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navybrat817 · 6 months ago

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On the Rocks

Pairing: Bartender!Ari Levinson x Female Reader

Summary: You're not sure why Ari doesn't seem to like you, but you two have to work together.

Word Count: Over 2.4k

Warnings: Tension, coworkers, bit of grumpy and sunshine, misunderstanding, future smut, Ari Levinson and he's slightly rude at first (he's a warning, okay?)

A/N: More Beach Fun Nonsense! Hope you lovelies enjoy this intro to my Gin and Bear It AU. @spectre-posts requested bartender!Ari to Go for a Swim (smut) with prompt #13 in bold. TECHNICALLY not smut, but there will be smut in future parts. Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

You weren't one to brag, but you were good at your job. You showed up on time and stayed late if necessary. Never dropped a tray or drink. Didn't skip out on cleaning or any other tasks. And not only were you attentive with your customers, you showed just enough skin to keep it professional and never went home with anyone at the end of the night. Your work ethic helped you earn the respect of just about everyone at the establishment.

Except for Ari Levinson.

You eyed the gorgeous bearded man behind the bar, your blood rushing faster through your veins. He didn't spare you a glance. He hardly ever did. Everyone else who worked there got a smile from him. Even a smirk. But you? An unimpressed look was what you got on a good day. You chalked it up to you being a new member of the staff, until the barback who started after you received kinder treatment from him.

To be fair, it wasn't like Ari hated you. He didn't seem to particularly like you either. For the life of you, you couldn't figure out why. Maybe there wasn't a specific reason. Some people just didn't mesh well. It didn't stop you from treating him like every other coworker. The two of you had to work together whether he liked it or not.

“Hey,” you smiled as you stopped at the bar and set your tray down. You waited a second for him to acknowledge you, but he kept drying glasses. “Three Jack and Cokes, please.”

That got Ari's attention. He didn't have to greet you, but you both had a job to do. You waited in silence while he made the drinks. He didn't look at you, but you looked at him.

He was in good shape. Great shape, in fact. With his large and somewhat intimidating size, you were surprised he wasn't a bouncer. He was a good bartender though. He wouldn't have a job there if he wasn't.

It wasn't right how attracted you were to him since he never seemed to give you the time of day.

“Thanks,” you said when he set the drinks on the tray for you.

He grunted and turned to put the bottle back.

“You know, we’ve been working together for almost three months. One of these days you may actually carry on a conversation with me instead of answering me with random sounds,” you teased.

“I'm here to work, not chat,” he said over his shoulder, his deep voice sending a wonderful shiver down your spine despite his statement. “You should do the same.”

You sighed when you picked up the tray. “I’m just trying to be friendly.”

Like always.

“Don't need friends.”

It was a bit of an odd statement. You said friendly, not friends specifically. “Aren't Steve and Bucky your friends?” You asked. They were two of the other bartenders. Best friends and good to the rest of the staff. Protective, too, always quick to jump in if a customer got mouthy or handsy.

Ari’s jaw clenched as he faced you, but you didn't cower. “Yeah, they are.”

You may not have cowered under his gaze, but you sure as hell felt small the longer he looked at you. “But you don't want to be my friend,” you said.

“I don't need more friends,” he said dismissively as your stomach dropped. You wished it didn't hurt to hear that and you had to blink rapidly when you felt a familiar telltale burning in your eyes. “Anything else?”

Plastering a smile back on your face that didn't quite reach your eyes, you straightened up. “Noted. We aren't and won't be friends,” you said before you added with more bite than you intended, “And don't worry, Ari. I don't need anything from you.”

He must've noticed the shift in your tone, too, since his jaw clenched harder than before. You walked off before he had a chance to say anything, cursing yourself inwardly at your tone. You shouldn't have let his dismissal get under your skin. Besides, he was right. You were there to work and your customers needed their drinks.

So, why did it bother you so much that Ari didn't want to be your friend? It shouldn't matter. There were lots of people who worked together who never talked or saw each other outside of their jobs. You wished he would've given you a chance, but you’d respect his decision.

For the rest of the night though, you planned to avoid him like the plague.

As your shift went on, you felt Ari’s eyes on you. Instead of looking back at him or giving him a smile like usual, you ignored him or acted like he wasn't there. You didn't stop at his end of the bar, going instead to Steve to get your drinks. For the first time since you started working there, you had Ari's full attention.

And for once, you didn't want it.

By the end of your shift once you wrapped up just about all of your tasks, you were ready to get out of there. “Any plans after closing?” You asked Steve, counting out tips for him.

“I might be seeing someone,” he smiled gently, his gaze flickering to a woman sitting alone at a table.

You raised an eyebrow. Patrons hit on the guys all the time, but it was rare for them to take anyone home. “Well, I hope you have a good time,” you said before nodding over to Bucky who was sitting at the bar, too. “Isn't it your night off?”

Bucky smiled softly. “It is, but my girl should be here in a few minutes. We won't stay long.” His girl has gone through some heartbreak before she rolled into town and the brunette quickly became her knight in shining armor.

“You have fun, too,” you said, sliding off the stool with a sigh.

Steve’s brows pinched. “You okay?”

“I will be,” you said, not wanting to lie to him and pretend you were fine. You also didn't want to get into what was going on. Feeling sorry for yourself didn't do you any good and everything would be okay tomorrow.

“You sure?” Steve swung his head toward Ari. “You think I didn't notice that you haven't been back to that end of the bar?”

You glanced in that direction, inhaling sharply as you met Ari’s gaze. He crossed his as he stared you down, tension as thick as fog. All you could see were the blue of his eyes and you had to look away so you didn't lose yourself.

“Just an off night. Nothing to worry about,” you said, pushing over Steve’s cut. “And I’m out for the night unless you need anything else.”

Bucky and Steve exchanged a look. “Need one of us to walk you out?” Bucky offered.

“No, I’m good,” you said, sighing again when you realized you’d have to pass by Ari to leave. You also had to give him his tips. “Enjoy the rest of the night.”

Ari stood in the same spot as you walked toward him, your heart beating erratically. One day he may not make your heart race like that. “Night,” you smiled sadly, setting his tips down on the bar and walking on.

You grabbed your bag from the backroom and headed out for the evening with your keys in hand, shivering at the slight chill in the air. It wasn't until you were about halfway to your car that you heard footsteps behind you, making you tense up. Maybe you should've had someone walk you out.

“Hey.” It was Ari. “Wait up.”

You stopped and turned to face him with a quizzical look. “Why? Do you need something?”

Ari looked up at the night sky and ran a hand through his long hair, but didn't reply. You were two seconds away from walking to your car when you heard above a whisper, “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?” You asked when he met your eye. “Sorry for what exactly?”

“I was an asshole to you earlier,” he replied, surprising you as he took a step forward. “Been kind of an asshole to you since day one when you've been nothing but friendly.”

“Yeah, I know,” you said. Why did it matter now?

A stricken look crossed his features before he put up his mask again. “Why were you so nice to me then when I was an asshole to you?”

You shrugged, trying to convey that it wasn't a big deal. “Because I had no reason to be rude to you, Ari,” you replied. It was that simple. “I was upset earlier though and I did avoid your side of the bar, but it’ll be fine tomorrow.”

“But-”

“You don't have to like me. You really don't,” you told him, the words bittersweet. “But we do have to work together. So as long as we’re civil to each other, it’s fine.”

You fought the urge to step back when Ari took another step forward. There was usually a bar between the two of you when you stood near him. Up close with nothing between you showed just how large he was. And he smelled good, too, because of course he did. “I never said I didn't like you.”

“Maybe not with words, but your actions kind of said it for you. Seriously, there’s an obvious difference in your demeanor with me versus everyone else,” you pointed out.

“Yeah, there is,” he agreed, his blue eyes full of regret. At least he acknowledged that.

“Not to mention, you just said tonight that you didn't need more friends. Between that and your attitude, the natural assumption is that you don't like me,” you said. What else were you meant to think?

He nodded. “I can see why you’d think that, but I'm sorry.”

Both of you stayed quiet for a moment. You weren't exactly sure what to say. “Okay, well. Apology accepted, I guess. Good night.”

“Wait,” he said when you began to turn away. “Do you really wanna know what I thought about you when you started working here?”

The skeptical look was back on your face. “I’ll admit I'm curious, but I won't just stand here if you’ll continue to be an asshole to me.”

He chuckled. Did you actually make him laugh? “I wouldn't expect you to,” he said, taking a breath. “This might get me fired if you complain.”

“Just say it, please,” you half begged. “Whatever it is, it can't be-”

“I wanted to bend you over the bar and fuck you ‘til you screamed my name.”

You sputtered, an embarrassing sort of sound. It wasn't what you expected to hear. Ari Levinson wanted to fuck you? Since the moment you met?

“You what?” You asked, wanting to hear him say it again.

“I want you and I’ve imagined fucking you all over the bar every day since you started working here. The tables, the booths, the office, against the wall, even in the bathroom stalls,” he spoke, his voice deep and confident as you tried not to whimper. How were you already wet? “But not just that.”

You bit your lip. “What else?”

His gaze softened. “I think about your smile. You have such a beautiful smile.” You did whimper this time. Since when was praise so important? “And how you giggle at bad jokes. And how you sway your hips to the songs you like. And how you're just so fucking kind, even to those who don't deserve it.”

“You like me?” You asked.

“Yeah,” he whispered.

You held up a hand, your head spinning from his confession. “Wait. Hold on,” you said, trying to get your bearings and not throw yourself into his arms. You needed to have some self respect. “You’ve been an asshole to me because you like me?”

Why do men do dumb things?

Ari winced. “Not my smartest plan, I’ll admit, but I thought pushing you away before anything happened was the best move.”

“Why though? Why push me away?” You asked.

He clenched and unclenched his fists. “I don't like to mix business with pleasure. Been there, done that.” It wasn't a secret that Ari was single, but there was a story there. “But that doesn't excuse being cold toward you. And if you’re willing, I’d like to start over.”

You searched his gaze for sincerity and found it. “So would I.”

His expression softened more, relieved. The fact that he wanted to try gave you hope for things moving forward. “And maybe we can grab a coffee at the diner? Just talk?”

Your eyes rounded. Was Ari asking you out? “When? Now?” You asked.

He smiled. “If you’re free.”

You smiled back and shook your head. “Nope. Sorry, Ari.”

Ari's smile fell immediately. “No?” He repeated the word in disbelief. You were in disbelief yourself. “No you aren't free or no you don't want to hang out with me?”

“Any other day, I’d love to have a coffee with you and talk or for you to make good on that promise of bending me over the bar and making me scream your name. But tonight?” You batted your eyes for good measure. “No, I don't.”

“Oh.” Ari blinked and cleared his throat. “I guess that makes sense after how I acted.”

“It makes perfect sense. A quick apology doesn't get you off scott free for how you treated me,” you told him, taking a step closer yourself this time. “So change my mind.”

“Change your mind?”

“Yeah. Let's start over like you suggested and you find a way to change my mind. I'm not saying you have to be overly friendly during our shifts, but treat me a little better. Show me why I should give you a chance and ask me again later,” you answered, gliding your fingers along his forearm once you were close enough. “And I'll still be nice to you. I promise.”

“So, you want me to woo you?” He smirked after a moment, one that nearly made your panties melt. “I can do that.”

You giggled. “I think I deserve it.”

“You do. And my first step in mending things,” he said, offering his arm as he stepped back. “How about I walk you to your car?”

“You may,” you smiled, linking your arm with his. You felt him flex a bit and you almost giggled again, a spring in your step as you walked. One day you’d feel him pin you down with that strength. You’d be patient though.

After all, he promised to woo you first.

How do we think he'll make it up to you? Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

#navybrat writes #ari levinson x reader #ari levinson x female reader #ari levinson x you #ari levinson x y/n #ari levinson #bartender!ari levinson #bartender!ari levinson x reader #ari levinson fanfiction #ari levinson fic #ari levinson imagine #ari levinson fanfic #chris evans #chris evans x reader #x reader #navy's beach fun nonsense #gin and bear it au

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solarbird · 7 months ago

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“Are we willing to fight for it?” Crowd: “YES!” “And when we fight?” Crowd: “WE WIN!” — Kamala Harris to campaign staff, 22 July 2024

That’s right, the “if we fight we win” isn’t from me this time. It’s from Kamala Harris, and I am kind of in shock.

One of the things I most feared about the “replace Biden” movement was the donor class yanking the party right again and hand-picking an all old white dudes ticket and absolutely tanking every chance we had of winning this election and stopping Trumpism for good.

Politically active Black people I know personally were expecting that to happen, because that kind of shit has happened so many times. And when political Black people talk about this shit in the Democratic party, you better listen, because their history on this stuff is solid.

I mean, that’s not the only reason I feared it, I have plenty of my own experience watching this same shit go down. But it’s a big one.

That – and all the many money and organisational problems I have described which would result – was about the biggest problem I had with replacing Biden. Particularly once it was clear the money people were moving on it so hard. I was so sure they’d do again what they’ve always done, slide the top of the ticket back to the “right,” repudiating so much economic and climate good the Biden administration has done, trying to haul us back to Clintinesque neoliberalism which would fail more spectacularly than ever before.

That’s also why I was an instant loud and dare I say it strident pivot to Harris when Biden actually did drop out – it was all to stop that money move from happening. That’s why I was out Sunday as loud and long as I could be, shouting, “WHITE PEOPLE, GET HER THE NOMINATION. FUCKING DO IT” while various usual clowns and dilettantes wibbled on demanding an ‘open convention’ and nattering about a ‘flash primary’ and going off about ‘not voting for a cop’ and the wretched spectre of Joe Manchin dipped a skeletal toe into the race.

None of that was an option. It’s still not an option. It had to be her; it has to be her.

And that speech I’m quoting shows why.

I’m still stunned. I never expected to hear a presidential candidate echoing my own words back at me.

I mean, Biden understands exactly what we’re dealing with – fash propaganda aside, he really is still all there, and his words show it. But he’s not able to frame it that way, it’s just not who he is. To see a candidate frame it like this… exactly like this… that’s something new. And I did not expect it.

I am so rarely truly surprised in politics. It has been a while since I have been surprised at all.

This has surprised me.

Another political writer I follow described her as the first Generation X candidate, and maybe that’s why. Technically she’s like two months too early for GenX, she’s in that transition zone, but y’know what? If she wants to grab that label I am fine with that, because those are some words from someone who fucking gets it. From someone who has figured it the fuck out.

Go watch her speech, particularly, oh… the “I know Donald Trump’s type” section starts around 19 minutes in, but the part after that, that’s where it really starts to matter, at 21:45. Here, I timestamped for you, hopefully it’ll work where you’re reading this and if not, just skip ahead:

youtube

I’ve been saying – this is the turning point year. The peak year of a fascist movement weakened but not destroyed by self-inflicted wounds of COVID, the last year of the backstop, the year after which we can start to win.

But still I expected that this year that we’d still have to fight under the old rules, playing the old games of the Baby Boom, even if I knew that one final year of holding would shatter it all, and let us make and play by new rules in ’26 and ’28.

Hence, one more year of the bulwark, one more year of the hold.

Until two days ago, on Sunday, July 21st, 2024, that was exactly how it was playing out.

Then a political miracle happened. Biden left the race and the donor class didn’t get their push to the right, and some of them apparently didn’t even want it because they dropped money again the moment Harris announced her campaign.

I guess maybe those rich bastards finally learned a thing or two about not throwing elections.

And that means…

…maybe we don’t have to wait ’til ’26 and ’28.

Maybe it’s not one last hold after all, before the spring.

Maybe the rules can change now.

Maybe Millennials and Zoomers are going to seize the moment this year.

If they do – if you do, if you go in, if you mean it, if you don’t waver and trip yourself up in details and personality and propaganda and purity tests and and and all of it…

…then…

…this year won’t just be a hold.

This year will be the fucking landslide we have needed for eight years now to wipe Trumpism and its like off the map for a century.

Wanna make that happen?

France and England have shown us the way, and christ, I want to make that happen.

How about you? You up for it? You ready to do the work?

Let’s go, then. Everybody.

All in.

104 days remain.

#us politics #kamala harris #harris 2024 #biden harris 2024 #fascism #politics #biden #Youtube

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akutasoda · 1 year ago

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Yay! Requests are open!

Can I please request BSD men with an eerie fem! s/o? Not gn.

Like, breathing is always very light, footsteps are silent and even the sounds of her internal organs (heartbeat, blood flowing through her veins) is very faint, she's always smiling and is almost mechanical in her movements and actions. She's her most genuine when giving them affection, is a very pleasant and sweet person but there's just something....off..about her. Like a subconscious feeling they can't quite place but ignore because they love her.

-Sincerely, 💋

mechanical affection

synopsis - how are they when they s/o is eerie and rather ominous

includes - dazai, ranpo, fyodor, jouno

warnings - fem!reader (no pronouns mentioned however), fluff, wc - 900

osamu dazai ★↷

↪dazai had met his fair sharre of 'creepy' people throughout his youth, but none of them ever actually scared him or made him slightly uncomfortable. you were the first.

↪what scared him the most was how mechanical you seemed. your actions and expressions seemed too robotic to be your genuine feelings and movements. no part of it seemed biological.

↪he cared little for how quiet your heartbeat and such was. he normally couldn't hear people's heartbeats and he could control his own so that probably was the least eerie part about you.

↪ however the lack of sound when you moved or breathed did put him on edge to begin with. it was too silent for him to let his guard down but when he got used to your presence - and your more sweeter side - he didn't mind too much.

↪ speaking of sweeter side, it did surprise him at first but he loved it. a weird sort of happiness surged through him when you gave him genuine affection for two reasons. one, the fact that only he recieved this sid eof you and two, he'd never recieved this level of affection before and getting it from you? it became a great comfort.

↪if the mafia raught him anything, it was that he should always be on guard around suspicious people. whenever you were around he couldn't help but want to apply that to you.

↪a constant nagging voice telling him to run or be careful was around when you were near. but maybe this one time he'd ignore it.

ranpo edogawa ★↷

↪the world's greatest detective was known for solving cases and everything to do with his work. a part of that would make him great at reading people and so he barely feared anyone. but when it came down to you and the nagging fear you implanted in the back of his head, he felt helpless.

↪your presence made him uncomfortable to be simple. it was a nagging put of dread that he couldn't get rid of because he couldn't read you. your silence to eerie for him to be comfortable anyway. he sometimes compared you to a ghost or some sort of spectre because of this.

↪he also hated the fact that you acted so unnatural and mechanical. everything about you from your expressions to your movements was so eerie. but weirdly enough he became accustomed to it.

↪he started veiwing it as a challenge. he became motivated to be able to finally understand you and rid himself of thsi dread you installed in him. and a good starting place was when you showed him genuine affection.

↪yes it did catch him off guard, but he quickly became accustomed to a more genuine and affectionate you behind closed doors. you became not so eerie and instead rather sweet. he still didn't fail to notice the fight or flight in his brain around you still.

fyodor dostoevsky ★↷

↪it took a vey long time for fyodor to come to trust you even a tiny bit. it would be the first time somebody's presence would cause him to be on edge, to think something was wrong and that made him distance himself from you.

↪but eventually that fear turned into a weird, sort of morbid curiosity. why did you cause him to fear you? was it the mechanical actions you would show. or was it how every part of you was eerie and too irregular.

↪fyodor only liked people he could read. they were predictable per say, easy to understand and therefore caused him no threat but from time to time some people could change that. your seemingly mechanical actions made you impossible to read and he wanted to know why.

↪he became even more curious when he gave him genuine care. your once eerie aura seemingly melted away as you showed him a sweeter side that he weirdly loved. but even when you showed affection that nagging fear still lurked.

saigiku jouno ★↷

↪ it's safe to say he barely knew you existed to begin with. he couldn't hear your heartbeat and such unless he really focused on the faint sound - leasing to him sometimes having the uncomfortable feeling someone was with him if you were around.

↪he hates it really, he can't hear your breathing or footsteps either so he truly has no idea where you could be at any given time. it really threw him off guard as it made him feel vulnerable around you.

↪he had heard from others how they'd complain about how mechanical you looked and some twisted part of him found some joy in knowing how some people feared you for this. sometimes he'd actually wish he could see it.

↪ however he did still indulge himself in your more sweeter side - the side he felt pride in knowing only he recieved. your genuine kindness did throw him a bit at first but he accustomed to it and enjoyed it.

↪he even ignored the constant nagging pit of dread in the back of his mind telling him to run, to fight, to get away from you just so he could indulge himself in your kindness.

↪the only time he could ever hear your heartbeat was when you two were hugging. and so this made the action treasured and all the more endearing for him.

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dr-spectre · 9 months ago

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I saw this really great thread on twitter by Grungygrim and it definitely highlights my thoughts and frustrations with the story of these games and the Splatoon fandom as a whole. (be forewarned, i get really tilted in this blog post fyi.)

I made a blog post about 2 weeks ago where i said that i was happy that the narrative online that "Callie is an idiot who got kidnapped and then brainwashed/mind controlled against her consent" is going away. (Here's the link: https://www.tumblr.com/dr-spectre/749710338672525312/im-so-happy-that-the-narrative-online-that?source=share)

Unfortunately I'm gonna have to retract a lot of the stuff i said. I'm still seeing, TILL THIS DAY THAT NARRATIVE ONLINE! IM STILL SEEING SO MUCH MISINFORMATION AND IT MAKES ME REALLYYYY ANGRYYYY!!! As a big fan of Callie, people completely outright ignoring her character arc THAT WAS SET UP SINCE SPLATOON 1 BY THE WAY!!! and not even bothering to look at outside sources for more information and lore genuinely pisses me the fuck off to no end.

No, hypnosis is NOT MIND CONTROL/BRAINWASHING! I DONT WANNA KEEP REPEATING IT! YOU CAN LOOK IT UP! if a person is genuinely uncomfortable and doesn't wish to take the suggestions to heart while hypnotized, THEY WONT DO SO! THEY STILL HAVE CONTROL! Yes, Marie did say "kidnapped" in some of her dialogue, but from her perspective, OF COURSE SHE'S GONNA THINK CALLIE GOT KIDNAPPED! She's known to worry about Callie all the time and ruminate about her, of course she's gonna think of the worst case scenario, doesn't mean she's right though. Was Octavio still in the wrong for hypnotizing Callie in the first place and allowing her to bring out her darker traits more easily? YEAH! NO SHIT! HE'S A BAD DUDE! Not a totally evil person but he has made some awful decisions out of desperation for his people. Why do you think he was so quick to help out the New Squidbeak Splatoon in the finale of Splatoon 3? His people got turned into fluffy monsters by a giant bear, he's all about helping his people.

Hell look at how Callie acts while under the Hypnoshades, she decorates Octo Canyon and her peppy and energetic self is still in tact even during the final boss, she's just more mean and violent. Callie was in an emotional and mentally unwell situation due to her overworking herself and being incredibly lonely as her relationship with Marie was damaged overtime. Callie accepted the suggestions of DJ Octavio and heard him out, AS SAID BY HER FROM THE RELATIONSHIP CHART! She wasn't forced into anything. She didn't suffer "sexual abuse" from Octavio by being forced into skippy clothing as some psychos say online, if she didn't want to wear that outfit she wouldn't cause hypnosis is NOT MIND CONTROL!! I hate having to repeat this over and over again, i hate how the developers basically rushed and ruined this interesting villain arc with stupid shades, only to try and hastily fix it later with an obscure post about A GOD DAMN RELATIONSHIP CHART THAT PEOPLE EITHER DONT KNOW ABOUT OR DONT CARE TO LOOK AT BECAUSE THEY SEE SPLATOON AS SOMETHING FOR KIDS AND TO NOT GIVE ANY CARE TOWARDS!!!!!!!!

I made a god damn giant blog explaining Callie in Splatoon 2 because i felt so frustrated about how my favorite character in the series was being treated and i tried to salvage the story that the writers tried to make. The way that people made her situation worse by saying she got kidnapped and forcibly ""mind controlled/brainwashed"" actually gave me chest pain, thinking about that kind of scenario for Callie actually hurts me... Heck i cant even listen to the Splatoon 2 stage music or final boss music because hearing her reversed vocals makes me feel uncomfortable due to the misinformation online. I hated all the misinformation and i wanted it to stop. HELL EVEN IN GIANT TIMELINE VIDEOS WHERE PEOPLE DO TONS OF RESEARCH THEY STILL GET IT WRONG!! UGHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!! i guess it'll still be the common and popular notion that Callie is an idiot that got kidnapped and then ""mind controlled"" by some shades... oh well... ugh...

I'm sorry if I'm coming off as really angry, i am. It's just, my brain is really hyperfixated on this squid and she means a lot to me. Seeing the way the fandom as well as the writers treat her makes me really mad. I hope i can find some peeps who feel the same way as i do. Misinformation is so frustrating man... i dont even wanna get into the Octarians because that's a whole other can of worms... anyways im done ranting. have a good night or good morning wherever you live y'all.

#splatoon #splatoon 2 #splatoon 3 #callie cuttlefish #callie splatoon #rant post #complaining #sorry for the rant #octo callie #dj octavio #marie splatoon #marie cuttlefish #octo canyon

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thatwildwolfwrites · 6 months ago

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—in which turians gossip.

Have you heard about Castis Vakarian's youngest?

His son? Yeah. Apparently he got detention again. It's the fifth time this week. I don't know why that child keeps talking back. It's like he has no respect for authority.

Well, they'll beat that out of him at bootcamp. He'll fall in line eventually.

Why can't he just be normal? All the other kids his age understand this already. Maybe something's wrong with him...

I wonder. He's not growing up into a good turian... Poor Castis.

Have you heard about Castis Vakarian's son?

Yes. What a waste. I heard he ranked at the very top in all sharpshooting and hand to hand combat tests... and all of that for nothing.

What's wrong with him?

He will never make a good turian.

Spirits, poor Castis. First the accident, and now that son of his...

What about his son? I thought he was normal now. Didn't he find a job, outside the military?

He did. Citadel Security, like his father. Easier outlet for that... passion of his. You know. All that talk of justice and right and wrong... Castis hoped working at C-Sec would help him get it out of his system. Start being normal. Maybe he would finally burn through that... energy.

Did it work?

He's constantly fighting with his superiors. Disobeying orders. Questioning their judgement. I hear he's just as much trouble out there as he ever was down here.

I don't envy Castis right now. Hearing about your son constantly failing at the job you excelled at... It's got to do something to you.

Have you heard about Castis Vakarian's son? I heard he actually quit C-Sec now. Couldn't even conform to that. Now he's left the Citadel on a whim, with some human, on an impulse...

Poor Castis.

I heard Castis Vakarian's son was part of that mess at the Citadel, with the geth.

Apparently he's aiming to be a Spectre now. I don't know how his father is going to take that.

I wouldn't want to be in his plates right now.

Have you heard about Castis Vakarian's son? He dropped out of the Spectre training program.

Have you heard? He's gone mad.

I heard he finally snapped. Had some sort of identity crisis, left spirits know where without saying anything.

I suppose it was always a matter of time. There's always been something wrong with that boy. Still, his poor family...

Have you heard about Castis Vakarian's son?

Have you heard about Castis Vakarian? Yeah, he has kis kids staying over.

I heard. Just when you think it couldn't get any worse. Working with a terrorist organisation. Human supremacists, too... I can't imagine what his father's going through right now.

I heard it's a difficult family situation, yes. The mother's dying, and he... At least he still has his daughter, not like that good for nothing son of his.

Have you seen him? What a disgrace. Half his body covered in scars like that. Wearing his failures right on his face... His family must be so ashamed.

Heard he's saying he's fallen in love with an alien. A human of all species.

Disgusting.

That's just adding insult to injury. His poor family.

Poor Castis.

Have you heard about Castis Vakarian's son?

Isn't he the one in charge of that refugee camp on the Citadel? Who even decided to put him in a leadership role?

I don't know. I heard he's friends with the new Primarch. I heard he failed upwards. I heard he's in an important position now, in charge of helping with that war summit.

This damn war. They'll promote anyone as long as they're still alive.

Have you seen? Commander Shepard's written a private account about the Reaper War. Have you read this?

Incredible.

Heartwarming.

Inspiring.

Unbelievable.

Beautiful.

She wrote about Garrus Vakarian.

They were close. He was her lieutenant. Her closest aide. Her best friend.

He held her up when she stumbled. He asked her to take care of herself. He checked in with her. He cared. When everyone else saw the Commander, he was the only one who saw a person. He was the only one who asked how she was doing. He was the only one who supported her.

She wrote about everything he did for her.

He's the only reason she had the strength to win that war.

He saved the world.

Have you heard about Castis Vakarian?

You mean Garrus Vakarian's father? Yeah. I heard. He must be so proud.

#mass effect fanfic #garrus #garrus vakarian #mass effect #mass effect fanfiction

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wingsofthesun · 1 month ago

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Some Ashley moments from the first visit to the Citadel that show off some interesting characterization that aren't that one line because that's all people talk about!

First off, another idle line from the Presidium (I wish these were still in 2 and 3 in addition to the longer conversations)

Ashley immediately picks up on the fact that there's something off about the Citadel. She's the only one that brings it up, and she's right- the Citadel is too perfect because the Reapers created it as a trap. No one has anyway of knowing that fact yet, but she does have a finely tuned bullshit meter.

Next, the first elevator conversation! Ashley does not in anyway, shape, or form trust Udina. She also has another line I didn't manage to screenshot about not trusting politicians.

(Yes, I know she defends Udina from Shepard during the coup, but the timing was suspicious- they were being pursued by Cerberus, and who comes out but Shepard, who was working with them only ~six or so months ago? Keep in mind she (or Kaidan) was also trying to defend the rest of the Council, and it's also very easy to get her to stand down of her own accord if you go visit her in the hospital and aren't a complete asshole.)

When Shepard brings up Garrus while discussing leads, Ashley speaks positively about tracking him down. She met Garrus at the same time Shepard did, and knows full well he's a turian. She's more than willing to work with him, and raises no objections to his presence until he's on a top of the line, experimental Alliance ship, in which case I understand questioning Shepard's decision. (For what it's worth, she has to be prompted into bringing up her concerns, unlike XO Pressley, who will complain the first time you speak to him before you even get to the dialogue options.)

Another idle line! As we find out in the endgame, her tactical observations are 100% correct. They're indeed good defensive positions for the defenders.

This is after talking to Harkin, who tries to bring up Anderson's failed spectre training with Saren. (I have Shepard basically say "shut up, I don't care, just tell me where Garrus is you asshole" for the record.)

Right before this, Kaidan says "Harkin is an ass" and says they shouldn't trust what he says. Ashley agrees, but doesn't immediately write it off. Instead, she wants to hear from Anderson himself, the person that was actually involved. She's willing to hear him out despite her suspicions.

That's all I have screenshots of, unfortunately. There's also a scene where if you take her and Garrus to confront Fist and talk the two warehouse workers down and let them leave, Garrus will say he never thought about talking armed threats down, and Ashley will say that sometimes shooting isn't always the answer. I didn't realize this line existed unfortunately so I didn't get it in time, but it's still really interesting if you ask me!

#once again i am on the ashley defense squad #mass effect #me1 #ashley williams

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yallthemwitches · 3 months ago

Text

Whispers in the Dark

“And—I dunno. They’re barking mad but I love them. I’m an only child so I imagine you understand now why I’m like this.” He makes a rare self-deprecating gesture towards himself, something the James from a year ago would never have done. It makes Lily break into a real laugh. “And this,” Lily mirrors his gesture, “meaning…” James grins, and it does something downright delectable to her heart. “This meaning an arrogant git who is too thick to notice other people’s personal lives.”

When Lily is awarded her prefect badge in fifth year, they warn her that James Potter has a talent for disappearing. But if that's true, why does he keep coming to her night after night, hoping to be caught? Oneshot, Rated T--- AO3 Link Here

Fifth Year

By the time Lily was awarded her badge, James Potter was already bestowed a nickname among the prefects: The Shadow.

“Don’t you think that's a bit too ominous for a git who just mucks around all night?” Next to her, Remus snorts but keeps his eyes low.

“You won’t understand until you have your first patrol—it's like he just…disappears.” The way the Head Boy says it, it makes James sound like some sort of spectre plaguing the corridors, not some untidy haired knob trying to explode the toilets. Lily’s eyes sink as Remus covers a cough that suspiciously sounds like a laugh.

“Care to elaborate on your mate then, Remus?” She flashes him an innocent smile. Even under the newfound pressure he doesn’t straighten, rather pulling a pack of muggle cigarettes out of his cloak and tapping it on his knee.

“Nothing to say,” Remus replies cooly, shooting Lily an equally saccharine grin, “just that you better hope he never hears about his little nickname if you don’t want him to be even more incorrigible.”

“Why? I thought you boys dug little nicknames.” She narrows her eyes, accepting the challenge to get him to respond with anything other than collected nonchalance.

“Trust me on this one—he will be unbearable.”

* * * * *

The worst part of it all is that the senior prefects weren’t wrong, he really would just be there.

“Alright Evans?”

She whips around, wand already poised. The corridors leading to the dungeons are more shadowed than the rest of the school, but her eyes have already adjusted to the dark and from what she can tell, she is alone.

“Potter—I’m not in the mood.”

There’s a shuffle and she hears a boy's voice murmur ‘when is she ever’ before a round of clipped laughs trickle in the darkness. She turns again, trying to find the source.

“You gits—I know you are here and I'll give you detention whether I can see you or not.”

She turns again and lets out a small gasp. James stands at the far reaches of her wand light, eyes dancing with mirth behind the reflection of his glasses.

“Congratulations on the ah…promotion,” he grins and she feels the bristle of anger pull at the hair on her neck.

She wants to prove herself as the only muggleborn prefect—and what better way than to catch this so-called Shadow. She takes a cautious step forward, worried he will skitter away like a wild animal if she moves too quickly. James just continues to grin, a hand grasping something shimmery behind his back.

“You’re not supposed to be out.” She takes another step and he eyes her warily.

“Oh, is that right?” He makes a show of looking around, brow furrowed in confusion. “Wow–sorry about that! Guess I got the time confused.” Another round of muffled laughter comes from behind him.

“C’mon, I’m escorting you back to the tower.” She moves to grab his arm but he jumps backwards, running into something that she can’t see but an oof and hey! ring out from the shadows.

“As much as I’d love a romantic stroll with you Evans, I’m actually late to another engagement,” he tuts, his smile turning into a sly grin. The hand that has been behind his back lifts up and a portion of his arm disappears, then the rest of his body until his face hovers completely detached in the dark.

“Raincheck though?” His grin hangs in the air for a second longer before the darkness takes him, but his presence still lingers. Nothing remains but the cold feeling of being watched.

* * * * *

She’s still not used to it. The random appearances, the floating grins, the whispers in the dark which make her feel like she is living in a rabbit hole rather than a castle. It’s no wonder the prefects leave catching him up to Filch these days—he haunts them.

“Hey Evans—”

She hopes that wherever he is hiding, he doesn’t see her jump. Turning towards the sound of his voice, he appears just a couple of steps away, hand already running through his hair.

“I’ll make you a deal Potter, if you fuck off and don’t talk to me, I won’t give you detention.”

She expects him to consider it, but he doesn’t. His eyes are missing the glimmer they usually have when she runs into him at night. Instead, he keeps his head bowed, a frown weighing down his features.

“I came to talk…to apologize for today.”

She doesn’t want to hear it. Turning on her heel she stalks off in the other direction but he catches up easily.

“I don’t want some fake apology. I want you to leave me alone.”

Of course he doesn’t listen. He keeps her stride, angling his face to catch her eyes with his.

“It’s not fake–I really am sorry,” he gasps out, “ I was a git and never expected for Snive–Snape to say those things about you–.”

She stops dead in her tracks, her whole body contracting in anger.

“Sorry? Are you sorry for all the other times you have bullied him too? Sorry for all the other shite you do to everyone around you? I don’t want your apology from you or from him–and I especially don’t want to rehash it with you right now.”

James doesn’t coil back, eyeing her with a brooding pain that feels out of place on his features.

“I know he was your friend. He shouldn’t say those things to you–friends don’t do that.”

It catches her off guard. She certainly isn’t looking for friendship advice from Potter, but he also has hit the nerve that’s been plaguing her all day.

“I know I’m an arsehole–especially to Snape...but I’d never say something like that to my mates…or to you.”

Her eyes start to sting but the thought of crying in front of him feels like the most incorrigible thing that could possibly happen. She jerks away, stumbling in the direction they had come from.

“Leave me alone—please.”

He doesn’t follow her like last time and she forces herself forward, rubbing the tears from her eyes. At the end of the corridor, she turns around, expecting to see him standing where she left him and some sick part of her hopes for it. But he has listened for once: he is gone—actually gone.

* * * * *

She wishes she could disappear as easily as he could right about now.

“Uhm… Evans?” James leans against the trophy case, a wet rag hanging at his side on his pointer finger.

She calculates the possibility of turning around and pretending she never entered. Zero to none. On the table, a detention slip sits idly. A scratchy hand reads:

James Potter, Gryffindor, 5th year

Offense: Hexing and physical altercation with Slytherin boys ( 5th and 6th years)

Punishment: Trophy polishing—2 hours

She sighs, placing the paper down and settling her bag on the floor. “Filch is out dealing with a hinkypunk—I’m surveilling tonight.” She doesn’t look at him, crossing her arms tightly against her chest. “So, go on—I’m told you have some trophies to polish.”

James’ eyes remain wide as he nods, turning back to the case. With his back to her, she steals a moment to take him in—his shoulders are squared and there is something more wooden about his movements than she remembers. They haven’t spoken since she told him to leave her alone and she wonders if that’s the reason she hasn’t been seeing him as often. She hates to admit it, but patrols have become boring without him.

Too busy deciphering his body language, she doesn’t catch him pulling his wand out of his pocket. With one swish, all the trophies gleam.

“Hey! That’s not the punishment.”

He turns, an eyebrow cocked upwards. “Yes it is, you said to polish the trophies… So I did.”

Arrogant little shit. She hates when he’s right—which unfortunately is more often than she wants to admit. She sits on the ground and starts to fish through her bag, pulling out a transfiguration textbook and a parchment.

“Fine, fine. Then just be quiet over there—I have to get this essay finished.”

But she’s a fool to think that he will follow directions. He makes it about thirty seconds before he is up off the ground, coming to lean down and read over her shoulder with his head tilted downwards.

“It’s pretty good so far but you mis-characterized the difference between illusionment and deflection charms.”

She looks up with an insult already poised on her lips but is stopped short by the proximity of his face. Leaning down, his glasses are slipping off and she can see a small bruise blooming on his cheekbone just under his rims.

“Did a Slytherin give you that?”

He pokes at the bruise curiously, also just noticing it.

“Ah bugger.” He sits down next to her, splaying his legs in front of him while leaning on his hands. “Mulciber’s work I think. He’s fine at dueling but shite at punching—surprised he even got a decent hit.”

“So what, you’ve moved on to physical violence for fun?”

He whips his head around. For once, his eyes are absent of anything other than seriousness.

“No actually. Just sticking up for my friends.” His stare is so intense she has to look away.

“I think Black can stick up for himself fine.”

“Yeah, Sirius can, but Remus can’t—not always.”

Now it’s her turn to stare. She had been curious as to why Remus hadn’t been on patrols earlier. It was hard to imagine him in a real argument, much less a physical scuffle.

“Is he ok? Remus I mean.” The worry in her voice softens his gaze a bit, shoulders relaxing.

“Yeah—he’s…he’s going to be fine.” James teeters off, something hidden behind his words.

“Well–I’m glad.” She means it, though it feels understated. Her mind wanders to how often Severus would theorize about Remus’ absences and pushes away the idea that he could be behind the fight.

“Do you want something? I mean for the bruise?” She rummages around in her bag again and pulls out a vial of white liquid. Handing it to him, he eyes it warily before opening the bottle and giving it a sniff.

“It’s Mountain Arnica. I made it myself—heals cuts and scrapes pretty well.”

James pulls his glasses up to his forehead and uses the pad of his finger to dab some onto the bruise. She makes a subconscious note that his eyes are much clearer without the glasses covering them.

“You getting into a lot of tussles to warrant a bottle of this?” He flashes her a sly smile, warming back into form.

She shrugs. “In second and third there were some Slytherins that liked to bother me. I guess I got used to carrying it.”

All amusement drops from his face, eyes flooding with concern. “But I thought you were mates with Snape.”

“Yeah well,” she sighs, “we’ve both seen Snape’s track record for sticking up for me.”

She waits for a cutting jab at Severus’ expense but he gives none.

“Thanks for this,” he says and reaches the vial back out.

“No, you keep it.” She doesn’t know what compels her, but she gives him the first genuine smile in years, “I’m sure you can find better use for it.”

The smile he offers back feels warm, real.

“Thank Evans,” he says as he slips the vial into his pocket.

“Remus will love it.”

* * * * *

For once, and unfortunately so, she finds him completely visible.

“Ah don’t be such a puss Evans. James was just escorting me back to my dorms.”

She finds the two walking down past the kitchens, easily detected by the way Olivia’s voice bounces off the cold stone of the corridors.They weren’t touching when she caught sight of them, but as she approaches, Olivia clasps onto James’ limp arm, giggling with a coy smile.

“Don’t know if you can read a clock, but whatever you could have possibly been doing to need an escort was already past curfew.”

James shifts his weight, being more silent than she has ever seen him in five years combined. Olivia gives another high pitched giggle, tightening her hold on his arm.

“Sorry Evans, we were just busy. Lost track of time y’know?” Lily can feel her dinner resurfacing in the back of her throat.

“Well, I don’t care to know about your extracurriculars,” she turns her head, hoping to mask the flush she can feel on her cheeks, “it’s still twenty points each and a round of detention.”

James raises his head and eyes her with a curiosity that she is unwilling to acknowledge. Beside him, Olivia feigns a pout.

“Ah, bugger. Well, I guess that means we will be seeing each other again, right James?”

Lily’s eyes flick over to him. His curiosity has settled into a tense stare, eyes blown out and focused solely on her.

“Er, probably not,” he says with a wooden tone. Olivia’s eyes narrow, her fingers uncurling slightly from his bicep but not letting go.

As per protocol, she escorts them the short distance to the Hufflepuff dorm which they do in silence. Olivia keeps herself attached to James’ arm, but he gives no reciprocation, letting it swing loose at his side. At the entrance, Olivia casts another hopeful glance at him, expecting some form of goodnight, but he remains distant, pulling his arm away from hers like removing an annoying arm brace. With a huff, Olivia ducks into the common room without as much as a goodbye.

With Olivia gone, it’s business as usual and Lily escorts James back to the tower like she’s done so many nights already. But instead of the teasing, the idle small talk, the quippy banter, James remains quiet, their steps echoing through the halls.

Even in the silence, even with James’ new pensive behavior, Lily feels lighter with Olivia gone. She steals a glance at him and she can see there is red blotching under the rims of his glasses, eyes focused only ahead at the darkness. A sick part of her wants to demand what he was doing with Olivia– wants to hear it even if she knows her stomach will fill with bile from the answer.

“I really was just walking her back.” His voice cuts through the silence, clear and firm.

So maybe he is a mind reader now.

Like him, she doesn’t stop walking. “Bad luck Potter. Maybe next time choose a snog partner who can be a little quieter.” She means to tease, but her voice is cutting, filled with a malice she didn’t realize she was holding.

He stops and she feels fingers curl against her elbow. For the first time that night, their eyes lock.

“I wasn’t going to snog her.”

She ignores the feeling that her heart is about to take flight and searches his face for a glimmer of sarcasm.

“Coming from you, a serial liar, it's hard to believe.” She snorts.

“But I’ve never lied to you.”

She doesn’t know what to say. Suddenly, the corridor becomes very hot, the hand still holding her by the elbow now constrictive.

“Whatever, just drop it Potter, It’s really none of my business.”

And he does drop it, letting go of her elbow and taking a few strides in front of her. She rushes to catch up, wondering who is leading who back to the dorms now.

Their newfound silence and the change in power dynamic makes something like anger take form, twisting her guts into a perilous place of recklessness.

“Y’know, you could do a lot better than Olivia Gueresso.” She waits for a physical reaction but nothing comes.

“Well it’s not like you're interested.” He says. His voice is so low and so quick she almost misses it. Almost.

“Potter–” she warns, but James is already bounding through the portrait, hand passing through his hair. She follows him down the tunnel, footsteps echoing around them.

She doesn’t know what else she wants from him, but if they reach the firelight of the common room it will be too late.

“Hey, Potter,” she calls louder and the sound bounces. He turns quickly on his heel and Lily runs straight into him, ricocheting back against his chest. Two calloused hands steady her by her shoulders.

“You know Evans, you’re really lovely in the candlelight.”

It’s that look again. His eyes glazed on her like there is nothing else in existence. It’s the second time he has touched her that hour but this time it feels familiar, perhaps even welcome.

“What are you—”

But the light of the fireplace takes him. He lopes away up to his dorm, not even giving a goodnight.

* * * * *

Sixth Year

He wants to be caught.

Like normal, he steps out of the shadows but it no longer jars her like it did back in fifth. She hadn’t gotten a good look at him at the welcome ceremony but now she can see he has grown over summer. His body is somehow more lean and muscular all at once; his hair wilder, curling farther down his neck. Instead of his typical urge to immediately run a hand through it the second he spots her, his arms stay casual by his sides.

“Trying to be awarded the first detention of the year, Potter?” She says cooly, but her heart is already betraying her—something it’s been doing more and more often as her thoughts drifted to him over the summer.

“If it’s from you, it would be an honor.” His grin grows, his dimple more pronounced.

Lily attempts to scoff, but finds it much more bearable to avert her eyes. Maybe he had stumbled into some good candlelight, but the longer he remains in front of her the more it’s clear what’s so different about him: he is now infuriatingly fit.

“Ok–so where’s the gang? Might as well give it up since you are getting detention no matter what.”

His smile doesn’t waver. “No gang-–I’m solo tonight.”

She dares to look him in the eyes, ignoring the whooshing feeling in her chest. He’s telling the truth.

“Alright, so what? You gonna get early revenge on the Slytherins by yourself?”

He makes a humming noise and his cheeks start to take on a bit more color.

“No– actually I just wanted to see you.”

It stops all of her thoughts dead. Something about how a small blush colors his cheeks makes her heart beat a bit faster.

“And you couldn’t see me at dinner or in the common room like a normal person?”

“Yeah well, it’s not like any of our mates would act normal if I tried to ask about your summer over the welcome feast,” he mumbles, running his hand through his hair, now clearly a move of anxiety more than arrogance.

She takes a small step towards him. “That’s really what you want, Potter? You broke school rules on night one to ask me about my holidays?”

“I mean—-yes?” He rubs a hand through his hair again, eyes starting to shift away. A rush of something that resembles pride takes over her. James Potter is feeling sheepish because of me.

She lets him stew for a minute, mostly to take in the rare power she is wielding before giving him a smirk.

“So do it.”

“Do what?” James gives her an incredulous look, face now so red he could have been slapped.

“Ask about my summer—or did you already forget that’s what you are here for?”

It takes a second, but a grin breaks out on his face, returning him back to form. “Alright Evans—how was your summer?”

Lily hums clasping her hands behind her back. “Well my dad died so—”

“Bloody hell,” James runs both hands through his air, all facial features frozen in complete shock. “I mean, Godric, Evans I’m so sorry–that’s…that’s…”

Lily waves a hand in dismissal to distract from any emotion that could be peaking on her face.

“Eh, don’t worry about it. He was a raging arsehole anyways.”

He looks at her, eyes wide and fixated. “Yeah but still—is your mum ok?”

She looks down the hall, trying to stay nonchalant. “Yeah, I mean she’s fine—seeing as she’s been dead since fourth year.”

“Godric Fuck.” He does a quick spin on his heels, taking a step away from her with his head in his hands before turning back.

“I’m– shit--How did I not know this?”

Lily frowns at him, tilting her head. “What do you mean? It’s not like we’re close or anything.”

Something about saying that feels false but she pushes the thought away.

He shakes his head. “Yeah, but we’ve been in the same class, same house since we were eleven. I reckon I’d at least know something—something like that.”

She finds it quite endearing that he reels from this—that they could cohabitate in the same space for so long without knowing the most basic facts about the other. He continues to rub his face in his hands, looking more tortured by the second.

“Well, to be fair, I don’t know anything about your family either.” She offers.

He straightens up a bit, sensing her attempt to level the playing field. A glimmer of discomfort still sits in his eyes and despite her being the one newly orphaned, she feels a pull to comfort him.

“Well go on,” she prods, hoping to shift attention away from her, “Tell me about yours. I know they are purebloods…”

He raises an eyebrow, wary to move away from her loss, but letting her take the lead.

“There’s not much to say—”

Lily bats her eyes, urging him forward. He sighs.

“They are still together and disgustingly still in love, which I guess I should appreciate.”

It makes her giggle, thinking about some old wizarding couple making kissing faces while James feigns puking in the corner. His shoulders relax further, leaning into her amusement.

“And?”

“And this,” Lily mirrors his gesture, “meaning…”

James grins, and it does something downright delectable to her heart. “This meaning an arrogant git who is too thick to notice other people’s personal lives.”

It is a sentiment she would have agreed with a thousand times in the past, but hearing it from him now makes her reconsider. It might have been true a year ago, but the boy standing in front of her is decidedly changed—for one she likes standing next to him in the dark corridor.

But she can’t say that.

“Your words.” She doesn’t elaborate but she offers him a real smile, not one with any edge to it and he returns it.

“Yeah,Evans. My words.”

* * * * *

It starts a sort of friendship between them.

He learns her schedule quickly, finding her in various places of the castle on any given day. She questions him about how he does it: disappears and reappears, knows exactly where she’s going to be despite intentionally changing her route to confuse him— but he never answers more than a teasing finger wag. “I’ll never reveal my secrets–you know that Evans.”

He no longer hides from her but hides from the others to get to her. Once found, he appears as usual but with conversation already on his lips. He asks about her life, about the muggle world, about music and films and anything that he can think of—making good on all the lost time in the past six years they have been so close but knew nothing of each other. In turn, she does the same: she finds out that Sirius moved in with the Potters, that his dad is celebrated for a hair taming potion that miraculously doesn’t work on his own son (“I swear, it’s my genes Evans, it openly rejects the stuff—I can’t help it.”), that he likes autumn and quidditch in the rain and the color green…

And she is surprised how much she starts to look forward to it. Time has treated him well, the looming war knocking more sense into him than previous years. Instead of being arrogant and self serving, he listens intently, hanging on her every word. They talk passionately about the rising conflict with blood purity and their shared disdain for the dark arts, life after school, their fears for the future. They have more light-hearted moments too: he charms the corridors to play music, daring to take her hand and dance down the hall, brings her a bit of warm bread with cinnamon and sugar from the kitchens, and consistently offers her silly anecdotes that make her laugh harder than she thinks she ever has in her life. Even the silence is comfortable—warm and encompassing like she imagines his physical touch would be if one of them just made the move…

“God, I love Halloween.”

They sit inside a bay window in the charms corridor, pulling out candy from a plastic bucket shaped like a grinning jack-o-lantern.

“Alright Evans, what in Godric's green potion is this bloody candy?” He holds up a package of candy corn and she giggles, snapping it out of his hands.

“Don’t act like you’re too good for muggle candy—we both know how disgusting the wizarding stuff can be.”

James feigns aghast, clenching his chest. “Do you mean to tell me you don’t like bogey flavored sugar beans–how could you Evans? An outrage!”

She lets out a real laugh, one that makes her head tilt back. He’s been making her do that more with each meeting and every time she does the same look crosses his face: one of triumph mixed with something tender.

“Here, just try one—I swear it can’t be worse than anything you’ve already tasted.”

His eyes squint in a mischievous way, turning his head back and forth like a baby refusing a spoon.

“Nope, no way.”

She leans over more, encroaching into his personal space to poke his tightened mouth with the tip of the candy.

“C’mon Potter? Where’s your courage? Your sense of adventure? Your—”

He opens his mouth, sucking in the piece. Her hand falls to his lips, feeling the warm press of his tongue on the pads of her fingers.

She jerks back, her face blazing hot. Something burning and raw takes over her senses, flooding all vision.

“Sorry,” he sputters, trying to not choke through his flustering, “I didn’t–”

She doesn’t wait to talk herself out of it. She leans back in, pressing the soft line of her lips to his. His mouth immediately molds into hers. Eager and warm, he tastes like sugar and something unmistakably him.

“I’m sorry,” she says when she pulls up for air, “ I just wanted to know…we don’t have to—,” but a calloused hand cups her cheek, pulling her mouth back to skim over his.

“I don’t want your apology,” he whispers and the heat of his breath makes the room spin, “but I would like you to kiss me again.”

Her mouth is already opening, slotting into place with his. He sighs into her and she can’t think of a more wonderful sound in the world.

“Alright Potter, I’ll allow it.”

* * * * *

“Are you sure they can’t see us?” It comes out more as a pant than a sentence. James’ lips are working down her neck, hands taking advantage of her open shirt to explore undiscovered skin.

He hardly lifts his mouth and her body reacts to the heat of his breath, arching forwards into him for more.

“We can go somewhere else...”

Her mind is screaming a loud, resounding yes, but the clock is telling her she still has an hour of patrols. She forces her eyes open. Looking past the hazy screen of James’ cloak she can see the portraits sleeping soundly as though they never existed. Between the discovery of an invisibility cloak and the feel of James' body against hers, it's too much for her to take in at once.

He lets out a sigh and she feels the words so lovely being mouthed into her skin. Everything is crackling around her, the world disappearing besides him and his hands and his tongue now dragging lower…

“Tomorrow,” she gasps. “Find me tomorrow right when I get off patrol—-then take me anywhere you want.”

James detaches his mouth and looks up at her, his swollen lips hung open in wonder.

“Does that mean we need to stop today?”

He tries to pull back, but she grips onto him, not ready to lose the hard line of his body against hers just yet. There’s still an hour left of patrols, but is it not still patrolling if she can see the corridor?

She pushes up on her toes to capture his mouth again, their lips slanting together in hot melding kisses.

“No–never stop.”

* * * * *

It turns out James Potter can actually follow directions. The next night he shows up with only five minutes left of patrols to spare and they don’t waste a second to slot together, making good on the promise to go wherever he pleases.

Over time her speculation of his invisibility cloak lessens, almost preferring the danger of it to the dingy passageways and small alcoves that he pulls her into each night. But she will take whatever she can get—waiting impatiently through her patrols for that moment when he slides out of the darkness to pull her back in with him.

In the safety of the cloak or the darkness of some secret hiding spot, she feels a hunger she has never experienced. It’s almost pavlovian in nature—the second the clock nears eleven, her body vibrates at the thought of him, prickling under the anticipation of his touch. When reunited, they wedge together like two pieces of the same stone, hands and mouths frantic and roaming, words coming out in soft sighs and quiet pants that rise into the air like smoke.

Patrols are no longer enough and nights feel achingly short for the amount of desire they have for each other. Their meetings start to seep into the daytime— ending up in the same passageways and closets but now with the added danger of roaming students and curious friends. During classes, they steal glances and sometimes dare to sit beside each other to let hands travel deliciously out of sight. When no one is looking, they pass notes between classes, trying to convey all the sweeping emotions into tiny phrases like I can’t wait to see you, I need you, you are so lovely, you make me so happy.

It stays like this for days, then weeks. Him always coming to find her, her letting him take the world away. Their time together always a sure thing.

Until it isn’t.

A quarter past eleven and he hasn’t shown up. She stands in the hall, one of the many recurring places he has found in her the past couple weeks. Her body still vibrates on cue, hungry to feel the scrape of his hands on her, but mentally she knows that something seems wrong.

Would it be impossible for him to not come?

Hearing a noise echo down the hall she turns on her heel, excitement flooding her cheeks, but instead of James loping out of the shadows, someone else stands there, face twisted like a predator hunting prey.

“You look happy to see me.” Antonin Dolohov purrs out, his eyes scanning down her body with a salacious grin.

“It’s past curfew Dolohov. That’s 20 points and two days detention.” She doesn't let his lewd gaze affect her, keeping her chin high while her hand hovers over her wand pocket.

“Detention,” he tuts, “I much prefer doing the detaining if you catch my drift, but I’m interested in how a mudblood like you plans to go about it.”

He takes a step forward and Lily pulls out her wand, pointing it straight between his eyes.

“Enough.”

His smile twists again, nonplussed by the threat. “ I see why Snape has always had such a hard on for you, Evans. You are a pretty girl for a mudblood. Why don’t you be a good little girl and get on your knees for me like you do to keep old Slughorn—

“Stupefy.”

She doesn’t even blink. The proximity of her wand to his forehead makes him knock back and he lands with a thud on the ground. The anger and fear that has been mounting since he appeared boils over and rushes out of her, her wand hand moving on its own accord. She can hear herself as though through a tunnel, hitting Dolohov’s motionless body with spell after spell, each one landing and sizzling into him like a lightning rod. Tears fall hot and globbing on her cheeks.

Lily! Lily!

She feels strong and familiar arms wrap around her, pulling the wand out of her hand and throwing it to the ground. She makes heaving noises, pushing away from James as he wrestles her in his arms, trying to reach her through the fury.

“Lily, that’s enough, You have to stop.”

But something inside her doesn’t want to stop. Her time with James has been a good distraction, but she is tired. Tired of the blood purity talks, tired of the endless bullying and spiteful words, tired of forever being a freak no matter what she does and no matter how much she tries to prove herself. Her prefect badge, her good grades, her perfect transitions from one world to the next will never be enough, because people like Dolohov won’t let it.

Her legs give out, letting the tears fall in choked sobs. James collapses on the ground with her, pushing her head into his chest, letting his shirt become soaked through.

“You didn’t come…” She cries out. It’s the smallest of the things on her mind, but it’s the only one she can accurately put into words.

“I know, I’m sorry, I was just coming to find you—-Sirius’ mum had sent him a howler and–”

“So now you're selfish too,” she hisses to herself. Pushing herself into him more, she tries to calm the animal noises that keep spilling from her mouth. From behind them, Dolohov groans, some of the hexes starting to wear off.

“Lily, I need you to breathe. We need to get out of here—did he touch you?” He pulls back to surveille her.

She is still taking ragged, shallow breaths, eyes burning from the salt of her tears. Sounds echo from down the corridor and James quickly scrambles to pull her into his arms, hoisting her into a cradle against his chest.

Like always, they disappear together, this time behind a tapestry where there is enough room for them to spread out—though they don’t.

“It’s alright–I’m right here.”

She clings to him, and he continues to whisper comforting words, caressing her hair, her ears, her neck. Finally, she drifts off to sleep, the smell of him and the rhythm of his breathing the only thing tethering her from some sort of madness.

* * * * *

Seventh Year

“Lily, please–”

But she keeps walking down the corridor, actively looking in directions that are anywhere but at him.

“I’m not going to give up. Why did you stop answering my letters? Everything was so—so perfect…”

It had been. The summer days were spent writing letters back and forth, exchanging photos, filling in for time spent apart. At first they had to come up with creative excuses to see each other without anyone finding out (“Oh, well I was just thought a quick run to Diagon Alley would be nice.”) before Dumbledore gifted them with the greatest excuse of all (“Sirius, you’ll be at your Uncle’s, yeah? Lily is popping in to do some Heads’ planning—don’t worry, it will be more of a chore…”).

The days they spent that summer bouncing between each other’s houses were some of the best she had ever experienced. Safe from the wandering eyes of classmates, they held hands openly, caressed each other without shame, and spoke admiringly for the first time in normal speaking voices. They snuck into the other’s house at night, crawling into the other’s bed unable to wait the days or hours to press together again, unable to bear wasting another second without their breaths intertwining, bodies always unimaginably hungry for the other’s touch.

But then there was silence.

“Is it about the sex? Because we can go back to taking things slow I don’t–”

“Of course it’s not about the bloody sex,” she spits out, unable to contain her shock. “That—that was incredible but–”

“But what? Lily, I’m going mad. Ask Sirius–I've nearly burrowed a path into my sitting room floor from all the pacing I did in the last week.”

She doesn’t want to look him in the eye because she knows if she does he will see it all: Snape coming to her door, warning her about the Dark Lord’s rising, his plan to kill anyone who is a traitor to his cause…

If I did something, I will fix it, I swear,” his voice cracks, tears on the brink of falling, “I just…really need you back. I miss you.”

This time it’s her turn to disappear. She continues walking down the hall, snuffing out her wand light so he is left in the dark.

* * * *

He isn’t looking for her, but he gravitates towards her anyway.

He was lucky he didn’t miss her entirely. Way up in the highest rung of the stands, the light of the stars betray her by reflecting auburn hair like a beacon. He knows it’s only self-sabotage at this point to approach, having spent exactly two weeks now with no communication whatsoever, but he does it anyway because he can see her shivering from all the way down on the pitch—and because he has never been able to resist her, even now.

“It’s too cold to be out here like that.”

He takes off his quidditch cloak and offers it to her, but she doesn’t even look at it, staring off into the distance.

Taking her silence as an invitation, he sits, leaving enough distance between them to show his caution. Just like in the candlelit corridors, the light from the stars mingle with the color of her eyes, making them glimmer like jewels on her face. It takes everything in his body not to reach for her, fearing that the sparkle will subside the minute he does.

“There’s a war out there,” she says, her voice hollow and cold like the wind.

“Yeah, so I’ve heard.”

There’s silence again. The wind cuts through the stands and brushes her hair up into the air like fire dancing.

“The potions master I applied to apprentice under owled back today—he says he won’t accept my application because I’m a mudblood.”

His head jerks in her direction. He has never heard her say that word before. Instinctively his hands clench at his sides, anger like waves in his chest.

“Then he doesn’t deserve you, the tosser—-People should be lining up to work with you, you’re bloody brilliant.” He means every word, and he can tell she knows he means it too. A small, pitiful smile tugs at her lips.

“Bloody brilliant doesn’t change my birth—might as well revert back to a muggle at this rate…”

He doesn’t want to hear anymore. He stands and forces himself in front of her and she looks up at him with a deep, pained look.

“What has gotten into you? The Evans I know wouldn’t say shite like this. The Evans I love wouldn’t—”

He stops cold, watching her catch the word before he does. Love. The Evans he loves.

“You don’t want to love me,” she whispers, tears falling hot now against her cheeks.

“But I do—” It comes out as a gasp, the suffering of two weeks without her pouring out of him like a broken dam. “Is this what it’s all about? That you’ve decided you aren’t good enough?”

“I’m not though,” her voice rises, face twisting into a sob. “I’m not good enough for the bloody wizarding or muggle world, not good enough to find work after school, not good enough for you.”

The last word comes biting out and James freezes in place, feeling as though he has been stunned.

“Lily, what are you talking about? When have I ever, ever said you aren’t good enough for me.”

Her eyes dart around, hands thrashing to remove the tears that keep coming.

“You don’t have to say it. You’re a pureblood—I’ve heard the talk. The death eaters will come to your family eventually and ask for support. If I’m with you…” a sob cuts off her words. She stands up, preparing to bolt but he grabs her by the forearm, holding her there with the wind tugging at her hair.

“If you’re with me than fuck them.”

The tears make her eyes glimmer but not in the way he wants to see them. He expects her to try to run again, but she doesn’t.

“Lily, I don’t care. I don’t care. You could be half troll and I would still want to be with you. Don’t you see? This is what they want, for you to be afraid—to give up.”

He takes the chance to slide a hand onto her cheek, wiping away some of the tears she has failed to stop.

“I–I love you, Lily. And if you don’t want that because you don’t feel it back, then I will disappear. But if you don’t want it because you are scared then…then I won’t accept that.”

He searches her eyes, wondering if he is making the biggest mistake of his life by pushing her. She looks back and even with all the pain he can’t stop thinking about how absolutely lovely she looks in the moonlight. Her hair, her eyes—even the tears. He burns the image into his memory, knowing that even if it’s the last night next to her, at least he will have her beauty in this moment forever.

“I don’t want you to disappear.”

The wind carries her voice and places it right into his beating heart, suddenly as warm as sunlight.

“I don’t want you to disappear, because I love you too.”

* * * *

Now, they disappear into each other. Instead of dimly lit corridors, he pulls her into a kiss the second she leaves class. Whispers and hidden notes are replaced with laughter and shrieks of joy as he lifts her up and spins her after a quidditch game, not caring to even glimpse at the house cup. In the sunlight by the lake they tangle together, studying, laughing, snogging–especially snogging, making up for all the lost time in the weeks they were apart and for all the other years they could have been together. The night becomes a special place—one of nostalgia and hope. Instead of meeting in grimy alcoves, she follows his lead to his bed where they slot together like two pieces if a whole, trying to meld back as one.

He was always a beacon of light in the darkness, but in the sunlight he is breathtaking. Always a presence of comfort and joy and love. So much love that she wonders if she had ever felt it before—not even the love of family could compare to what he is capable of showing her. She gives it back tenfold, keeping him impossibly close and hoping she will never have to let go.

“James–you can’t just hide.”

It’s odd to see the shimmering movement of the cloak in the daylight. A muffled voice calls out from where he was just next to her, sheepish and frantic.

“Don’t mind me—just completely turned to dust from embarrassment.”

A smile cracks on her lips, her heart makes fluttering beats in her chest.

“You don’t have to answer me today—-or at all. We could just pretend it never happened.”

She reaches out towards where his voice is coming from, but hears his feet move back on the grass.

“James,” she sighs, “ I was going to say yes.”

It hangs in the air. She can practically feel his heartbeat from whatever distance away he stands hiding.

“So, if you would stop freaking out–” she adds, cheeks filling with pink, “I’d really like to kiss my new fiancé.”

His head pops out, floating detached in front of her. It would remind her of the first time she ever caught him past curfew, but instead of a mischievous grin, his face is flush and eyes blown wide.

“I’m not freaking out,” he murmurs, “But—just to be sure, did just call me your fiancé?”

She moves quickly, grabbing hold of the cloak and pulling herself under into his arms. She can feel his body buzzing against hers, fingers moving in shock to wrap around her body.

“Yes, I did,” she says, pressing her lips into his. “And yes, I will marry you.”

If the cloak falls away, they don’t notice. He picks her up and she wraps herself around him, the warmth of his skin and the May sunlight working in tandem. His shock has worn off and he kisses her in earnest, and she is more than happy to reciprocate.

They could have stayed like that for hours, days—it didn’t matter anymore. With him, everything else disappears.

#Jily #james potter #lily evans #marauders era #yallthemwitches #my writing #jily fanfiction #james x lily #jily getting together through the years

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apomaro-mellow · 1 year ago

Text

Every Baby Needs a Daddy 12

Part 11

@spectrum-spectre before you say anything, there's no smut in this one so go to sleep and read it at a more reasonable hour

In Eddie's fantasy world, he took off in a plane with Steve, escorted him back to Indiana, dropped him off at the door of the home he'd be staying at, giving him a very thorough scenting before letting him go.

But Eddie had work to take care of and Steve said he would be fine. And Eddie had gotten the hang of figuring out when Steve meant what he said. It wasn't hard. Whenever he wanted to be spoiled, he put that bratty lilt to his voice. They parted ways, Eddie having rubbed himself all over Steve before they exited the car, then again before getting to the check out counter.

Eddie was avoiding notice by wearing his hair in a braided bun and big sunglasses. He insisted on getting Steve a first class ticket. It was the only way to keep too many people from rubbing against him and thus making his scent fade sooner.

"Don't miss me too much", Eddie teased, looking over the rim of his shades.

Steve wrapped his arms around his neck. "I already do, Daddy", he whispered. He kissed him and then murmured against his lips. "Can't stop thinking about it. In less than ten days..."

Eddie put his hands to Steve's waist. He couldn't wait either. They'd be reuniting for Steve's heat. But they weren't coming back together just for that. While Steve was pretty regular and was 99% it would come when he said it did, Eddie would have Steve on the first jet to Texas on January 1st.

Steve thoroughly enjoyed the luxury of first class and landed back home with less than half the stress of a normal plane flight. Eddie had been a little zealous in spending on him sometimes, and it reflected in how much money he sent to Steve so that he could get a ride at the airport. Steve had specifically told him that Lucas could have picked him up and then he'd be with family for the rest of the time.

Eddie must've heard something different because when Steve checked his venmo, he was several hundred dollars richer. When Lucas picked him up, he decided that money could be well spent doing some last minute shopping.

"You know, I'm actually kind of relieved", Lucas said as they packed the last of the stuff into his trunk.

"Why?", Steve asked.

"I thought when you started being a sugar baby and junk you'd turn into a different person. But you're still Steve."

Steve smiled. "Didn't go through a name change last I checked."

"You know what I mean. You were still cursing out the ref at the game back in DC. And you got Robin a mug with a weird picture, not like a diamond encrusted dog bowl or something."

"She's gonna love the mug more than that. And the ref had his blinders on for the whole first half."

Steve didn't realize how relieved he was to hear that though, that he had retained the real parts of himself even though he felt completely changed by Eddie. Would he start to change in time? How long would it take? His reverie was broken when Lucas pulled into the driveway of his home.

"Okay, so Dustin told my parents you were seeing someone and Mike told them it was someone famous but they don't know it's Eddie Munson."

Steve felt his stomach drop. "Do they know that I'm?"

Lucas shook his head. "You get to tell them that."

"You've gotta be fucking kidding me", Steve groaned.

The last thing he wanted to tell the people who helped him through the final years of high school and the first couple of college was that he was getting dicked down by a celebrity and was falling for him too. The Sinclairs were more like his parents than his actual mom and dad.

They didn't hold back either, bringing it up the moment he entered and they got their hugs.

"Dustin told us you're seeing someone?", Mrs. Sinclair said.

Steve snuck an ear twist as Dustin walked by with a grin, one that the Sinclairs definitely noticed but let him get away with. He had to be honest not just because of how important they were, but because they'd find out everything sooner or later. New traveled fast online and he was honestly surprised they didn't know more already.

"I met him one night at a bar. He covered my dinner when I was a little short", Steve said as his hands were kept busy helping with the food preparation.

"Sounds like a gentleman", Mr. Sinclair said.

Lucas and his friends were sitting in the living room, which Steve was thankful for. He knew they'd want to spill every last bean. He got away with giving them minimal info: Eddie's first name, the fact he was a musician, an alpha, and that they'd been on a few dates.

That night, he cornered Dustin and Mike and made them swear to keep their mouths shut about anything else.

"Lucas got basketball tickets. We should get something to", Mike said.

"How's about you don't get a tanned hide?", Steve offered, eyes hard.

Christmas went as usual, Steve spent the day of and day after in the Sinclair home, then returned to his own apartment where Robin was already waiting to celebrate New Years. He didn't get two feet into the door before she was feeling his stomach.

He rolled his eyes. "I'm not-"

"But you could be. I know you and your cumslut tendencies. So I know you're not making him wrap it up."

"But I'm still taking my birth control", Steve said.

"You just know that if you get knocked up I'll have no choice but to move back in with you and help you raise this pup", Robin said.

"There is no pup. And I wouldn't make you do that."

"I would though. For you", she promised.

"I know Robs. That's why I'm not gonna let it happen. If I wanna have his baby, you'll get a six month notice before we conceive."

"Thank you for that."

They spent December 31st ordering take out from three different places and binging Empire. When it got to the time for real festivities to begin, they turned the tv to where Eddie said he was going to be performing.

"So that's your beau. He's not bad", Robin complimented. "How's the rest of the band?"

"They're great. I think you and Jeff would really get along. He's actually really into brass instruments too. And Gareth knows a bunch of nerd languages."

"You mean like Klingon and Elvish?"

"And apparently he's learning Atlantean."

Midnight came and Steve kissed her forehead and Robin kissed his cheek.

--------------------

The next day, he was packed and ready to hop on his flight. Robin dropped him off and hugged him tight enough to hold him over until the next time they met. His ticket was first class again and when he landed in Austin, he was already feeling a tingling under his skin. He missed his alpha. Need his scent, his touch, the rumble of his voice.

Because of this, while he loved the other CC boys, he was a little disappointed to see them awaiting his arrival and not Eddie.

"The Ed-man had to finish something in the studio last minute", Gareth explained as they led Steve to the car.

"Thanks for picking me up, guys", Steve certainly preferred them over a stranger from Uber.

Grant drove the way back, taking them to a mansion that had Steve's jaw dropping. He was no stranger to big houses, but he was used to them being simply for status. They'd been grand but sterile, devoid of any personality. The moment Steve stepped in, he could see that wasn't true for this place. He could pick out each of the resident's scents, could see each of their quirks as he was given a tour of the place.

They saved Eddie's room for last and he found out when Eddie barreled down the hallway to meet them at his door.

"They're really good pack", Steve said as Jeff, Grant, and Gareth left the two of them alone.

"I knew I could trust them with you." Then Eddie kissed him about six times. "For all the missed mistletoe." Then again. "For New Year's."

Steve laughed against his lips. "You gonna show me the bedroom anytime soon? I'd love to lie down, Daddy."

Eddie bit his lip, looking nervous all of a sudden as he slowly opened the door. Steve wanted to take in everything. After all, a bedroom could tell you a lot about a person. But his attention was immediately grabbed by the bed situation and what was sitting on the bench in front of it. There was a thin quilt turning it into a canopy bed, much like the den Eddie had made in their hotel room back in New York.

Steve recognized the pattern from what he'd heard before. Jeff's handiwork. And by the foot of the bed was a small bench where a collection of clothes sat. Steve went right to them and took a whiff of the first shirt. It was so undeniably Eddie, he would have thought his neck was pressed to his nose were he not still by the door.

Then he picked up a tank top and caught notes of lemon and ginger. "Are these...?"

"I tried to scent a lot of stuff before you got here, the boys helped out too. I hope that was okay?" His hands were stuck in his pockets and his back was tensed like he might run.

"It's more than okay", Steve reassured him.

"And the den? You like it? I can always change it if you don't. We've got tons of linens here, all that can be scented in a moment's notice and-"

"Eddie", Steve put a hand to his arm. "It's great. Now...", he held up one of the garments. "Help me nest?"

Eddie swallowed and nodded. He followed Steve's lead as they arranged everything on the bed for maximum comfort. Once Steve was satisfied, he sank down into it, smirking when he saw the way Eddie gingerly lied down next to him.

"Your first time doing a heat?", Steve asked.

"I've been around omegas in heat before. Just not as the uh, let's say star alpha", Eddie admitted.

Steve turned so his back was against Eddie's chest and pulled his arm over him. It took Eddie a moment, but he got comfortable and melted against his body. The exhaustion from the flight and being up for hours finally got to him and Steve closed his eyes.

When he opened them hours later, his body was warm and he felt a wetness between his legs.

Part 13

Tag Team CLOSED

@awkotaco24 @lingeringmirth @littlewildflowerkitten @estrellami-1 @tartarusknight @velocitytimes2 @mrsjellymunson @trashcanniballecter @paintsplatteredandimperfect @a-little-unsteddie @sllooney @starman-jpg @oxidantdreamboat @xxbottlecapx @newtstabber @tiny-enthusiast @desidrarry-wolfstarshipper @y4r3luv @hello-fellow-nerds @anonymousbandgirl @alyelf @potato-of-the-lord @beckkthewreck @croatoan-like-its-hot @pluto-pepsi @abstractnaturaldisaster @ellietheasexylibrarian @eyesofshinigami @dragonmama76 @greatwerewolfbeliever @chaosgremlinmunson @blackpanzy @millseyes-world @batxsignalsx @lilpomelito @goosesister @libraryofgage @aresthelostboy @royjaimie4eva @silenzioperso @she-collects-smut @lost-wondering-souls @eddielives1986 @marklee-blackmore

#apo writes #stranger things #steddie #omegaverse #a/b/o #i literally checked the clock b4 posting #bc i know now i have the uncanny ability to post smut #and therefore keep specs up at all hours of the night #but this time there's no smut so haha!#there will be a healthy dose of debauchery in the next one tho

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calaisreno · 9 months ago

Text

The Client

936 words / Prompt: Secret

Mary looks at the chair. John can’t be serious. “Why?”

The look he gives her is terrible. She knows his temper, but this is the first time she’s seen Captain Watson, who could shoot a man and have no trouble sleeping afterwards.

“Because that’s where they sit,” he whispers fiercely. “You’re a client now, Mary. That’s all you are. That’s where you sit and talk, and we listen and decide if we want you or not.”

Sherlock is looking sort of grey. She wonders how he managed to sneak out of the hospital and set this up. Was it really necessary? Did he not think that John would believe him?

Her husband—well, the marriage probably isn’t legal, and now that he knows he’s married to a woman who’s been lying since the day they met, he’s obviously not going to stay. Right now, he can’t even look at her.

Sherlock nods at her. She’s not sure why he’s trying to help her. Or why she didn’t kill him when she had a chance. She was rattled, or she would have done it properly, and this conversation wouldn’t be happening.

She thought she was finally safe. John is exactly the kind of man she would marry. If Sherlock hadn’t come back, they could have been happy. John is angry now, and it’s not all about her. He’s in love with Sherlock, and it’s something he can’t admit, even to himself.

Maybe she should have simply disappeared.

She still could.

“You know what?” She stands in front of John’s chair, glaring down at him. “Forget this bullshit. Open your eyes, John. This—” She pats her belly. “It isn’t real. There’s no baby.”

He sits up, wide-eyed now.

She smirks. “Don’t pretend you didn’t suspect. You didn’t want to believe it, so you stopped paying attention.”

John’s speechless for a moment, then stammers. “But… why would you do that?”

“Without the baby, I would have lost you.” She turns to Sherlock. “Thanks, but I’ll handle Magnussen on my own.”

Picking up her handbag, she walks towards the door. On the threshold she turns and gives her parting shot. “Pull your heads out of your arses, boys. See ya.”

John stares after her until they hear the door downstairs slam. He turns to Sherlock. “What the hell just happened?”

Sherlock tries to push himself up from his chair. “John… I think…”

Heavy feet are clattering up the stairs. John looks towards the door, where the paramedics have appeared.

“Did somebody call an ambulance?”

Sherlock gasps. “Did you bring any morphine?”

A week later…

BBC News. According to Detective Greg Lestrade of Scotland Yard, the investigation into the death of media mogul Charles Augustus Magnussen has turned up no clues to the identity of his killer, or how they came to Appledore, his residence. Security footage is being examined, but the killer obviously knew their target and took care not to be caught on camera. All leads will be pursued, he says, but it appears to be a professional job.

Months later…

“You know, Sherlock, we didn’t need to have such a big wedding.”

“Don’t say that to Mummy. It’s always been her ambition to plan one. And I’m finding I don’t mind it so much.”

“I don’t even know half of these people. Other than Harry, I assume they’re all your relatives.”

“Most are. And acquaintances. My parents have a lot of friends.”

“Mycroft looks… well, less dyspeptic than usual.”

“Every feast needs a spectre, John.”

“Oh, look, he’s talking with Greg. And he’s actually smiling.”

“Who?”

“Oh, give it up, Sherlock. Greg Lestrade.”

“Ah, yes. They do seem rather… friendly. Interesting…”

“Who’s the woman with the hair?”

“All the women have hair, John. Not a single bald woman in the hall. Oh, I see. Looks like a wig. Probably some mystery relative. She’s talking with my cousin Pansy. Mummy will know.”

“Not important. Just… she seems familiar. Look, here’s Harry. Glad she made it this time.”

“Harry! Come here—I need to dance with my sister-in-law.”

“All right, Sherlock—does this mean Johnny gets to dance with Mycroft?”

“Absolutely not! I’m not dancing with Mycroft, even if he’s secretly running the country.”

“Well, your loss. Come on, Sherlock. John says you’re a good dancer. Let me see you get your boogie on.”

“My what?”

“Mrs Holmes! This is all lovely. Thank you so much.”

“Of course, John! And please, you must call me Viola. Where’s your husband?”

“He’s dancing with Harry. Say, who’s that woman over there with the dark hair and large glasses? She was just talking with Pansy.”

“Oh… I don’t know, John. I thought she was one of yours.”

“No, she’s not. Oh, look, she’s leaving.”

“Honestly, who leaves a wedding early? Sherlock, do come here!”

“Yes, Mummy?”

“It’s your wedding! Dance with your husband, dear! I’m going to look for mine.”

“Gladly. Come here, John.”

“Sherlock, that woman—”

“Yes, John. I know.”

“Does Mycroft know?”

“He told me she was dead. But he’s been wrong about dead people before.”

“Why do you think she came here?”

“You mean, why did she crash our wedding? I think she just wanted to make sure you’re fine. That we’re fine.”

“Is this what she meant by ‘get your heads out of your arses’?”

“I believe so.”

“Well, I’m glad she’s not vengeful.”

“No, I don’t believe she is. And I don’t bear her any ill-will.”

“No? Hm. I do, just a bit. But tonight, I only want to think about you.”

“Do you? Then I’ll just have to keep your attention, won’t I?”

“You always do, love.”

All my May Prompts 2024 can be read on AO3 here.

#mayprompts2024

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takescrackseriously · 17 days ago

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Nevermore Mini Bang art!!!!!

’Twas noontide of summer,

And mid-time of night;

And stars, in their orbits,

Shone pale, thro’ the light

Of the brighter, cold moon,

’Mid planets her slaves,

Herself in the Heavens,

Her beam on the waves.

I gaz’d awhile

On her cold smile;

Too cold — too cold for me —

There pass’d, as a shroud,

A fleecy cloud,

And I turn’d away to thee,

Proud Evening Star,

In thy glory afar,

And dearer thy beam shall be;

For joy to my heart

Is the proud part

Thou bearest in Heav’n at night,

And more I admire

Thy distant fire,

Than that colder, lowly light.

-Edgar Allen Poe

Evening Star

Will: "Hey, that's my shoulder!"

I try to avoid typing a lot under my art, but I'm really proud of this one, so here it goes:

It's very loosely based on the poem Evening star' by Poe.

My art in this follows the events after Ulaume kills her good ol roommate, Psyche. Now, unfortunately because this is me I don't think I could properly make this whole thing understandable and will probably change this lore if I get the chance:

Pyche, Ulalume's roommate has gotten her spectre, a long time ago too, back in the maze. Cool. However, Ulalume has been getting less and less trustful of Pyche due to her fear of betrayal. Ulalume also notices that if she allows Pysche to linger, she may become emotionally attached. So, (and I'm still trying to figure out if this is meant to be before or after the wild hunt) she kills Pyche via strangulation and shoves her orb under their bed. Now, most of the paintings except the first painting takes place a few days after this murder. Ulalume hasn't been getting sleep not only because of the orb that keeps asking 'why' under her bed that she has now pushed together because yay big bed, but also because of how little she remembers from the killing. Like, she knows she did it. She 'remembers' it in the same way you remember writing a letter from years ago. You know you wrote it, but you simply can't recall the actual event. Mainly based off my own terrible memory and how I deal with my emotions when anything bad happens to me.

This also relates to the poem Ulalume where the speaker doesn't even realise he made it to his late lover's tomb.

Ulalume is very stressed now. She knows she isn't good at talking with people to any degree. But then she's sees it, Annabel. She rwlaises she has just found someone who she can rely on and won't feel guilty when the time comes to kill one another. Plus, Ulalume was sort of acquainted with Ada before the Manor arc. I haven't the slightest clue why Annabel would allow Ulalume into the clusterfucks outside of for the plot™

Also, Annabel's pose is inspired by 'Birth of Venus', because hear me out:

Annabel has an association with pearls. Pearls are form the sea plus in the Annabel Lee poem, she live sin a kingdom by the sea. Venus was born from a shell in the sea (more complicated than that) and the Greek equivalent of Venus is Aphrodite, and Annabel is pretty :3

In other words, I looked at Nevermore and thought 'How can I make this about me?'

So that's it for the painting. Also, Ulalume's sleeves changed for the plot too, I'll draw that in a comic one day. And as for her jabot, I looked at references from 1890s middle class women for it.

#nevermore season 2 #nevermore webtoon #nevermore webcomic #ulalume nevermore #nevermore oc #nevermore in with a bang #Idk if it actually has a tag #anyways here it is #I swear I didn't copy Prospero's jabot/cravat #nevermore annabel lee #annabel lee whitlock #do you ever look at your art and notice how silly it is?#I mean this whole thing can be summarized as this:#sleep deprived student who recently murdered her roommate finds a blonde girl to obsess over #cw death #cw strangulation #cw mentions of violence #neverbang2025

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pasdetrois · 2 months ago

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some nosferatu 2024 thoughts 🖤

this is the first jonathan (well, thomas in this adaptation because stoker estate lawsuit) that i have actually enjoyed watching—which was very much helped by his character not being shunted off to the corner after the castle arc, and by him being played by nicholas hoult instead of harry styles (yes, apparently he may have been the original casting choice. thank goodness for small miracles).

one of the few van helsings i've enjoyed watching as well. dafoe brought a compassionate earnestness to the role, which is an important element for setting him apart from a generic researcher/healer figure that would otherwise fade to the background (as the '79 version did for me, personally)

ellen being the lynchpin of this film from beginning to end—her loneliness, fear, desire, shame, defiance, and strength. (of course it's not ideal to blend mina and lucy into one character, because it does almost imply an interchangeability between them, but i can give some leeway here due to timing constraints.) there's an out of time and place aspect to her (she and others refer to her "fae" ways several times)—which is undeniably in part due to being a woman in a world like this, especially one who has experienced what she has and is offered only shame and silence for it—but also a fundamental Otherness that ends up becoming the salvatory key to a benediction only a few will ever know of... there was something touching about the doctor recognizing her power and how in their time it could offer everyone but her salvation. and while depp may not have quite the haunting presence adjani does, i still enjoyed her performance. the way she spoke of her wedding to death dream, caught between a laugh and a sob was so 🩶

the tragic pas de trois element of the story and the faustianesque covenants ellen and thomas enter into with the count were awful and fascinating and even poignant. this gluttonous, rotting corpse who can not love, but is the only one to hear ellen's pleas, who speaks to her through the conduit of her token of love to thomas, whose castle recognizes thomas and never willingly releases him. and thomas and ellen, standing together in the wreck, no longer talking past each other, for how little it matters now beyond these precious few moments. i'm still thinking about the harrowing scene in the third act where they simultaneously invoke and rebuke his spectre. "show him our love"!!!

beautiful visuals, when i could see them (unfortunately, it did occasionally suffer from the lighting problem that most of its horror contemporaries do, in that i probably resembled the squinting lady in pink trying to decipher what exactly was on the screen at times). the shadow work was sublime though (and i assume inspired by the '22 version). loved the shots where the count's fragmentary silhouette appears in billowing curtains or looms ever closer over thomas and ellen's wide eyed stares. significantly more evocative than the later scenes where we actually saw the count's physical form.

the visceral physicality of it all! lots of blood and sharp, staccato contortions lending a presence and urgency to the scenes.

harding's character didn't really work for me (there was just a bit too much of the cliche, especially with some of the trite landed gentryman dialogue™️), but i can appreciate that he and his family were likely intended to be the Victorian Ideal foil to thomas and ellen, and the cost that ultimately incurred. and to be honest, the coffin scene was still more poignant than the equivalent in fennell's 2023 attempt at gothic horror.

the film mostly follows its predecessors and the novel with regard to the treatment of the villagers. not ideal, to say the least, but from a straight adaptation position, you're in a tricky spot given how much the "fear of the uncivilized, foreign invader" bigotry is baked into the text itself. it likely wasn't egger's priority, given how short this chapter was in the film, but i feel there's more that could have been done here.

lovely string work in the soundtrack, especially the pendulum swing between a sense of poignancy and foreboding. these were a couple of my favorite tracks:

#nosferatu 2024 #nosferatu spoilers #📘.txt #🎬.mp4 #films #ok much longer than expected and rambling disorderly thoughts as promised #there aren't any real earth shattering spoilers if you've already read dracula and seen a nosferatu adaptation #but i've put everything under a read more just in case!#anyway i'm sure more intelligent people than me can offer substantive critiques #and some of these points are true of the earlier versions as well but then i'm really not all that difficult to please 🤷🏻‍♀️#(esp with the current high budget cinematic offerings. like the 30 minutes of trailers for slop i had to endure before this film began)#just give me some good atmosphere + some measure of poignancy + at least one interesting theme and i'm happy #also it's a bit funny that one of the “big” classic novels i care about the least (big in the tumblr darling sense at least)#is the one that gets all these earnest adaptations. while the ones i love just get disrespected by hollywood. well. c'est la vie

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formosusiniquis · 1 year ago

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the bells, the joy (together in darkness)

Robin Buckley & Steve Harringto WC: 11963 | T | Tags/Themes: hivemind, Post S3, Scoops Troop Friendship, Nonbinary Steve and Robin, Blink and you miss it Steddie and Buckingham pre-slash AKA It's the Stobin Hivemind fic y'all! thank you very very very much to @spectrum-spectre for beta-ing this for me!!

Steve has never done LSD before. Which is the kind of statement his father would call ‘qualifying’ and ‘implies other kinds of wrongdoing, Stephan.’ Like the time he’d said he hadn’t smoked anything other than cigarettes that weekend. Apparently the ‘that weekend’ was a qualifier that got his very small pot stash flushed, and forced him into a second transaction with Eddie Munson in as many weeks.

Yeah okay maybe there were worse things, as far as punishments go.

Qualifying or not though, Steve has never done LSD. Not after the weekend he spent reading the supposedly true diary of a supposedly real teen that had been left on his bed. Like mother, like son, his father had sneered when he'd caught Steve curled up with it, like the whole plan to keep him from becoming pot-addled and destined for the gutter, or whatever, hadn’t relied on his gossipy nature.

It was mostly stupid, the book, but Steve figured it didn’t hurt to stick to weed. The stuff about that he knew for sure was totally fake.

Except now, he wishes he maybe knew a little bit more about what LSD was supposed to feel like. So he knows how to portion out blame for his current state. It’s currently 50% Upside-Down-Shit and 40% Russian-LSD-Shit and 10% Concussion-Shit, but if he’s being fair he’s blamed the Upside Down for about half of everything that’s gone wrong in his life since 1983. He’s willing to acknowledge that maybe the blame breakdown should be readjusted for this one.

“Hey Robin?” Trauma changes people, makes you want to stay close to the people who are changed the same way you are. Robin had shown up at Steve’s house the Monday after everything, trumpet case and duffle bag in hand. Apparently, she had walked from the school where she was supposed to be catching the bus to Band Camp, like she does every year. Apparently, when you undergo traumas heretofore unexperienced by any teen ever, Russian torture and flesh monsters, it’s okay to skip Summer Intensive to move in with your new best friend without telling your parents. Apparently, if you’re the kid that the Band Person, Director, wants to keep happy because in addition to the billion and seven languages you can play any instrument with a mouthpiece -- except trombone, slide positions, Steve had pretended he knew what that meant -- then you can just leave school to deal with your ‘mall fire smoke inhalation’ at your ‘aunt’s house’ instead. Apparently this is fine and Steve doesn’t need to worry about any angry former hippies beating down his dore because ‘what they don’t know won’t hurt them.’

So he can call out for Robin, without raising his voice because he knows she’s there. Somewhere in the house, the weight of it changed now that someone else is in it with him. He can call out even though he’s pretty sure she’s holed up in his Mom’s library on the ground floor, because he can feel her in the back of his brain and he knows she’ll hear him.

Drifting in an unfocused middle distance, he can imagine Robin. Curled up, she knows she’s been called for but isn’t in any hurry to comply, Steve will wait. He's fine with waiting, at least for the five minutes it will take for her to finish her chapter. He can see her, slotting her bookmark in place and sitting up straight for the first time in hours. She stretches, uncurls from the window seat that Steve also favors, gently sets the book down before letting a foot dangle and brush the floor to actually stand. And she leaves the library. She starts to feel closer, her presence looming stronger in his brain and Steve aware of himself in his own body. Then he hears her feet on the stairs.

“What is it, Dingus, did you know your Mom has a whole collection of French books? I’m in the middle of a bunch of lesbian short stories.”

“Yeah, she speaks it, not sure why.” He answers absently, “Have you ever done LSD?”

“I’ve had half a pot brownie and gotten way too high before.”

That’s not really the same thing, Steve thinks.

“I know it’s not really the same thing, Dingus, I was using it as a framework.” She flops facedown on the bed beside him, wiggling into what he’s started thinking of as her side. A lucky coincidence that she prefers to be tucked in on the side closest to the wall. Probably because she’s never seen anything burst out of one.

“Okay don’t think that, cause now I’m never going to be able to sleep again, I don’t think you’ve got enough space for us to pull your bed into the center of your room.”

He can see the way she imagines it. His bed, an island in the center of the room floating in a sea of plaid. Something about it is even more unnerving than if it stayed up against the wall.

“Not a good look.” He doubts anything will come from the walls again anyway, the Upside Down has proven to be surprisingly adaptive; it doesn't seem to attack in the same way twice. It makes it harder to be prepared, but he’s less worried about not being able to protect Robin in the middle of the night.

“Savior complex. Your mom has psychology books down there too. What does she even do?”

“Reads mostly. Do you think there’s anything down there about LSD?” He doesn’t think this is normal.

“Nice leap, Steve, I don’t think there are many drugs that link your brain with your coworker.” She says coworker, but he feels friend. Even that concept isn’t enough to describe the depth of warmth and affection that he feels wash over him as she thinks.

He lets the silence hang for a second, thinking but not sure what yet. His thoughts are slower to arrive and more jumbled in these early days post-concussion. His right hand curls, his fingers flex. First and third finger tap, then one and two, then none, one and two, and two, and none.

Robin’s knee jostles the bed as her leg bounces just a little.

“I think something else happened to us.”

“Wondered how long I’d have to tap your fingers for you before you got there with me.”

Read the rest on AO3

#platonic stobin #my fic #steve and robin #scoops troop #scoops troop friendship #untitled stobin hivemind fic #now has a title #which is a reference to a song for lya which i don't really recommend but whatever #nonbinary steve harrington #nonbinary robin buckley #autistic robin buckley #neurodivergent steve harrington #the author gives steve their own quirks and lets the audience diagnose as they will #enjoy!!! its been a nine month labor of love please like it!!

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anika-ann · 1 year ago

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Back and Forth - part 4.2

Part 4 - Setback 2/2

Type: series; agent!reader, inhuman!reader

Pairing: Steve Rogers x reader Word Count: 12600

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

Series masterlist

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck Hydra.

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

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

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

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

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

Okay, fuck that hurt.

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

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

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

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

“Captain.”

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

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

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

“Yeah, I’m trying.”

“Try harder!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“In.”

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

Really Captain Obvious?

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

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

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

You knew he was right.

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

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

Ominous silence.

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

Ever.

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

“I know, aren’t you fucking always-”

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

“I know,Steve!” you cried out.

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

“I mean… I know.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’d love to have some.

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

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

“…thank you,” he said.

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

“Now get the bullets out.”

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

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

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

“Spectre. Do it. Now.”

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

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

And another one.

“No. Can’t.”

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

“Please, please don’t make me.”

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

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

Pathetic.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No. No, you are not.”

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

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

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

“…what?”

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

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

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

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

The blue idiot alien race had to be joking.

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

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

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

Would it really?

“Steve, I-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He sighed.

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

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

And maybe you could.

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

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

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

You could do better.

“Spectre? Are you-“

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

“…how?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Alright then…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe-

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

Breathe.

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

In and out. Breathe.

Nice and slow.

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

Of course he had managed to project.

You should have known.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was simply perfect at everything.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because seriously?

Seriously?!

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

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

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

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

“Spectre?! What’s happening?”

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

When had your tongue started to feel so heavy?

When had your lips turned so numb?

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

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

“I… I think I’m going to pass-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hm… such flattery.”

And it was.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bossy…”

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

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

You could grant him that much of a professional courtesy.

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

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

Not like the lamp.

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

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

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

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

And you felt the touch.

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

“Careful-“

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

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

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

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

This was a cardinally idiotic idea.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Did he just-

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

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

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

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

But never Steve.

And definitely not like this.

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

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

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

“Would you prefer sourheart?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he didn’t.

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

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

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

He was gifted in everything; it truly was annoying.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He indeed was scandalously, unfairly pretty.

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

“Better now?”

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re going to be alri-”

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

“Steve-!”

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

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

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

A single bullet to his chest.

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

It disappeared into thin air.

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

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

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

It had to.

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

But fuck.

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

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

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

What if he was bleeding to death?

What if he was dead?

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

Breathe, breathe, breathe, dammit.

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

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

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

Right?

Right?!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your breath hitched, relief flooding your veins.

He was alive. Steve was alive.

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

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

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

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

All but a hiss of pain from behind the wall.

One second ticked by. Two.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Steve? What-”

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

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

They shot him because of me.

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

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

“They--- I’m so sorry.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Don’t say it-

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

“Yeah, sure.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Next chapter

Series masterlist // S.R. masterlist

Hurt and comfort let's goooo.

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

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

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

Thank you for reading and potential feedback💕

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