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

Part II

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah… she always did worry,” he replied, his tone withdrawn.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

× × × ×

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Steve just nodded.

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

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

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

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

× × × ×

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t think, Pierce. I know.”

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

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

“Bucky…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

× × × ×

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

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

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

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

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

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

SMACK!

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

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

SMACK!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

× × × ×

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But I knew him.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

× × × ×

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was you, all along.

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

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

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

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

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

× × × ×

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your lips twitched a small smile at his comment.

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

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

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

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

× × × ×

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

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

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

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

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

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

The profile flashed on the screen, sparse and incomplete:

Name: Unknown Age: Unknown Origin: Siberia

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The team just nodded in unison.

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

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

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

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

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

× × × ×

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hello Unknown—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

× × × ×

Flashback: Brooklyn, 1941

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Present Day

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

× × × ×

0145 HRS

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

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

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

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

“You’ve changed,” Steve said quietly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you want then?”

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

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

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

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

You had let it slip.

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

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

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powderblueblood · 10 months

Text

HELLFIRE & ICE — eddie munson x f!oc as enemies to star-crossed lovers

CHAPTER THREE — EDDIE MUNSON COMMITS TREASON (BREAKS UP a CAT FIGHT)

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summary: you deal with the fallout of your fight at steve harrington's party... in the passenger seat of eddie munson's van. so much for pretending you didn't exist to one another, huh? content warnings: as always, MINORS FUCK OFF, because we have *deep breath* implied fantasy smut, lots of swearing, confused yearning, themes of threat, heavy snark, another mention of the drink tab which i feel like is/was gross word count: 7.2k

Dear Dio, Tommy Iommi, Gary Gygax, Pee-wee Herman, Ronnie Ecker — forgive me for what I’m about to do.

I know I’ve done a lot of stupid shit in my life. Like the time I lit all my hair on fire and spent middle school with a buzz cut. Or the time I almost trapped myself in a spread eagle with my own handcuffs. Or the time I got my arm stuck in a wall for an entire afternoon when I was trying to rescue a feral cat.

I’ve done a lot of stupid shit. But the stupidest among it all has got to be saving this girl from the bare knuckle wrath of Carol Whatsername. You know the one.

Tonight, for whatever reason, this insane ex-rich chick has decided to teeter on the edge of a pool of boiling hot lava and for whatever reason, I feel like it’s my responsibility to yank her back.

Which sucks, because she’s a total bitch to me.

Even if she just told everybody Tommy Hagan had crabs and has been cheating on his girlfriend in such a deranged way that it almost made me pop a semi.

Anyway. Tell my guitar I love her.

The world around Eddie slows to the tick of a football game replay as you let the last incendiary word you speak to Carol bounce around the goddamn Roman amphitheater Harrington’s back yard has become.

This is insane. What he’s watching is insane. Like, he knew you and your dumb little court of Hawkinsites bickered back and forth, but you’re the last person he’d ever expect to air their dirty laundry like this.

It’s incredible to watch the fascist leadership that he and the rest of the social nobodies have suffered under for so long rupture in real time.

What’s even more incredible is how little hesitation there is on his part, shoving through the crowd when he sees Carol leaping for you. Eddie’s nearly jostled backwards by some slobbering roid heads— they’ve already called CAT FIGHT! and a crowd is clamoring. But Eddie’s got years of thankless equipment lugging behind him, giving him deceptively strong arms.

And thank god, because you are not an easy girl to hold onto.

Carol lands a decent punch to your face, slamming with a dull knuckle-on-cheekbone crunch that makes all the onlookers, including him, go ooof! You stagger back in a state of shock (though, c’mon, you heard what you said just now, right?) and Eddie takes his shot just as you dive forward to retaliate.

He grabs you under the arms so you can’t like, elbow him in the fucking nose, a pale imitation of an illegal wresting move that Al Munson had forced him to learn at the tender age of seven. His dad had fancied himself a wrestling manager at the time— you can imagine how that worked out.

But Jesus, can you ever squirm! Your body writhes against him—stop—hips bucking—don’t go there—as you try to get free. He doesn’t even think you realize who’s dragging you away from the screaming harpy, otherwise you’d probably turn your fury on him.

He takes full advantage of the rage blackout and manhandles you through the party, earning a baffled look from Steve Harrington, who’s finally graced his own party with his presence. A pinch-faced Nancy Wheeler lingers behind him, but then again, Wheeler’s always all pinch-faced.

“What the fuck?!” Harrington breathes, exasperated.

Eddie struggles against you struggling, just about dragging you over the front doorstep. Trust this guy to be upstairs in a domestic dispute, missing all the action while getting no action.

Even in the chaos, Eddie will never pass up an opportunity to fuck with Harrington.

“You gotta start hidin’ your bath salts, man! Chicks are going crazy in there–Evil Dead type shit!”

—

“You’re dead, Lacy! Monday morning, you are fucking dead!” Carol screams down the hallway.

“It’s a date, bitch!” you screech, Munson’s nelson hold on you stronger than your thrashing. With a lot of work, he manages to haul you as far as Harrington’s front yard before you wriggle out of his grasp. You shove him, hard, all white hot and punch drunk and regular drunk on top of that.

He yelps, high and frightened. You weren’t expecting a noise like that to come out of a surly-looking dude like him.

So you do it again.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” you spit, and Munson flinches.

“Cutting you off!” he exclaims, this half-yell, half-laugh. It stings, the way he’s looking at you– like your anger isn’t anger, like it’s just amusing to him.

“Well, who gave you the right? Who died and made you my parole officer, Munson?!”

“Oh, I’m not– but I also didn’t feel like being woken up at home when the cops come looking for you after you go all Raging Bull on Carol. You haven’t been around the park long enough to hear ‘em, but those sirens really perforate the eardrums!”

Your jaw sets itself stiffly and you bind your arms over your chest. Unfuckingbelievable. “I would’ve, you know,” you breathe, seething, “Beat her up.”

Munson’s dark eyes glide over you, like he’s checking you for concealed weapons or signs of a zombie bite— you avoid his gaze entirely, staring square into the middle distance.

You promised that he didn’t exist to you, yet here he is. Driving you off the road. Breaking up your fights. Existing.

“Yeah, I know you woulda. You’re scary,” he says. You shrug, and he reaches to massage his shoulder. “And strong. Shit.”

Your eyes flick over to him, but you don’t feel bad. You don’t feel bad because he’s grinning at you now and despite yourself, despite everything that’s transpired and the everything about him, you’re trying your hardest not to grin back. Adrenaline and vodka are still burning a hole in your chest.

“Stay out of my way, then.”

“Noted, but,” a couple of steps from Munson’s end closes some space between you. He’s peering at your face, right where Carol clocked you. A hand reaches out, angling your chin closer to the Harrington’s glaring porch light with his fingertips. You stiffen and squint, performatively wary, but you don’t stop him. You just let his eyes pan over you, looking anywhere but into them. “You might need a little first aid first. And a ride home.”

“I was actually planning on carjacking Hagan,” you say coolly, the smile you were trying to beat away edging its way across your face. Munson releases your chin and the spot where his fingers were buzzes. It’s just the cold. It’s just your slutty librarian outfit, you tell yourself. You have to swallow in order to speak again. “Seems like fitting payback.”

“Jesus, sweetheart, what did I just say about cops?”

—

Eddie tolerates your eyes rolling back in your head when he props the passenger door open for you, helping you into the cluttered van with an outstretched had.

See, I’m not the kind of asshole who doesn’t open doors for girls wearing stilts for shoes.

Those things were not made for clambering into a vehicle like this, sure, but they’re– nice. For what he knows about shoes, which is nothing. They make your legs look more… leggy, and for whatever reason this is making his brain soft.

In your other hand is a cold can of High Life, which is the closest thing to an ice pack he could nab. That bruise blooming under your eye is going to be nasty, and he’s a little curious how you’re gonna look with it. You, with nary a hair out of place on a bad day, with a big ol’ purple shiner in a place that’s hard to hide.

Gunning out of Harrington’s hood, a silence settles between Eddie and you. The radio hums in the background– a mainstream station for once. He thoughtfully figured that an aural assault by Sabbath would kinda rub salt in your wound.

He’s thoughtful, but he’s not not nosy. So, of course he’s gonna ask–

“That whole… verbal smackdown back there,” Munson starts after clearing his throat. “With Tommy H and everybody.”

On your end, the adrenaline has worn off and the numbing effects of the booze have amped up. You feel loose and warm, apart from the beer can cooling your bruise. There are twice as many streetlights streaming past you as usual. This is going to blow later– if you don’t blow chunks first.

“All that about your dad pimping me out?” God, I mean, Hagan couldn’t compose a written sentence to save his life but maybe he had a future in speculative fiction. Did he just come up with that on the fly? “Take a wild guess, Munson.”

Eddie recoils in his seat– gross. Gross. “Not the– the shit with Tina and Carol and–”

“Oh, the crabs? Yeaaaah, that’s true,” you slur, “But I rejected Tommy waaay before I knew that. Call it my brilliant instinct. And then he has the nerve to call me frigid, which– trust me, I’m anything… anything but.”

Munson seems a little surprised at this. You can see it in the way his eyebrows dart under his curly bangs.

But you’ve had your share of disappointing experiences with the blandly acceptable boys in your circle– it’s par for the course, it’s part of advancing in the field. You can’t throw your cat into the street completely, but god forbid you be choosy about the boys you want to copulate with. The ones you’ve hooked up with, all unremarkable and perfunctory, always seemed so smug afterwards. Like they’d conquered something.

But from Eddie’s purview, you always held yourself like you were above everyone else; not just the underclassmen and the social rejects, but even your own friends. He’d watch you sometimes, because it’s hard not to watch you. He’d wait for the few flickering moments you let your guard down, when you thought no one was paying attention as you sat at the lunch table or walked the hallways. So achingly unamused by the guffawing, the backslapping, the forced camaraderie of your forced high school persona and your forced high school friends. Then, one of them would say something like, Right, Lacy? and your brow would unarch and you’d be right back in the groove with the rest of them, giggling dumbly and glossing your lips.

He always wondered how you did it, tolerated it. And why.

“Now, far be it from me to agree with a shithead like Hagan–and I don’t, before you get scary–but I kinda get where he’s picking that up,” Eddie winces, throwing a glance to you, glassy-eyed with your head against the window. You’re looking at him with narrowed eyes, eyeliner smudged. Even that look could cut down a man with twice his ego. “You’re a little bit frosty. Cold shock in the middle of a summer’s day– which, y’know, could be–”

You absolutely do not let him finish the thought.

“It’s caaaalled being aloof, Munson,” you drawl, shuffling your shoulders against the passenger door and pulling a stray thread from your skirt with a sharp snap. “Playing hard to get, duh? Leave them wanting more? You wouldn’t get it because you’re so goddamn big and obvious all the time…”

“Obvious!” he brays, letting his jaw hang open with theatrical flair, “Obvious! Lacy, you wound me, I–”

“Obvious,” you bark back, “Obvious like a neon sign, obvious like a circus tent, obvious like– like– look at me, look at me, I’m a weirdo!” Your Munson impression, complete with devil horns, is a little dorkified but it shuts him right up. That loose little tongue of yours has trasmuted your mood from wrath to barbed silliness. “So obvious you wouldn’t know that kind of subtlety. Not if it hit you in the face.”

A familiar tune whistles from the radio, distracting you. “… or cause you’re a virgin.”

“Okay—!“ Eddie starts, immediately assuming the position of point guard. His hackles are raised, but to be honest, he’s so willing to let you ramble on. It’s the first time he’s heard you talk this much, ever, save your little tête-à-tête by the lockers the other day.

Eddie doesn’t want to stem the flow just yet. He’s not thinking about it too hard.

“Oh shit, do you hear that?” Like a Virgin pumps from the tinny speakers and you reach to turn it up, your head drunkenly bobbling on your neck. Eddie winces; it’s so weird, watching you like this. It’s like dream logic. It’s like opposite day. “Munson’s a virgin! I’m gonna touch him for the very first tiii-iime! Munson’s a vii-iir-gin—“

“First off, no I am not and no,” he audibly swallows, positive you didn’t realize what you just sang, “no, you are not, ‘cause— well.” He clears his throat. A flare of heat burns around his collar. “I’m not the type to bone and tell.”

“Bone and tell.” You guffaw, a sound so unbecoming yet so endearing coming from you, and slump back in your seat. That tight little skirt you’re wearing rides up about an inch and a half. “Sounds like something a virgin would say.”

Eddie huffs; no way around this. You’re fucking with him, and it’s the indefatiguable male ego that’s not going to let him let you win.

He fucks, okay? Or has fucked, prior to this.

Not that there’s anything wrong with not fucking.

But he’s done it.

Eddie’s eyes dart between you and the road, and you’ve got him like a stuck pig with that expectant glare. His eyes linger on your exposed upper legs for a half a second.

Christ, you’re annoying. It occurs to him that wants to bite the soft flesh of your thigh and hear you squeal about it, but you are annoying as hell.

“Fine. Fine. You wanna know?”

Your head lolls against the rough upholstery of the seat and you bat your lashes at him. “I really wanna know.”

And Munson will tell you, you know, because you’re the kind of person people tell things to.

“Nicole Summers.”

“Bullshit. Nicole Nicole? My Nicole?”

“Nicole Nicole. Nicole, formerly yours. The only-girl-meaner-than-you Nicole. It was tenth grade,” he snorts bitterly. “Most unforgettable thirty seconds of my life.”

“Nicole told us she got her v-card stamped by a board waxer in Maui.”

“I’ve got a lot of side gigs. You don’t know about me.”

You snort too, despite yourself. That’s a lot of despite-ing tonight, Lacy. You sit up in the seat a little, interest catching. Flame to a candle wick.

“How was it?” you press.

Munson furrows his brow, like duh. “Most unforgettable thirty seconds of my life, I just told you.” A beat. “Until— …Cass Finnigan.”

Now, an encounter like that is less surprising, but still you holler, “Bullshit!”

“I’d say the same shit if it hadn’t, y’know, happened to me,” he stage whispers, “In this van.”

Your eyes widen, a flicker of a grimace sailing across your face. You wonder how he pulled that off, but all that comes to mind is the start of a bad porno– Cass meets him at that dingy little bench out back of the school to pick up and he’s, I don’t know, test driving some of his new supply and offers her a toke. She’s all, why the free samples, Munson? and he’s all, I only let the prettiest girls test the product. And because Cass is notoriously insecure–who among us, girl–she’s all, who, me? and he’s all, come back to my van, and she’s all, but I’m going steady with Mikey B, and he’s all, I won’t tell if you won’t and then he fucks her in the ass.

Because Cass is saving the first hole for marriage and you know that. You’re the kind of person people tell things to.

What you don’t expect is a weird pull of… envy. Why, in this imaginary scenario, had he never invited you back to his van? Well. You know why. But you’re drunk, so logic begone. “When did all this go down?”

“Uh, right before school got back,” Munson answers, kind of apprehensively. He could be lying, you figure.

“Well, Cass has been having a weird year,” you mumble, meaning to think that rather than say it. You know, because you’re the kind of person people tell things to.

“What’s that supposed to imply exactly?” Eddie says, an edge in his voice. He can’t help the way something in his chest flares; like he forgot to wait for the other shoe to drop with you, and now it’s dropping.

“It stands to reason that she’d wanna, like, do something stupid,” you explain, and you know how it sounds. It’s mean. But honestly, you’re so drunk, and so past the point of attempting to spare people’s feelings.

“Like hook up with the local freak,” Eddie finishes for you, tone flat. You couldn’t not put him in his place, could you? Not that he thought Cass liked him or anything, he could feel her (literally feel her) going through the motions like a social experiment but– God, a little delusion doesn’t hurt now and again.

“Exactly!” and even in your inebriated state, you can feel the tension in the air, hanging between you like a balloon full of noxious gas. Rather than cut it, you want to poke at it, unfeeling as to whether that’ll make it worse or better between you and the boy in the driver’s seat. You hike yourself up further, leaning toward him, pulling the can of High Life from your face.

Munson’s profile is this beguiling mix of hurt and irritation, lit by the scuzzy orange hue of the passing streetlights.

“What, did you want me to act impressed? Did you want me to lie to you?”

“What? No– look, I know what girls like that– think of me, but,” Eddie’s voice shrinks in his throat, making him sound completely pre-pubescent. He notices you lean forward in his peripheral vision, like you have to strain to hear it, “that doesn’t make it any less shitty.”

Oof. He did not need to unleash that little piss-shake of earnestness right now. He mentally steels himself for a ribbing from you, a cackling, piercing laugh like you let out before Carol punched you.

“Of course it doesn’t!” you froth, “Just like it doesn’t make it any less shitty when guys act like they’re settling a bet with their buddies when they hook up with me.” You cross your arms to your chest with a quickness, slamming back into the seat. “Bet you couldn’t make it with Lacy, she’s got a combination lock on her pussy. Fuck you, dude.”

That coaxes a bark of a laugh from Munson, which makes you giggle a little in turn. It’s a weird feeling. It’s not quite relief; more like satisfaction. One point to Lacy, you made him laugh.

“Combination lock, huh?”

“Allegedly.”

“Bet none of those losers even know how to crack a lock.”

Your head tilts in his direction, forward this time. “And you do?”

Munson’s eyes flash at you, a dangerous orange glint sparkling in the darkness of his irises. “My criminal skillset is pretty diverse.”

He pins you down with this look from the driver’s seat and for a heartbeat or two, and you let him. Just long enough that a stab of sobriety sneaks in– and you can’t deny it, but you wish it didn’t.

You’re drunk.

If you can stay drunk, all bets are off.

If you can stay drunk, whatever you do doesn’t matter, because you were drunk.

You could reach over and press your fingers into the soft denim between his legs, make something hard there. You could squeeze the thickness of him over his zipper and kiss the shock of alabaster skin on his neck, where his pulse goes all jackrabbity under your touch. You could make him forget he ever heard the name Cass Finnigan.

And it would mean nothing.

And you wouldn’t have to justify it, because you were drunk. That’s what you’ve always been taught.

But you uncross your arms and you pull at the hem of your skirt and look to the road, just as the van swerves into the trailer park. Munson doesn’t take such a hard turn at the corner this time, probably wary of your risk of ralphing all over the van if he does. He pulls into that negative space between your trailer and his and instructs you to wait in your seat.

“Trust me, the descent out of this baby is much trickier than it looks,” he assures you, jogging to the passenger door, a jingle of keys and pocket chains and belts on leather, “and you’re way too gone to make it in one piece, princess.”

So he holds his hand out again (“M’shitfacedlady,”) and gingerly you take it, and it becomes very apparent very quickly that your legs have turned to rubber on the drive home.

“Oh, shit!”

Your attempt at gracefully exiting the van is ruined by an unsteady ankle, sending your weight right into Eddie Munson’s chest. Luckily, he was braced for it– just about. “Told you you couldn’t make it without me,” he breathes as you clutch a handful of his Metallica shirt, vision quadrupling. He’s warm, and you suddenly realize that you’re freezing.

Trembling.

“Stop flirting with me,” you hiss to one out of the four Munsons in front of you. “I need to go to bed.”

Eddie forces himself to bite back another double entendre, which is a shame, because they’re doing an awesome job of covering up how goddamn nervous he suddenly is. He moves his arm to your waist, helping you haul ass to your front door. He’s got to keep one arm outstretched behind you in case you lose your balance again– which you almost do, a couple of times, wavering around like a dashboard Jesus.

He watches you like he’s trying to commit this to memory, the rare case of you being so beyond your usual composure. He’s even got to intervene after the first five minutes, making unlocking your front door a two idiot job.

Eddie’s about to wave you off and disappear to scream and something else into his pillow when he sees you take a dangerous lunge into the darkness of the trailer. “Woah, girl–”

But you recover, in a kind of brainless way, taking a measured Bambi-like step forward. One after the other.

Fuck. He can’t leave you like this.

You’re gonna trip and brain yourself on a Fabergé egg or whatever the fuck it is you and your mom have in there.

“Uh– Lacy?”

The trailer is eerily quiet. You feel like you’re trespassing in your own place. Boxes of out-of-place, too-expensive ephemera are still strewn everywhere, but you navigate the maze of them like it’s nothing. Sense memory. You don’t even entirely register that Munson is following you inside, that he’s frantically whispering after you, until you reach your bedroom door.

A coldness shoots up your spine as you turn on him. You didn’t invite him in here, did you?

“What do you think you’re doing?” you ask for the second time tonight. This time, it comes out a little fearful.

Eddie picks this up, right where you’ve erroneously dropped it. His chest gets a little tight. You didn’t think he was trying to–?

“Making sure you lie down in the recovery position, that’s all,” he throws his hands up in total surrender, Scout’s honor, all that shit. “I’m not tryin’ to pick any locks tonight. I swear.”

“I don’t need your help, Munson,” but just as you twist the doorknob, you keel over through the door, hitting the floor like a lead balloon.

“Yeah, you keep telling me that,” he blearily smirks down at you, “And yet.”

But Munson’s not such an asshole about it that he just leaves you there. He hauls you up, again, and you stagger towards your bed, flopping face down on top of the comforter. He says some variation of okay, well, that’s how you choke to death on your own vomit, Jimi Hendrix and bullies you into the recovery position.

“Don’t freak out, I’m just–” and Munson sits gingerly on the edge of your bed, taking one of your high heeled feet in his hands.

What the fuck, you mumble, either aloud or in your head. But he’s fiddling with the tiny buckle at your ankle, gently undoing it. Another chill runs through your body but you don’t move, not an iota. You just… let him do it. His hands on your aching feet aren’t a totally unwelcome touch. He’s being featherlight about it, almost afraid to touch you even though he had no problem sheepdogging you into bed.

“You could do anything to me right now,” you hear yourself saying. “No one would even know. No one would even care, I bet.”

It’s meant to sound like you’re goading him, or even flirting with him, but it comes out sounding pitiful. You cringe, your hands creeping up to cover your face.

“I’d care.” Munson’s voice is a tiny mumble– you know he’s just defending himself, but it kind of sounds like something else. He slips your right shoe off and sets it on the floor next to your left one. He hesitates for a moment before getting off your bed.

“Alright, well– we can forget this ever happened. Resume being assholes to each other on Monday. Don’t, like, die in the meantime.”

“You say resume like we ever stopped being assholes to each other.”

“Have a fun hangover, Lacy.”

–

You do not have a fun hangover. You wake up late Saturday afternoon after Friday’s bacchanal and don’t emerge from your room save from the occasional bathroom trip to puke up what little dignity you’ve got left. Sunday morning is when your mom hammers on the door and drags you to the kitchenette after confirming that you’re still, y’know, alive.

“This is your game face, hm?” she says, pulling at your chin to examine your violet bruise that seems to have developed its own heartbeat. She doesn’t hold your face the way Munson did, gentle and searching, just tugs into the sparse light streaming into the dingy kitchenette.

You attempt to steel your jaw, but your bottom lip is starting to waver.

“What happened?” your mother asks, and beneath all the jagged broken glass, there’s a tiny sliver of tenderness.

Call it your pride, but you don’t reach for it.

“I went out,” you say tightly, “and I made a fool of us.”

She hacks up a scoff through her smoker’s cough and disappears into her bedroom, leaving you alone to pick at a cold waffle. The few moments of consciousness you’ve had since Friday night have been spent trying to piece the party together– you remember clearing the better part of a bottle of cheap, cheap, shitty vodka with Robin Buckley’s help (weird), you remember getting into it with Hagan and Carol and getting wailed on. You remember getting a ride home with Munson, but the finer details of that are fuzzy.

You think, and this is a thought that turns your already 180’d stomach, you let him into your bedroom, but you can’t be one hundred percent sure. All you know for an absolute is that your shoes came off that night, and you would never bother to take your shoes off after a night like that.

So somebody must have.

Meanwhile, Eddie’s been having a hell of a meanwhile.

Fact of the matter is that you managed to detonate a nuclear bomb at Harrington’s party just under an hour after your arrival, which has got to be some kind of world record. It was also a world record for how little product he’d managed to sell during one of those parties, because he was preventing the manslaughter of a teenage girl– could’ve been you, could’ve been Carol. He nearly wishes he let that fight play out, as he stares into his empty wallet.

Eddie’s gotta busy himself somehow, gotta do something– weirdly, he’s not in the mood to make a whole lot of noise. It’s not such a terrible day for working on his van, so he slams his toolbox on the ground and gives a couple dozen casual glances toward your bedroom window.

Your blinds still aren’t fixed. That’s got to have been shitty when you woke up with a splitting vodka headache and a shiner the size of Canada.

Eddie keeps finding excuses to pace back and forth in perfect view of your window. Not in a peeping Tom sort of way, but in a way where he’d kind of like to see any sign of life from you. Even if you just rose from your bed like Nosferatu and gave him the finger. Then, he could relax.

“Ed,” a gruff voice comes from the makeshift trailer porch, “fuck’re you doin’.”

Those dulcet tones would belong to his beloved Uncle Wayne, who, ever since his hours got cut at the plant, has become unbearably observant of Eddie’s every movement. Wayne’s not a neglectful kind of father figure, not like his blinders-wearing real dad is, so he actually gets concerned when Eddie’s acting out of sorts.

“Engine,” Eddie mumbles, pivoting fast like a kid caught doing something he shouldn’t, “Engine’s making hinky noises.”

“Sounded alright last night,” Wayne levels him instantly, “when you came home.”

“Didn’t mean to wake ya,” he twists an oily rag in his hands, avoiding Wayne’s stony stare.

“I was up.” He crosses his arms, leaning against the doorframe. God, whenever Wayne susses him out, it’s like drip torture. He’s slow as molasses with the confrontation on purpose, making Eddie sweat and out himself on every little fuck up he’s ever made. “You go in there?”

Chin jerks towards your trailer. Eddie’s shoulders shrug towards his ears, head tilting back. “Wayne, it’s not– she was real drunk, like blotto, I just–”

“You steer clear of that one.” It’s the definite nature with which Wayne says it that makes Eddie’s stomach drop. No prelude to it, no I know, kid, you were just tryin’ to do right by her. Nothing.

“Wayne–”

“She ain’t what you think she is. Not if she’s anything like her bloodline.”

He says this like the realization hasn’t hit Eddie like Carol hit you on Friday fight night.

He says this like people haven’t been saying the same thing about Eddie for years.

–

Monday morning comes and you’re still somewhat suffering. A headache nags at your temple, but you pin that down to anxiety rather than an extended play of your hangover.

It occurs to you that you should dress as down as possible today– realistically, of course, as you’d never be caught dead in sweatpants. You need comfort, you need something that feels like a well-worn blanket so you opt for a deep burgundy sweater dress that actually belonged to your mom in the 60s.

You’d found it in the back of her closet when searching for a belt you knew she’d stolen from you and pulled it out. Mom! you chirped, How cute! How come you never wear this?

Oh, God, she’d cringed, batting the garment out of her way as she passed you in a cloud of Shalimar, Just throw that ratty thing out for me, would you?

But you didn’t. You kept it tucked away in the back of your closet and took it out when you needed it. When you needed to bury your face in it. Substitute it for a comfort she refused to give you. Which you realize is terrifically sad, but so’s life.

The warm red is a distant cousin in the color family to the bruise under your eye. That bruise, it’s a glaring reminder of what a fucking loser you’ve become. The old you, the real you would never have stooped to that level– never had let them drag her down like that. But now you’re the kind of girl that screams and starts fights at parties, you guess.

Your rage feels ugly in the cold light of day.

You’re locking the door of the trailer behind you just as Munson emerges from his humble abode and it’s nothing short of awkward. Like you’d both seen each other naked or something.

You both stand there, in your relative doorways. His mouth gapes like he’s about to say hi, say something, and a memory comes back to you. Cold shock in the middle of a summer’s day. No one likes that. No one wants that.

Regret stabs at you.

“Can you see it from there?” It’s the only thing you can think of to say, because you’re sure as fuck not saying hi.

“What?”

“The bruise. Can– can you see it from over there?”

Munson sort of half-snorts. “Not from here–”

“Ugh, thank god.”

“--but this is like, over fifteen feet away.”

You roll your eyes, which hurts a lot, thanks guy, and walk toward his van.

“Now?” you say, waving a hand under your eye, right where you’ve applied and blended and applied and blended a criminal amount of concealer. Munson leaves about a foot of space between you, on purpose, and you crane your neck back, on purpose. Reinstating the forcefield between you.

“Oh yeah, you can barely even see that you got your ass kicked.”

“It’s not even eight in the morning, Munson. Do you really want to start your day with a knee to the balls?”

“You’re right. That’s usually an after-dinner activity,” he grins and jerks his head toward the van. “Need a ride?”

Need a ride? Like it’s the most ordinary, everyday thing in the world, Eddie Munson offering you a ride to school in his deathtrap of a van. Your stomach pulls at the sense memory of being in there on Friday night, and what you’ll look like getting out of it in the parking lot of Hawkins High.

“No,” you say, shaking your head, definite and resolute. “I’m walking.”

He scoffs. “C’mon. It’s too late to start walking now. You’ll be late for first period.”

You scoff back, imitating him. “So what?”

“You’re never late for first period.”

“I can be late– how the hell do you know I’m never late for first period?”

“Because, dummy, I’m always late for first period,” he tells you, yanking open the passenger door, “And I sit behind you in History, and you’re always there when I come in, leaning back with your nose in some dumb book and your stupid hair all over my desk.”

It’s true– you are always reading in history, because Kaminsky can’t teach for shit and you’ve already read ahead on the coursework anyway. You liked to rub that in his face by pulling out some unprescribed literature during class. Plus, no one you really care about is in your class, so you don’t have to worry about getting made fun of for having your nose in some dumb book. Illiterate jocks would never try that shit with you– nobody there would.

Until now.

And it’s true that Eddie Munson sits behind you, and barrels in like an idiotic excuse for a hurricane with some idiotic excuse for being late that you always scoff at, because does he ever get tired of his own bullshit. But after that brief cameo appearance in your day, you really do forget about him.

Until now.

“So?” he says, all expectant.

And you consider it for a second, you really do– but you don’t think you can handle the blowback of leaving a party with Eddie Munson on Friday then turning up with him on Monday. Going to the same class. Where he sits behind you. It’s just… overexposure.

The same realization must hit him, because all of a sudden he’s slamming the door shut with a roll of his eyes. “Whatever. Your tardy slip, babe.” You can’t help but think he sounds a little wounded.

But fuck it. Fuck it! Since when do you stand around feeling sorry for Eddie Munson?

Before you know it, the van roars out and leaves you in the dust.

You don’t make it to school until after second period, because that so-called bus route a fifteen minute walk from the trailer park must not even exist, so you forge a note from your mom in the parking lot.

As your fountain pen hovers over the paper, brainstorming an excuse, you consider pulling out the big guns– say you had to attend visitation day at the penitentiary. Use this disaster to your advantage for once; but you pull back. Scribble something about a doctor’s appointment and dot your mother’s ‘i’s with eerie precision.

You make quick work of dropping the note off in reception– the uptick of being the kid of the town’s gossip beacon is some people still feel sorry for you. Some people weirdly include Janice, Principal Higgins’ secretary, who snatches the note from you before you can even reach the actual receptionist’s desk.

“I’ll file that for you, dear,” she says, all coo-cooey with an unwelcome hand on your shoulder, “How are you and your poor mother doing these days? And your,” her croaky voice drops to a whisper, “dad? How is… he being treated?”

You blink at her, gripping the fountain pen in your hand. “Do you know what a shiv is, Janice?”

Just then, the bell trills and you take your leave, stepping out into the linoleum.

Someone calls your name from down the hall. You crane your neck to see Ronnie Ecker jogging toward you, paper in hand.

Now look, you’ve never had a problem with Ronnie Ecker. You can’t say you’re particularly fond of her but she’s smart; she keeps to herself and she was a decent lab partner during your junior year of dissecting frogs together. Squeamish, but that’s why you were there, to handle the scalpel. As much of a social outcast as she is, she’s not nearly as odious as the rest of them. That’s pretty goddamn remarkable amongst the Hawkins student body.

She is also, you’ve come to notice, a resident of Forest Hills trailer park.

“Hey!” she says, “Um, I noticed you missed first period and Kaminsky was handing our papers back so I figured you’d want yours…”

“Why is everyone so obsessed with me missing first period?”

“Huh?”

“No– nothing,” you huff, taking the paper from her. A solid B on A+ material– told you Kaminsky couldn’t teach for shit. He’d be hearing from you about this. “Thanks for this, Ronnie.”

You start down the hall but notice Ronnie’s keeping in step with you. “I also just wanted to say– I heard about what happened Friday. And I think it’s sick, you standing up to Hagan like that. Asshole needed to be put in his place.”

Well, there’s only one person she could have heard the nitty gritty of that news from. You know she’s trying to flatter you, but all you feel is a flame of embarrassment, plus a touch of anger– even though the news has easily circulated the school hallways by now.

Along with the rumors of you taking Hargrove, Buckley and Munson, and not in a fight.

“Well. Y’know. I was pretty wasted,” you attempt to brush it off and you see Ronnie deflate a little.

Like you’re not the blazing hero someone made you out to be.

“Okay, but is it true you had a threesome with Billy Hargrove and Robin Buckley and Robin was wearing the Tigers mascot suit?”

“Oh, Jesus Christ.”

–

Classes pass in a monotonous blur, like most Mondays, but worse. That would be thanks to the extra shot of dread that’s served with your cafeteria meal of a wilted salad and soda. Last week at lunchtime, you at least had a tenuous standing with your former circle– you could still sit between Tina and Nancy Wheeler and suffer Tina’s thinly veiled jabs at you with a semi-placid look on your face. Nancy would look at you with eyes full of pity, and you’d want to punch her face in, but you’d be fine.

But now, as you stand in the cafeteria swirling with people and catch the death glares from your old table (save for Nancy and Steve Harrington, who just straight up refuse to make eye contact with you), you’re just about ready to snap.

Your flight instinct tells you to toss the tray out of your clammy hands and run, and keep running, until you disappear into the woods behind the school, never to be found. Your body becomes mulch before anyone remembers to look for you. Maybe you make really good fertilizer and a couple of pretty weeds sprout up from where you die.

Your bruise, under its flaking layers of concealer, throbs twice– as if to say, don’t you fucking dare.

You make a confident beeline for the table, chin tilted and eyes set in a stare that could be categorized as withering, if only it was trained on anybody in particular. You grab a chair that some dumb underclassman is about to sit in and drag it with you, legs screeeeeching across the waxed floor.

Who gives a shit who you were on Friday night.

“I can sit here, right?” you say, and place your tray on the table next to Ronnie Ecker.

She just stares at you for a hot second. That’s too long to stay standing in uncertainty, so you settle your stolen chair at the table and sit next to her.

Ronnie isn’t the only one staring, however– the rest of these dorks, all in their matching t-shirts with Satan’s fiery head emblazoned across them, are watching you with their mouths agape.

“Is this a prank or something?” one of them, a curly-haired freshman, says.

This question is directed toward their fearless leader, decked out in denim and leather at the head of the table. That is to say, the direct opposite end of the table that you’re sitting at.

“That’s no way to greet a lady, Gareth,” Munson says, feigning coolness but you can tell he’s a little flustered. The dead giveaway is in the way he misses his mac and cheese with his fork, the way his solid gaze double-blinks. You’ve thrown him off game– and because he’s impossible not to overhear sometimes, you know that game is all he’s got going on at this table.

There’s that feeling again– point to Lacy.

“To what do we owe the pleasure?”

This is Munson’s version of what the hell do you think you’re doing, but you choose to ignore him. It’ll drive him insane, and you know that, glaring red warning sign that he is. Instead, you flash a smile at the freshman that almost makes him pass out, Cupid’s arrow struck straight through the heart.

You cross your legs and angle your body toward Ronnie– and by extension, in the direction of your old table. You can see Carol burying her face in Tommy’s shoulder, the both of them on the verge of losing bowel control with laughter. Laughter at you.

Who gives a shit who you were before Friday night.

“So, Ronnie,” you say, taking a sip of your Tab, “You get up to anything fun this weekend?”

author's notes: let me get ahead of everything and say yes, i am absolutely fucking with the timeline. suspend your disbelief, my beautiful babies, and enjoy steve, carol, tommy and ronnie ecker still being in high school because I SURE WILL. but on an absolutely serious note, thank you so much for all the support and each and every note you’ve put on the chapters so far. i seriously, seriously appreciate it. now, the notes: - you think eddie munson doesn’t fuck with pee-wee herman heavy? you think he didn’t watch this movie in reefer rick’s, high out of his gourd, and think oh yeah i love this freak? get REAL! RIP paul reubens, this one’s for you. specially every time i mention a handjob - eddie munson also has charlie kelly disease - speaking of iterations of always sunny characters, much like frank reynolds, there’s not a get rich quick scheme al munson hasn’t tried. we’ll get into that a little more… later - admittedly, the whole ‘face eating on bath salts’ thing didn’t gain traction until the 00s, but if hawkins is going to be ahead of its time in anything, it’s fucked up shit happening to people! - did you notice how i blended eddie and lacy’s povs in the van? i’m going to continue doing that in moments where they’re on a similar ~wavelength~ - jimi hendrix did unfortunately die of asphixiation, but instead of thinking about that, watch this sick video of him playing guitar that eddie definitely has committed to memory - RONNIE ECKER KLAXON. i know that in flight of icarus she’s described as tall, but that hasn’t stopped me fancasting her as ayo edebiri in an eddie munson wig - at this point, you might be thinking damn, everyone sure seems to hate each other in this story. like, why is nancy wheeler catching strays? i’m here to remind you it’s the 1980s and teenagers kind of suck. play the track - thanks again for all the love! you can keep this crazy train going by liking, commenting, reblogging and generally showing me the same kindness you’ve shown me so far. love u my little hellcats

#published by powder #in progress #hellfire & ice #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x f!reader #eddie munson fic #stranger things fic #e. munson by powder

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sinhal · 9 months

Text

A Guide to Writing (Pre-Parallax) Hal Jordan!

Overall Traits

Hal will almost always default to using the least amount of power as possible, often using his hands as a way of making sure Hal Jordan matters too

While he is friendly and well liked, Hal has very few close friends -he is closest to Tom Kalmaku and Carol Ferris. He is also close to Ollie Queen and Barry Allen, Ollie much more than Barry. He’ll often bring up his friends in his mind, using them as driving forces but also criticizers.

Hal believes in the ideal of a hero, and he often reprimands himself for not falling within that ideal. An example of this is him getting mad at himself for appreciating the cheers of those he rescued because a true hero acts out of an innate selflessness, not out of a love of praise.

Hal can be violent at times, most of all when someone threatens those he is close to. He has collapsed whole buildings on villains when they have hurt Tom or Carol, for example.

Talking and Personality

Hal makes jokes while fighting, especially when someone he loves is hurt. These jokes are to keep his mind off the stakes.

Hal invokes the name of the Guardians the way people invoke the names of God or Jesus. He’ll often say, “Great Guardians” in response to something shocking him. In addition, Hal calls the Guardians “masters” which most Green Lanterns at this time did. He is known as one of the most powerful and loyal members of the corps.

Hal is interesting because while he uses pet names, especially for people younger than him (calling girls “sweetheart” or “honey” and both genders “kid” even if they’re an adult), he will use full names a lot of the time. He calls Tom “Thomas” or “Mr. Kalmaku” frequently, and he’ll call Carol “Ms. Ferris” even while they’re dating.

Relationships

Tom Kalmaku: Tom and Hal are close friends, and Tom was the first person to know Hal’s double identity. Tom is close to both Hal and Carol, and he was involved in a majority of Hal’s earliest adventures. He is from Alaska, and he is married to Tegra. They have two children together, who, according to Secret Origins (1986) #36, both know Hal’s identity. They also call Hal “Uncle Hal”. While Tom is called an racist nickname off and on, during the period of comics from approx Green Lantern (1960) #129 to Gerard Jones' revival of Tom in Green Lantern (1990), this nickname was not used. This nickname was only brought back by Jones in an explicit attempt to make Hal less “politically correct”. Using this nickname will not make you more in line with older Hal stories, it just makes you racist.

Carol Ferris: Carol and Hal are old friends, and while their romantic relationship is off and on, they usually still get along and love each other even if they’re not together. Carol is the boss of Ferris Aircraft from Showcase #22 to Green Lantern (1960) #133, at which Carl Ferris retakes control of Ferris Aircraft. Carol is a self described “spoiled rich girl” that has worked hard her whole life to be considered equal to the version of herself that was supposed to be, aka Carl Jr. She’s not just Hal’s girlfriend but a well developed and strong character in her own right who understands why Hal works as Green Lantern. She is also Star Sapphire, a twisted version of herself where she is forced to hurt those who she loves. She has to reckon with this dominant personality who is always at the brink of breaking out.

Misc

Move around where Hal is located! While he is situation in Coast City from Showcase #22 to Green Lantern (1960) #49 and then after the roadtrip, he is also located in Washington for a time as an insurance agent (Green Lantern (1960) #52-69), he moved around as a traveling toys salesman (Green Lantern (1960) #70-76), and Ferris Aircraft is situated in L.A from approx Green Lantern (1960) #140 onward. In addition, the G.L. citadel is situated in L.A as well.

Include other gls! He was close to Katma Tui, Arisia Rrab, Tomar-Re, and Arkkis Chummuck. In addition, if you are including Guy and John, Hal frequently gave chances to Guy that no one else did. John and Guy did not get along.

Happy writing!

#Hal Jordan #Red's Work

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amomentsescape · 4 months

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Platonic but poly friendship with the J squad x reader who joins them to escape Arkham in season 4? Basically follows the same plot of the jailbreak episode except reader is there and they are all besties and such and have cute sibling banters. Like reader and Jerome get along because they both like jokes. Just all the cute fluff and funny moments.

Escaping Arkham with the J Squad

J Squad x Platonic! Reader

A/N: I'm not super satisfied with how this turned out, but I still hope you liked some of the banter among the group :)

You were the first one to be "rescued" by Jervis

(Mostly because you were the one he was secretly able to tolerate best)

The first thing he did when the door opened was give a polite bow and say "shall we?"

You took his arm formally and walked down the hall with him, craving to finally make it out of this hell space

When the door to Jonathan's cell opened, you about gagged at the smell (and sight)

Seeing goopy, dark liquid being scooped out of the toilet wasn't exactly your idea of a good time

"Jesus, Jonathan. How about a courtesy flush, huh?"

Jervis was holding back a giggle at your words

"I will require a moment more," he responded

You rolled your eyes and strolled in, pulling Jervis in tow

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. We gotta pick up the pace. J won't be happy if we're late."

With a sigh and the dropping of his spoon, he forced his way up

"That man isn't happy unless it involves blood or candy," he grumbled back

You started laughing at this

You looped your arm back through Jervis's, skipping down the halls towards Jerome's cell

You swore you could feel Jonathan roll his eyes behind his mask

"Gotta problem?" you teased

Jonathan groaned

"One more word, and I'll be pouring this down your back," he gestured with his glass full of goop

You scrunched up your face

"You're no fun"

"Life is misery" he quipped

You huffed in response but immediately broke out into a smile when you saw a pair of familiar doors

"Hurry!"

Jonathan let out another groan as he finally opened them, revealing an unsatisfied Jerome

After pointing out how late you all were, Jonathan stepped up, beginning to bicker with him

It was basically like watching two brothers go at it over nothing

Jervis immediately tried to shut it down, always the calmer one of the group

You kind of wanted to keep watching the argument play out, but you knew time was of the essence

You finally stepped in the middle of the group and pushed them back a few feet

"Plenty of time for villains to fight later. Lets at least save our asses first"

"I like your style, pipsqueak" Jerome cackled

You smacked him on the arm

"Asshole. I'll beat you up," you tried to threaten

He just gave you his big scarred smile

"Ah, villains fight later though, right?"

You rolled your eyes at him

"Whatever. Let's roll boys," you called out, already several paces ahead of them

"I'm still the boss here!" Jerome called after you

You started to giggle when you heard Jonathan and Jervis sudden chime in, fighting about who the actual "boss" was between them

You were still a few paces ahead of them as you smiled to yourself, knowing that you were the one keeping them all in line

#gotham headcanon #gotham fandom #gotham x reader #gotham #jerome valeska #jerome valeska headcanon #jonathan crane x reader #scarecrow x reader #jervis tetch x reader #gotham jervis #gotham jerome

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softspeirs · 9 days

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gosh, these prompts are just so fluffy, it makes me want to cry! 🥹

maybe these for whoever you're feeling in the moment:

❛ what, am i not allowed to look at you? ❜

❛ seeing you happy is all that matters. ❜

A/N: First, you asked for this so long ago, I'm sorry it took so long! I wanted to explore a lil reunion for Rosie and Grace after (one of the times) his plane goes down and he makes it back. I did a smidge of research for this, but to be clear, this isn't the time he lands in Russia that we see in the show. This is an earlier mission where he crash lands in France - p422 (? I think?) in Masters of the Air if you want to read more. I tweaked the dialogue of that second prompt just a tiny bit, hope that's okay. These Heartbeats Clear Masterlist

Seven. Wounded.

When Robert Rosenthal opens his eyes, for a moment he doesn't remember where he is. There's a brief unsettling moment of sheer panic where he tries to get his bearings, tries to sit up and tries to remember what's happened to him in the last 48 hours.

"Whoa, whoa, slow down." A voice says. American. He sighs in relief.

An unfamiliar worried face swims into his vision. "Major Rosenthal?"

"What--" His throat hurts, his entire body hurts, and he stops trying to talk.

"You've been asleep for almost two days."

"Where am I?"

"Please, try to relax. You're safe. You're in Oxford."

Now that he hears the words, he remembers loud, urgent voices, he remembers flashing lights and the feeling of being manhandled around. It doesn't do much to quell the fear rising in his gut. "My crew."

"They're fine. Some wounded, but everyone's going to be okay." She moves around the bed with quick, sure steps, checking his chart before meeting his eyes again. "You've got a broken arm and a few broken ribs, Major. Now that you're awake, we'd just like to monitor you for a few hours and then we can talk about a transport back to your base."

He nods, thanking her, and she smiles before disappearing down a corridor, leaving him to his thoughts. His mind is slow, fuzzy, but there's one thought blaring like an alarm louder than anything else - he needs to find a way to call Grace.

He swore to her a long time ago that he'd never give her a reason to think he wasn't coming back. He has no idea if anyone knows he and his crew are here.

He also has a panicked thought that he won't be able to fly again, not if they were helped the French resistance. He forces himself to take deep breaths and tries to beat back the anxiety fluttering in his ribcage.

"Rosie?" A familiar voice breaks him out of his thoughts, and he tries to sit up before pain laces up his spine, making him wince.

"Croz?"

Harry's worried face peeks around the curtain. "Jesus." He says, making Rosie wonder what he must look like.

"What are you doing here?"

"We got a call. Wasn't going to let you guys walk back to Thorpe Abbotts, was I?" He takes a few steps closer, scraping a chair closer to the bed before sitting down. He looks exhausted. "I volunteered to come get you."

"How long--"

"It's been five days since the mission." Harry rubs a hand over his face. "Can't begin to tell you how lucky you were, Rosie."

It starts to hit him, how close he was to not coming back. He doesn't even remember the plane going down, not entirely. He has no memory of being rescued. He feels strangely guilty. He's the one that's supposed to lead and help his crew when he can.

"Have you talked to a doctor?" Harry asks.

Rosie shakes his head. "Not yet, just a nurse. Obviously I can't do much with this--" He struggles to shrug with his injured arm in a sling.

"It'll be fine. Desk duty until you're well."

"Croz, you know I hate--"

"You can't fly like that, Rosie. Technically you should be pulled from duty altogether."

Rosie clenches his jaw, takes a deep breath and tries to calm himself down. It's not Harry's call, even though he knows he's right. He's going to do everything he can to get back in the seat again, even if he has to get demoted to do it.

He discharges himself so he can leave with his crew and with Crosby and hitch a ride back to base. The doctor fixes him with a stern look as he does it, but he must see the determination on Rosie's face, and just tells him to take it easy for the next few weeks.

Fat chance of that.

"Stop looking at me like that." He grouses to Harry as they bounce along the road back to Thorpe Abbotts, Rosie biting back a wince with grit teeth as the road jostles his muscles uncomfortably.

"I'm not looking at you like anything."

Harry has long stopped trying to convince Rosie of anything, just like Rosie has stopped trying to tell him to get more sleep or eat more. They're all just doing whatever they can to survive at this point. The cost of it all is secondary.

"I'll save the lecture for Grace." He mutters.

Rosie's head snaps up. "Is she--"

"Worried sick? Probably, but you know her. Once she knew you were alive, she went from worried to furious."

"Not like I had any say in the matter," Rosie counters, voice dry. "Didn't try asking them not to shoot at us, though."

Harry smiles, shaking his head. "You know what I mean. Angry at the circumstances. Frustrated with herself for being emotional. That's Grace."

That's Grace. And isn't that the truth. Rosie can't help but smile softly, because he knows Harry is right - he's going to get an earful when he gets back. But he must be a masochist, because he's almost looking forward to it - it means she cares. Not that he's ever had any reason to doubt that.

The truck rumbles along for miles. Rosie hadn't thought about how long it would take them to get back to the base, but he tries to close his eyes and get relatively comfortable until they arrive.

He hears the noise of the gates and opens his eyes to find the sun nearly down. There's a big commotion as they enter and he takes a deep breath to try to get his bearings.

"We'll go to command first, and then to the infirmary. You'll probably have to sleep there." Harry says groggily.

They're let out in front of the command building, Jack Kidd already there waiting for him along with the Colonel. Both look like they haven't slept in days. A few paces behind them is Grace, and the sight of her softens Rosie, makes his shoulders lose their tension. He meets her eyes and tries for a smile, but he thinks it comes off as more of a grimace.

Grace, for her part, is restraining herself. She feels a mixture of relief and anger wash over her at the sight of him, arm in a sling and bruises and cuts littering his handsome face. He looks exhausted, and she's sure she looks much the same.

She knows being angry is the wrong thing. It's not his fault he got shot down, after all. Really, she's angry at herself. She's angry at her heart, at the way it plummeted to her feet when she heard the news that his plane didn't come back, and she's angrier that every day since confirms to her what she already knows: she's in love with him.

And that's as terrifying as it is liberating, because there's a very real chance he could break her heart, whether he means to or not. (She knows that Robert Rosenthal doesn't have a cruel bone in his body, but sometimes, in war, the choice isn't his)

"Jesus Christ, Rosie." Jack says quietly, voice heavy. "I--" He takes a deep breath, and seems to remember what he needs to do. "It's good to see you back. We need to go to interrogation."

"The crew isn't ready--"

Kidd shakes his head. "I'm sorry, Rosie, but the quicker we do this, the better. It's already been a few days."

"Who's back?"

"Maddox, Rubick, Palmer, and Hartos. The others won't be back until tomorrow, but we'll debrief them then. I don't want to wait an extra day."

Jack looks over his shoulder, and Rosie is sure he catches an apologetic look on his face that's there and gone quickly as he sees Grace there. "Twenty minutes, then go to the infirmary." He says as he turns back to Rosie. "Let's go."

The interrogation is as grueling as Rosie expected. He's glad to see some of the members of his crew again. Despite his brain telling him that none of this is his fault, his heart can't help but beat wildly, flooding him with guilt as they give their account of what happened after they went down, when Rosie was knocked unconscious.

It feels like hours before he's trudging towards the infirmary, luckily only a few steps away from the interrogation hut.

The door is opening before he arrives, and Grace's worry-filled face fills his vision. "Grace." Her name leaves his mouth without his permission, his tone exhausted, but full of emotion.

She swallows hard. "Major." Her tone is relieved and... frustrated. He's not surprised, but he hopes she'll spare him Nurse Grace and instead give him the Grace he's been dreaming of for days, though he knows it's selfish, knows that she has a job to do.

He sees the doctor hovering behind her. She opens the door wider so he can come through.

All he wants is to be alone with her. He wants to tell her he's sorry, he wants to tell her that she was on his mind every second, that she is one of the reasons not only that he gets in the seat, but the reason he comes home.

Home.

The exam is quick, thankfully. They took good care of him in Oxford. The doctor leaves Grace to administer pain meds and do the paperwork, and it's only when they're finally alone that he sees the emotion on her face, though she's trying valiantly to hide it.

With each injury she catalogues, her face hardens. Her eyes meet his as she tilts his face up to dab a cooling salve on a bruise forming on his orbital bone.

"You have a look on your face." He says quietly.

"What, I'm not allowed to look at you?" She asks, and he can see how she's trying so hard to hold it together. Pretending. Pretending this is all business for her. He wishes she wouldn't.

"I'm sorry." He croaks, throat dry from overuse.

"Please don't apologize," she says, expression suddenly stricken, as if she realizes what she must look and sound like. "You didn't--" She stops herself, eyes closing for a moment as she gathers her professionalism. "I'm just so relieved you're alive." She whispers. "I'm not angry at you. I'm upset... I'm angry at the war. At these circumstances. That you're hurt--" She stops herself.

He wishes more than anything he had the use of both his arms. He settles for reaching out with one hand, thankful when she doesn't hesitate to take it, lacing their fingers together.

"I never want you to worry." He says, and it's the truth, even though they both know it's pointless.

She shrugs. "Comes with the territory, Major." She squeezes his hand. Her voice lowers to a whisper. "Worry happens naturally when you love someone."

His pulse pounding in his ears is all he can hear. He feels like the world tilts on its axis and then rights itself, all at once.

"Maybe it's too soon or too big for me to say it, but I don't want you to fly ever again without knowing it." She says, voice strong this time. He loves her for it.

He loves her.

He tugs her a little closer and she seems to understand, her face softening as she stands as close as she can, leaning down to meet him halfway. He tries to tell her how he feels when he kisses her gently, mindful of the black eye he's sure he's sporting and the soreness of his cheekbone. His hand leaves hers in favor of cradling her jaw, and the sigh that leaves her is music to his ears.

"Of course I love you." He murmurs, barely a centimeter between them when they break apart. "Probably have for a long time, Grace."

She pulls herself away, just for a moment, and starts to tidy up the triage area where he sits with her. He recognizes what she's doing and gives her the space she needs to gather herself, to come to terms with whatever she needs to. He's relieved at least that the smile hasn't left her face.

"Winning this war and seeing you happy are just about all that matter to me anymore." He admits, and watches as she stops what she's doing to turn back to face him.

"I just want to be sure I'm not a distraction for you."

He shakes his head. "No."

"Rosie, I'm--"

He shakes his head again, cutting her off. "Grace, you don't think I'm going to let you tell me you love me and then push me away, do you?" He tilts his head to one side.

"That's not what I'm doing. I promise."

"Then come over here and let me kiss you again."

She smiles, and he swears to himself that he's going to be responsible for that smile on her face every day, for as long as he can help it. He has no doubt that they have some trials ahead, but they have each other, and sometimes the will of the heart is stronger than anything else.

#rosie rosenthal x oc #robert rosenthal x oc #masters of the air fanfiction #do you hear that? it's me screaming #i don't know man something about ROBERT ROSENTHAL just makes me kick my feet and twirl my hair #these two just make me so happy #they're both so concerned for each other all the time it's sickening obviously #everyone around them is just rolling their eyes but deep down they're like damn that's true love you know?#anyway #i did a bit of research about this mission for rosie and it sounds so harrowing #i couldn't completely confirm that the entirety of the crew was ok but it didn't list any of them as POW or KIA so i think so #which is incredible #i hope you like this!#oc: grace fleming

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bejeweledblondie · 1 year

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Knight In Shining Armor

Captain John Price x F! Royalty Reader

Summary: Y/N is part of the British Royal Family & is kidnapped by terrorists. John Price & Task Force 141 are given the responsibility of rescuing her before the ransom deadline

Warnings: mentions of torture, abuse, kidnapping, anxiety

Captain John Price was ready to kick his feet up & relax for the rest of the weekend. He had already cracked open a beer. With one click of the tv remote he knew his weekend would be anything other than relaxing.

“This just in her royal highness the Duchess of Windsor Y/N L/N has just been ambushed & is considered missing. The young Duchess was leaving a gala when armed men ambushed her vehicle & were able to successfully kidnap her. Her whereabouts are unknown at the moment & London is currently on lockdown near Buckingham Palace.” The news anchor on the television reported. A groan escaped his lips knowing this mission would come across his desk.

“Fuckin hell, “ He cursed to himself & looked up at the ceiling. “Lord I wanted one weekend, one fucking weekend is that too much to ask for?”

Right on cue his phone started to vibrate. Laswell in big letters flashed across his screen.

“Don’t even elaborate where do we need to be?” He asked rubbing his temples.

“Well hello to you too, meet me at headquarters as soon as possible.” She stated. He stood up & stretched before sending a message out to the rest of his team. He walked into his bedroom & pulled out his combat pants, combat thermal, & two pairs of socks. Price got dressed & laced up boots. The thought of the Duchess started to creep into his mind. He couldn’t even imagine what she was experiencing. The absolute fear of being at the mercy of international terrorists has to have terrifying.

Price made his way to his car & started it. He started to drive to the post & when he got to the gate he scanned his ID. The soldier saluted him & the gate arm lifted. He pulled up of the offices & started to walk into the building. Ghost, Gaz, Soap, & Alejandro were already sitting in the briefing room waiting for him. Laswell was already at the front of the room with the screen behind her turned on.

“Ah Captain Price! Good to see you! Sit down so we can start.” Laswell said. “Colonel Vargas & his team will be conducting this operation with us due to the severity of the situation.” Price sat down, & Laswell started her briefing. “So while we don’t know how the Duchess was able to be taken, we were able to pin her location. Seems like our terrorists didn’t do a good job at giving their location. They released a video with a list of their demands, & hefty ransom. It is disturbing I’ll admit. They’ve beaten this poor woman to hell & back already.” Laswell pressed a key on the laptop in front of her & the video started.

There sat the Duchess tied to a chair with smudged mascara & a black eye. She was trying her hardest to stay awake. The once beautiful pink gown she had on was covered in blood & dirt. Pure anger ran through Price’s veins seeing her in that state. Each of the terrorists had black balaclavas on & stood on either side of her.

“To the Royal Family & the United Kingdom, we are taking revenge. One by one each Royal family of each Western nation will start going missing if you do not fulfill our wishes. If you wan to see her again, let alone alive you will fulfill our wishes. The cost of her safe return is 500 million dollars. You have until midnight.” One of the Balaclava clad men demanded. He gripped her chin roughly & she protested at his grip. “You little cunt. You will respect me.” He lifted the hand that held a Glock in it & used the back of the gun to slap her across the face. A loud cracking noise happening & the video paused.

“Steamin’ Jesus,” Soap said. “Who are we dealing with?”

“The usual suspects.” Laswell replied. “We pinned their location & we have to act accordingly because it’s very clear their intentions will result in more violence. They’ve taken her to a warehouse in Romania, & we have their governments full permission to go in. So let’s get going, we lift off at 20:00.” She closed the laptop & everyone got up from their respective seats. Everyone started to funnel out of the conference room & started down to the air strip.

There was a heaviness in the air, they knew the weight on their shoulders. Not just the weight of the United Kingdom was on their shoulders but the entire western world. Alejandro’s team already had their gear laid out ready for inspection & he walked off to make sure they had everything.

“Alrighty lads lay out your gear for inspection.” Price shouted. One by one he went through each of their gear & made sure it was ready for use. Thankfully no one was missing anything. Two Blackhawk helicopters sat on the air strip waiting to take them over the border into Romania. 20:00 came faster then they had anticipated & both teams boarded the helicopters.

The usually chatty Task Force 141 sat in silence. They looked around at each other solemnly, & praying that the Duchess would be still alive. Price couldn’t get the image of her being brutalized. The men were familiar with her philanthropic efforts, & they were infuriated someone would go out their way to hurt her. Y/N had spent time overseas in incredibly dangerous countries delivering medicine herself, & showcasing what children in those countries go through. She was a saint in the public eye & overall was a incredibly kind woman.

“We are over the border gentlemen & in Romania. Fifteen minutes away from target.” The pilot had stated. They were all filled with pure adrenaline by this point eager to get on the ground. “Target located gentlemen.” The pilot. “Gods speed.” The warehouse was below them, & the fast ropes dropped. One by one both teams dropped men. Alejandro’s team took the ground & Task Force 141 took the roof. These terrorists clearly weren’t smart enough to plant guards on the roof.

Ghost kicked in the door the lead to the stairs. He threw in a grenade & then started to use the light on his rifle to lead the team in. They walked past bodies of the men hit by the grenade & started all the way down to the loading docks of the warehouse. Price could tell the warehouse hadn’t been used in years. Rust & mold were all over the metal of the building. Once they made it to the bottom of the stairs, they were greeted with the gun fire. Both Ghost & Price easily eliminated those threats.

Price could hear Alejandro’s team outside, the sound of the gun fire echoed through the building. The lights were completely knocked out but they were able to eliminate any & all targets.

“Captain!” Ghost yelled over the radio alerting Price. “Found her.” He ran over to the room were Ghost was. There she was, Y/N Windsor the Duchess of Windsor. Her ballgown was completely destroyed & was covered in wounds. Some deeper than others. She was entirely unconscious, poor thing couldn’t respond to Ghost’s questions. Thankfully she still had a pulse but it was evident she was hanging by a thread. Price picked her up & she was limp. “Ghost we need to get back to the helicopter.” He said. Over the radio Ghost had alerted Alejandro they had located the Duchess. Price held her close to his body, & tried to apply pressure to the more intense wounds. On the helicopter she was able to open her eyes, & saw the Union Jack on Price’s plate carrier. Still in his arms, she weakly lifted her arm up & pointed to the flag.

“Please don’t let me die,” she mustered out.

“Don’t worry darling, I won’t.” He replied. She then passed out again afterwards.

Finally they were able to get on board the helicopter & out of Romania. Once they had landed base on the air strip on base a ambulance was waiting for them. Price & Laswell sat in the back of the ambulance as a liaison for the Royals. Once at the hospital the staff took her & brought her immediately into surgery. Still covered in the Duchesses blood & sweat Price sat there in the waiting room his leg shaking out of anxiety. Laswell rubbed his back gently in an attempt to comfort him.

Eight hours of surgery later, the surgeon exited the operating room with good news. The Duchess was going to make a full recovery. A wave of relief washed over him. The news outlets were updated almost instantly by Buckingham Palace Officials. Price went everyday to the hospital to visit her. Although she was asleep & he still spoke to her. She infiltrated every single thought he had every waking moment. Soap had teased him a little bit about it only to be met with a death stare.

About a week later, she awoke to the sound of a deep British accent talking to her. The same one that had been in her dreams. She awoke to bright lights & the beeping of the heart monitor. Her moved around violently as she tried to take in her surroundings.

“Love, you’re alright you’re in the hospital.” The voice said as a hand started to pet her hair. She looked over & saw a man with full beard. He looked a little bit older than her. His blue eyes were amplified by the florescent hospital lighting. There was just so comforting about his presence. Two nurses came in & started to check on her vitals. She was able to answer as many questions as they threw at her. The mysterious man with the blue eyes still stood beside her. Once the two nurses left she turned to him.

“Who are you?” She asked. Her voice was meek & was cracking.

“Captain John Price your highness.” He replied. “I had helped lead the effort with my team to rescue you.” A flood of memories came back. She remembered the pain, & the blood stained Union Jack flag on his chest.

“I’m a man of my word love,” He replied & grabbed her hand.

“What?” She replied clearly the fog of amnesia still had it’s effect on her.

“I didn’t let you die love.” He replied. “I kept my promise.” His thumb brushed over her knuckles delicately. She gave him a soft smile in return.

“Thank you Captain Price,” she replied. Little did either one of them knew that this rescue would lead to the Royal Wedding of the decade.

#call of duty #ghost call of duty #cod imagines #ghost x y/n #captain price #john price #captain john price #captain price x y/n #captain price x female reader #john price x reader #cod mwf2 #cod mwii #cod x reader #cod masterlist #captain johnathan price

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iiconicxpersona · 1 year

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Whatever It Takes.

Javier Peña x f!Reader

Warnings: this fic features a scene from s02e03 Our Man in Madrid and that episode is a trigger warning in its own, but if you need specifics then this fic includes ANGST, mvrder, su!c!d3 attempt, depression, alcoholism. MINORS DNI & READ AT YOUR OWN RISK (I cannot stress that enough)

Word count: 3.4k

Summary: You and Javier get tagged along in a manhunt gone wrong with the return of Colonel Carrillo. After the tragedy that occurs, you look to Javier for comfort only to get heartbroken when he seeks comfort from another woman.

From the moment you were assigned the Escobar case in Bogotá, you prepared yourself for the best and the worst. You knew that once this case was finally over, and God only knew how long that would take, you would not return to Texas like the woman you were when you left. However, it didn’t seem to matter exactly how much you prepared yourself ahead of time in all aspects; nothing was ever going to prepare you for all the horrors you had witnessed and the ones still yet to come.

“We’re all in. Whatever it takes.”

Words you, Agent Javier Peña, and Agent Steve Murphy repeated to each other almost frequently to remind yourselves and each other that this is what you signed up for when you agreed to do whatever it took to catch Escobar and every single person whoever took a single dollar from him. Of course, Messina and the entire force did everything they could to keep your missions restricted, but to catch a bad guy; you must be willing to break some rules.

━◦○◦━◦○◦━

Colonel Carrillo was the King of playing by his own rules. His methods were cruel and relentless, but they were effective in one way or another. But those same methods ultimately led him to be transferred to Spain. When he was brought back on the team by the Colombian government, it shook you to the core, and the only problem was that you could no longer tell if that was good or bad.

━◦○◦━◦○◦━

The first mission at hand with Colonel Carrillo is to track down every spotter Escobar had hiding in the area. It seems simple enough, considering the spotters were mainly children under eighteen.

“Peña, Y/L/N, you come with me.” Carrillo orders.

You and Javier exchange looks of concern to each other and then to Steve, who's disappointed when Carrillo tells him to stay behind for radio contact.

“You be careful out there,” Steve adds as you and Javier follow Carrillo to one of the unmarked cars.

“You got your vest on?” Javier asks without looking at you.

You nod and pat your stomach hard enough to make the bulletproof padding audible. “I never leave without it.”

“Good. This could get ugly, so I want you to always stay beside me. Understand?” He finally looks at you while still walking forward.

“Jesus, Javi, this isn’t my first rodeo.” You scoff.

He rolls his eyes, clearly not amused by your comment. “Cariño, I’m fucking serious. These kids are dangerous, and the last thing I want is for you to underestimate one, and he holds you at gunpoint or worse.”

Just then, you remembered what Javi had told you the day Steve’s adopted baby girl, Oliva, was rescued, and you instantly regretted trying to be sarcastic. He never told Steve, but while they were chasing down the two men responsible for murdering Olivia’s biological family and you were in the house guarding her, Javier came close to catching one of the men until a little boy caught him off guard from behind and held him at gunpoint. Javier was sure that at any moment, the kid would pull the trigger and kill him, or worse, he would miss his shot, and Javier would have to kill the kid instead. Thankfully, once the guy he was chasing got away, so did the kid, and ever since then, Javier knew that with the right amount of money and power, Escobar could make anyone do anything.

“Always stay beside me. Understand?” Javier demandingly repeated.

You nod. “I understand.”

━◦○◦━◦○◦━

One by one, each kid that Escobar hired as a spotter was taken into custody. However, Carrillo had other plans instead of taking them straight to the station for interrogation like you and Javier thought.

Given Carrillo's extreme methods in the past, you should’ve known that this wouldn’t be as simple as you had hoped. Though you figured that because they were just kids, what could go wrong?

Everything.

One right next to the other, at least seven boys are lined up in the middle of a dark alley with their hands behind their heads and sitting upright on their knees. You stand next to Javier off in the distance while Carrillo paces slowly in front of them. As you examine their faces, it breaks your heart to see how young they are. Some look at least sixteen, but the youngest looks six or seven.

They try to keep stone-cold faces on while Carrillo attempts to scare them straight. A couple of the boys laugh at him and make insults in Spanish.

“Shut up, kid.” Javier mumbles.

You do your best to look as emotionless as possible, but mentally, you are frightened to know what is going through Carrillo’s mind, especially when he pulls out his gun and begins loading it in front of them.

One of the older boys laughs and asks Carrillo if he should be scared.

“No,” Carrillo replies.

BANG.

You stood there and watched the now young lifeless body slowly fall to the ground. Aside from the streetlights, the alleyway is pitch dark due to the summer evening, but you’d swear you could see everywhere the boy’s blood had splattered as if it happened in daylight.

It took every fiber in your being not to lose your cool or vomit at the scene. You were even too afraid to reach for Javier, who was only a couple of inches away from you, for some comfort. Although judging from how his body tensed up and the look on his face, he was just as distraught inside as you were.

What was Carrillo thinking? Even if the kid tried to be a fearless macho man about it, he was still just a kid. There were plenty of other ways Carrillo could’ve tried to prove a point to them about the dangers of working with someone like Escobar. Regardless of whether you liked it, he gave them a harsh reality check.

Carrillo then takes one bullet from his gun and hands it to the youngest boy, telling him to give it to Escobar and let him know who it is from. You watch helplessly as the boy takes the bullet with tears running down his face and stuffs it in his pocket. Then Carrillo finally sets the remaining boys free. You immediately cling to Javier once they are out of sight.

He hesitates for a moment before slowly wrapping his arms around you, still in shock from what just happened as you tried your best to hold back your sobs.

“Cariño…” Javier struggles to find the right words. How could he comfort you when he couldn’t convince himself that everything was fine? “We have to go.” He finally said.

Whatever it takes.

━◦○◦━◦○◦━

This is one of those nights you wish Javier wouldn’t depend on a cheap hooker to help him forget.

About six months ago, after almost losing you during a shootout mission, Javier suggested that you move in with him “for your safety,” which you hesitantly accepted two months later. Murphy always teased how Javier always had a soft spot for you, and although you couldn’t deny you also had a soft spot for Javier, you tried to keep your crush precisely that: just a crush. Even if it nearly killed you inside when he would come home late smelling of sex, cheap perfume, and cigarettes.

While staring blankly at a pile of paperwork, your mind couldn’t stop replaying what happened less than an hour ago. Steve tried talking to you about how frustrated he was about Carrillo not trusting him to tag along with the mission, but his words only went in one ear and out of the other.

“You should be grateful.” You finally spoke up, still not taking your eyes off the paperwork.

At that moment, Steve gave up on his argument. As much as he hated feeling like an outsider because of his looks, nationality, or poor Spanish, he knew his troubles were nothing compared to what you and Javier were going through at this very moment.

You could hear Javier mumbling under his breath on the phone at his desk, which generally meant he was talking to one of his hookers. At that point, you were already two shots deep in tequila and resting your head on your arms to hide your face like the game you used to play at school as a kid.

You hated the jealous feeling that crept up inside you as he talked to her about meeting with her in the next half an hour.

Why tonight of all nights? Or if he needed a good fuck to help him forget, then why couldn’t it be with you? You were there. You saw everything happen just as he did. Did it ever occur to him that maybe you needed a night of meaningless sex to help you forget everything too? In all the years you had known Peña, he had no shame in screwing every woman in sight, but he never once offered to put his hands on you. Sure, you flirt with each other almost every day, but would there ever be more? Were you not pretty enough? Or not skinny enough? Or because you didn’t open your legs to every man in sight?

“Cariño, you all right?” Javier’s low voice startles you out of your thoughts. He places his hands on your shoulders and begins to massage you once you sit up and lean back into your chair, feeling your body relax under his touch.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” You lie. Your voice is now hoarse from choking back all the tears and emotions.

Javier leans down and wraps his arms around your upper body with his chin resting on your shoulder. “Don’t you disappear on me, okay?”

You nod, and he kisses your cheek and gives you one last squeeze.

“I gotta run a few errands, but I’ll be home late.”

Desperation kicks into high gear, and you cling to his arms for dear life. “Wait, you’re leaving?”

“It’s just for a few hours. I need to clear my head. You understand, right?” He pulls away from you once your grip loosens, but you still reach for him.

“Well yeah, but…”

“But what!” He snaps at you in frustration.

Then it hits you in that very second like a ton of bricks: you and Javier Peña will never be more than just friends.

You let go of his hand when the tears build up again. “You know what? Just go. I won’t wait up.”

Realizing what he had just done, a wave of guilt washes over Javier, and he slowly steps towards you. “Shit, cariño I’m sor…”

“I said go!”

━◦○◦━◦○◦━

By the night's end, you had already downed most of the tequila. Murphy knew Javier would kill him if he had let you go home by yourself, so being the southern gentleman he is, he gave you a ride home.

On the inside, you were trying to fight off too many emotions. You didn’t dare to let Steve see you cry, especially after witnessing your little moment with Javier. For what? So that he can tell Javi, and they can laugh at how pathetic you are behind your back? Though you knew they would never do that, it was still a fear that helped keep your emotions in check.

“Thanks for the ride, Murphy.” You half smiled at him.

“Of course.” He could hear the pain in your voice, but he tried his best to keep cool. You’re already going through enough as it is. “Hey, just know I’m right next door if you need anything.”

“You’re a good man, Steve. Connie’s a lucky girl.” You lean in to give him a small peck on the cheek before letting yourself out of the car.

You dread every single step toward your shared apartment with Javi. You dread it so much that if you were stable enough, you’d walk to your old apartment two buildings over. Most of your stuff is still there, considering you had just moved in with Javier four months ago. You had only brought essential things like clothes, makeup, bathroom stuff, and a few sentimental values. But the fact that you were barely making it on your own to Javi’s front door was enough to make you rethink.

Once you stumble inside, the first thing you noticed was how quiet it is. Too quiet. Not that you and Javi were noisy people when he didn’t have women over, which thankfully wasn’t often ever since you moved in. But even then, the apartment is never this quiet. You hate the silence. It only made the events of tonight replay louder and louder in your brain.

Throwing off your coat and shoes, you let them land wherever as you make your way to the radio and turn it on to a local rock station with the volume on full blast. You swerve over to Javier’s liquor cabinet and mindlessly scan around at each of his selections. The one bottle of bourbon he saved for special occasions had caught your eye. Judging from how rich the bottle looks, it must be one of his most expensive liquors. Your conscious told you to stop, but the music and your drunk state of mind were enough to tune it out. You grab the bottle from the glass shelf and gnaw the cap off before downing the liquor like water.

You never smoked a cigarette, but once you found Javier’s carton in the cabinet, you pulled out a fresh pack and ripped off the plastic wrap. Javier was already a heavy smoker as it was, but he seemed to smoke a lot more when he was stressed out, and you wanted to know what it was like. If it helps Javi calm down, why wouldn’t it help you?

You flick the first white stick out of the small paper box as if you were already a natural to smoking. Not that you would admit it out loud, but after seeing Javi do it a few times, you were tempted and tried it for shits and giggles.

Lighting the stick between your lips, you inhaled deeply only to choke out the nicotine and smoke immediately. “I can’t believe Javi likes this shit.” You gag.

The first few puffs were disgusting, and if it weren’t for the bourbon making it easier to wash down the horrid taste, you would’ve thrown up after the first puff. But soon enough, you were already on your second and third cigarette. Each smoke is smoother than the last.

Dancing around in the living room in a tank top and panties, with a cigarette in your mouth and another bottle of whiskey in your hands, you were on cloud nine, and for the first time that night, nothing else mattered. You weren’t aware of how much you had already drunk or how you were already almost finished with the first pack of cigarettes. You even forgot you were in Javier’s apartment until the clock caught your attention. It’s 2:30 am, and Javier still isn’t home. If you were sober, you probably would’ve been worried sick about him, but his delay made you angry. He didn’t have to spend the night with another cheap hooker, and if he did feel the need to, he could’ve at least called you to let you know he wasn’t coming home.

How dare he? After everything you two had been through tonight, how dare he leave you alone? How dare he not be here so you two can try to comfort each other? How dare he yell at you in front of Murphy, embarrassing you when you only wanted him to stay? How dare he be a typical douchebag and leave you just to get his dick wet by some random bitch he barely knows? How dare he not see that you care about him so damn much? How fucking dare Javier Peña!?

At that moment, you refused to reason anymore and instead let your anger-fueled adrenaline take complete control of your body.

His precious liquor cabinet is the first item to fall victim to your rage. You push it off the wall with full force and watch it slowly crash to the ground, just like the little boy did in the alley. Then you grab every bottle that didn’t break in the fall and throw them in random areas of the living room. Only the shattering noise, your cries, and the loud music fill the void that is Javier’s apartment.

━◦○◦━◦○◦━

You don’t remember how you wound up on the bathroom floor next to the toilet with more bourbon in one hand and your pistol in the other. Your adrenaline was still pumping through your veins uncontrollably, and you couldn’t feel any of the cuts that formed all over your body from the broken glass. Miraculously, none of which were too deep to leave a permanent scar.

There’s no telling how long ago your rampage began, but suddenly the radio that was once blaring rock music had gone silent. You didn’t care. You sat there hugging your knees with the hand holding the pistol while continuing to drink.

You could hear heavy footsteps slowly inching closer to the bathroom, and then he turned the corner with his pistol pointing directly at you.

“C—Cariño…” Javier mumbled in shock.

He was about to rush to you, but then he froze in place the second you extended your arm and aimed your pistol at him. “Don’t. Come. Any. Closer.” You demand.

Suddenly, every ounce of color was flushed from Javi’s face. He slowly put his gun down on the sink and raised his hands in surrender. The image made you chuckle as he slowly dropped to his knees before you.

“Baby, plea—”

“SHUT UP!” You scream, and it catches you both off guard. “All I wanted was for you to stay with me. To help me forget. But no! Typical Javier Peña; you had to think with your dick! You didn’t even care enough to call me to let me know when you’ll be home or to see if I was all right. Do you realize that I probably would’ve never made it home if it wasn't for Murphy? Thank God he’s a fucking decent human being, unlike you!” At this point, you couldn’t hold back the tears as you cock the gun, making Javier tense up in fear for the second time.

“Cariño, I’m sorry. I fucked up, and I’m sorry. I should’ve been here for you, and I know that now. But please don’t do this.” Javier pleaded.

“It’s too late.” You choke out.

Javier felt his heart stop when you pointed the gun barrel at your temple. In his mind, he had already snatched the gun from your hand, but physically he couldn’t move.

However, once you pulled the trigger, the only sound filling the apartment was a click.

You gasp at the reality of what you were about to do and drop everything in your hands. Only then did Javier find the strength to stumble over and embrace you tightly in his arms.

You hyperventilate and bawl into his shirt as Javi tries to calm you down. Once again, your hands cling to him for dear life. “I’m so sorry, Javi!” You cry.

“Shh. Shh. It’s all right, baby. It’s all right. I’m here now.” He strokes your hair and slowly rocks you back and forth in his arms until you finally fall asleep.

Javier gently picks you up bridal style and carries you to his room, where he could grab a wet towel and some hydrogen peroxide to clean some of your cuts off before tucking you into bed. He took a second to sit there and stare at you as you slept peacefully. If he didn’t feel guilty before, he does now.

Javier sometimes liked to think of himself as a sharp man, but he was blind when it came to you. Murphy often told him that anyone could see you two were head over heels for each other, but he never accepted it as the truth. He never thought you cared about him as more than a friend. And he blew it when he finally had his chance to prove to you that he was worthy of your heart.

There was no telling how long it would take you to forgive him, but he was willing to do whatever it took to regain your trust. He’s all in now, and this time, he wouldn’t make this mistake again.

#narcos #narcos fic #javier peña #javier peña x reader #javier peña x you #javier peña x y/n #javier peña fanfiction #javier peña smut #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal fanfiction

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thejesusofthejedi · 2 years

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Darth Vader definitely had a whole room dedicated to model ships. No one was allowed in, after all he couldn’t be caught playing with them like a youngling.

#star wars #star wars prequels #anakin skywalker #jedi temple #obi-wan kenobi #star wars clone wars #force jesus to the rescue #the force #trouble child of the force #star wars anakin #anakinsstuff #clone wars anakin #star wars all fandoms #darth Vader

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aziraphales-library · 6 months

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Hey, I have two requests, One, can I please get an angsty fic about Crowley falling from heaven, like a fic showing the process of it, preferably on Ao3. And a couple recs for Aziraphale or Crowley raising kids, mpreg is nice I like it, or one where they raise Muriel.

TYSSSSMMMM I LOVE YOU! THIS ACCT ABSOLUTELY AWESOME 10/10!!!

Hello. We have loads of fics on our #the fall and #kid fic tags, so do check those out! Here are a few more recent fics for each tag...

Crowley Falls by A_pile_of_good_things (T)

When an angel Falls, a part of the world dies. It was a truth written in the stars, an immutable law of the cosmos that had held sway since the dawn of creation. And on that fateful day when Crowley plummeted from grace, the world itself seemed to shudder in response to the loss. The demon in the making would later say that he did not as much Fall as Saunter Vaguely Downwards, but that is not the truth. He is a demon, after all, and demons lie. OR A vignette describing Crowley's Fall, while Aziraphale watches. I wrote it for a Fictober prompt no. 2: 'Don't worry, I got you.'

She Gave It A Try (She Closed Her Eyes) by orphan_account (T)

A dreadfully divine creature waits at the precipice of demise, an oxymoronic statement that will most likely never be used again. OR The hours before and after Crowley falls

The Temptation of the Starmaker by koala2all (T)

Crowley wasn't always a demon. Once he was the Starmaker... an angel in Heaven, powerful, innocent, and joyful. Crowley has never told the story of how he was led to his Fall to anyone... well, not the true story, anyway. But when Aziraphale admitted to feeling responsible, Crowley knows the time has come to share that part of himself he's kept secret since Before the Beginning. Remembering how Lucifer Morningstar led him astray will be painful... And even worse, the truth might be enough to push Aziraphale away.

Open Your Heart To The Unexpected by Ombra_la_lupa (G)

Appalled by the sheer stupidity of the nuns, Crowley takes matters in his own (and his life partner’s) hands. “I’m afraid we’re quite definitely closed.” “Aziraphale, it’s me. We need to talk.” “Yes… Yes, I rather think we do. I assume this is about…?” “Armageddon, yes. I’m coming to the bookshop now.” The aforementioned hell spawn chose that moment to start crying at the top of his lungs. “Crowley, is that… Is that a baby?” “Uuuh”, hesitated the demon, looking at the distraught, tear-streaked and bright red little face visible from the open lid of the basket at his feet. “Kinda?”

baby blues by catfishcigarettecard (T)

Aziraphale finds an abandoned baby and can't help but try to rescue the little cherub as best he can. Crowley is dragged along for the ride and shows a rare side of himself.

The Second Coming That Wasn't (Or Was It?) by polymona (T)

Aziraphale is surprised with a chat from God. Crowley is confused as to why any human would just abandon their newborn in front of a bookshop of all places. When the forces of Above or Below find out what has just been set in motion, there will be both Heaven and Hell to pay. If God can be a woman, so can Jesus.

- Mod D

#good omens #ineffable husbands #the fall #kid fic #mod d

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writing-my-time · 2 months

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SMOKE BREAK (PART TWO)

PART ONE

Pairing: Steve Murphy X F!Reader Word Count: 1.6k Warnings: 18+, Swearing, singular mention of gun, infidelity, pet names (Sweetheart, baby, honey), oral (F!Recieving), fingering, Reader has a bush if you squint, but is otherwise undescribed. Summary: After your swift exit from Steve’s car, you find yourself stranded outside of your apartment with no way inside. Steve comes to your rescue, both with your handbag and an apology.

It hits you. Your handbag. You scramble in circles. Had you put it down to search your pockets? Had you dropped it on the way back from Steve's car? A frustrated grumble escapes you. Your sweaty palm rubs across your even sweatier forehead.

Keys, keys, keys.

You’ve been standing in front of your apartment complex, giving yourself the usual pat down trying to find where on earth you put your damn keys. It doesn’t help that you’re still pissed. Seething, really. Steve was a lot of things. A hillbilly? Sure. Uptight? Almost always. But in that car he was something else. Maybe it's the lack of cigarettes. Maybe it's Connie. Hell, maybe it's not Connie, and it's just the lack of sex. You don't know, and you keep telling yourself you don't care. As your hands come out empty after turning each pocket, you curse under your breath.

“Jesus, H,” He starts, a growl getting lodged in the back of his throat. “Let me in and I'll give you one.”

“Where the fuck is my-”

You’re cut off by the uncomfortable, guilty cough of Steve Murphy. He stands at the foot of the steps, holding your handbag in his hands. His golden halo of blond hair stands out in the dim street lighting. There’s a look on his face you can’t quite make out; soft eyes and pressed lips, guilt, maybe? In truth, you aren’t sure, but you really could get used to seeing it. In the midst of your staring, Steve gestures to your bag.

“You gon’ take it?” He hoists up the bag one more time. “This shit’s heavy.”

“It’s probably my gun.” You retort, snatching it from his strong grip. He might look apologetic, but you aren’t playing nice until he actually says the words. “You could have given it to me at work.”

“And leave you homeless for the night?” His brow raises, clearly aware of your predicament. “Look, consider this my apology.”

“I’d rather just have an apology.”

–

Your back hits the front door. Steve’s large hands cage either side of your head as he presses his lips onto yours. How exactly a stubborn stand-off had turned into this, you aren’t sure. But really, you can’t say you mind. The taste hits you.

Tobacco.

“I’ll go gentle sweetheart. I got you.” The term of affection sets your insides on fire. It had been a long time since you’d heard him refer to anyone with the same softness.

A smoky, aggressive flavor that forces you to open your eyes and nudge him off.

“What is it? Want me to stop?” He asks softly, a deep crease forming as his brows knit together.

You shake your head, bringing your hands to his face to keep him close. “No, no. You just taste like smoke.”

“Broke my streak to build my confidence up.” He admits with a nod, heavy eyes never leaving your own. “You want this?”

A slew of thoughts flood your mind. Mostly fronted by the guilt of exactly who was standing in front of you, and therefore who would usually be standing in your place.

“What about-”

“Don’t worry about it. She made her choice. Jus’ let me do this.” His lips return to yours with an unexpected softness.

You both stumble further into your apartment; knocking into the occasional shelf or side table, right up until the back of your caves hit your couch. The two of you fall onto the plush cushions. Steve’s body presses into yours. Your arms curl around him, lazily gliding down his back. Soft, yet hungry kisses occupy your lips, occasionally broken by a low hum or breathy exhale. It’s a few minutes before Steve breaks the kiss. He pulls himself upward, bringing you up with him.

“I’m pent up after two fuckin’ weeks of Connie ditching my ass, and you’ve been here how long? And not once have you taken a guy home?”

Steve’s assumption was right. It’s been a long time since you were first stationed in Colombia. In that time, you hadn’t dared bring anyone home. Unlike Peña and his ‘informants’, Colombian romance wasn’t exactly safe for someone like you. You shake your head as an answer, still too dizzy from the kisses to speak

“Let me make it up to you. Show you I’m sorry.” He pleads, nuzzling his nose against your own. “Don’t think about Connie. You don’t even have to touch me if it makes you feel better.”

Another swarm of worried thoughts flood your mind. Work, shame, Connie, guilt. None of that compares to the desire building in the depths of your stomach. It’s been a long time. Too long. You watch as he kneels on the floorboards between your legs, Steve lets out a heated exhale. Your eyes meet one more time. The blue hue you’ve grown accustomed to at the office is gone. What remains is something darker, hungrier than you’ve seen before. He plants the first delicate kiss just above your knee. You suck in a breath, as does he. His lips glide lazily up your thigh, all while spreading them apart with his large hands. Your head lulls back. Coarse hairs of his mustache tickle at your sensitive skin. A shudder rushes through you. Goosebumps rise in the wake of Steve’s touch, his wet lips leaving a trail of kisses up the length of your leg. Soon enough, he presses a needy kiss to the waistband of your panties. He looks up at you. You nod.

“Please, don’t stop.” You’re too far gone to be embarrassed about begging, and certainly too far gone to think about consequences.

Steve snakes two thick fingers into the lace, gliding them down your legs until your panties are dangling off one ankle. Your vision blurs ever so slightly. Heavy, wanting breaths fill the silence. Both his, and yours. He brings his face to your core, inhaling before fluttering his eyes shut. The first lick is divine. It’s explorative, dragging from the top and to the tails of your folds as Steve laps up your wetness. A low hum of satisfaction rumbles from his chest. You sink your head back into the cushions. His fingers dig into the flesh of your thighs, pushing them up toward your stomach. He’s split you open. Held under his grasp for him to lap and suck at his leisure. All you can do is fight the overwhelming urge to squirm beneath him. His tongue ghosts over your throbbing clit before he pulls away.

“Taste good, sweetheart.” Steve exhales, dragging his thumb across his damp chin. The sight makes you whine. “Real good.”

“I ain’t gonna. Lay back down, baby.”

A shaky breath escapes you, but you accept him. Your body accepts his fingers greedily, allowing him to sink two fingers into your wet heat with ease. There’s a smug look on his face, not quite hidden behind his lustful haze. Steve curls his fingers within you; nudging your sweet spot before receding out to the first knuckle, then right back in again. You whine, arching your back as his skilled hand works in tandem with his tongue. He sucks on your clit, delicately at first. It’s only when his hand begins to move faster that his mouth begins to work harder. Weak whines shift into eager moans. You snake a hand into his hair, grabbing a fistful of the blond strands in a poor attempt to ground yourself. Your walls squeeze his fingers tight, warning of an imminent release. He brings his mouth away, but his hand remains, plunging and curling inside of you at a languid pace.

His lips find their way back to your center, this time joined by the gentle caress of his left hand. At first, the pads of his fingers gently graze the inside of your thigh. They climb up at an agonizingly slow pace, only eased by the masterful swirling of your tongue between your folds. His fingers meet your wetness. You tense. Steve notices, giving you a reassuring kiss to the patch of curls atop your core. He presses his index finger gently forward, swiftly joined by his middle.

“That's it, baby.” He whispers against you, voice akin to a purr. “Give it to me. Let go for me.”

Steve returns his lips to your clit, sucking and nibbling with deliberate force. His fingers slam against your sweet spot over and over until you finally tense. You tug harshly on his hair. Whiteness floods your vision. A hoarse moan hastily follows. God knows how long it's been since you've come like this. Certainly not with your own hands, that's for sure. Pure bliss consumes you, dizzying your vision and forcing your limbs to go limp. It's not until you feel Steve drag your panties back up your legs do you regain composure. The world around you slowly stops spinning, and you feel stable enough to lift your head up. Steve presses a chaste kiss to the inside of your thigh before leaning back.

“Good apology.” You rasp, ignoring the steadily growing pit in your stomach.

“Thought you deserved it.”

Your eyes meet his, both heavy with a pained look of lust and realization. He clears his throat, carding a hand through his hair. His wedding ring glints under the downlights. Even in your afterglow, guilt finds you. Despite the obvious tenting in his pants, you can’t bring yourself to return the favor. Steve notices, his glistening fingers absent-mindedly twisting around his ring. Something about the sight of your own slick against the symbol of his failing marriage makes you feel sick. He stands. You close your legs. Silence.

Holy cow... Writing for Steve is weirdly difficult! I hope you all find it was worth the wait for part 2. Thank you always to my magnificent pre-reader @justeverythingprettymuch. For those who have requested tags: @to-be-or-not-to-be-2021, @toxicanonymity

“I’ll see you at work tomorrow?” Your shameful whisper makes him wince. Another silence follows until he finally nods.

“Yeah. I’ll see you at work.”

#boyd holbrook #steve murphy #narcos #goose writing #steve murphy x reader #steve murphy x you

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christinebloodwrittings · 8 months

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Smart Dress pt2

Request: Hiiii Could you do a Loki x reader based off Green Green Dress from tick tick boom?? It’s a 3am idea and I can’t get it out of my head. It’s probably dumb but you’d def be able to do it actually well. By: @amesmorningstar

Re requested by: @eleniblue

Sorry for the delay, I went through some stuff.

Part one

*My requests are open*

Pairing: Loki x Fem!Reader

Summary: Will Loki be able to fix his mistakes?

Warnings: angst, NSFW.

Loki Taglist: @lokisprettygirl22 @otakumultimuse-hiddlewhore @high-functioning-lokipath @thereadinggeek @el-zef @beakami @lokiprompts @ilovefanfictions @eleniblue @novena-proxy @lulubelle814 @beakami @laurenandloki @tjellisworld

“Stay” he pleaded against your hair, “Give me one good reason”.

“I really…uhm” it wasn't the best moment to be at loss of words, but he tripped with all sorts of different sentences, not a single one made sense or was good enough to express how he felt.

He took way too long, in tears you sighed, putting your hands on his arms to force him release you, "I knew it" you murmured.

"Fuck" he cursed. Loki turned you around, closed the door with your back against it, and before you could protest he kissed you.

That kiss took you back to the beginning of the year. New year's eve, you just got back from a two week mission, that wasn't supposed to last two weeks.

You almost missed New year's eve, your plan was a night of sleep, not caring about the whole thing, because you were bruised and tired, because you just had to be undercover rescuing some dumb cop that got caught spying some mobsters.

Apparently it involved the avengers because the cop is a mutant of some sorts, so because of his dumb ass you were stuck in a dirty cell instead of celebrating.

And why you? Because no one else wanted to go, and you were late to the meeting. Stark had the laugh of his life.

Stark on the other hand, teared that plan to shreds with his whole event going on. There was no way to reach the dorms with the party in your way. Also with Natasha and Wanda being all over you to get you to stay and have fun.

You ended up staying because, what the hell, right? You needed the drink and to kick someone's ass for the horrible mission they threw you in.

After a lot of drinks, Thor saw pertinent introducing his brother to the team, seeing that no one would be within reason enough to refuse him, bold but smart move.

Loki, in your drunken eyes, was the most beautiful being you had ever seen, though, what came out of your mouth was simply humiliating.

You called him weird, because you believed aliens were supposed to be green skinned, he actually laughed and told you his actual skin color is blue, in his ever so sarcastically polite manner of course.

Since he was in a mean mood, your drunken ass had no other better idea than making him absolutely uncomfortable. "So if your skin is blue, then so is your tongue and your dick?" Everyone of course laughed at your dumb question, Thor on the other hand was a bit worried the temper of his brother might get him to set you on fire.

"You talk to me like that again, mortal, I dare you" his voice resonated through the room, making the other 'ooh' in response, like when a classmate is being called out by the teacher.

After a good laugh, you stood up, poked his leather covered chest and spoke, "Listen popsicle, I had a rough couple of weeks, okay? Threaten me again, and I'll throw you out that window" pointing the open window behind you. "You wouldn't dare" he lowered his head enough to be face to face with you, his lips very close to yours.

After a little snicker, you stole a kiss from him, "Behave handsome, and you'll never know" after a wink you sat again, taking a big sip out of your drink.

To say he was stunned was an understatement, he had his revenge though. After Wanda changed your liquor into water, pulling what you called a reverse Jesus, you weren't drunk enough for when Loki cornered you against a wall and kissed you.

"An eye for an eye, minx" he purred in your ear before vanishing in the air.

Funny, he swore you wouldn't remember, but when you reminded him of it the morning after, he spilled his coffee all over the kitchen counter.

"Please stay" he brought your mind back to the situation, "Ask the bitch you were with to satisfy you, she must be looking forward to fuck you" he chuckled at your spite, finding it both cute and alluring.

"Is that why you've been unbearable all week? You're jealous." His eyes shone with the power that emanated from within him, power that he knew he had over you.

"I'm not jealous." Your denial made him laugh, even more than he was already having fun with your anger. "Honey, if you wanted my attention so much, you should have told me." He closed the distance, raising one knee to separate your legs and have you closer. .

His goal must have been to devour you, because of the way his tongue tasted the inside of your mouth, a kiss that lit the candle of passion for him.

"Wait," you moved your face, breaking the kiss, searching for air more than anything. He waited a couple of seconds for you to say something else, that you didn't want him, that you hated him, with no response.

Your lack of words guided his hand to cup your neck, gently at first, then pulled roughly until he devoured your mouth again, biting, without regard, the soft flesh of your lips.

"Darling, I've realized how careless I am to leave your needs unattended, let me fix that" he lowered his head to your collarbone and from there to the base of your ear he licked like a wolf getting a taste of his prey. The sensation sent a shiver down your spine.

You wanted to resist, but his kisses, ever so skillful, his hands traveling from your ass to your hips, just enough to hug them and lift you up, automatically you hooked your legs behind his back, then your hands flew to hang on his shoulders, for support. It was all too much.

This is what he does to get you in motion, you knew it. He pulls you up and then you're so lost in him, there's not enough sense that can overthrow your hunger for his clever touch, the bites he likes to leave as he goes down on you, his smart silver tongue against your clit.

In one swift motion, he laid you down on his bed, still having at least one hand on your hips to keep you grounded.

He wanted to have you again, fast. You, were doomed and lost in his caresses, your hands were all over his back and hair, his own matching your movements, while his pelvis teased yours, thrust after thrust, both undergarments were soaking wet.

As time went by, your doubts dissipated, all that remained was the lust you felt for the evil-born god, who with his hands got rid of all excess clothing. He didn't pay any attention to your lingerie, much less to your wounds. His cock was no mystery to you, he was huge and veiny, perfect for touching all those internal areas that needed his attention, and boy was he good at using it.

His hips collided with yours with each thrust, the sound of skin touching and the wet sound filled the room, as did your moans and his.

Ecstasy was a word you wouldn't use for that moment, there was a knock at the door, and it turned out to be none other than the bitch who accompanied him to the party, which made Loki hit you much harder to divert your attention.

He pulled out of you for a few seconds, then pulled your body towards him, rotating your hips until you were on all fours. He grabbed your hair and he continued fucking you, the thrusts getting stronger and more accurate, hitting every single spot he knows make you week.

"You're mine, to touch, to have, only mine" he breathed against your ear, to which you couldn't respond, the heat clouded your senses, a warm feeling crawled up your core to your chest, a feeling you knew the meaning.

"I love the way you squeeze me when you cum" he said in between panted laughs, "Now, stay, please" you shook your head, "Please love" he then pulled out, grabbed his boxers and came inside them. Disgusted, he threw them on the sink in the bathroom and left the water running on it, until they were soaked, then turned it off and returned to your defeated, tired and ashamed being.

He reached for you as soon as he positioned by your side, but you rolled away from him, "Darling, my sweet love" his hand caressed yours, it was so warm, but of course your pride was stronger than your love for him, so you moved it away from his touch.

"You're still mad at me?" he sounded so surprised, so you laughed, sarcastically obviously. "All this time, you made me believe that you liked me enough".

"What do you mean? I like you," you didn't want to believe anything he said at that moment, "But you still go out with other women, you kiss me, you fuck me and I'm still not enough," again he was left without explanations, " Honey, that's not-" he tried, but he stopped himself, biting his tongue before saying something he'd regret.

"I don't care, you made me think you wanted more than just a quick fuck, but then it was slut after slut" you stood up, first putting on your bra, then your stockings, then your dress, your shoes were actually too much for the state of your legs, so you had them hanging

“Y/n” he called out to you, but you still hadn’t gotten everything out of your chest.

"I'm sick of this, Loki, I don’t wanna do this anymore" holding a tear behind while saying it, burned, but you had to either draw the line or break the cycle.

"But I do like you" that wasn't enough, he thought, still being at loss of proper thinking.

"That’s not the point, horns" he saw in your eyes, and on the way you were hugging your shoes close to your figure, a way to feel your words, deep inside him they resonated.

But before he could feel bad, "It's been a while since you called me that" he purred that sentence like a way to ease the tension.

But you huffed and rolled your eyes, making him lose some of the sanity he had left, "Norns woman, will you tell me what I did wrong?".

"Geez Loki, do I have to think for you too? You used to be so witty, maybe the whores sucked off your brain too"

“Right, stay mad at me for absolutely no reason then, that’s fine by me”

"No reason? I wasted a year of my life to a god, that resulted no different from a regular human asshole"

“Mind your words, mortal”

“Funny, I thought you liked my dirty mouth, horns”

“Just tell me what I can do”

“Figure it out”

As soon as he saw you leave the room, he jumped out of bed, dressed with a spell, and ran after you. The sounds of the party were getting louder, obviously the party continued, a simple fight was always part of Stark's meetings, so people saw it as something common.

“Y/n, you were right” he caught your arm, just before you stepped out to the living room. “I started feeling things for you, but, I couldn’t bring myself to fill in the role of partner you need, not because I didn’t wanted to, the reason is unknown to me” his doubt was the only reason you needed to know that he was still the same prince that blew up his own planet a year ago.

“Sounds void to me” your coldness gave his frozen heart frostbite, so full of truth nonetheless, “I know, but I can’t afford to lose you” it had to stop, you thought, “But you can’t bring yourself to love me properly” you slipped your hand from his touch, “I…We need to stop, I can’t with this”.

It's hard to let go of something you thought you loved but that was destroying you with every kiss and empty promise, but the feeling of freedom that invaded you after a month of detox was unmatched.

Finally, after a month, you stopped caring who he was dating or not, and also the gifts he left at your door, with letters begging for your forgiveness. "You're forgiven, Loki, I'm just not interested in having anything with someone who doesn't know how to take things with responsibility and commitment," much less with a prince who has always had everything on a silver platter and women who lined up to have sex with him.

Maybe he was much more than that, but you didn't know, he never let you see beyond his superficial way of being. You saw some vulnerability when he hugged you after sex and stayed with you until the next morning, and then he said goodbye with a kiss, but after so much pain, you started to doubt if he was really opening up to you, or it was only the reflection his exterior facade.

Either way, life goes on, and so did you.

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schweizercomics · 10 months

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Companions of Christmas, Dec 1: Santa Claus

Santa or Saint Nicholas (“Santa” means “Saint,” and “Claus” is short for “Niklaus/Nicolas) was born to wealthy parents in a small port city in Asia Minor. Nicholas became a gift-giver at a young age when, upon learning that three sisters who wished to wed their loves could not do so because they had no dowry with which to pay their future husband’s family, he tossed coins through their window in the dead of night. Finding that he could so easily change lives for the better and bring hope to those who had little through these small acts of generosity, he sold his property and belongings and used the money to continue helping those he found in need. As he was already following his god Jesus’s order “sell what you possess and give the money to the poor,” it was only natural that he would adhere to the next dictate “then come, follow me,” which he did, becoming first a Christian priest, and, soon after, the bishop of Myra.

Nicholas, a noted brawler even during his bishophood, never backed down from a fight in service to others. He frequently found himself rescuing the innocent from execution, saving children from those who would exploit them, and battling monsters and creatures long viewed by the Christians as servants of evil. But instead of killing these foes, Nick would recruit them. Using both force and Christian magic, he would make them accompany him on his errands and missions of mercy, and the exposure to his generosity and kindness changed their perception and their hearts, turning them from forces of destruction to forces of good, though few lost any of their wildness.

Nicholas was born a mortal man, and died one, at the age of seventy-three, on December 6, 343. His devotion to his faith and service to his neighbors ensured his place in heaven, but heaven was no paradise for Nick, who fretted constantly for the children of the world. He petitioned the three aspects of God for a charter, to return to earth and bring joy and comfort to its children through acts of charity and joy. His charter was granted, and he returned to earth one year later, and he has done his good works each December since.

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Happy December, friends! Each year around this time I post up drawings of Christmas and other winter holiday figures, along with narratives to explain the practices with which folklorists and holiday buffs might be familiar. When stories exist, I use them; when they don't, I do what I can to piece together what folklore surrounds them to fill in the gaps (or, in some instances, defer to the theories of my friend and fellow narrative reconcilianist Benito Cereno). I hope you enjoy them!

#Santa #Santa Claus #St. Nick #St. Nicholas #Santa Art #Saint Nicholas Art #Christmas #Christmas Stories #Christmas Art

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sehtoast · 1 month

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Tender Threads CH6 (Homelander x OC)

chapter six: mentorship

chapter directory | slow burn, hurt/comfort, fluff, spidersona as original character, original trans male character, smut, sublander

summary: time to learn the ropes, bug boy. hope you're ready. it's just one week with homelander, how bad can it be?

She hates me. She fuckin’ hates me and there’s no two ways about it.

Why else would Stillwell do this to him? A mentorship? Mandatory training? Benjamin had half a mind to be irritated with Starlight for being the reason this was even a thing. That mugging she stopped the other day– same one she got in trouble for?

Yeah…

Now Benjamin had to suffer for it. Learn the ropes, Stillwell had said. Learn to be a Vought hero. One week with each member, sans Noir due to the more sensitive nature of his missions.

At least it goes reasonably fast. Most of it, anyway.

From Starlight, he learns to use his position and influence to uplift outreach programs and charities, along with applying his image for promotion to a wider audience. Despite his annoyance with the whole ordeal, Benjamin finds that he doesn’t mind Starlight one bit. In fact, the two of them got along splendidly, sharing their life stories from their silly small town upbringings and how different their lives had become. By the end of the week, Ben freely keeps his mask off around her and hardly minds her knowing about his secret identity.

A-Train was a bit of a jackass if Ben was being entirely honest, and he spent most of the week watching the speedster practicing his fraction-of-a-second laps or signing his image away to endorse yet another sports company. With him, Benjamin began to connect the dots of which supe represented what facet of life as a Vought hero. Starlight was charity; A-Train was product licensing. By the end, though, A-Train had begun to grow on the bug.

The Deep managed to be the worst week by far. Benjamin spent his time listening to the aquatic supe drone on and on about sea creatures. Their feelings, what they said to him, what they said about Benjamin, which fish at the aquarium found the bug attractive– Jesus fucking Christ please save me– how beautiful the sea is, and just about any other mindless drivel that disphit could ramble on about. With him, Ben learned about scripted saves.

Few, if any, rescues performed by The Seven were authentic. Some, but certainly not all. Real ones seemed to only occur on a right-place-right-time basis.

And absolutely none of The Deep’s saves were legitimate. Together, they tackled a staged smuggling bust at the harbor, much to Ben’s embarrassment.

His week with Maeve was spent sparring and bonding over cocktails and martinis. Wasn’t hard to find the connection between the note of alcoholism in her file and the way she drank. Had Benjamin been trying to keep up, he’d have probably needed his stomach pumped.

To each their own.

Four weeks turned to five, which was the one Ben had been most petrified to reach.

A week with Homelander.

He’d been so anxious the night before that he barely slept at all. Must have been when the sun was rising that he finally dozed off in the warmth of his fuzzy blankets and silky sheets, bare legs rubbing between the textures like some kind of snuggly cricket until sleep overtook him with a force.

He doesn’t even wake for his alarms. The trickling of light through the curtains fails to rouse him. Life is… fine. His dreams are nothing, but sometimes that’s all they need to be. Just simple, comfy nothingness, that’s all–

“Mmm, cozy little setup you’ve got here.”

Benjamin barely registers the words as his eyes blink open, vision bleary, just to shut them again. The cool air wafting about with every rotation of the ceiling fan tickles his shoulders. The bug gives a weak groan and stretches his legs, poking one out from beneath his knitted blanket to splay across the bed. Instead of its usual plush resting place, it lands on something firm.

Did I leave something...?

Ben slides his leg over the intrusion, trying to get a feel for whatever it is.

“You could buy me dinner first, you know.”

Huh?

Ben sucks in a deep breath and lifts his head, blinking slowly until–

“The fuck!?” He yelps, scrambling toward the edge and clutching a cover to his bare chest.

“About time, sleepyhead.” Homelander says, grinning from ear to ear as he lays beside the bug as if there were nothing wrong with any of it. “Please, what’s with that face? I can’t be the worst thing you’ve ever woken up beside.”

“Wh– why– what–” Ben sputters, brain too foggy to coherently tell him to fuck off, too startled to give him shit for such a brazen violation of his boundaries.

“You overslept.”

“So you got in my bed?” The bug asks exasperatedly, eyes wide in disbelief. “D’you know what boundaries are or–”

“Do you know what an alarm clock is?” Homelander quips, all too happy with himself. “Just go get ready. The more time you waste, the longer we both have to be out tonight and I don’t particularly don’t wanna drag this one into tomorrow and overlap the days. I also like to sleep, you know.”

“I–” Ben shuffles to move out of bed, but stops. “Can you like… look the other way or something?”

“Why would I do that?”

“I’m like… very naked under here.” Ben blurts.

Homelander looks at him, hums, then covers his eyes with his bare palm. “Fine,” he says. “Won’t look. Scout’s honor. Just go get ready.”

Benjamin will never know that Homelander cheated his way out of that little promise. Didn’t count as peeking if he didn’t peek– which he didn’t. He did, however, peer through his hand to see the bug scurry away with a little knitted blanket wrapped around his body. Not that the blanket could stop him from seeing anything anyway.

There isn’t much that he hasn’t seen at this rate. He’s watched Benjamin shower, seen him get ready or undress after a long day, seen him peel the spandex suit from his body and slump into bed as naked as the day he came into the world. Hell, he’s seen even more than that. Not like there was much awareness on Benjamin’s part back when Homelander had caught sight of such performances, but all the same…

The first sight of Benjamin’s bare body caught him off guard. Along the lower ridge of his pectorals sat two long scars, each running from his sternum to just below the pits of his arms, light pink in color and not terribly jagged. Seeing them up close before the bug woke had been exhilarating in its own right. Even more so to peer through those covers and catch that special sight that always left him unwittingly licking and suckling at his lips.

Ever the curiosity, it seemed.

Homelander chooses to remain in Benjamin’s bed while the bug hurtles through his morning routine. While Ben showers, Homelander rolls and buries his nose in the ruffled sheets. The warmth of them is… different. He’s done this before, tons of times actually. He’d plopped himself into Ben’s bed back at the bug’s old apartment and relaxed before heading back to the hustle and bustle of the tower, but basking in it? Inhaling Ben’s fresh scent, committing it to memory, the lingering heat making it seem like the bug was right there–

He almost hates himself for feeding this fixation.

Almost.

Their first stop for the day is the set of Homelander’s current movie: Homelander Origins. Just an ordinary introduction to the entertainment industry, right?

“Oh Jesus– oh fuck!!”

Homelander has him by the arms, dangling him thousands of feet in the air, flying at a mach whatever-the-fuck. Ben’s body streamlines horizontally, almost perfectly parallel to Homelander’s as they zip through the clouds. The bug’s stomach is practically in his throat and he’d long since threatened to barf in his mask only to be told that such an occurrence was a personal problem. Turns out, Benjamin hadn’t totally conquered his fear of heights. Diving off the Empire State Building was one thing, but this? This was a whole ‘nother ball game– practically a form of fucking torture.

Only after he stops wailing like a big baby on his first roller coaster ride does Benjamin wonder how big the shit-eating grin on Homelander’s face must be. He must be thrilled to be instilling such terror in the bug after being held up due to Ben’s inability to wake up on time.

Benjamin spends the bulk of the flight staring up at Homelander, finding, as predicted, a satisfied smile splitting his features from ear to ear. Every so often he looks down and winks, blue eyes twinkling with excited mischief.

“Well, you know what they say.” Homelander chirps as they begin their descent– slower, thankfully. “First time flying is always the hardest.”

The bug all but kisses the ground. “Concrete! Oh, beautiful, beautiful concrete!”

He can practically hear Homelander’s eyes roll.

Once the theatrics are wrapped up and Benjamin’s stomach ceases its acrobatics, the two make their way inside of the studio hangar. In truth, Ben never thought he’d be setting foot in a Vought set– ever, actually. It’s intimidating.

Which, of course, turns him into a bit of a lost puppy. He stays practically glued to Homelander’s heels, even when it’s time for the makeup chair.

The bug watches with fascination as Homelander gets his on-screen face applied and his windswept hair fixed up. The makeup artist doesn’t look overly thrilled to be working on him, but his captain barely seems to care. In fact, he keeps his eyes shut, almost as if he refuses to look in the mirror at himself. It was only when he would gaze in Ben’s direction to say anything that he bothered opening them at all.

The next half hour is spent rehearsing his lines, and Ben is far from a stellar actor. Homelander complains more than half of the time that the bug’s line delivery is subpar, that there was no way for him to get his head in the right space because of his pathetically unconvincing delivery, that there was a snowball’s chance in hell that the bug could ever actually swing his own movies– any number of jabs.

Ben simply laughs it off. “You plucked me off the streets, y’know.”

“And? What, you can’t read lines like a normal person?”

“Apparently not, Mister Shakespeare.” Ben giggles. He’s got his mask off while they’re alone in the dressing room, which somehow feels less vulnerable than usual. Perhaps knowing that Homelander’s been looking through it the whole time has desensitized the bug to the idea of it, or maybe it was the fact that he’s been literally face to face with him so many times now whether by having it yanked off his head or just simply not having it on to begin with.

Homelander just shakes his head, drops his script on the table, and motions for Ben to follow.

Watching him perform his scenes is a whole different kind of beast. All that talk about being in the right headspace seemed like just a load of hot air.

Homelander is flawless. Line delivery perfect, body language spot on, expressions perfectly emotive… truly the whole package of an incredibly talented actor. Ben watches, almost totally mystified until the director’s insistence to have multiple takes of the same scenes gets boring enough to warrant fiddling with his phone instead.

Beyond his own antics, the only other thing left to entertain him was Homelander’s half-hearted little tour guides around the set between breaks. So you know what to expect when it’s your turn, bug boy, he’d said. Homelander’s oddly patient throughout, showing little if any irritation when Ben asks objectively stupid questions or wants to swing by the snack table. Though he does give some commentary.

“Careful,” he chides. “You do wear a spandex suit.”

“Mhm,” Ben hums in return, chewing on sliced bell pepper. “It’s vegetables, dude.” But that’s exactly the kind of shallow commentary the bug had figured he’d be walking into after joining. Hell, Vought tried to stick him with a meal plan for exactly the same thing Homelander just said. High protein, low sugar, low carbs…

Yeah fuckin’ right.

They kick back again for a while in the dressing room to chat.

“So how’d you even end up joining The Seven anyway?” He asks, red webbed feet kicked up on the table in front of the couch. This was overdue. If Homelander was going to be metaphorically up his ass, breaking into his home, monitoring his performance, showing him the ropes, and whatever else ol' stars and stripes may cook up, then Ben was going to at least try to bond with him. If he was stuck with the guy for the rest of however-the-fuck-long that contract was, then it only made sense to make the process less painful.

A flicker of… something flashes across Homelander’s face. “Oh, you know… Knew a guy who knew a guy. Saw me in my little league games, threw me an offer right out of school.”

“Huh,” Ben purses his lips. “Sounds like a blast.”

“Doesn’t sound like you mean that,” Homelander says.

“Well… You’re not wrong.”

Homelander’s lip twitches and that same little break in composure sweeps his features once more, disappearing just as fast as it came.

“Sorry,” Ben says with a tight lipped smile. “I just… I dunno, actually.” He huffs a small laugh. “Y'did better than me, at least. I was waiting tables right out of school. Hey, what was school like for you, anyway?”

A tense moment passes, though Homelander’s irate energy seems to dim.

“Why do you care?” Not a question terribly like him, being Mister Center-of-The-Universe and all. He’s never asked anything like that before when Ben has inquired about him– granted that’s only been a small handful of times, but... "I'm not here to play fucking Twenty Questions with you."

Ah, yeah... Hit a nerve.

Which means there's far more than what meets the eye to that picture-perfect story Vought's flung around on every screen and print medium that'd run it.

“I just–” think, Ben. Think. He worries his lower lip between his teeth for a second, anxiety bubbling. If he lies, Homelander will know. He’d already seen that super power earlier with an assistant who lied about why they were late. Honesty was the best policy… “It’s– I just–”

Homelander arches a brow.

Ben lets loose a heavy sigh, letting as much tension free as possible.

“Everything I can find about you online is like, too pristine.” Perhaps not the best way to say it, but at least it was mostly the truth. Online really meant in Vought’s files, but Homelander didn’t need to know that. At least not yet. “Everyone else– ‘cept Noir, I guess– has like any number of rough spots in their life, and Vought fuckin’ loves to milk ‘em for sob stories. I mean, just look at A-Train’s struggle movies. Half that shit is blown out of proportion. And I know 'cuz I asked him during my week with him.” Benjamin leans back against the couch. "I just... I don't believe the bits they put out about you guys, y'know? S'just money to them. So... yeah. I wanna ask. Maybe get to know you now that you're my boss and all."

“Is it so bad that I’ve had a perfect life?” Homelander counters, almost too nonchalantly. That flicker returns, betraying him.

“No, just–”

“Does it make you jealous?”

He’s getting defensive…

“Look, man. I’m sorry.” Ben raises his hands, sitting forward. Best to end it before Homelander gets pissed off. “M’just curious about you is all.”

Homelander stares him down for a moment, blue eyes boring into browns that couldn’t quite hold his gaze for more than a flash. An all too forced smile cuts into Homelander’s face, though the intensity of his gaze fails to falter.

“No worries, bug boy.”

And, just like that, he’s standing to head out for his next scene.

Huh..?

The flight home was much less horrifying than the first time around. Perhaps Homelander just lacked the energy to torture Benjamin more, as evidenced by his nearly child-like ‘fucking finally,’ groaned once the director announced the day was over.

This time around, Homelander lets Ben hang on with his arms wrapped around his neck and one of his own around the bug’s waist. The proximity was a little awkward at first, but Benjamin eventually got used to it. It’s all still pretty terrifying despite the fact Homelander even flies slower.

Benjamin embeds the setae of his fingerpads into Homelander’s suit just to be safe.

He didn’t bother to wear his mask, either. Once they were in the air, there was no point. Who would see them? What phone camera could possibly catch them at such a height? Besides, the cool air helps too. Ben’s exhausted in his own right, and the battering of wind against his head helps keep him from dozing off, though he does eventually find it in himself to nuzzle his face against Homelander’s neck to spare his face from the whipping wind, although he does so quite timidly.

It’s odd all around. Trusting the man who threatened to murk his parents to not drop him. Burying his face in the neck of the man who stalked him for weeks on end. Finding it… not totally awful?

Yeah, maybe that was the worst part. If that somehow meant Homelander was growing on him, well...

Ben always was bad at keeping his nose out of trouble. And right now, it is very much buried in trouble- literally and figuratively.

Homelander has to shuffle him away from the creeping tendrils of sleep threatening to overtake him.

“Huh…? Oh.”

Home.

At least, as much of a home as it can be. They’re hovering outside the exterior access panel to Ben’s tower apartment. Homelander even brought him close to the wall…

“Thanks, I…” Ben turns his head to yawn, giving a few slow blinks. “Mm…”

“Get in there before you fall asleep on the wall,” Homelander orders. The smile is all too obvious in his tone even if Benjamin doesn't quite catch it in time.

The bug gives a weak laugh huffed through his nose. “Right, right. G’night, Homie…” He doesn’t turn around to see if that half-cocked nickname won him a look of confusion, a smile, or potentially even ire.

Benjamin doesn't even bother trying to snack on something before bed. He simply shuffles to his room, peeling the suit away with every step and kicking it to the floor before flopping into bed and burrowing under his blankets. He stares at the other side for a while, finding sleep elusive despite how beat he is.

“Can’t believe he got in my bed,” Ben thinks aloud. He runs a hand over the top of the covers where Homelander would’ve laid.

Wonder what shenanigans he has planned for tomorrow…

#homelander #homelander x oc #the benlander agenda #homelander fanfiction #the boys #homelander x reader #antony starr

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