercing his heart. "I'm sorry," he whispered to the grave. "I'm so damn sorry."

He stood there for a long moment, staring at the headstone as if willing it to give him some sort of answer, some sign that she knew he had not given up on her, that he still mourned her every day.

But the silence of the graveyard offered no reunion, only deepened the gap of misunderstanding that was growing between them, unseen and unspoken.

As Y/n made her way back through the slums, her mind was a storm of emotions. She was determined now, fueled by a dark purpose. She had been forgotten, left to rot in the shadows while Wade had moved on, living his best life with Vanessa.

A twisted sense of revenge began to take root in her heart, and she knew that the next time she crossed paths with Wade, it would be on her terms. And when that day came, there would be a reckoning.

[pretzel-box]

Tags: Fluff, Established Relationship, GN!Reader, Marriage, just wholesome, Sebastian is starstruck about reader

Words: 1,7k

Authors Note: Song fic! Song today: Stay by Ghost feat Patrick Wilson [I really love Ghost]

I thought about my boyfriend while writing this, pls don't tell him!

If this world is wearing thin.

And you're thinking of escape.

I'll go anywhere with you.

Time had no meaning in a place where the sun didn’t shine and the moon held no sway, where even the distant glimmer of the stars was swallowed by the endless, wet depths of the facility. Days blurred into one another, indistinguishable, as the relentless march of hours became a meaningless cycle. Yesterday bled into today, and tomorrow would arrive, indistinct from the days that had come before. Time was a ghost, an illusion, in a place where nothing changed and nothing could change.

But none of it mattered. It never would. Not when you stood there, bathed in the soft, ethereal glow of his lure. The pale light caressed your features, casting gentle shadows on your face, highlighting the curve of your smile—the smile that was so heartbreakingly genuine, so full of warmth and affection that it made the cold, oppressive atmosphere of the facility seem almost bearable.

Sebastian couldn’t take his eyes off you, the way you seemed to defy the darkness that surrounded you both. There was something otherworldly about the way you looked in this moment, as if the glow of his lure was meant only for you, as if it existed to illuminate the small, precious space you shared with him. The facility, with all its horrors, faded into the background. The walls, the steel, the constant hum of the machinery—it all became distant, insignificant. There was only you and the light, a moment suspended in time, untouched by the cruelty of the world beyond.

The air was thick with unspoken words, with the weight of emotions too deep to name. Sebastian could feel it, the way his heart ached at the sight of you, the way it stirred with something unfamiliar and yet undeniably present. It wasn’t just the affection he saw in your smile, but the way you stood so close, close enough that he could feel the warmth radiating from you, close enough that the darkness seemed afraid to touch you.

In that moment, time truly had no meaning. The past, with all its pain and regret, was a distant memory. The future, uncertain and unknown, held no power here. All that mattered was now, was this—the light, the smile, and the silent understanding that passed between you.

Sebastian’s heart beat slowly, heavily, as if time itself had decided to take a breath. He wanted to reach out, to touch you, to close the distance that still lingered between you. But he didn’t move, afraid to shatter the delicate balance of the moment. Instead, he let himself simply exist here, with you, in the soft glow of the lure’s light.

And for the first time in a long while, he felt something like peace. It was fragile, and he knew it wouldn’t last—not here, not in a place where time had no meaning and every day was a battle to survive. But for now, it was enough. Enough to keep him standing, enough to keep him fighting. Enough to remind him that even in the darkest places, there was still light.

And you were that light.

Just wrap me up in chains.

But if you try to go alone.

Don't think I will understand.

"Stay," he begged that day, his voice breaking as the words escaped his lips. His hands, usually so steady, reached out to you with a desperation that shook him to his core. The rough texture of his palms, calloused from years of struggle and survival, felt softer in that moment, imbued with the tenderness and love he held for you.

"Stay with me."

It wasn’t just a plea; it was a confession, raw and unguarded. Sebastian, the one who had always seemed unbreakable, was now standing before you, exposed and vulnerable. His eyes, usually hard and calculating, were filled with an emotion so deep and profound that it made your heart ache.

He wanted to hold you, to keep you close, to shield you from the relentless darkness of the world you both inhabited. The love he had tried so hard to keep hidden, to bury beneath layers of pride and fear, now flowed freely in his voice, in the tremble of his hands as he reached for you.

You could feel the warmth of his touch, the way his fingers curled around yours with a gentle yet urgent grip. It was as if he was afraid that if he let go, even for a second, you would slip away, lost to the void that constantly threatened to consume you both.

There was a depth to his words that went beyond the simple request. It was a cry from a soul that had known too much pain, too much loss. A soul that had found something worth holding onto, something worth fighting for in the midst of all the chaos and despair.

The world outside was cold, unforgiving. But here, in this small, fragile moment, there was warmth. There was hope. There was love. And all Sebastian wanted was to keep that light burning, to keep you by his side, even if it meant laying bare his heart in a way he never had before.

He didn’t want to lose you—not now, not ever. And in that plea, in the way his hands trembled as they held onto yours, you saw the truth: Sebastian wasn’t just asking you to stay physically. He was asking you to stay in his life, in his heart, to be the anchor that kept him grounded in a world that constantly threatened to tear him apart.

“Stay with me.”

In the silence of your room.

In the darkness of your dreams.

You must only think of me.

Sebastian couldn’t tear his gaze away. You stood before him, a vision so ethereal that it felt as if time itself had stopped, allowing him to take in every detail of this moment. The faint flicker of his lure cast a soft glow around you, making the scene almost surreal—like a painting brought to life.

Your makeshift veil, though simple and worn, had an elegance that transcended its humble origins. It draped over your head and shoulders with a delicate grace, fluttering slightly in the faint breeze that whispered through the corridors of the facility. Despite the thin layer of dust that clung to the fabric, it shimmered faintly, catching the light in a way that made you appear almost otherworldly.

He noticed the blush on your cheeks, the soft pink that betrayed your flustered state. It was a contrast to the cold, lifeless surroundings—so full of life, so human. It made his heart ache with a longing he could barely comprehend. The ribbons in your hair, torn from old bandages, held a bittersweet charm, a reminder of the harsh world you both inhabited, yet they were transformed into something beautiful in your hands. You had a way of doing that—of taking the broken, the discarded, and turning it into something to be cherished.

The bouquet of withered lilies and roses you held was the final touch, a symbol of something fragile yet enduring, something that had withstood the test of time and adversity. Even in their faded state, the flowers carried a poignant beauty, much like the resilience you both had shown through everything.

To Sebastian, you were divinity incarnate. You outshone the stars, made the sun's brightness seem pale in comparison. In this moment, you were everything he had ever wanted, everything he had ever needed. Every part of him, every fiber of his being, was drawn to you, consumed by the love he could no longer keep hidden. You were his.

He could hardly breathe as he looked at you, his chest tight with the overwhelming emotions that threatened to spill over. You were his—his muse, his anchor, his reason for fighting in a world that had given him so little. And in this moment, as you stood before him, the embodiment of all that was good and pure, he knew that he could never let you go.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispered, the words escaping before he could stop them. They were raw, unpolished, but they were the truth. He reached out, his hand trembling slightly as he gently touched the veil, the fabric soft beneath his fingers. It was a tender, almost reverent gesture, as if he were afraid that anything more might shatter the delicate beauty of the moment.

His eyes met yours, and in them, you saw everything he couldn’t say—the depth of his love, the fears he carried, the hope that you could be his salvation. He had always been the one to protect, to shield you from the horrors of the world, but here, now, it was you who held the power. The power to heal, to bring light into the darkness that had been his life for so long.

“I never thought…” he began, his voice thick with emotion, “that I could feel like this. That someone like you could…could see me, really see me, and still be here.”

He swallowed hard, struggling to find the right words. But how could he? How could he express the torrent of emotions that flooded his heart every time he looked at you? All he could do was stand there, trembling under the weight of his love for you, hoping—praying—that you understood.

In that moment, nothing else mattered. The cold, the darkness, the fear—it all faded away, leaving only the two of you, bathed in the soft light of his lure. You were his universe, his everything. And as he looked into your eyes, he knew that, no matter what the future held, he would fight for this—for you—for the chance to hold onto the one thing that made his existence bearable.

You had become his light in the darkest of places, and he would spend every moment he had left proving that he could be worthy of such a gift.

There can be no inbetween.

When your pride is on the floor.

I'll make you beg for more.

You promised to marry him all those years ago. Those weren't just words but the assurance that you would never leave him, you couldn't.

You wouldn't marry the handsome raven haired man.

Or the tall sea-serpent hybrid that got experimented on.

You wouldn't marry the nerdy man you knew or the sassy giant.

You would marry Sebastian. Just Sebastian.

“Sebastian Solace. My sweet, beloved Sebastian. Please, stay with me.”

[soon-palestine]

A video shared by an Israeli troop, appearing to show soldiers destroying the Canada Water reservoir in Rafah, southern Gaza, in July, is certainly a breach of international humanitarian law (IHL),” Mark Zeitoun, director general of the Geneva Water Hub, a Swiss institute specializing in hydro-diplomacy, told CNN.

The IDF said the incident was under review by the Fact Finding and Assessment Mechanism.

Israel’s 10-month-long assault in Gaza has destroyed and damaged water systems, according to the UN and various other international bodies, compounding the civilian population’s suffering, risking the spread of disease and leading human rights experts to accuse Israel of using water supply as a weapon.

Several Palestinians told CNN they are forced to make hazardous journeys in search of water, risking exposure to Israeli attacks. Two people told CNN they had witnessed physical violence and even killing at public distribution points as people fight for scant resources. Those displaced to makeshift camps described scenes of sewage spilling into the streets and children drinking from puddles. Women are forced to endure several menstrual cycles without access to a shower, the UN said.

Read our reporting, with @StockwellBilly . Visuals by @Mark_Oliver_ , Alex Newman, @mrlourobinson , Rachel Wilson and @StockwellBilly .

[innorogers]

Eclipse

Steve Rogers x Reader (You / OFC)

Summary: Panic clawed up his throat — you were out there, alone, lost in the grip of something he couldn’t fight, couldn’t save you from.

Warning: Angst / Insecure Steve / Protective Steve / Desperate Protective Steve / MINORS DNI / Fight Scene / This one is a action chapter

Characters: OC, John Walker, Sam Wilson, Sharon Carter, Tony Stark, Maria Hill, Bruce Banner.

Also: Thanks in advance for repost or any feedback ❤️ Let me know if you want to be included in the taglist (DM, comment, repost and tag, whatever works)❤️ You don't need to read the previous chapters but it will definitely enhance the experience if you do.

1: Insomnia | 2: Lucid | 3: Reverie | 4: Nightmare | 5: Awakening | 6: Dusk | 7: Hypnagogia | 8: Lull | 9: Vigil

The fear deep within Steve didn’t go away. Not even with the countless times you made love over the weekend.

He took you so hard, so rough, as if he wanted to take you deep inside him, to bury himself in the depths of your soul and become one with you; or to transform into a protective shield, merged into your skin and flesh, that would emerge whenever you needed him to protect you, guard you, and keep you safe.

But that wasn’t enough. Nothing was enough to wash away his fears to the unknown.

You awoke on Monday to find yourself in a fortress.

The compound had been overridden with the strictest and most exaggerated security protocol the entire campus had ever seen, enforced with military precision.

Steve’s expression turned steely the moment you left home; you could see the shift as he transformed into Captain America the moment he stepped into the command room, returning to Steve Rogers only in private moments with you.

He drove you to the center’s facilities as on a typical day, but this time Sam was waiting at the door to take over and escort you to the lab, where he would only leave if one of his fellow Avengers replaced him, never letting you out of sight. Neither Falcon, nor anyone else left you unguarded. Ever.

“Okay…if I didn’t know better, I’d be seriously freaking out.” Dr. Lin admitted, a little nervous, noticing the continuous Avenger presence. Whether it was Sam, Nat, Clint, even Wanda and Vision—all turned up for shifts. Sometimes, the Captain himself took a shift, posted against a wall or seated on a bench, eyes alert and scrutinizing anyone who might look remotely suspicious.

“Like...What's going on? Is Cap so insecure about that military guy hitting on you that a tracking device isn’t enough? Now we have surveillance?” Robert whispered while working at the station beside you. “Everyone’s kind of freaking out, you know? We don’t usually get this level of attention.” He adjusted a few screws, glancing around. “The R&D nerds being protected by the Avengers themselves? That’s a lot.”

You sighed.

A lot didn’t even come close to describing it.

Steve was so anxious about the whole situation that he even let John Walker hang around you constantly.

“The guy could be an extra pair of eyes,” said Captain America through clenched teeth, his knuckles going white.

As much as he hated to admit it, Steve didn’t detect bad intentions from John Walker—except for the irritating fact that Walker wanted to be the new Steve Rogers, along with all the prestige that came with the title, and to date Captain America’s fiancée.

But Walker’s intentions toward you were genuine, and Steve fully intended to kick his ass once this shitshow was over. So, there was John Walker—a regular in the lab now, much to the nervousness of the white coats. He wasn’t doing much harm, though he did have a habit of touching everything, asking too many questions, and getting even more irritating whenever Steve was near.

John was having a blast testing Steve’s patience, whether by using your mug, leaning in close at your desk, or resting his elbows on the back of your chair, making comments about how good you smelled, if you’d changed your perfume, or saying things like, “Hey, remember the coffee you liked last time?”

All this playful tone, smirking remarks made Steve’s veins practically bulge, ready to burst anytime John came within a meter of you.

And, to add a layer of complexity to the fun, there was Sharon.

The New Era Project was still ongoing, and the Command’s Room had decided to keep things low-key until the UN realized they were on the Avengers’ radar. Diplomatic exchanges would carry on as usual, with Walker playing the role of bodyguard without even knowing it, and Sharon just orbiting Steve and Maria, doing... well, nothing much.

She seemed to sense that the Avengers were only maintaining subtle ties, not actually invested in the project. Still, for her own reasons—personal or moral—she went along with it, and of course, it kept her close to Steve.

So, the results of all these people in your daily life were, besides a few coffee cups broken by Steve and you talking to your plants more than usual due to jealousy and frustration, that your sex life had become, well...better, much better.

Every encounter was charged with tension, jealousy, possessiveness, the urge to claim each other, constant longing, and, on Steve's side, fear and anxiety about a forecasted attack that he didn’t know when it would happen.

And they were…frequent, more than usual.

You already had these crazy weekend sex marathons after Steve discovered your Hydra-given experimented body could bear him, but now…they were happening at any place, any time.

Since that once in the dressing room after the Iron Army attack, the encounters seemed to have upgraded to a whole new level.

He'd take you, in a meeting room from behind, with only pulling down your underwear and unzipping his pants; in the lab’s bathroom when everyone was at their lunchtime; finger fuck you at the parking lot's stairways before leaving the center facilities… and if Walker had joked or played around you that day? Oh boy, you were going to be cumming fast and long. Steve’d drive you crazy, and silencing your cries with his hand so you didn’t scream his name in any public space.

Or the other way around, like that day when he heard you called the guy "John" instead of "Captain Walker" so once you were alone and at home, he made sure that was the only name leaving your lips, and the only one you'd remembered after he fucked you so hard and made you undone beneath, on top, or in whatever position he demanded that day.

And he enjoyed it too.

Sharon’s friendly touches, like her hand on his shoulder or a quick pat? Those would end with you pinning him to the wall as soon as you got home, driving him wild with abandon, letting him lose himself completely with you while cumming in your mouth or anywhere he’d want.

There was once, actually, when Sharon straightened his tie… the night ended with you on top of him, fucking him with such purpose, such intensity, that he swore that was the fastest and most satisfying orgasm he'd had in his life.

But after all the ecstasies and excitements these encounters would bring, there was something deep within Steve that you wanted to soothe, and it was his fear of losing you.

That, was not able to be washed away with any kind of desire and lust.

And you knew, it was only going to be cured with love.

So you were always there.

He woke up to you, his first sight each morning, and his last thought before sleep. You held him close, your fingers weaving through his hair, lips gently pressed to his forehead, your body resting against his, so close it was as though even your fingerprints aligned like two halves of a single puzzle.

You were there, you never made him worry, you never complained about being confined to the limits of the compound, of having surveillance on you 24/7, him shadowing you everywhere, or dealing with John or Sharon.

No. You took it all.

You shared his morning coffee, held his hand through lunch, took his desires whenever, wherever.

You’d look up from your work just to offer him a smile. You’d talk to him, hours and hours, just like the first night you’ve met, sharing with him every part of your life with him—your past, your present, your future. You filled the spaces he feared, quieted the looming dread of the unknown.

You were there.

Just as you promised, together. Always with him, by his side, easing his worries, quieting his fears.

Which is why no one understood how it happened.

It was a normal day, a regular day, actually, like any other.

But it was the beginning of Steve’s nightmare.

One that would haunt him for years. And if…if he had known. If only he’d fucking known.

"I’m making beef stroganoff with baked asparagus tonight.” You announced, sliding some toast into the toaster and flipping through a cookbook. "And your favorite Italian wine.”

"Wow." Steve set aside his iPad. "What’s the occasion?"

"Mmm…” You smirked as you approached with a breakfast tray. "Surprise, surprise.” You kissed his cheek, enjoying the intrigued look in his eyes. "The start of a highly-anticipated weekend?”

"Really?" Steve raised an eyebrow, his gaze steady. He knew you were hinting at something more.

"Um… maybe I’m just in the mood for something romantic, intimate, and… well, that wine was just too good to pass up.”

"I thought wine didn’t have any effect on us.” Steve said, taking a sip of his coffee. "You know, the serum and… your Hydra body. Ugh, I hate saying that...I'm sorry honey.”

"Oh, is that why you drink it all at once?” You didn't even mind the Hydra comment, just teased him, genuinely curious. "Did it even have any effect, at all?”Your eyes brightened. "Woooh, can we test it? Like, let’s grab the strongest bottle we can find and see if we could actually get drunk?”

"Been there, tried that. Didn’t work.” Steve chuckled, shaking his head. "Once Thor brought some Asgardian liquor that really… tickled?”

"Wow… the stuff that aged a thousand years just made you… tickle. Remind me why we’re bothering with the wine, then?”

"Because it tastes good.” Steve let out a laugh and took a bite of toast, winking at you. "Especially with stroganoff. But come on, do tell… what’s the occasion?”

"Nothing." You said with a smile, standing up to clear the table. "Really, just excited about the weekend. It’s finally just… us.”

"Uh-huh.” Steve smiled and got up to help, wrapping his arms around your waist and kissing your neck. "Babe? You’re a terrible liar.”

You chuckled, not arguing the truth. You really were awful at lying to him. But you knew he’d respect your timing and the little surprise you had in mind for dinner that night. So you just turned around and kissed him back with a smile.

"Do you think beef stroganoff and baked asparagus with cheese would go better with white, rosé, or red?” You asked later in the lab, from your desk.

"White.” Replied Dr. Lin and John in unison, without a second’s hesitation.

"Why does Captain Perfection always get the good stuff?” John grumbled as he picked up random gear from your desk, trying on a glove and aiming it at the wall as if he was about to shoot something. "Aren’t we friends too? Ever consider cooking for us?”

"Amen to that. Captain Perfection gets the special treatment…” Robert hummed, grinning. "Cause he’s the one who can eat without making a scene about his taste buds going wild. Be grateful, John.”He winked at him. "And seriously? I’m her friend; you’re the guy trying to cross the friend zone border and get on Captain America’s nerves.”

"Well, is the horizon close by any chance?” John said as he shot something from the gauntlet. You and Robert ducked instinctively as the rubber pellet bounced off the wall and hit John in the head.

"Yeah, I'll definitely leave my gorgeous, perfect fiancé for the guy who plays with toys and hits himself, Captain Walker.” You laughed, handing him an ice pack. "The horizon is just a step away, soldier.”

"Could you stop that, John? This is a million-dollar development!” Robert complained. "And it’s actually tailor-made for Hawkeye…” but before he could finish, a huge noise came from outside.

The walls trembled, sending deep vibrations through the floor as the lights flickered, casting erratic shadows across the room. Dust and bits of plaster cascaded from the ceiling, catching in the faint, stuttering glow—it felt like the whole building was holding its breath, caught between an earthquake’s shudder and the unmistakable force of an explosion somewhere close.

The air was thick with the scent of singed metal and faintly acrid smoke, adding an edge of urgency to the unnerving silence that followed.

You held your breath.

This is it.

The fear that was haunting Steve. The attack you were all expecting. Your hair rose in alarm, signaling the approaching danger, and a cold dread crept over you.

"Okay… I didn’t do that, did I?” John said as the complete lab was on silence, instinctively moving to shield you behind him. Though he didn’t have the latest updates, he knew the surveillance around this place, and he understood that his role here was to protect you. Something was close—he could sense it.

"Stay close, Illythia.” He said as Dr. Lin also moved behind you.

John looked up. "Yo, little angel with wings? What’s going on?!” He shouted to Sam, who landed near you in a flash.

"Alright, Barn Protocol in R&D001, now.” Falcon spoke into his comms just as the windows and walls transformed into impenetrable steel shields, his gear fully engaged.

The Barn Protocol activated seamlessly, steel panels sliding into place around the lab's perimeter, locking everyone in. Sam and John immediately flanked you, their stances solid and prepared as they followed the Command Room’s orders: Don’t let anything near her, don't let her out of sight, protect and secure, no matter what.

For a brief moment, everything seemed to hold its breath.

Lab equipment hummed softly, the usual chatter and beeping of devices hanging in a strange silence as everyone waited for something unknown.

And then, piercing through the stillness, an alarm—a sharp, almost metallic shriek—sliced through the air, cutting off just as abruptly as it had begun. It was a deafening sound, something that tapped into everyone's senses, as loud as silence.

You winced at the sound, but as it faded, a strange calm settled.

You looked around the lab, about to reassure Sam and John when you noticed… that.

The others.

The usual faces at workstations and benches were all still—too still. Expressions blank, eyes vacant. And then, in a single, eerie motion, they all turned toward you, faces twisted, almost as if possessed by some unseen force.

"Holy shit." Said Sam and John at the same time.

"This is not good." said the Falcon.

"You… you think?! This is not good?!" Robert was panicking. "Should we… I don't know, RUN?"

"We can't. The Barn Protocol is up. These walls are like the Hulk Container; we're in." Replied Sam, as he put an arm before you: “Stay close. Really close.”

Without warning, the rest of people began to move, hands reaching for whatever they could find, beakers, sharp tools, even chairs—anything to use as a weapon. And fuck, this is the R&D 001 Lab, this, was the second advance tools room after The Crib. And here, are the greatest minds of the compound after Stark, Banner, Cho, and You. There was even a fucking lightsaber in hands of some tech guy, like how the fuck does that work?

An unnatural glint filled their eyes as they closed in, their steps synchronized in a way that felt more robotic than human.

Sam and John shifted instantly, bodies tensed, shielding you even closer as Robert ducked behind you, his breathing erratic. You felt the grip of John’s arm as he pulled you slightly back, a low growl escaping him as he sized up the oncoming attackers.

Sam's voice was low and focused. “Alright, Fake Steve, we’re not letting anyone through, got it?”

"You bet your ass we are." said John with his teeth clenched as he pulled out his weapon. "Bring your pretty faces, nerds."

The first swing came fast—a lab tech lunging with a scalpel raised high. Sam deflected the attack with a swift jab to the wrist, disarming the attacker, who didn’t even flinch but came back, jaw clenched, ready to strike again.

As the lab tech lunged again, Sam knocked him back, quickly sidestepping to push you further behind him.

But this was off, way off. These people, most of them, didn’t even pull up weight or go near the gym, but they were quick, swift—they moved like professional assassins trained all their lives, their technique showing black-belt level skill, and they… it was as if they didn't feel pain. Every hit, every punch John or Sam landed back was into a robot with no physical pain.

It soon became a 1 vs 10 scenario, where John and Sam were trying more to survive than defend you.

“What the fuck is going on?!” John hissed, fists clenched as he scanned the room, watching as more people turned toward you and advanced.

“I don't know.” Sam muttered through gritted teeth, blocking another swing. “But whatever it is, it’s messing with their minds.” He shot a look over his shoulder. “Stay close!”

Dr. Lin clutched your arm, his fingers digging in. “They’re like… like they’re under some kind of mind control! Is that even possible?”

John gave a dry laugh without taking his eyes off the attackers. “Oh, so it's a regular Tuesday, right?” He glanced your way. “But you, yo, Lancaster—any ideas here? You usually have something for us in times like this.”

“Give me a second.” You whispered, heart racing as you took in the sight of familiar faces twisted in unnatural rage. “I have no clue what’s causing this or how we stop it…” Your mind was racing, and then you jumped to get your computer.

"I need that sound, the same sound that made them start acting like this. Robert, get yours, come on, get down!" You said as you pulled your laptop and hid under the desk.

Sam caught a thrown chair mid-air, shoving it back toward the approaching crowd, his jaw tight. He threw a quick glance at you, his gaze firm. “Whatever you’re doing, stay safe and don’t move.”

A sharp crash echoed as someone shattered a lab beaker against the wall, sending shards flying. Dr. Lin yelped and crawled to you; he was trying to pull himself together, running the analysis with you. At this point, only your minds and Sam and John's strength working together were the only beacon of hope he had.

“I think… it has something to do with that alarm. Something happened when it sounded.” Robert grabbed his computer too. "I'll run the surveillance sound analysis and make it replay… you think that’d work?"

"I need Jarvis to analyze what happened when… Steve and I were attacked by the Iron Army. I think we were the distraction, and the real security breach happened here." Your fingers were typing faster than usual. "Jarvis, are you there? Get Maria or Steve on the—" Your voice was interrupted by John, who was thrown against the workbench, rolling and falling before you.

"Oh my God!" Robert let out a cry as he continued typing in panic. “Please, someone tell me we’re going to be okay…”

"Any news?!" Captain Walker asked as he struggled to stand up. "Something like your super boyfriend is coming anytime soon?"

"It doesn't matter!" shouted Sam from the other side of the room, he was already opening fire. "Orders are to stay put, protect and secure—even if the world falls apart, we are not leaving this place!”

“It kinda feels like it is!” screamed Robert, covering his ears at the gunshot noises. "Falling apart?!"

"Is that code ready?!" You asked as something exploded nearby, and Sam's wings shielded you all against it. "Robert! Stay with us! Is that code ready?!"

"It can't be! We are blocked!!" Dr. Lin was losing his composure; he was covering his ears and almost crying. "I need to get to the servers and plug my computer in!"

"That's so damn typical!" John replied as another attacker lunged, and he blocked them with an outstretched arm. "Why is it always like that?!"

"Ugh!" The place was chaotic, Sam was covering almost every angle from the air, John was forming the defense line before you and Robert, everything was being used by the geniuses who invented all these weapons and gears. Not to mention, neither the Falcon nor Captain Walker had intentions of really hurting anyone, so it was getting difficult.

You scanned the place, using everything in your power, and suddenly, you spotted something. So you rolled to a nearby desk, quickly opened the under-cabinet as bullets bounced all over the place, and you pulled it out: a prototype of Steve's shield. It was the newest testing unit, but it would have to do.

"Come on!" You grabbed Robert and used the shield to cover him. "John! Cover us!" As you ran with the shield covering you from the rain of bullets, a screaming Robert and his computer into the server's room, John started to fight back whatever was raining on you.

"Come on, come on, come on!" You pushed Dr. Lin inside and locked the door. "Go, go, go, do your magic!" You both rushed into the server's room and looked for the correct one, but out of nowhere, the guard was there, with the same eerie look and stiff action.

“Oh…no, no, no, no…” You and Robert muttered in unison, both instinctively stepping back.

But it was too late—the guy lunged forward, his expression blank and hostile, arms reaching out with surprising speed.

Before you could even think, your body moved on its own: you ducked his first swing, sidestepped his second, and then your hand shot forward, delivering a quick, powerful blow to his chest. In the blink of an eye, you grabbed his wrist, twisted, and swept his legs out from under him with a precision that left him sprawling on the ground in seconds.

You froze, staring down at the guy on the floor, wide-eyed as you tried to catch your breath. Dr. Lin was equally stunned, mouth open as he looked at you with something between awe and excitement.

"Oh my gawd!" You both said at the same time. “I…” Your eyes widened, looking at your hands, still half-raised in a defensive stance. “I could do that?!”

“Dude…” Robert replied, eyes darting from you to the unconscious lab tech at your feet. “…Since when…?”

“I don’t know!” You interrupted, still in shock. “I didn’t even know I could do that! My body just… acted on its own.”

“Well… whatever it was, remind me not to mess with you. And also warn Steve, just in case. Or John,” he said, raising his eyebrows.

"Oh god, ok, the code?!" You said, remembering both Sam and John were fighting for their lives out there, and pushed Robert toward the server machines.

"Oh, okokok!" Robert rushed into the server machines.

The moment he plugged in the laptop and entered the code, you had a bad feeling, but the instant he hit enter, the sound that transformed all the people out there echoed through the room.

And everything went black for you.

The chaos took about an hour to subside. Not that John or Sam knew anything about it; they just stuck to the protocol and stayed inside the lab with a floor full of unconscious staff, until Steve kicked the door down (or maybe just made a hole in the wall while breaking in) and arrived, his face a mask of panic that only disappeared when he saw you, still locked in the server room with Dr. Lin, and John guarding the door.

Both Commander Hill and Captain America looked rough—not injured (it would take more than an explosion or an army of aliens to scratch them)—but still, they were covered in ash and dust, with bruised knuckles and fingers, a few burnt hair strands, and the remnants of a room that had exploded in their faces.

Steve was panting; after the containment of the explosion in the Quantum and Space Exploration Division, he had run to where you were, ready to throw himself into battle but unwilling to lose sight of you.

“Containment Operations, Protocol 14 in place.” Commander Hill announced into her comms as the walls of the Barn Protocol lifted. She gasped at the sight: a room full of unconscious techs, the lab littered with bullet holes from Sam and John’s weapons, most of the development prototypes destroyed after being repurposed as attack machinery, an injured Sam with a broken wing, and a bloodied John standing guard at the entrance to the server room.

“Where is she?!” Steve demanded, as the team behind Maria sprang into action. Protocol 14 meant everyone needed medical care, inspection, and interrogation; no one was leaving.

“There, in the server room. John is at the door.” Sam said, nodding toward you. Steve exhaled in relief when he saw you through the glass, sitting on the floor next to Dr. Lin, who was still typing on his computer, with John guarding the locked door behind him.

“Oh, thank God…” Steve murmured, covered in cold sweat, rubbing his face as his heart finally slowed. He steadied himself. “Okay, walk me through it.” What a fucking mess. He began walking around the wreckage with Sam.

“There was a sound just after the Barn Protocol activated,” Sam said, frowning as he surveyed the unconscious staff scattered across the lab. “And these guys…” He sighed. “They just…activated.”

“Activated?” Steve’s expression darkened. “How?” He looked down at one of the techs. “That’s James Farber.” Hesaid, bewildered. “He’s been here all his life. He was with Tony back in Howard’s days. He’s core staff, Level 1. There’s no way he’s a…spy or…” He ran a hand through his hair. “A threat.”

“I don’t know,” Sam replied, his face serious as he crossed his arms and exhaled. “They fought like professionals, swift and precise, like trained killers—or puppets.” He looked at Steve, his expression tense.

“This is fucked up, Cap. All it took was a sound. Dr. Lin and I…we played it back to test…” Sam said as glanced at the server room, his face suddenly paling. “Where is she?”

A chill ran down Steve’s spine as he turned and saw the empty spot where you had been. He ran to the door. “Robert!”

Dr. Lin nearly jumped out of his skin at the shout. “What?”

“Where is…?”

Robert looked around in confusion, fear flashing in his eyes. “She said she was going to look for you…”

Steve didn’t wait for more. He tore out of the lab, scanning frantically, fear and panic flooding his veins, drowning him in limitless dread.

His comm crackled to life, and for the first time, John Walker’s voice, panicked and raw, called him by his name. “Steve?!”

Steve could hear the same background noise in Walker’s comm—he was close, his voice desperate. “I’m following her! But…that’s not her!” John’s voice was frantic as he followed you, watching you move with unsettling speed, every step driven, unwavering.

“She’s too fast, damn it. Get the cameras, the drones, whatever you have, now!”

“I’m on it!” Maria’s voice responded, and in an instant, the entire facility surged into action. Cameras, scans, drones, perimeters, doors, alarms—all the 1287 security protocols she had sprang to life around you.

“She’s at your six! Go straight!” Maria directed Steve, and he broke into a run. Five hundred feet—just ten seconds at top speed, but you were nowhere to be seen. “Where?!” He was loosing his shit.

“What?” Maria’s voice faltered as the red dot tracking you vanished from her display, dread pooling in her stomach. “We’re being overridden…”

“What? Talk to me!” Steve’s voice was almost a shout, his panic unmistakable. “Walker! Where are you?”

“I’m at the parking lot!” John’s voice was breathless as he ran. “Where the hell are those bots?! Why is your girlfriend so fast?!” He weaved between parked cars, his eyes locked on you, but in a blink, you were gone.

“Illythia?!” John’s voice echoed through the empty parking lot, and Steve heard his labored breathing over the comms. Steve had never been so afraid in his life.

"Where are you?!" In the parking lot, John was still looking for you. He took a few steps around, assessing, then abruptly stepped back as his military instincts kicked in.

He moved just in time to avoid your first strike. The hypnotized techs had been fast—but you…you were lethal. Every move of yours was precise, each sweep of your palm and strike of your hand cutting through the air like sharpened blades, aimed directly at Walker with the cold precision of a trained assassin. His arm went numb as he blocked your strike with his elbow, barely deflecting the impact.

Holy shit. So this is what a Hydra assassin looked like. John had heard the rumors, and the realization struck him hard.

Now he was grasping the scale of your abilities, the enormous gap that separated him from you in skill and intent. Fighting you was like fighting a machine designed solely to kill.

He clenched his fists, steadying himself.

"Alright. Whoever the fuck you are…" He growled, bracing against the rush of your next attack.

"You are not taking her, not on my watch…"

You advanced swiftly, not giving him a chance to react. He managed to parry one of your strikes, but the force sent him staggering back. Your movements were relentless, each strike calculated, swift, and brutal. John ducked a sharp jab aimed at his throat and countered with a low sweep of his leg, hoping to unbalance you.

But you were quicker. Twisting mid-movement, you spun out of reach and closed in on him again, your eyes cold, unreadable.

“For someone who didn't want to date me at all…” John panted, trying to find an opening, he tightened his stance, his focus sharpening.

"Looks like we are finally getting our first dance huh…"

You launched a kick toward his chest, but he dodged to the side, finally managing to slip an arm around your waist, trying to pin you down. In a heartbeat, though, you broke free, twisting sharply and catching him with an elbow that left him gasping.

Steve tore down the hallway, his heart hammering like it was about to burst from his chest, each step fueled by the sickening fear curling tighter inside him. His mind screamed with desperation, imagining the worst. The thought of not getting there in time, clawed at him with a panic so raw it drowned out everything else. He pushed himself harder, faster, his breaths ragged, almost choking on the terror that something could already be happening, that he might be too late to stop it.

Deep down in his soul, he knew it.

Someone, something, was taking you away.

The little dance between you and John continued fast.

John steadied himself, swallowing against the sharp sting in his throat.

Shit, you were good, you were so damn good. Your movements were cold, mechanical, each step deliberate, your eyes devoid of any recognition, fixed on him like a target.

He barely had a second to brace before you struck again, faster, more precise, as if every muscle in your body was wired to a single, ruthless command.

John dodged, blocking with his forearm, but the force of your blow sent a painful shock up his arm.

“Come on, wake up!” Heyelled, desperation leaking into his voice, hoping his words might break through whatever had its hold on you. But you were relentless, undeterred. You struck again, a perfectly angled jab aimed for his ribs, which he just barely managed to sidestep, the movement costing him balance.

In a single, fluid motion, you enhanced your powers, layers of the room revealing themselves in sharp detail, peeling away until something glinted in the corner of your vision—something small and dangerously sharp embedded within a cracked console panel nearby. You lunged, grabbing the object, its cold weight steady in your palm.

With swift brutality, you slashed toward him, and John blocked, feeling the sharp edge graze his arm, blood blooming where it sliced through his sleeve. He gritted his teeth, pushing back with all his strength, his eyes searching your face, finding nothing of the person he knew.

And in that hesitation, you moved so fast, he didn't even see you. It was only one ruthless, calculated strike as you slashed across Walker’s throat.

The edge met his skin with precision, blood trickling down his neck. John staggered back, clutching his throat, his face twisted in pain and shock.

“Shit…” He choked out, voice raw as he tried to steady himself, his fingers pressed hard to stem the bleeding. His eyes darted around, frantic, searching for you, but you were gone—melted into the shadows, disappearing as swiftly as you'd struck.

And then Steve was there, his breath coming in shallow, panicked gasps as he rounded the corner, barely taking in the scattered debris and overturned tables before his gaze locked on John.

His heart lurched painfully at the sight. Blood trickled from John’s neck, his hand pressed against the wound, his face pale and strained.

“John!” Steve shouted, rushing over, barely keeping the quiver of fear from his voice.

John could only shake his head, gritting his teeth as he fought through the pain.

"Where is she?!"

“…Gone,” John managed to get out, a grimace tightening his face as he met Steve’s terrified gaze.

The realization struck Steve hard, fear gripping his chest with an icy hand. It shattered his world in an instant.

Everything he’d known, everything he’d fought for, had slipped through his fingers in a single heartbeat. He felt a cold, numbing dread spread through his chest, rooting him to the spot, every breath a struggle against the crushing weight of helplessness.

Panic clawed up his throat — you were out there, alone, lost in the grip of something he couldn’t fight, couldn’t save you from.

It was like watching a part of himself walk into darkness, and he couldn’t follow. For the first time, Steve felt fear not just for you, but for himself—he was in hell now.

The End but TBC

Continue to:

Chapter 11: Veil

And that's a wrap for Chapter 10! I can't believe we are in chapter 10 already! Ugh but this is when the angst starts :3 All i could think when I was writing it was: OMG should I do this?? How could I do this to him...but then, I thought about mix it up a little of action like all MCU movies does ;) I enjoyed writing the fight scene with John so much, hope you liked it reading too!

I'll try to post every friday, but maybe next one will be Chapter 1 of another series, will see, stay tuned! :)

Love.,

Moon

Tag list: @vioplay19 / @jamneuromain / @steviebbboi / @heletsmelovehim / @otterlycanadian / hisredheadedgoddess28

*can you let me know if I've missed anyone in the taglist? thanks <3

[isak-dot-gov]

Mic'd Up Pt.2

Pairing: Kelsey Plum x Reader

Word count: 1208

Part 1 - My Masterlist

.................................................

The next morning, you were jolted awake by your phone vibrating non-stop. Squinting at the screen, you saw a barrage of notifications—Twitter mentions, Instagram tags, and text messages from both friends and strangers alike. Dread mixed with curiosity as you opened your phone to see what all the fuss was about.

There it was: a notification from the Las Vegas Aces’ official YouTube channel.

“Kelsey's Biggest Fan: Mic’d Up!” the title read.

You bit your lip, heart racing as you clicked on the video. The screen lit up with the intro, and it didn’t take long before you saw yourself, front and centre. The video started with a slow-motion clip of you, wide-eyed and jumping out of your seat, shouting, “That’s my girl!” after Kelsey hit a three-pointer. A heart graphic floated above your head, and a cute caption popped up: “Biggest supporter in the house.”

As the video continued, it cut between clips of you and Kelsey’s jaw-dropping plays. Every reaction you’d had—cheering, fist-pumping, gasping at the refs’ bad calls—was captured in vivid detail. Your face flashed on the screen, excitement radiating, while the crowd erupted behind you. The editors had even added a dramatic slow-motion replay of you standing up and yelling, “Let’s go, Kelsey!” during a key moment in the game, complete with epic music in the background.

Your hands flew to your face, cringing at the full display of your emotions. The internet had seen it all. Your love for Kelsey. Your passion for the team. Your inability to sit still for more than five seconds when the Aces were on fire.

By the time the video ended, you were red-faced and laughing, even as the embarrassment settled in. The comments section was blowing up with fans reacting to your over-the-top enthusiasm:

“This is what love looks like!”

“Relationship goals AF.”

“Kelsey's girl is all of us when the Aces play!”

There were even memes already circulating. One showed you passionately screaming with the caption, “When you’re more hyped than the players themselves.” Another zoomed in on your face during a tense moment with the caption, “Me when the refs make a bad call.”

Your phone buzzed again, this time with a call from Kelsey. You braced yourself for the inevitable teasing.

“Hey, YouTube star!” Kelsey greeted, laughter bubbling in her voice. “Seen the video yet?”

You sighed dramatically, still blushing from the experience. “Yeah... I don’t know whether to be flattered or hide under a rock.”

Kelsey’s chuckle was warm, affectionate. “Oh, come on. It’s adorable. I think it’s safe to say the fans love you almost as much as I do.”

“‘Almost’?” you teased. “I think they might love me more after this.”

Kelsey laughed louder, her voice full of mischief. “Don’t push it. But seriously, the whole team’s seen it. A’ja’s been texting me non stop. She’s already planning ways to roast you at practice.”

You groaned, but you couldn’t help the smile forming. “Great. Just what I needed—A’ja Wilson making me the butt of every joke.”

“Oh, it’s not just A’ja,” Kelsey said, her tone almost too gleeful. “Chelsea’s already called dibs on the post-game interview next time, and Kate and Syd are coming up with new chants for you to yell. The whole team’s in on this.”

A notification popped up from A’ja’s Twitter: “Mic’d up AND famous? You’re a LEGEND now! #BringTheHype #CheerCaptain”

Before you could respond, Kelsey continued, “Anyway, we’ve got a team meeting later today. You might want to brace yourself.”

You hung up with a pit in your stomach, knowing full well you were about to walk into the lion’s den. Sure enough, when you arrived at the Aces’ training facility later that afternoon, the team was waiting for you.

The second you stepped into the locker room, A’ja’s booming voice greeted you. “Ayyy, here she is! The real MVP of last night’s game!”

The entire room erupted in laughter and cheers as the team gathered around you. A’ja threw her arm around your shoulders, pulling you into the centre of the locker room. “Y’all seen this video, right? Our girl was more hyped than the entire crowd combined!”

Jackie was right behind her, shaking her head with a grin. “Honestly, I don’t think we’ve ever had this much energy coming from the stands. We might need to mic her up every game.”

AC leaned casually against her locker, smirking. “I’ve been saying it since last night—she’s got more hype than the bench squad. We’re going to need her on the sidelines full-time.”

“Forget the mascot,” Megan added, laughing. “We’ve got our own hype woman.”

You could feel your face growing hotter by the second, but their teasing was good-natured, filled with warmth and camaraderie. The fact that the whole team had seen the video—and was getting this much joy from it—made it all the more embarrassing and heartwarming at the same time.

“Okay, okay, enough roasting,” Kelsey said, stepping forward with a playful smile. “I mean, I think we can all agree that having my personal cheerleader on blast last night helped us win, right?”

A chorus of agreement filled the room, and A’ja, never one to miss a moment, pointed at you dramatically. “You’re the reason we secured that dub! We need that energy every night.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, throwing your hands up. “Fine, I’ll accept the title of unofficial hype woman. But you better believe I’m charging for appearances.”

Chelsea winked at you. “First paycheck is going to be in popcorn and court-side seats.”

As the laughter died down, the team started gathering for their meeting, but A’ja wasn’t done just yet. “Yo, before we get serious, can we all agree that the next time she’s mic’d up, we get to pick the lines she has to yell?”

Jackie nodded, grinning. “Oh, for sure. I’m already writing down some good ones.”

Kelsey groaned, shaking her head but smiling. “I don’t know if I’m ready for this.”

After the meeting, Kelsey found you in the hallway, still laughing from the whirlwind of teasing. “You good?” she asked, sliding her arm around your waist.

“Yeah, I think I survived.” You leaned into her, feeling a wave of contentment settle over you. “Your teammates are ruthless, though.”

“Oh, trust me, I know,” she said, grinning. “But seriously, they love you. You’re part of the family now.”

As you walked toward the parking lot, your phone buzzed again, this time with a text from A’ja: “We need a full mic’d-up session next game. You down?”

You showed Kelsey the message, and she chuckled. “You gonna do it?”

You grinned. “You know what? I might just. But next time, I’m going even harder.”

Kelsey laughed, squeezing your hand. “Deal. Just don’t make me laugh too much while I’m trying to play.”

As you left the arena together, the warmth of being embraced by not just Kelsey but the whole Aces family stayed with you. Sure, you were the butt of some jokes now, but you wouldn’t trade that for anything. Being part of their world—even as the loud, slightly embarrassing cheerleader—felt like you belonged, and that meant more than anything. 

Plus, next game? You were definitely going to be the loudest fan in the building.

............................................................

[azzibuckets]

For the Love of the Game - [Pazzi | Part 1/10]

paige bueckers x azzi fudd

summary: part 1 of my pazzi fake dating series!! i originally meant for it to be friends to lovers but i realized enemies is easier to write so i changed it up ���� lmk what u think!

word count: 760

masterlist | part 2

“So the rumors are true.”

Azzi spun the basketball in her hands, finding comfort in the familiar texture of the Wilson Evo NXT. Here she was, at the Werth Championship Center, in front of banners unfurling the glory of all the NCAA champions that have walked here before her - a much different scene than the small high school gym of St. John’s. With all the different colleges she’d visited in the last year, she’d had a rough time adapting to how different everything was, but the one thing that always stayed the same was this ball in her hands. The reason she was doing all this, she reminded herself.

Azzi turned around. It was almost out of a movie, seeing the three girls that stood facing her. On the left, she recognized as Aaliyah Edwards. Her hair was intertwined in her signature yellow and purple braids, and there was a friendly smile on her face. On the right, Nika Muhl. The Croation phenom with long, straight brunette hair tied up in a ponytail, a neutral expression on her face. And in the middle-

In the middle, there was Paige. Her light blonde hair hung loose, framing her face. Her eyebrows were turned down, her lips pressed into a straight line. Talk about unfriendly.

Azzi swallowed. “Hey,” she spoke uncertainly.

Aaliyah stepped forward, and before Azzi knew it, she was being wrapped up in a bear hug by the 6’3” power forward. “Welcome to UConn!” Aaliyah grinned. “I’m Aaliyah, but all my friends call me Lili.”

Azzi awkwardly patted Aaliyah on the back, her gaze falling to the other two after she stepped back.

“I’m Nika.” The brunette offered Azzi her hand instead of swooping in for a hug like Aaliyah did, but she suddenly smiled warmly, and Azzi felt at ease. “Nika Muhl.”

“Nice to meet all of you. I’m Azzi.”

“We know,” Paige responded curtly, a frosty look in her eyes. Nika nudged Paige, probably reminding her to be nice, and Paige heaved a sigh before sticking out a limp hand. “Bueckers. But you know that.”

Aaliyah rolled her eyes. “God, Paige, don’t be so cocky.”

“I’m not!” The blonde quickly defended. “Azzi and I go way back. She knows me.” She smiled at Azzi then, but it was sharp and wolfish, nothing alike Nika’s welcoming beam from earlier. Azzi preferred Paige’s resting bitch face.

Azzi twirled the basketball she was holding on her finger. “Yep,” she responded dryly. “Paige and I played together for a couple of years. USA basketball.”

Nika’s eyes lit up. “That’s so cool! So you already have a friend here. Nice.” She looked between the two of them with a big smile on her face.

“Not really,” Paige scoffed. This time it was Aaliyah who elbowed her, and Paige winced. “Give us a second, will ya?” Aaliyah smiled brightly at Azzi before she aggressively grabbed Paige’s elbow and pulled her a few steps back.

“What are you doing?” Azzi heard Nika hissed. They were being very conspicuous, especially because they were the only ones in the gym and the three sophomores had retreated literally only two steps back. Azzi could hear every single word they were saying without even having to strain her ears. But apparently they thought they were being sneaky, so Azzi could only awkwardly stand there and listen to them. She now regretted asking to stay in the facility when Geno had finished showing her around. All she’d wanted to do was shoot some hoops in her new home, familiarize herself with the gym before practices officially started, and now she was stuck here dealing with the bitchiness of Paige Bueckers, a girl who was constantly grating on her nerves.

“She’s not visiting,” Aaliyah added on. “She literally committed, so I don’t know why you’re trying to scare her away. She’s on the team now.”

“What do you even have against her?” Nikka questioned.

There was silence for a second, before Paige groaned. “Nothing. Just some tension from a few years ago, I guess.”

Tension that you caused, Azzi thought to herself. When she’d first met the blonde, she’d been fine with her, not particularly liking or disliking her. But after Paige had started being hostile around her, Azzi started to reciprocate the same negative feelings, resulting in the tensions that Paige was speaking of.

The girls returned. Paige’s face was now contorted into an unnatural, almost creepy smile. Azzi was sure Aaliyah had forced Paige to smile and this was the best the blonde could come up with.

“Welcome to UConn!” Paige said, her words dripping with faux excitement and peppiness. She glanced at Nika, who prodded her on with an encouraging smile, as if Paige was a kid that was being forced to apologize to their classmate whose blocks she’d knocked over. Paige motioned for the ball, and Azzi reluctantly tossed it over to her. She examined it, then spun it on her finger, copying what Azzi did earlier. “UConn.” She gestured at the banners, at the gleaming trophies lining the walls. “The basketball capital of the world.”

[wadewnstonwilson]

die hard with a xmas vengeance;

summary: Logan and Wade embark on a chaotic Christmas themed "date night" involving a high-stakes break-in to retrieve a seemingly worthless VHS tape of Die Hard dubbed in Esperanto, which Wade insists is a "priceless collectible."

word count: 6.3k

author's note: this was SO much fun to write, and I hope everyone enjoys it! happy holidays!

It began like any other "date night" in Wade Wilson's twisted little world, only this time with a festive twist: breaking into a high-security facility, dodging a hailstorm of bullets, and retrieving some absurdly specific item he insisted was a "priceless collectible." Tonight’s objective? A Die Hard VHS tape dubbed in Esperanto, because according to Wade, it was the Christmas movie to end all Christmas movies. Why Esperanto? Only Wade knew, and Logan had long since given up trying to decipher his chaotic logic.

The pair stood outside an imposing industrial building, its sleek walls and fortified security system practically screaming do not enter. Floodlights swept the surrounding area in slow arcs, glinting off patches of frost and snow that crunched beneath their boots. The night air was sharp and bitter, stinging any exposed skin, but Wade seemed unfazed, practically vibrating with energy like a sugar-high elf on Christmas Eve. He adjusted the straps of his katanas, which he’d gleefully wrapped in a gaudy string of blinking red and green lights, and fiddled with a small device in his hands.

“Alright, Claws,” Wade said, spinning on his heel to face Logan, his grin so wide it looked physically painful. His voice carried that manic edge, like a kid hopped up on Pixy Stix and pure adrenaline. “Tonight’s the night! The heist of the fucking century. The coup de fucking grâce! We’re talking legendary shit. Oceans Eleven? Amateurs. The Italian Job? Snooze-fest. This is art, my friend. This is history in the goddamn making.”

Logan crossed his arms and leaned against a nearby lamppost, his silhouette bathed in flickering light. His expression was the textbook definition of unimpressed, his dark brows pulling together in a scowl that could have withered lesser men. But not Wade. Wade thrived on Logan’s disapproval.

“You’re stealing a VHS tape, Wade,” Logan said flatly, his deep, gravelly voice cutting through the cold night air like the bite of winter wind. Somewhere in the distance, the faint jingle of a Salvation Army bell echoed, as if the universe itself disapproved of Wade’s antics.

Wade gasped, his hands flying to his chest like Logan had just accused him of murdering a litter of kittens under a Christmas tree. His masked face tilted dramatically toward the sky, illuminated faintly by the string of festive red and green lights adorning a nearby lamppost. He staggered back a step, clutching at his heart like a tragic hero in a Hallmark holiday special. “Stealing?” he exclaimed, his voice dripping with exaggerated offense, almost drowned out by the faint hum of Silent Night playing in the background. “Stealing? How fucking dare you, Logan? I’m not some petty criminal swiping candy canes from a kid’s stocking! I am an artist, a goddamn patriot! What I’m doing is rescuing! No, liberating! I’m liberating this priceless cultural artifact from the greedy clutches of corporate indifference!”

Logan raised an eyebrow, his breath visible in the frosty air as he watched Wade fumble dramatically with his pockets. “Do you even know what this is?” Wade continued, yanking out a crumpled, folded piece of paper like it was some sacred holiday scroll. “This isn’t just some run-of-the-mill VHS, oh no, my furry little Canadian. This—” he paused for effect, “—this is Die Hard, in fucking Esperanto."

Logan didn’t flinch. Not even an eye twitch. The man was a goddamn statue of apathy. His arms crossed tighter over his broad chest, his lips tugged into a scowl that could frighten most humans. “Pretty sure you don’t even speak Esperanto.”

Wade froze mid-wave, his masked head snapping toward Logan like he’d just been called out for farting in church. “Not the goddamn point!” he yelled, waving a finger in Logan’s direction as if accusing him of high treason. “This is about the principle. The fucking principle! Do you think Bruce Willis crawled through sweaty-ass ventilation shafts with glass in his feet just so some corporate dickheads could bury this cinematic masterpiece in some lame-ass vault? Fuck no! That man bled for us, Logan. Bled! For the art of explosions and one-liners and Alan Rickman’s silky, villainous voice!”

Logan’s eyebrow arched a fraction higher, the barest glimmer of amusement breaking through his otherwise immovable frown.

“I don’t even think you understand what kind of legacy we’re talking about here!” Wade continued, undeterred by Logan’s lack of enthusiasm. He began pacing back and forth like a deranged motivational speaker, his hands flailing wildly as his rant gained momentum. “This isn’t just a fucking movie, Logan. This is a fucking movement! Bruce Willis crawled so Vin Diesel could drive cars through skyscrapers. He suffered so Keanu Reeves could shoot guns in slow motion while dodging Matrix-y bullshit! And you—” Wade stopped dead in his tracks, pointing a dramatic finger directly at Logan. “You dare to stand there with your judgmental, grumpy-ass lumberjack vibes and call this stealing?”

Logan let out a long, low sigh, his expression unmoving. “Still don’t speak Esperanto, Wade.”

“Jesus Christ, Logan, for fuck’s sake!” Wade clapped his hands together, his excitement bubbling over as he all but vibrated in place. “I don’t need to speak Esperanto. Esperanto speaks to me. It’s the fucking universal language, okay? It’s practically written into my DNA. And even if it wasn’t, it’s fucking Die Hard in a language so obscure, it might as well be hieroglyphics. That’s gotta count for something.”

Logan ran a hand down his face, the kind of exasperated gesture that only Wade Wilson could inspire after years of relentless antics. His voice was a low growl, laced with irritation. “You done yet?”

“Not even close,” Wade shot back, his grin as bright and unapologetic as a string of mismatched Christmas lights. “But we’ll circle back to my holiday sermon on why you’re the Grinch incarnate. For now—” He spun dramatically, arms wide as if presenting a snow-dusted wonderland instead of a high-security facility, “—we’ve got a yuletide miracle to save, Claws. So, if you’d kindly unwrap that stick from your ass and join me, we can go down in holiday history!”

With that, Wade practically skipped toward the building, humming an off-key and very deliberate rendition of Ode to Joy. Logan groaned, the sound carrying the weight of a man who’d just been forced into a poorly wrapped gift exchange. He pinched the bridge of his nose, muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “Merry fucking Christmas,” and trudged after him, boots crunching against the frosty ground.

Wade crouched in front of the security panel, tools scattered haphazardly on the ground beside him. His hands worked with alarming speed, twisting wires and jabbing at the delicate mechanisms like a hyperactive raccoon rummaging through a trash bin. All the while, now he hummed the Macarena—loudly and off-key—occasionally breaking into bursts of mumbled lyrics. “Dale a tu cuerpo alegría, Macarena… Fuck, why can’t I get this stupid thing to—oh wait, there it is!” He let out a triumphant cackle, pausing only to wiggle his fingers like a magician about to pull a rabbit out of a hat.

Behind him, Logan stood with his arms crossed, his patience wearing as thin as the soles of his boots. He scanned their surroundings, the dimly lit alley eerily quiet except for Wade's incessant noise. The low hum of nearby streetlights and the occasional distant bark of a dog only added to the oppressive stillness.

“You could just walk in the front door,” Logan muttered, his gravelly voice dripping with irritation as he leaned casually against the wall, one leg bent. “Probably easier."

Wade turned toward Logan, his body language broadcasting an almost theatrical level of offense. He threw up his arms, his red-and-black suit creaking slightly as he gestured wildly, and his mask twitched with disbelieving amusement. His voice, when it came, was pitched in that mock-incredulous tone he favored whenever Logan said something that rubbed him the wrong way. And damn, Logan had excelled at that tonight.

“The front fucking door? Seriously?” Wade demanded, as though Logan had just proposed they stroll into a nunnery wearing clown suits and juggling live grenades. His eyes were practically bugging out behind the mask. “What’s next, we knock? Hand out some goddamn gift baskets to the guards before we waltz in? Where the hell’s the foreplay in that, big guy?” He leaned closer, voice dropping conspiratorially. “Listen, babe, this isn’t just a mission—it’s a goddamn date night.” He put lascivious emphasis on those last two words, like he was savoring them. “A little B&E, a bit of illegal entry”—he paused, wiggling his eyebrows beneath the fabric—“that’s like the fucking aphrodisiac of our relationship, right there. Without it, we’re just two dudes loitering around a fortress. Lame as shit, if you ask me.”

Logan, rolling his eyes so hard he might have pulled a muscle, released a gruff, weary groan that spoke volumes. He’d seen this routine a hundred times over—Wade’s incessant, high-octane energy, peppered with enough F-bombs to level a small city. And yet here he was, still somehow tethered to the merc’s side. “You’re exhausting,” he said, each syllable dragged through sandpaper, his patience stretched thin.

A twisted, mocking grin split Wade’s face, warping into something both delighted and diabolical. “And you’re fucking old,” he retorted without missing a beat, like he’d been waiting weeks to drop that line. The door’s security panel flickered green and emitted a crisp beep, the deadbolts sliding back with a metallic thud. “Boom!” Wade cried, throwing his arms in the air triumphantly. “Who’s the badass now? That’s right—moi, motherfucker!”

As he pushed the door inward, Wade strutted through like he owned the place, the high-tech hallway stretching out under harsh fluorescent lights. The corridor had that sterile smell—disinfectant, burnt wiring, and the faint tang of metal. Logan followed him in, every sense on edge, nostrils flaring as he tested the air. His eyes swept over the bland, featureless walls, the distant hum of HVAC units, the crisp echoes of their footsteps. Danger lurked somewhere ahead, he could feel it.

“Still me,” Logan muttered, low and grim, reaffirming his own steady competence in the face of Wade’s theatrics.

Wade ignored him, pulling a crumpled, grease-stained piece of paper from his pocket, squinting at the barely legible scribbles he called a plan. “Alright, vault’s down this hall. We’ve got a laser grid—fuck yeah, a real laser grid, by the way—then a couple of rent-a-cops who probably can’t shoot for shit, and then this lock so complicated it makes your little Swiss Army claws look like a kid’s craft project.”

Logan raised a single eyebrow, unimpressed. “Laser grid?”

“Oh, hell yes,” Wade said, his grin spreading so wide it looked borderline painful, like a kid seeing presents under the tree on Christmas morning. “Some real Mission Impossible shit, my man. I’m talking acrobatics, sweat glistening like tinsel on the ol’ bod, maybe a slow-motion flip or two if I’m feeling spicy. You know, the kind of holiday magic that gets the ladies—or in my case, the fellas—hot and bothered.”

Logan rolled his eyes, his patience thinner than holiday wrapping paper. “You’re full of shit.”

“Excuse me?” Wade shot back, clutching his chest like Logan had just insulted his dead mother. “I am full of charm, wit, and possibly that expired Taco Bell from yesterday. But shit? No, sir. I’ll have you know, this laser grid is my time to shine, grumpy pants. Now, try to keep up—or don’t. I’m not your babysitter.”

Without waiting for a response, Wade darted ahead, moving with an energy that could only be described as caffeine-fueled chaos. Logan followed at a slower, measured pace, dragging his boots along the cold, sterile floor.

When they reached the entrance to the laser grid, Wade spun on his heel, his entire body practically humming with excitement. He slapped his palms together, a gleam in his eye that screamed this is going to be so goddamn stupid.

“Alright, honey badger,” Wade began, his voice dripping with theatrical flair, “prepare to witness the greatest fucking show on Earth. Wade Wilson, a.k.a. the Merc with the Abs, a.k.a. your favorite pain in the ass, is about to bend, twist, and contort his ridiculously flexible body through a high-tech field of death lasers. For free! I mean, who the fuck needs Vegas when you’ve got me?”

Logan crossed his arms, leaning casually against the wall, the faint glow of red and green security lights casting a soft hue across the dim hallway. “Are you gonna talk all night, or are you actually gonna do something?”

“Patience, Daddy,” Wade shot back with a wink, the faint jingling of bells on his utility belt—because of course he’d added bells—echoing faintly. “You don’t rush perfection. Now, sit back, relax, and watch as I make these lasers my bitch. Call it my holiday miracle.”

Without another word, Wade launched himself into the grid, his body moving with an absurd combination of grace and insanity. He twisted and flipped through the crisscrossing beams, his commentary sprinkled with festive flair.

“Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, eat your hearts out!" Wade muttered, barely dodging a laser with an exaggerated spin. "I’m the real MVP of this Christmas caper!”

Logan sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’re gonna end up a charred ornament if you keep this up.”

“Charred but festive,” Wade shot back mid-flip, a grin plastered on his face as he continued to maneuver through the glowing red maze.

“Oh, fuck me sideways—this one’s tighter than my ex’s leather pants. Whoa! Almost lost a nut there. You see that, Logan? You watching? You better be fucking watching, because this—oh shit, that was close—this is some artistic genius right here!”

By the time Wade reached the other side, he struck a dramatic pose, arms spread wide as if he’d just won an Olympic medal. “Ta-da! Who’s your daddy now, huh? Say it, Logan. Say, ‘Wade, you magnificent bastard, I bow to your superior laser-dodging skills.’ Go on. I’ll wait.”

Logan didn’t even flinch. Instead, he stared at Wade with a deadpan expression, his arms still crossed. “Deactivate the damn grid.”

Wade grinned, his eyes twinkling with mischief like the lights on a freshly decorated tree. “Your wish is my command, Mr. Fuzzy Pants.” With a dramatic flourish, he tapped a button on the nearby control panel, the lasers powering down with a faint hum that reminded him of holiday lights flickering off after a long night. He gestured grandly toward the now-clear hallway, his grin as smug as a kid who just peeked at his presents.

“After you, grandpa.”

Logan grunted, waiting until Wade deactivated the grid completely before stepping forward. His movements were calm and deliberate, like someone unwrapping a gift they weren’t entirely sure they wanted. The intricate maze of lasers that had Wade practically bouncing with adrenaline didn’t faze him in the slightest.

“Impressive,” Logan deadpanned as he stepped through unscathed, his tone as flat as a holiday card from someone you barely know. “You’ve got a future in circus work.”

“Goddamn right, I do,” Wade said, spinning on his heel to face him, a shit-eating grin plastered across his face. He extended his hand dramatically, palm up, as if waiting for applause. “Step right up, folks! Feast your eyes on the world’s most flexible, most charming, most devastatingly handsome sword-swinging motherfucker this side of the apocalypse.”

Logan sighed heavily, rubbing a hand down his face. “Just get on with it.”

“Fine, Dad. Merry Christmas to you too,” Wade quipped, rolling his eyes with exaggerated flair before grabbing Logan’s hand in both of his own and yanking him down the hall. “Now, let’s go kick some ass and maybe commit a light sprinkling of felonies. You know, festive bonding shit.”

As they moved deeper into the facility, the sterile, fluorescent-lit corridor stretched ahead of them, the silence broken only by the soft hum of the overhead lights.

Then came the sound of footsteps—heavy, deliberate, and closing in fast. Wade grinned, tightening his grip on his katanas. “Looks like Santa brought us some company, claws. Let’s deck some halls, huh?”

Logan didn’t need any encouragement. With a low growl, he unsheathed his claws, the sharp snikt echoing through the corridor as he stepped forward, his body coiled like a predator ready to strike. He moved like a force of nature, silent and precise, as he closed the distance to the first guard. A single slash of his claws sent the man’s weapon clattering to the floor, disarmed and incapacitated in one swift motion.

“Efficient,” Wade muttered, watching Logan’s attack with mock approval as he spun to face the second guard. “But boring as fuck. Allow me to demonstrate a little pizzazz.”

With that, Wade sprang into action, his body a blur of chaotic, almost balletic movement. He twirled his katanas with an unnecessary flourish, the blades catching the harsh light as he closed the gap between himself and the second guard.

“Hi there, asshole!” Wade greeted brightly, dodging the guard’s swing with an exaggerated lean that would have looked ridiculous on anyone else. “Just here to fuck up your night and, oh, probably your face too.”

He spun around the guard, his katanas slicing through the air with precision as he disarmed the man in a series of movements so unnecessarily theatrical they resembled a choreographed dance. “What’s the matter? Not a fan of my interpretive violence routine? It’s called ‘Death by Sexy,’ and you’re the star of tonight’s performance!”

Logan glanced over his shoulder just in time to see Wade land a sharp kick to the guard’s chest, sending him sprawling to the floor. Wade stood over the fallen man, tapping the flat of one blade against his shoulder as if considering his next move.

“You know,” Wade mused aloud, his tone conversational as though they were discussing the weather, “I could totally just knock you out and call it a day, but where’s the fun in that? So, here’s what’s gonna happen. I’m gonna—”

“Wade,” Logan growled, cutting him off with an impatient glare. “We don’t have time for your goddamn monologues.”

“Fucking killjoy,” Wade muttered under his breath, rolling his eyes as he turned and tossed the second guard’s weapon down the hallway with the flourish of someone tossing an ornament onto a tree. “Fine, fine. Ass officially kicked. Happy now, Mr. Buzzkill?”

Logan grunted in response, already moving toward the next objective with the determination of someone trying to beat the holiday rush. Wade twirled his katanas one last time before sheathing them with a flair so dramatic it could have been mistaken for a festive ribbon flourish. He glanced back at the groaning guards behind him, a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

“Don’t worry, boys. You’ll have plenty of time to recover while reminiscing about how badly I whooped your asses. Consider it my early Christmas gift to you. You’re welcome!”

Wade crouched over the unconscious guard sprawled on the cold concrete floor, his hands moving with the speed and precision of someone who had done this far too many times. His fingers rifled through the guard’s jacket pockets, then dipped into his pants pockets without an ounce of hesitation. “Jesus Christ, what are these uniforms made of? Kevlar and shame? Fuck, does he not have a goddamn keycard? Come on, pal, don’t make me dig in your underwear. Although, knowing me, I’d make it work.”

With a triumphant shout, Wade yanked a thin, rectangular card out of an inner pocket. He leapt to his feet, holding it aloft like he’d just won the fucking lottery. “Ha! Found it! God, I’m amazing. I mean, really, Logan, sometimes I even impress myself. And I do not impress easily.” He spun around to face Logan, tossing the keycard at him with an exaggerated flick of his wrist. Logan caught it mid-air, his stoic expression unchanging.

“Here, Mr. Responsible,” Wade continued, a wide, shit-eating grin plastered across his face. “Open the damn vault so we can bask in the glory of my brilliance. And maybe get you a personality transplant while we’re at it. You’re welcome.”

Logan rolled his eyes, grumbling under his breath as he approached the reader. He swiped the keycard through with practiced ease, and the door let out a sharp hiss before sliding open to reveal a room that looked straight out of a billionaire’s wet dream.

The walls were lined with shelves overflowing with priceless artifacts—ancient sculptures, glittering jewels, stacks of cash neatly bundled in plastic. But Wade didn’t even glance at any of it. His eyes zeroed in on the back of the room, where a single pedestal sat under a spotlight, cradling what had to be the most unremarkable object in the entire building: a dusty VHS tape.

“There it is,” Wade whispered, his voice dropping an octave into something almost reverent. The snark vanished from his tone as he took a cautious step forward, like approaching a rare, endangered animal. His boots scuffed against the floor as he crossed the room, his fingers twitching with anticipation.

He reached the pedestal and gingerly picked up the tape, holding it with the kind of care usually reserved for newborns or rare, fragile artifacts. “Die Hard,” he breathed, his eyes wide and glittering with awe. “In fucking Esperanto. I’ve done it. My life is complete. I can die happy now."

Logan crossed his arms, watching Wade with a mixture of disbelief and faint amusement, his gruff voice laced with dry sarcasm. "This is what we risked our lives for?"

“Hell. Fucking. Yeah,” Wade shot back, his tone dripping with giddy defiance as he clutched the VHS tape to his chest like it was the Ark of the Covenant. He pressed it to his cheek, letting out an exaggerated sigh. “You see this, boo? This isn’t just a VHS tape—it’s a goddamn piece of history. Bruce Willis should canonize me for this shit. I’m a fucking hero.”

Logan exhaled deeply, shaking his head. “You’re an idiot, that’s what you are.”

“Idiocy,” Wade began, holding up a finger like a smug professor about to deliver a lecture, “is just another word for courage… said no one, ever, but fuck it. Let’s roll with it. Now, let’s blow this popsicle stand before one of those drones grows a pair and tries to roast my jingle bells.”

With the tape tucked securely under one arm, Wade led the charge out of the building, his red suit catching the faint glow of a string of twinkling holiday lights strung haphazardly along a guard’s desk. He darted through the hallways with the kind of reckless confidence that only he could pull off, humming Jingle Bell Rock under his breath. Logan followed behind, grumbling like a grizzled Scrooge, his claws at the ready in case anyone dared interrupt their escape.

“You know,” Wade called over his shoulder, “this would be way more festive if the guards were wearing little Santa hats or, like, had candy cane batons. Missed opportunity, really. Corporate America, I tell ya, no imagination these days.”

Logan groaned. “Can you shut up for five seconds?”

“Not a chance, Frosty. Someone’s gotta keep the holiday spirit alive while you brood your way through the halls of Ho-Ho-Horrors.” Wade threw a glance back, smirking. “And let me just say, your claws would make excellent stocking stuffers. Bet you never thought of that.”

The duo narrowly avoided a hovering drone, Wade hurling an impressive string of profanities at it as they ducked around a corner. “Nice try, motherfucker! You can’t touch this. I’m like MC Hammer but with better abs and a hotter ass.” He flipped the bird at the camera mounted on the drone, holding it in place just a second too long as Logan physically dragged him toward the exit.

Once they burst onto the street, Wade threw his arms up like he’d just won the goddamn Super Bowl. “Freedom! Sweet, glorious freedom! And tacos!” He turned to Logan with a grin that was almost manic. “We’re celebrating. Right now. No ifs, ands, or grumpy fucking buts.”

Logan scowled, already regretting the inevitable. “You can’t be serious.”

“Oh, but I am. Serious as your stupidly furrowed brow. We just survived death drones, laser grids, and at least three guards who probably hate their lives as much as you do. We earned this.” Wade was already halfway down the snowy street, his boots crunching against the frost-dusted pavement as he gestured wildly for Logan to follow. “Come on, big guy. Tacos wait for no man—or holiday!”

The faint glimmer of string lights from a nearby shop window cast a warm glow on the icy sidewalk, and Logan muttered a string of curses under his breath as he trudged after Wade. They arrived at a rickety taco stand nestled into the corner of a dimly lit block, its small garland of blinking red and green lights blinking unevenly around the menu board. The smell of sizzling meat, freshly chopped cilantro, and a hint of cinnamon from a nearby street vendor selling roasted nuts filled the air. Wade practically threw himself at the counter, his breath fogging in the cold night as he bounced on the balls of his feet.

“Look at this!” Wade exclaimed, pointing at the menu board decorated with a crooked paper snowflake. “Festive and delicious. It's a Christmas miracle, Claws! Alright, listen up, my tortilla-wielding saviors,” Wade began, addressing the taco stand workers with a dramatic flourish. “I need three carne asadas, four pollo, two of whatever the fuck is on special, extra guac on everything, and enough hot sauce to set my intestines on fire. Oh, and throw in a churro. Daddy’s feeling fancy tonight.”

The man behind the counter gave him a long, skeptical look, then glanced at Logan, who stood a few feet away with his arms crossed and a look of weary resignation on his face. “Is he for real?” the worker asked.

“Unfortunately,” Logan replied, his voice as flat as the griddle behind the counter, the faint hum of Christmas music in the background doing little to soften his tone.

“Damn right I’m for real,” Wade interjected, slapping a hand against the counter with enough force to rattle the nearby pepper shaker adorned with a festive Santa hat. “Do I look like a man who messes around when it comes to tacos? No. I am the fucking Michelangelo of taco consumption. Watch and learn, Logan.”

“You’re addicted to this crap,” Logan muttered, shaking his head as Wade’s excitement only seemed to grow, his eyes darting to a tacky string of blinking red and green lights strung along the edge of the counter.

“And you’re addicted to me,” Wade shot back, flashing him a wink so exaggerated it looked like his entire face might cramp.

Logan responded with a low grunt, the kind that could mean anything—annoyance, reluctant agreement, or just sheer disbelief at the bullshit he willingly put up with. Wade, however, chose to interpret it as an admission of undying love, and his grin widened.

The pair sat at a rickety, graffiti-covered outdoor table, the kind that screamed health code violation waiting to happen. A string of mismatched lights dangled above them, flickering sporadically like they couldn’t decide whether to commit to functioning or give up entirely. The air smelled of grease, stale beer, and a faint hint of desperation—all of which Wade found utterly intoxicating.

While Logan sat nursing his beer, Wade dove headfirst into a towering plate of tacos with the finesse of a rabid animal. Salsa dripped down his chin, a stray piece of lettuce clung to his mask, and his suit bore the brunt of a guacamole explosion. He didn’t seem to care—or notice.

“This,” Wade said around a mouthful of food, gesturing wildly with a half-eaten taco, “is what fucking happiness looks like, Logan. You see this shit? Pure, unadulterated joy. You wouldn’t get it, though, Mr. Brood-and-Scowl. You’re probably allergic to happiness. Or maybe tacos. Or both. Wouldn’t fucking surprise me.”

Logan shook his head, his lips twitching as if he were holding back a smile. “You’re a goddamn tornado,” he muttered, watching Wade tear through another taco like it had personally insulted him. His voice carried that familiar mix of exasperation and the barest hint of amusement, like he couldn’t decide whether to punch Wade or laugh at him.

Wade froze mid-chew, one hand dramatically clutching his chest. He swallowed hard, then smacked the table with his free hand, making the plates rattle. “A tornado? A fucking tornado? You wound me, Logan. I prefer to think of myself as a hurricane of brilliance. Or maybe a fucking earthquake of charm. But a tornado? That’s just low. Low, even for you, you hairy fuck.”

Logan raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “You done?”

“Not even close,” Wade shot back, waving a taco in Logan’s direction for emphasis. “You think you’re so goddamn cool with your grumpy-ass lumberjack aesthetic and your gravelly ‘I don’t give a shit’ attitude. But deep down, you fucking love this. Admit it. You love the chaos. You love me.” He punctuated the last word with a wink so lewd it should’ve been illegal, his eyes twinkling like festive holiday lights.

Logan leaned back in his chair, taking a slow, deliberate sip of his beer. “You’re exhausting.”

“And you’re predictable,” Wade quipped, pointing at him with a greasy finger. “But here we are. You. Me. Tacos. The fucking dream team. So shut up and enjoy the goddamn night, Logan."

Logan let out a low chuckle, shaking his head as Wade grinned triumphantly, bits of cilantro still clinging to his teeth like tiny festive ornaments.

When they finally stumbled back to the apartment, the building's flickering hallway light cast ominous shadows on the chipped walls, reminiscent of a run-down advent calendar with doors you weren’t quite sure you wanted to open. Wade fished out his keys with a dramatic flourish, jingling them like sleigh bells before unlocking the door. "Welcome to Casa de Fuckery," he proclaimed, throwing the door open as if unveiling a surprise Christmas morning gift—one you’d definitely want to return.

He waltzed inside, immediately kicking his boots off with enough force to send one sailing into the corner and the other smacking into the wall with a dull thud, narrowly missing a string of fairy lights haphazardly draped over a coat rack. "Make yourself at home—just don’t touch anything sharp, sticky, or suspiciously festive. Actually, fuck it. Touch whatever you want. Mi casa, su casa, claws. Consider it my gift to you, ya grinch."

Logan followed him in, the scent of old takeout and something vaguely metallic hitting his nose like a brick wall. He scowled at the sight of the familiar chaos: half-empty soda cans, mismatched furniture that looked like it had been salvaged from a dumpster fire, and what appeared to be a katana propped up in an empty cereal box. "You live like this?" Logan grumbled, his gravelly voice dripping with disapproval as he scanned the disaster zone.

"Live? No, no, no, I thrive like this," Wade shot back, flopping onto the couch with a loud groan, as if he’d just completed the hardest mission of his life. He held up the VHS tape with both hands like it was the Holy Grail, his eyes wide with faux reverence. "And tonight, my hairy, judgmental friend, we transcend. You ready for some top-tier, grade-A, primo-ass Die Hard magic? The Esperanto dub. Fucking cultural enlightenment, baby."

Logan didn’t answer right away, choosing instead to step over a pile of suspiciously crusty laundry and head toward the fridge. He yanked the door open with a grunt, scanning the sparse contents: three beers, an unmarked Tupperware container he refused to investigate, and what appeared to be an expired jar of pickles. He grabbed two beers, cracking one open as he turned back to Wade.

"Beer me, claws!" Wade called from the couch, patting the cushion beside him. "Come on, don’t be shy. There’s room in this magical shit show for the both of us."

Logan trudged over, handing one of the bottles to Wade. Their fingers brushed briefly, and Wade raised an eyebrow, shooting Logan a smirk that was half-amused, half-suggestive. "Ooh, hand-touching. Scandalous. Next thing you know, we’re picking out curtains together. Fucking domestic bliss, am I right?"

Logan ignored the jab, muttering something unintelligible under his breath as he sat down beside him, keeping a small but deliberate amount of space between them. Wade cracked open his beer with a flourish, spilling a bit of foam onto his already stained shirt. He didn’t care, taking a long swig before setting the bottle on the cluttered coffee table, right next to a half-eaten chimichanga.

"So," Wade began, holding the VHS tape up again and turning it over like he was examining a priceless artifact. "You think Bruce Willis knew, in his balding, action-hero glory, that one day his masterpiece would be immortalized in the motherfucking universal language of love? Because I’m telling you, claws, this is fate. This is destiny. This is what we were put on this Earth to do tonight."

Logan shrugged, his expression a perfect mix of boredom and mild irritation. "Just put the damn tape in."

"Patience, Grandpa!" Wade said, wagging a finger at him before hopping up from the couch with more energy than anyone should have after the night they’d had. "This isn’t just a movie. It’s an experience, like sipping hot cocoa by the fire or listening to Mariah Carey on repeat—festive as hell, and experiences take fucking time. Now sit tight while I find the VCR… which is probably under one of these pizza boxes. Or tangled up in those Christmas lights I was totally going to hang. Shit, I don’t even know anymore."

Wade eventually came bounding back into the room, triumphantly holding the dust-covered VCR aloft like it was the Holy Grail. “Behold, motherfuckin’ technology!” he declared, his voice practically vibrating with excitement. “This baby right here? State-of-the-art. Cutting edge. Straight outta the dark ages when people had to rewind shit by hand. By hand, Logan. Do you even comprehend the barbarity?”

Logan, who had been nursing a beer and silently questioning all his life choices under the soft glow of a string of mismatched Christmas lights Wade had half-assedly strung around the living room, grunted noncommittally. “Just plug it in, Wade.”

“Plug it in, Wade,” Wade mimicked in a high-pitched voice, sticking out his tongue as he crouched in front of the TV, his red-and-green socks peeking out from under his pants. “Bossy-ass lumberjack, can’t even appreciate the holiday miracle that is vintage porn—err, I mean, cinema. You’re lucky I love you, you grumpy Christmas tree of a man.”

“Love’s a strong word,” Logan muttered, watching Wade wrestle with the VCR like it was a rabid reindeer.

“Yeah, well, so is fuck you, but I haven’t said that to you yet tonight, so maybe write that in your letter to Santa,” Wade shot back, finally jamming the VCR into place with a loud clunk. “There. Merry fucking Christmas, Panasonic.”

The merc-with-a-mouth grabbed the remote and flopped onto the couch beside Logan with zero grace, sprawling out like he owned the place. His boots hung off the armrest, one sock was mysteriously missing, and there was already a suspicious smudge of salsa on his shirt from earlier. “Alright, Logie Bear, let’s get this cinematic fuckfest rolling,” Wade said, jabbing at the remote. “Prepare to have your hairy little mind blown.”

Logan leaned back, resting his arm along the top of the couch as the screen flickered to life with a low hum. Wade shifted closer, shoving Logan’s thigh with his elbow until Logan sighed and adjusted his arm, letting it settle over Wade’s shoulders.

“See? That’s more like it,” Wade muttered, leaning into him with a satisfied grunt. “Big ol’ grump finally giving in to my snuggly charms. You’re a goddamn marshmallow, admit it.”

“Shut up, Wade,” Logan said, but his tone lacked any real bite. His fingers tightened slightly on Wade’s shoulder, pulling him closer as the opening credits of Die Hard began to roll.

Wade exhaled, his body sinking into Logan’s side like he belonged there. His head rested against Logan’s chest, and for once, his mouth stopped moving. Almost.

“You know,” Wade whispered after a moment, absently running his fingers over Logan’s knee in slow, deliberate patterns, “Bruce Willis should’ve won, like, a thousand Oscars for this shit. Fuckin’ masterpiece. I mean, Die Hard in Esperanto? This is the goddamn pinnacle of human achievement. Screw the moon landing.”

Logan smirked, his gaze fixed on the screen, the faint twinkle of Christmas lights from the corner of the room casting a soft glow. “Thought you were gonna shut up.”

“And miss the opportunity to enlighten you with my superior holiday-themed film commentary? Ho, ho, hell no.” Wade raised his beer in a dramatic toast, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper as snowflakes danced silently outside the window. “Yippee-ki-yay, motherfucker.”

Logan couldn’t suppress the low chuckle that rumbled in his chest as he clinked his bottle gently against Wade’s. “Yippee-ki-yay, Wade.”

The warm glow of the TV flickered over them, mingling with the soft hum of the movie and the faint scent of pine from the slightly crooked tree in the corner. Wade leaned just a little closer, his head brushing against Logan’s shoulder, and Logan didn’t pull away. Instead, his arm shifted ever so slightly, settling around Wade’s back in a gesture of quiet affection.

In that moment, the chaos of their lives seemed to melt into the background, like the last traces of snow on a fire-lit street. The room was filled with nothing but the soft murmur of dialogue, the glow of twinkling lights, and the quiet comfort of each other’s presence. For Logan, as he held Wade just a little closer, that was more than enough.

[cool-abed-filmz]

so i’ve been going on a *bit* of a x-men binge (re) watch (re watch cuz i’ve already seen first class - apocalypse and the deadpool movies) and i made it to x men origins

first of all i love weapon 11 unironically, is he a good adaptation of wade wilson no is he sick as fuck still at least to me yes. i also unironically really love this movie i had a fun time with it!!! it’s definitely in my top 3 next to first class and x2

and in the wake of deadclaws / poolverine renaissance (cuz ik the ship has been around for a WHILE) and me watching x men origins, i personally wish that more deadclaws writers wrote angsty as fuck deadclaws x men origins au’s

because look at this shit

FOR CONTEXT : stryker was killing all these mutants to collect their dna to inject into wade’s body to make weapon 11, all he needs left is logan. but he’s helping the other mutants stryker has escape. so he socks weapon 11 on him. they fight on the top of the facility. it’s explicitly shown that stryker is CONTROLLING wade like a fucking RC car to attack logan. he stabs his two long katana like claws through logan and that’s where we get these shots.

look at the fucking pain in wade’s eyes. that’s not the face someone who’s completely mind controlled would make. somewhere in that noggin of his is the real wade and he doesn’t like what he sees, it’s almost like he doesn’t want to do this to logan at all.

[ronearoundblindly]

The Right Partner (2/3)

Steve Rogers x lab tech!Reader

Take My Whole Life, Too, Part One (see previous or series)

Summary: Your honeymoon with Steve Rogers begins.

Warnings for vague smut (don't worry, I make up for it in pt2), cuteass!Steeb being extra, unrealistic adorable sh*t, and my complete lack of shame about it. MINORS DNI. There is plenty for you to read on my Light Masterlist instead, but this one isn't for you! WC 3.1k

It’s bright and loud.

Well, there is light—a pale blue that gnaws at your heavy eyelids—and the song of birds.

The birds are, frankly, irrationally aggressive even for late morning.

You groan and turn over toward the inside of the tent, hoping for an hour more of darkness, maybe two.

Dehydrated. That’s what this heavy, sluggish feeling is. You should have had twice the water you managed to drink yesterday. No one would fault you for having other priorities on your wedding day though.

Your fingers branch out to find the bed empty.

From your exposed shoulder beyond the comforter, you gauge it is quite chilly here wherever you are. You didn’t even ask Steve if he found out what state (or country) you two landed in. Who cares? You burrow deeper, peeking over the thick quilted seam to see—

“What are you doing?”

Steve’s back is to you when you hear a metallic clatter in the utility sink. He whips around in just his boxers, raising a hand to cover his mouth and garble out “nothing.”

You’re prone and below eye level to the countertop, so you sit up to look while Steve poorly hides his sin by leaning over the surface.

He swallows heavily.

“You want some tea,” he rushes to ask in a failingly casual tone. “I’ve got water heating.”

“Steven Grant Rogers,” you jump up to stand on the mattress, knocking your head against the springy ceiling, and step down. “Are you eating our wedding cake without me?”

“You wouldn’t even give me some yesterday,” he whines, placing himself protectively between your approach and the confection. His guilty brows raise with sincerity.

“Oh, please! You got cake, and then you—” you poke his bare chest, glancing at the now quarter-demolished top tier “—you complained it wasn’t your flavor!”

“But…” Steve simply points. No other words come to mind based on his still-stunned expression.

“Fine,” you chuckle, relaxing to stretch your large sweater over your chilled hands and thighs, “I won’t tell anyone you’re nothing but a little sweets-thief. Hot tea sounds lovely though.”

“Allow me,” he smiles and leans in for a kiss, tasting of sugar and lemon like the night you got engaged, the night you first…oof. After just one reminder, the sweater is suddenly plenty warm.

“Thank you.”

The flood of mental images rushes from your brain, down your body, to your full bladder.

Next stop: the bathroom.

While he sorts out your morning boost, you chug a bottle of water to help with the rough, sluggish feeling weighing on you. No soreness though, which is good.

Steve returns triumphant with a camping mug and steeping, steaming wakeup juice, and you give him your own soft peck on his cheek.

No doubt he continues his dessert for breakfast the instant you step out to use the facilities aboard the jet. Good, he deserves all the cake, as much as he wants, whenever he wants.

The tiny mirror isn’t as scary as you thought it would be, but you do have to rummage around for a few straggling hairpins. A splash of cool water on your face just before you emerge is more refreshing than expected, too. The day is fresh, you are fresh, and your marriage is fresh.

You cradle the mug in your palms, making to leave, when your gown catches your eye hanging at the locker closest to the ramp, right beside Steve’s uniform.

Yesterday feels like the most wonderful, blinding blur.

All the military men (and women) wore their first uniforms, and you have to admit it created a sharp-looking bunch. Geeta’s uniform was only from nine years ago, Wilson’s just over fifteen, Rhodes’s nearly thirty, and of course, Steve and Bucky’s come in at eighty years old. Not shockingly, their uniforms were replicas, but the boys were very picky about the details.

Gracie, Natasha, Ro, Pepper, Tony and Bruce all kept their fancy dress within the same neutral palette. Morgan and Felicity were flower (leaf) girls. Standing at the alter as a bride, a groom, and their ‘besties,’ you amassed a punk, a jerk, a nerd, and a Booboo.

Your subdued red, white, and blue gown made the boldest statement of the day.

You were so worried yesterday morning. You thought the statement would read as if you were devoting yourself to an ideal, harping that you are in some ways ‘Misses America,’ but it’s more than that. You didn’t want to walk down that aisle and sign over who you are, to belong to someone else, even someone as magnificent as Steve Rogers.

Then you saw his face.

That man belongs to you as much as you belong to him. The look of pure, undiluted, delighted adoration nearly knocked you over. You’re lucky you made it through your vows. You melted inside to help your poor, fumbling Sketch with his own speech. Bucky winked once you finally got his buddy to the important bit.

Then that kiss.

Gosh, all this time you thought maybe the desperate heat of your first kiss in an evacuated AvIn hallway couldn’t be recreated—much less topped—but you were wrong. The boning in your bodice is the real hero, that’s for sure. Girl’s gotta have good support when it counts.

Speaking of being weak for a man, you think, sipping at hot tea, better get back in there. That, plus your legs are freezing.

A polaroid snaps the instant you cross the zip-up threshold, along with praises of your beauty. You blink rapidly but smile.

“What’s that?”

“Your wedding present,” Steve beams. He fakes a frown at your following ‘we weren’t doing presents’ look. “Not big ones. They’re just for fun.”

He picks up another Canon film camera, a hefty black and silver thing from his hard-sided suitcase, and hands it to you.

“Thought they’d be nice for the trip.”

You weigh it in your hands, eye the Polaroid, then switch with Steve.

“That one’s more of an artsy-fartsy Sketch thing,” you say, stepping around him with your new toy, rushing to grab toasty sweatpants from your own bag.

As you bend over to pull out the garment though, you hear a mechanical click and whip around.

Steve still faces away from you, but his head is slightly turned and he softly whistles, so of course, you lift your Polaroid and snap a picture of his ass, too. He wrinkles his nose, looking over his shoulder with an unhidden smile. You shake out the photo card provocatively while he suits up for the fireside in a sweater and jeans.

He glances at the developed shot and, seeming satisfied, plants one more kiss on your forehead.

He hums as he holds up his picture of you entering the tent, thumb tracing the line of your hip exposed like it was on the glossy magazine pages after your bear debacle.

“Yes, ‘m out there distracting all the wild animals,” you joke.

“It’s working,” he mutters. “Hungry, Misses Rogers?”

Yeah, you think, but you’ll need fewer clothes again. Instead, your stomach gurgles in response.

“Why? Do I finally get some cake?”

“Just a taste.” He kisses your lips, which you lick immediately after. “But I was thinking more like eggs. The fire’s ready.”

Your stomach growls louder. “Shhh, peanut gallery.”

Steve puts a hand over your stomach, chuckling. “At least she’s honest.”

The light pressure of his wide palm lingers even when he steps out to the camp ground. It triggers a potent flash of life with him.

You’ve spoken about kids and it will happen (or at least you’ll try) in due course, but he’s come home from missions with doubts about bringing children up in this world. What matters to both of you is having each other, and you know he’d be enough good and love for your lifetime. Even though you can always revisit the issue, that deep flutter ravages your gut while you watch him cook breakfast.

With another hunger pang, you remember how your stomach voicing her opinion is one of the reasons you’re together. One, solitary growl started the first real night of hanging out with Steve. Without it, he wouldn’t have shared a leftover meal (and cake—hint, hint, buddy), he wouldn’t have let you in his apartment, he wouldn’t have driven you and your car home the next morning, and he wouldn’t have given you some of his own clothes to wear.

You pull the sleeves of his sweater over your chilling hands and bury your nose in the fabric, inhaling deeply.

You wonder which one of those incidental, accidental moments was the tipping point, whether removing just one experience of you would have stopped Steve from seeing you, stopped him from loving you.

After a while, you pick up the polaroid. You can see his ease through the lens. Steve is in his element, chatting away while preparing a meal, planning what you two can do together next, complimenting how you look in his sweatpants and meaning it so profusely that his eyes light up whenever he looks your way.

You thought you caught it on camera, all of him, all of his happiness, but the shot isn’t close enough to do it justice. Your heart will just have to remember.

Yes, Steve Rogers on his own is more than enough. He is the gift. He’s your treasure.

You can’t decide what you want to do next, but a strong shiver running through you gives a hint: get warm.

Eggs are a good start.

When the food is done, Steve refills your tea and makes his own.

You snuggle up into the covers of the bed again, leaning your head into the dip of Steve’s sternum, using your furnace husband to full effect. The birds aren’t so annoying now. The air is so crisp and refreshing, laced with the smell of Steve’s skin. The rise and fall of his chest is so soothing as you sip and ponder the future.

Steve fiddles with the dials on the vintage camera above you. That’s the last thing you remember before waking up again, this time wrapped in his warm, toasty arms.

For once, he hasn’t woken up yet. He’s stretched, out-cold and perfectly content, unmoving as you wiggle out of the covers.

He never rests in the middle of the day, so you have to capture his sleepy form, eyes still tucked beneath the comforter, keeping the light out for just a little longer. He’s so beautiful.

Your husband is so beautiful.

Steve desperately wants to take the wedding presents for a spin out in the woods, so the afternoon is entirely consumed by a hike.

The Polaroid makes too much noise for wildlife and can’t focus on the tinier details among the branches and leaves, so you settle for jotting down some fanciful descriptions that come to mind and watch him sneak closer to birds, bugs, and color-changing foliage.

He gets so distracted with excitement that you two walk much farther than intended. Steve insists on carrying you the last few miles of your return, and you spend the entire piggyback ride with your chin tucked over his shoulder, your cheek against his neck, quietly discussing what you’d like to change in your lives now that you’re officially married.

Nothing. The answer is nothing.

Nothing needs to change because you two are the exact same people as forty-eight hours ago. Perhaps the rings on your fingers mean more for your life, but they just transmuted the love already in existence to matter.

Steve’s bright blue eyes go dreamy with philosophizing.

Your husband is beautiful, smelling of fresh air and optimism.

Steve refuses to miss another sunset, so you two lay in the hammock before lighting your evening fire.

You snuggle and chat, teasing each other, telling stories. You watch the Milky Way bloom to life above you.

Something Steve never figured out was how the Team knew about his plan to propose. He’s been going over it and over it, but he can’t see where he gave himself away. Steve says, when he asked Bucky yesterday in the men’s ready room, Bucky smirked.

Apparently, Steve, only once while you two dated, told his friend “there’s an order to these things,” and that was enough. Buck knew Steve’s intentions immediately, watching for the signs, the clues. Everyone understands that for a long time now Steve has resented his birthday is a holiday—not in a disrespectful way, but it annoys him that the day is already a big, loud affair,—and the whole group guessed (correctly) Steve would rather replace the symbolism with his own meaning.

“And hey,” Steve rumbles, faking Tony’s nonchalance as he quotes the billionaire playboy, “if you chickened out, fireworks are fireworks.”

His added shrug for effect shifts you and rocks the dangling net.

“Almost did, didn’t you?” you chuckle. “Chicken out?”

Your husband’s whole body tweaks harshly.

“You know I was scared shitless, Keeps! Almost fainted.”

“Or at least fell off your one knee…”

His hands fly up to scrub at his stubbled face, pinning you. “Oh! It was so bad,” he groans.

You sit up carefully in the wobbly fabric of the hammock, barely suppressing more laughter, and pound a flat palm at his chest. “It’s ok, soldier. You got the job done. We got there in the end.”

Steve’s hand covers yours, his peaceful smile glowing in the soft starlight.

He reaches to cradle your cheek, sweeping a delicately callused thumb over your skin.

“I almost can’t believe it,” Steve says quietly.

“Believe what?”

He could mean the beauty of the sky, or that Tony knocked it out of the park with your escape of a honeymoon, or that he didn’t croak instead of getting through all those mental and physical hurtles to be with you. You’re just not sure. Personally, you’ve ‘almost not believed it’ since the Captain America started talking to you, so it’s hard to judge.

Steve doesn’t answer right away. His voice grows even softer. “Happy. That’s all.”

Your heart breaks and mends in an instant.

“You can’t believe you’re happy?”

He goes shy, ducking then raising his gaze even higher towards the treetops. He clears his throat before admitting, “I lead…an unusual life. Not many would want this.”

“I dunno. Seems pretty nice to me,” you giggle.

“Yes, but—“ he pulls you into his chest and squeezes “—I get no guarantees. Not like others. We couldn’t even set a date. We could have been waiting years to get married.”

It’s your turn to shrug.

“You got something else to do?”

“No,” he sighs, “just more of this.” He nudges your body closer and closer to his, until all your arms and legs are tangled together. “As much as possible. I only meant…I love you.

“I love you, and I don’t think I had any faith left that I would find you.”

You. Not someone like you. Not someone for him.

You.

Even without a fire, even without sunlight, even without shelter surrounding you, Steve provides everything you could ever need: heat, comfort, safety. He provides, and it’s only right that he should have the favor returned.

Happiness. That’s what this is. Happiness that wasn’t guaranteed. Happiness that wasn’t expected. Happiness that was hard-earned.

Your muscles shiver and your skin tingles, all with need of him. “Sweetheart,” you whisper, clawing at his sweater.

He knows. He sees. He feels it, too.

When Steve lunges to kiss you though, the hammock swings with your combined weight and tries to topple you.

You giggle and squeal, flipping out and onto the ground with zero grace, and he follows.

Steve crawls over you, starlight and the glow from the tent painting his face in primary colors.

“Here, Mrs. Rogers?” He fakes shock. “In the dirt?”

“You fucked me on that picnic table just last night,” you joke, a dark, taunting edge to your voice which he matches.

Steve leans in again. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t.”

He holds your gaze, his focus flickering to your lips while the crickets’ song roars around you.

It sounds silly after all you’ve done to get Steve out of his shell, but what you crave most in this moment is the familiar, traditional love-making that he offers best. His tenderness leads you on a merry dance not unlike long wilderness walks. He’s consumed by discovery and attention to how you feel in that very second. To him, you change as frequently as the landscape. He yearns to explore what’s the same, what’s new.

Steve never phones-in sex. He never just goes through the motions. Somehow, he makes an art of reevaluating your body, your pleasure, each and every time. He’s the proof vanilla is an infinite flavor.

But…

That doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy the chase.

Steve is leaning in to kiss you when your knee raises to his chest, halting his progress. You bite your lip and scramble to the ‘door’ of the tent. Obviously, he lets you win because he could easily have snatched you into his grasp.

Steve’s laugh stays close, but he follows all the way to the bed.

There’s something to be said about a good ol’ fashioned undressing, garment by garment, that dance of who leads and how much they touch the other as each piece of clothing falls away. Steve’s become a very good dancer.

Nothing is rushed. Nothing is missed.

He doesn’t combine the acts of maneuvering you and dragging open mouth kisses along your skin. He moves you, and then he lingers.

Time spent mapping you is time well spent to Steve Rogers.

You’re drunk on him. High on him. It’s an out-of-body experience that has you watching his broad back curve sharply while he thrusts and traces your collarbone with his tongue, noticing your toes seize up from force of your first orgasm, and admiring how fine his ringed finger looks laced in with yours and pinned over your head.

No one leaves the tent. The evening fire never gets started.

After a long and sweaty fuck in the bed, you’re filthy, gathering food for Steve who’s hungry, following you around with wipes. It’s comical how thoroughly you try to take care of each other.

No. Sit still. No. Let me just grab this. No. Fine. Together?

You two finish the top tier of cake after cleaning off…because Steve Rogers is the most stubborn, beautiful, and optimistic husband.

[Next Part]

[Main Masterlist; Fools Rush In Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

[alchemistc]

goon | bucktommy

THE HOCKEY AU HAS A PROLOGUE

read on ao3

Tommy Kinard is hanging up his skates at the end of the season. It's time. He's ready to move on with his life. He's ready to give his knees a fucking break. The trade to the odds on favorite to win the damn thing this year is just another in a series of trades throughout his career that makes sense - he's there to allow a winning team to unload cap space, he'll get a couple minutes a night in the ramp up to playoffs, he'll retire without fanfare once the season is over. Coach Nash has other plans for him, and the team he's been traded to think he's the bees fucking knees. He's just trying to get through the rest of this season without dragging Evan Buckley into a closet and kissing him breathless.

Tommy’s a little out of breath. That’s to be expected, really — he’s been in town for a day and a half and there’s nothing quite like a practice at elevation with the fastest team in the league to cut his teeth on.

Hen eyes him up as he skates over to the bench to grab at a water bottle. She’s trying to her damndest to hide an amused grin, and failing miserably. “We keep oxygen tanks in medical,” she observes, a little sing-songy, and Tommy doesn’t bother to hide his rolling eyes or the tic in his jaw.

“I’m fine.”

Her face tells him everything he needs to know about how breathless that had sounded.

It’d been nice, finding a familiar face in the crowd after spending twenty minutes getting a tour of the practice facilities from the kid most of the league viewed with a kind of hushed reverence, save for the few who'd lived with the star power long enough to get used to it.

Tommy rarely got star-struck, anymore, but he hadn’t actually expected this years likely Hart recipient to be the first teammate to make contact; to swing by the hotel room to pick him up for practice when Tommy admitted he didn’t even have a rental yet, and he’d likely have to Uber; to walk him through and introduce him as teammates trickled in; to warn him ahead of time that eagle-eyed fans in the stands would definitely notice if his tape didn’t match the white socks still in their packaging laid out on the bottom shelf of the locker where they’d already printed off a name-card for him (”Here, I have an extra roll.”); to grin and shake his head a little when Tommy questioned exactly how many fans were likely to come to a weekday practice at the tail end of January.

Eight years out from the last time he’d seen Henrietta Wilson, calling out a red-faced AHL coach for throwing a kid back out on the ice with clear signs of a concussion, and she’s still not entertaining bullshit. “Okay, my conditioning could use some work.”

Eyebrow up over the rim of her glasses, she grabs for the water bottle and replaces it with a juicebox. Easiest ad placement since Gatorade made a name for themselves in dugouts and on sidelines, but Tommy’s got to admit it’s nice to have this shit so readily available. When he’d first been starting out, drinking anything but water (and maybe a beer between periods) had been considered pansy ass shit. “You’ll get used to the altitude. Not sure you’ll ever catch up to the pace.”

Tommy has no doubt. He hasn’t played against this specific configuration of this team, but they’ve been well known for their breakneck speed for years. He’s not an ungraceful man, but today he’s felt a bit like a baby giraffe trying to keep up with a pack of antelope, lumbering around with limbs that just won’t cooperate (and are probably gonna fucking cramp up the moment he stops moving) and lungs that aren’t taking in enough air to manage the bursts of speed these guys are executing like a light jog on a breezy spring day.

Tommy downs the electrolyte drink and takes a deep breath through his nose. “Why the fuck am I here, Hen?”

She purses her lips, tips her chin out in the general direction of where a few guys are still taking drills even as practice winds down. “Because these idiots are convinced they’re invincible, and no one has the heart to tell them talking shit to Trouba again is gonna end with one of them on a stretcher.”

Which — he’d known, in the abstract. Having an enforcer riding the bench for fifty plus minutes a night was an old school way of handling a small-light-fast team with just enough shit-talkers and star players to draw attention. Unexpected, in the current layout of the league, but not completely unbelievable. The GM had been a little shifty, yesterday, essentially reciting the same line as Hen but dressing it up in a whole lot of fancy front-office speak Tommy’s never really had the time for. He’s barely had a chance to talk to Nash, yet, but he’s sure he’ll hear echoes of it from his new head coach, too.

Tommy watches Diaz and Buckley taking turns blocking whiffle balls in front of the net; Chimney still taking drills at the net with their EBUG — McKinley had introduced him and wandered off to lace up his skates (”You can call me Nozzle,” the guy had told him, torso looking tiny in just his leg pads without his shell, too-long hair and that manic gleam in his eye that only goalies ever truly had, while Tommy listened to him talk about his plumbing apprenticeship and his daughter who loved hockey as much as her dad but wanted to be, of all things, a defenseman.); Greenway and Kinnunen taking shots from the circle getting increasingly more frustrated the longer Chim and Nozzle swapping in and out changes nothing about their ability to sneak the puck in five-hole.

There’s a palpable energy to this group. Something stirring in the air — between the single-minded focus of their stars, and the attentive way their third and fourth lines are still all out here after Nash had gathered them all in for an end-of-practice huddle, Tommy can feel the anticipation of more. More wins, more lessons, more conditioning, anything that will get this team past the second round with an eye toward the Cup. It’s been years since he’s been on a team with this much fucking focus.

Tommy eyes the fans still slowly trickling out from the bleachers — knows through word of mouth they’re likely gonna be sitting outside the parking lot waiting to see who’s gonna shift into park and lean out a window to sign some shit, talk to people for a minute or two. Kinda hopes McKinley’s still down to drive him back to his hotel so that he can watch some kid go feral when McKinley rolls down his window to greet him.

Well shit. If he’s gonna buy in, he might as well get a head start.

He turns back to Hen.

“Bunting never even got fined for that boarding call against Pannikar last year, did he?”

Hen grins. “No headshots, please.”

[mikakuna]

Hi! :) I realized turnabout is fair play so this is me asking for any jason fic recs you might have for me.

Have a wonderful weekend! 💕

hey, yeah of course!! this list is gonna be mainly angst and whump, with some fluff! check the tags of each fic so you don't end up reading something you don't want to see!

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https://archiveofourown.org/works/54591685

Jason struggles with expectation and reality; what Superman had been for Dick, what he could have been for Jason, and the nothing that he ultimately was.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/54688366

Jason finds the younger Arkham Knight version of himself held captive by the Joker below Arkham.

https://archiveofourown.org/series/1328723

basically a series where jason escapes an abusive relationship and meets roy (protective batfam!! and small jason bc no capes au)

https://archiveofourown.org/series/2962401

a series of stories within the same time line, exploring jason's history as a victim of human trafficking and child sexplotiation

https://archiveofourown.org/works/53281042

an exploration of jason's parental figures

https://archiveofourown.org/works/54121165

Jason falls. Of course, he falls. Bruce wasn’t holding onto him. (a fic that delves into jason's expectations of bruce as a parent and how he struggles to prove his worth as bruce's new child)

https://archiveofourown.org/works/15320190

an exploration of jason and dick's brotherhood:

Following his disastrous confrontation with Jason in New York, Dick can't get the note Jason sent him upon leaving out of his head. He talks it over with his psychiatrist friend Clancy and comes to a horrifying realization: it's not emotional manipulation. It's Jason trying to cash in on a promise Dick made to him long ago. A promise to always be there for his little brother.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/52453172

roy's perspective of jason's relationship with the bats

https://archiveofourown.org/works/53536696

bruce, during and directly after jason's death (gore warning but also ABSOLUTELY heartbreaking omg)

https://archiveofourown.org/works/33947401/chapters/84421471

Bruce is racing across Ethiopia to save his son. Bruce is fighting in the Batcave to stop his son. Bruce is 34 years old. Bruce is 39 years old. Then Bruce is looking at ...Bruce. Uh oh.

(a time travel fic where bruce and jason, on the day of his death, find themselves in front of bruce and jason from five years in the future)

https://archiveofourown.org/works/26820559

married jaykyle wherein kyle has some words for bruce after the events of rhato 25

https://archiveofourown.org/works/23062525

cute jason/joseph wilson multi-chapter fic where jason is also mute (from the batarang) and he learns what love is

https://archiveofourown.org/works/46774495

Jason survives Ethiopia and returns home; this is the beginning.

(GENUINELY DEVASTATING like i cried omg.. i won't spoil anything but definitely read!)

https://archiveofourown.org/works/38173990

Batman finds and apprehends the Red Hood after he attempts to murder the Joker, then surrenders him to the mental health facilities of Arkham Asylum. This is the best way to prevent more deaths, and it's also in the best interest of the Red Hood, who is clearly unstable.

Insane criminals cannot be permitted to walk the streets of Gotham. Certainly not ones raised by the Batman. Not under any circumstances.

(disturbing content; jason is abused at the hands of the staff in arkham asylum and is in a state of overmedication throughout the entire fic, amazing fic but read the warning tags carefully!)

https://archiveofourown.org/works/45156520

a fic in which jason has dissociative identity disorder

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