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ebaylee422 · 1 year

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I Want Your Video

Steve x Fem!Reader

Author’s Note: Steve won the poll, when I first started really reading fanfiction on tumblr early 2020-2021 there was a fic with mutual masturbation with BestFriend!Steve Harrington and this plays into the very heavy. I’ve been wanting to fuck you forever part for inspo. Also just love Djo’s music so a lot of my WIPs have titles of his music. Requests are open if you want more sexy Steve, thank you for reading!

Summary: Family Video just became a little less family friendly with the new addition of the 18 and older erotic video room. You are more curious than your co-workers about what a dirty movie includes, the sexual tension between you and dreamboat Steve Harrington does nothing for your pent up frustrations.

Characters: Steve Harrington, Robin Buckley, Family Video Worker!Reader, Dustin, Lucas, Mike, Max, El and Will love to pester Steve at his jobs, and gross mentions of Keith.

Warning/Tags: SMUT (Minors DNI), Steve has a huge cock, dry humping, marking, fingering (f receiving), blow job, overstim, small nubbins of insecurities with reader and Steve, Steve and reader share playful banter, a ruined Armchair, dirty talk, pet names, riding (save a horse ride Steve Harrington), we all love boobies, creampie, cum play? As always lmk if I forgot anything!

Word Count: 6.2k

"Well I knew they called it Family Video for a reason, I just never thought they'd take it so literally." You said as the three of you looked to the closed door with the new 18 plus warning sign, taking away your break room.

"Please stop mentioning it.” Robin pinches at the bridge of her nose

"What? At least people don't like, deal porn or try to find it at a public library." Steve adds setting the return tapes on the counter.

"Why would someone go to the library for PORN?" Robin boasts turning to her best friend,

"I don't know Buckley, people are stupid when horny." Steve admonishes

“Does that mean your always horny?” You tease, Steve opens his mouth to retaliated but Robin stops him.

"No, now we just have Keith, who was already always in the back room. Potentially watching adult films on the clock and putting them back." Robin shakes in disgust.

"Like a trial run, he’ll be able to give great recommendations." You add nose scrunched with laughter bubbling in your chest.

"Ew gross." Robin said nauseated

"Look he's creepy, but Keith is not that brave. Any one of us could walk back there." Steve says pointing to the ever closed office and backroom where Keith either naps or throws together a schedule.

"Maybe he wants to be caught?" you nod, taking new tapes to stock in the romance section.

“Maybe he wants you to catch him?” Steve wiggles his eyebrows following you,

"Maybe you want me to smack you in the face-" You turn to find him closer than you anticipated only a few inches separating your body from his.

"What? Don't be a prude now, you're the one who made the conversation interesting." Steve cut you off, chest puffed in challenge. His woodsy, ash, and vanilla smell intoxicating you as the spearmint on his breath floated you back to reality.

"That's because I'm interesting." You dare with a raised eyebrow, as his eyes flicker to your cherry lips.

"God please stop flirting in front of me or I'll get a cavity." Robin whines behind the counter.

"We're not flirting-" You scold, "Okay-" Steve holds his hands up in defense at the same time. You huff and continue down the aisle to stock, red in the face with embarrassment.

Towards the end of your shift the school rush dying down, you sit on the counter with Robin inventorying returns in the computer. Steve is holding the door open for a blonde girl popping her bubble gum with glossed lips. Giggling as Steve makes a fool of himself her chest rising with the laughter, over a Star Wars joke she didn’t understand. Explaining how she had been looking for the film in Alderaan places, and how he was always happy to help a pretty girl like her.

You understood the joke, just because he didn’t know what Ewoks were didn’t mean he never paid attention when you talked about your favorite sci-fi series.

“Stupid.” You mumbled under your breathe, rewinding tapes.

“Huh?” Robin asked, her doe eyes floating along the computers interface confused her mouth hung open.

"Robs, have you ever watched an adult film?" You asked, aggravated and pent up.

"Yeah but there's not a lot in my area of attraction so I just stick to the magazines." Robin motioned toward herself, still clueless to your annoyance.

"Uh-huh, well I want to watch one." Finally being decisive on the embarrassing topic,

"Are we seriously still talking about this?" Steve chips in

"Did you seriously just strike out? You talked with her for like 30 seconds." You said infuriated, turning around to see him leaning over the counter with his stupid fluffy hair and tight polo. Sans a phone number written on his arms or a torn piece of notebook paper.

"Just remember Y/N that's all a man can give sometimes, porn isn't realistic." Robin added knocking her head into your leg in frustrated groan.

“How would you know that?” Steve scrutinized his best friend,

“Is it true?!” Robins eyes were blown wide in astonishment, they immediately started arguing with you the only barrier between them.

"Okay, I'm just gonna go back there and pick one." You slide from the counter, move Robin out of your way, they paused mid-argument to poke at you.

"Go for it, have fun." Robin called

"But not too much!" Steve yelped when she pinched him,

Opening the cliché room, of neon lights with each film had it’s own space on the shelves you began to read some of the titles. Private Teacher, Taboo, I Like to be Watched, Educating Nina, Talk Dirty to Me 1 and 2, 8 to 4, there's honestly too many. So let's just say that the first one, Private Teacher, sounds like it has some plot. You slip it into your vest, walking out of the room to find Steve surrounded by his children.

“Please Steve what’s back there?”

“We just want to take a quick peak!”

“For the millionth time, no. You’re barely 13!”

“We’re actually 14 and or older Steve.” Max says deadpan standing arms crossed next to a girl you think was named Jane or El you weren’t 100% sure.

“Yeah kids leave the guy alone just because he would sneak you into the movie's at Scoops does not mean you get free rain of the porno’s.”

“Porno’s?!” Dustin yells as the rest of the kids shush him, looking around the other Family Video patrons.

“Yeah that’s enough Steve’s posse, your scaring away paying customers.” You shush them out the door,

"Come on, I bet you have some criticism about at least one of these dirty movies." Robin asks Steve who is using every fiber in his being not to embarrass himself in front of you.

"Actually, I haven't watched any of them yet," Steve says while he re-faces the horror films the kids probably messed with earlier.

“Bullshit-” You butt in, Steve turns to defend himself but is saved by Robin’s blabbermouth.

"I do but mostly for the... well you know, porno's aren't progressive in my territory yet." Robin held up the one, where the woman's boobs were almost completely out of her bra and there was a string of spit from her mouth to them.

"Well we could change this week's movie night at my place? This one seemed well loved. 3 rents already, and it’s only been a few weeks." I grabbed 'Private Teacher' walking over to Steve, the man had the woman bent over the desk, one of his hands pulling her hair so show her face for the camera. Her school girl costume left a tasteful amount of skin on show just for the cover. The tagline read ‘Sometimes A Little Private Instruction Is All You Need To Make The Grade’

He only glanced at the cover, "Yeah I'm good, I get my fill with my right hand and watching sappy some romance movies over and over again."

"Ewwww," Robin drones behind the counter. You laugh at his in response holding onto your sides while walking back over to her.

"Obviously, not in that order!" He follows, you pull out some rental money setting on the counter as Robin rang it up.

"Oh come on now, Stevie don't be the prude of the group. Robin will be there too and I know you don't have anything better to do. Since you're always at my house anyway." He scoffs hiding the tape under his elbow when another customer walks in.

"Yeah to get away from my asshole Dad, not to watch porn with you."

"I think he would enjoy the fact you're actually finding a hobby," Robin says, putting the tape into a plastic bag, brushing some hair out of Steve's face. He sticks out his tongue mocking her.

"Yes Robin, you're a truly hilarious comedian of the century. What do I have to do for you both to drop this? Especially as my best friend and basically my boss." You giggle at the obvious answer.

"Just come by tonight, Steve. I don’t wanna watch this alone. And like always bring your tissues for the movie," Robin almost falls over laughing, when you lean over the counter pressing a kiss to his heated cheek before waving goodbye. You spend the rest of your night picking up the apartment, filling the fridge with your friends favorite snacks, and vacuuming. You thought about lighting a candle, debating if that was too romantic to watch a Porno with your co-workers. Lighting it against those thoughts because it made the place smell nice. A knock at the door took you away from the sink of dishes from your breakfast.

“Come in! It’s open guys!” You yell turning off the faucet,

“What if I was a serial killer, Y/N? You’d let me wander about your living room?” Steve brushed his front past you setting a six-pack in the fridge.

“The only serial thing you are Steve is a serial pain in my butt.” You stick you tongue out, head lurching towards the direction of the living room only to find it empty.

“Ha-ha, ha.” Steve mocked, taking off his grey jacket to lay it across the counter before nose diving into the fridge again.

"How was your day? Where’s Buckley?" You pondered wiping your wet hands, the moving his jacket to a chair at the small four person dining table.

“Hanging out with a girl. And other than this chick at work begging me to watch porn with her, it was actually really busy." He threw a grape at where you were at the table, tossing a handful into his mouth with a crunch.

"I totally forgot about it until I was grabbing my wallet at the store, I was kinda embarrassed when I rediscovered it. The lady probably thought I was high as a kite!"

"Because you are," he drooled a little bit, speaking with a full mouth, raiding the fridge full of groceries.

"There's nothing wrong with blowing off some steam with a bit of erotica. Everyone does it," you turned tossing the soiled grape back at him, joining him in the kitchen again.

"Yeah that's gross, it's unspoken. Even creepy old men who can't get it up do it." He swallowed his mouth full then making an obscene gesture with his hand.

"Ew, gross Steve.” You say hands held up in disgust,

"See-"

"Well I'm not a creepy old man," You argued, taking the tape out of your bag. "Besides, it can't be that good or bad. Almost like a true neutral, just people going at it like animals." Walking into the living room, you closed the blinds and navy curtains before setting the tape into the already plugged in VCR.

"Okay hang on a minute, there's way better ways at blowing off steam." Steve interrupts, the fridge slams as his steps grow louder.

"Name a few for me, Lover Boy." You scoffed still bent at the waist, setting everything up at the entertainment center. Round shape of your ass in those acid wash jeans begging to be released. The sight made Steve’s own tighter around his crotch.

"I don't think you want to know mine," he says breathlessly, voice a bit deeper. You stood up and turned to where he stood, his back up against the archway that separated the two rooms. The tape started playing in the middle of the stars going at each other, extremely loud feminine moans rang from the Television. It broke you from the stare down, rushing to turn it down. He came up behind you on the rug, turning everything off altogether. After a pause of shock, you rolled over laughing against the entertainment center, covering your red face with your hands. Steve huffed sitting back on his calves, laughing at it as well. Eyes drifting to the swell of your chest as the laughing made it rise a fall. Dragging the hands down your face, leaning against the shelves. You clocked his stare immediately, his pupils are blown wide, lips slick as if he just wet them. Polo tight across his shoulders but untucked showing off a flash of his soft tummy. You swallowed hard catching your breath.

“Steve?” You reach out to him, his arms grip back at your elbows pulling you up on your knees towards his knees. “I wanna know, I want to know.” His nose pressed to your cheek, lip grazing over yours as he spoke.

“I can show you.” His voice broke, husky and deep exhale along your skin. Your resolve faltered lips fitting like a puzzle against his. You pulled far enough away to split for air, only Steve followed pressing you closer together. Hand resting along your neck, holding you to him.

"What's wrong?" You looked at him worried a line creasing your forehead he reached out to soothe.

"Nothing, you're just so...beautiful." He let his eyes wander, admiring that you’d even gave him the time of day.

“I want you. I want you to show me.”

“Okay.” Connecting again fireworks exploded behind your eyes. He pulled your top lip between his, you returned by licking the slope of his bottom lip from an open mouth kiss. Steve groaned, allowing you in. He tasted of the grapes from moments ago and spearmint of the gum he chewed to stop smoking, it was sickly sweet. My hand from his thigh came up to brush away the free fallen hair from getting in our way, the strands of hair were so soft, surprising, no matter how many times you’d wished to touch them. Pushing your chest against his, raising up on your knees deepening the kiss. He sunk down to a seated position, crossing his legs and leaning his head back to a lower level. It gave more access, he kept his hands in nice places like; nape of your neck, tangled hair, cheeks, small of the back and waist. You nipped his bottom lip, pulling gently then watched it fall back in place. He gripped one of your thighs, sending shocks of anticipation up your core. He kneaded, silently wanting for sometime. Everything was too good to break away and use words. You just obediently moved one leg at a time to sit on his lap. Using his shoulders to steady, lowering onto his lap. He whimpered in anticipation in you mouth, your heat grazed the zipper of his jeans. At the friction you gasped, lips swollen and lungs out of air, as you pressed foreheads together. Eyes opening to see him staring with hopefulness, eyes wide open. You teased lightly trailing lips over his. Waiting for a reaction, but he stayed firm. Hands on the ground by his sides holding you upright. Breathing as one for a moment before he spoke,

"I've thought about this moment for a very long time," He said only for the two of you, your fingers rubbed the five o’clock shadow of his jaw in your waiting hands "I want to, so terribly. I don't know where to go from here..."

He smiled a dorky smile into your skin, keening at the contact of you against him.

"Then stop talking and kiss me again." He obeyed, trailing his lips down to your jaw, throat and to your collar, moving the fabric slightly he started softly sucking and rolling his tongue over the area. Your hands desperately clung to the back of his head, he moved closer to the pot of your collarbones and throat leaving wet kisses. He stopped his mouth looking up, with those caramel eyes so full of devotion. Mind going fuzzy, seeing the way he not only looked but saw into you. The way he always has. "Don’t stare at me like that,"

"Like what?" He let the collar of the shirt scrunch back in place the movement made you squeeze your thighs around his middle, eyes rolling back in his skull.

"Like you want to kiss me or something." His hands both came up to brush his thumbs along your ribs, fronts pressed against each other.

"I will never stop looking at you like that, no matter what happens.” He smiled, “I gave you my heart long ago." You kissed him more primal this time, needing to taste him and etch the feeling of him into your mind. He was moaning into the embrace, he still barely touched as you tugged at his shirt below, when he broke contact to pull it over his head you stopped the kiss to admire his chest.

"Steve..." You wheezed through bloated lips. "Touch me, it's okay. You can't hurt me" He kissed back hard, slipping his hands underneath your tight work shirt, his hands cold against the hot skin covering your spine. Breaking free from his lips pressing kisses on his face, down his throat cooing into him when he unclasped your bra with one hand in a single fluid motion. Running his hands over your bare back, unknowingly while you rotated your hips in small circles against his wanting more. Craving the contact and friction of him against you. He daintily ran his hands down your body hesitantly gripping the plush of your ass adding more pressure to the growing friction. His zipper felt so good against your own, letting go of your lips on his neck throwing your head back. As the feeling of his hard-on pressed up against your clit. Putting both hands on the floor behind you while he moved your hips against each other in sync, panting and grinding seeking release. Steve's abdomen flexed as he twitched under you, he was cumming loudly moaning your name from his pink lips. It sounded like a song when he said it, his release came fast, his chest heaving heavily as he pulled your body back against him. Hugging each other till lips grazed, as he came down from his high. You tried to suppress the giggle as his hands traced shapes along the small of your back.

"What are you so giddy about? You just made me cream my pants like a middle schooler." You shook your head tracing at the mark I left on his shoulder,

"Well since we're already past the point of no return. I didn't think you would be so loud." you pulled back lip bitten between teeth,

"Maybe if you weren't mauling me like a hungry lion, I could've stayed quiet." He tucks his head under your chin,

"I told you, I’m a lion girl not a ninja.” He laughed across your throat warming you as he kissed the flesh again. “Maybe I should pounce effectively, so I can really hear you scream my name." Steve stopped abruptly to meet your eyes, pupils blown wide, you felt immediately self-conscious blabbering out an apology before he could turn you down. "I’m so sorry, was that too much?"

"No...” He purred, this close you could tell the scent of him was distinctly cedar. “I've actually never been more turned on." He pushed his lips to mine, rolling our tongues against each other, knowing exactly what you liked. He tightened his grip on on the fat of your hips and making you moan into him, pulling away his lips, forehead glistening, his eyes full of lust. He trailed his fingers up to help the offensive fabric of your shirt off, the bra slowly falling the rest of the way off your shoulders. His length twitched against the inside of your thigh again, he was entranced by the image. Still as a statue until guiding his lips down to the spot on you chest that made the world melt. He kissed everywhere, you kept each hand in his hair scratching at his scalp pleasantly. Leaning forward he placed your back against the carpet, hovering on top of but keeping himself slotted between your legs. Involuntarily moaning when he licked at erect nipple, he mirrored the same to the other one. His dick throbbed against the stain of cum, straining against the fabric. Kissing each while he unzipped the high waist of your jeans. You bucked your hips and helped him pull them down, he took them off your trapped ankles, restarting his descent to kiss down the length of your body again. Wet open mouth kisses making shooting sparks through your body at the intimate contact, grabbing his hand on the ground.

“You are even more beautiful than my dreams ever allowed. Everything, you are everything.” His eyes silently asking for permission. As he slid a hand under the fabric of the green panties. You gasped loudly at the unbridled new contact of his palm, lowering to gather the dampness, trailing it up to your clit. He circled twice as his other fingers began to slowly plunge inside. You keened, calves dug into the bare flesh around his waist, “You're so wet for me,” sighing, hands finding purchase on his biceps, he hissed as his face fell into your neck.

“Uhh… Harder.” You held his arms with such intensity, leaving crescent marks into the skin digging hard into his muscle. Turning you chin down to find his lips to kiss, and silencing moans together his thumb began to swirl faster, his middle and ring finger able to go a little deeper with the changing hand position. Not being able to control the heat coursing through, you squeezed his hips harder. He whimpered, pressing himself up against your thigh rutting the fabric against himself for some contact. “Your fingers feel so good…” Moving lower, spreading wider to move your hips against his fingers, they worked expertly to consume all your senses. He pushed in a little further and harder, forcing you to look at what he was doing so wonderfully between your legs. Moaning obscene words, as your back arched further his fingers scissoring to stretch your walls. Clenching around his fingers that disappeared inside. “Holy shit- don’t stop.” Your hands fell to the floor grabbing the shag of the rug underneath, as muscles tensed unlike anything you’ve felt before. You came hard without warning, the orgasm spread through you, completely overwhelming, your legs shook out your high as he kept going, pressure building through your bladder before you felt a light gush.

"Fuck" He whispered in you ear, you could feel the shit eating grin off of his body language.

"I haven’t done that before," you tell him.

"Yeah me either, ya know to a girl… I do that every time," he said into your neck, your cheeks instantly flushed. Laughing at his dorkiness, he moved your panties back in place. His fingers parted his lips, licking them clean of your arousal. You felt him throbbing against your thigh as you lightly pushed off the ground. Taking Steve's hand, you pushing him back to climb on the Lazy Boy you'd recently bought.

“What are you thinking, Sweets?” his voice was dark, he moved up the chair and sat. Spreading his legs for you, like the good boy he’d been.

“I just want to clean up my seat, Lover Boy.” You knelt down unbuckling his jeans, pulling them down and his ruined underwear. Letting him finally be free from the confines of the fabric, his cock flung back up pre leaving a pearlescent trail on the course hair of his happy trail. Steve was massive, how he’d fit into those jeans daily made your head spin. You would make him fit, even if his cock impaled your insides.

“You don’t have to, no one’s been able to take all of me before.” He took your wanderlust as fear, and shit now you had to prove him wrong too. Your nails ran up his thighs as you collected some spit in the front of your mouth. Letting it drip onto the head, nails gripping his thigh to hold him in place you took the other hand and ran it across his length. Hitting the large vein along his shaft with your thumb, he pushed his head back against the plush chair. Fighting to buck up into you with everything in his body and mind not to blow his load again or buck up into you. He was breathing extremely heavily now, you gently kissed his red tip and watched as his fingers dug into the armrests. He held his breath a bit before you squeezed his thigh, then he exhaled. You then licked a long stripe down his shaft, you came back up to the tip flicking it with your tongue.

“Jesus, stop with the teasing Sweets,” You smiled like a siren, before holding him with a hand stroking up and down with your lips wrapped around the tip. He accidently to bucked his hips, you pressed his pelvis down taking in his full length.

“Holy shit!” Steve gasped. Hollowing your cheeks, you worked him to a pulp as your jaw went slack. His hands reached out to grab the hair that fell covering how you looked sucking him. Pulling it all to one hand, he didn’t need to guide your head, you were able to bob your head down him with a fair amount of ease with how wet you’d gotten his shaft. Tearing up and gaging if you went too slow, but it was well worth the noises coming from his beautiful lips. He watched in awe as you swallowed around him, eyes watery and spit slick chin, moving your second hand under his heavy sack you massaged them with each upstroke. HIs eye closed tightly as he twitched inside your mouth throwing his head back warning you. You took it all with a delightful swallow, helping him ride out the rest of his high with a hand. The only time he pulled his makeshift ponytail was when he could’ve cried from the stimulation. You relented with a pornographic pop, wiping your chin with the back of your hand and slowly stood going to straddle him, he playfully grabbed your body and pulled you to him on the lounge chair.

“That was way better than any other girl or me just watching porn.” you looked at him mouth agape, he was eye level with your bare chest.

“See, I knew you watched porn. A shit ton of it.” you slapped his chest.

“Yeah, but nothing compares to the real thing,” he began to kiss the marks he already started on your chest, in places only he’d only been allowed too. Your hands cupped his face for him to look at you. He smiled his beautiful heartfelt smile,

“Why didn’t we do this sooner?”

“I don’t know but Robin is the best wing women ever. She told me if I didn’t kiss you tonight I shouldn’t even bother showing my face at work tomorrow.”

“Wait, what is Robin doing?”

“She cancelled so we could in her words ‘either fuck away the tension out or kill each other’ .”

“Well she is definitely my favorite lesbian. That multi-lingual B is a genius. I would’ve let you do this even if you’d just. I don’t know asked me on a date.”

“Bullshit-, really?”

“Are you kidding?! You are so out of my league Steve, I’ve never been in your ballpark ever in my life.” He grimaces, thumb tracing idling along your hip bone.

“I’ve always thought you were the most beautiful, smart and caring girl. I’ve ever had the privilege of knowing, and I selfishly want you all to myself.” he whispers with affection you’d never heard from him before. Adam’s apple bobbing with his thick swallow of emotion.

“Then you have me.” he bit back a smile as his lip clashed with yours passionately kissing you, he faintly pulled your hair. You moaned at the action, spine tingling as you roamed your hands around his frame. Mapping out ever mole and divot along his heated skin. Trailing them back and forth on his chest like a sensual massage. He moved his hands to get a better angle on your hips, and began rowing them against himself. You both groaned at the friction, “Look who’s the tease now,” you pouted at him as a finger inched it way to your clit tracing tight consistent circles. Your nails tear at his shoulders with pleasure, making him shudder under you. ‘God how many rounds could you go with him’ “Please… uh. Tell me you're ready.” you push your head into his neck, his fingers had already fine-tuned your pleasure. He stopped, fingers yanking your scalp to crash your lips to his. He still rowing you against his length, until his lungs screamed for air.

“I’m always ready, how do you feel about this?” he stops his motions, you felt unfulfilled when the movement ceased. You brain finally grasping some clarity, Steve would stop everything here if you wanted him too. Helping you re-dress and seeing himself out. Never telling a soul if you’d asked, he’d be celibate if you’d ask. Buying you the finest ring until your wedding night then ravishing you in your honeymoon bed.

“This doesn’t change the way I feel about you. You’re perfect to me Steve.” he gave you a sinful smile, reaching his hand under your adjoined hips pushing you up onto your knees. While he finished working himself up, you waited as patiently as you could by marking his neck.

“God you're so wet for me, these panties are drenched after sucking me. We should’ve gotten rid of them, already.” His eyes were playful, and needy for more and all of you. He helped you stand, putting your hands on his shoulder to balance you as you took them off. Just the sight of you fully naked made his heart ache, he kissed your arm lips too far for his liking. Wanting even more contact, he grabbed your waist again leaning back into the chair. You kissed him lazy, you both were fucked out of your minds already. Now it was just comforting, you had all the time in the world. It was slow, sweet, his lips were so soft you still felt them all over your body. His hands roamed but craved to rest on your chest above your heart. You pressed your forehead against his, catching your breath. His hands on your hips, guided you gently down as you felt him at your entrance.

“Take your time, Sweets. I want us to enjoy this,” nipping at your forearm while sitting himself farther up the chair, feet still planted on the ground.

“You want me to top, you?”

“Is that a problem?”

“I haven’t done that… Before.” You told him shyly,

“Well, well. Looks like we're about to enter a new realm of pleasure for you…” Licking his lips, “just take me in your hand and guide yourself down at your own speed, Sweetheart.” His comforting words sent a tingle down your spine, you put your hands on the soft skin where his pelvis lies. He just observes your movements gripping your hips like a steering wheel, mouth awestruck as you lower yourself down onto him. His hands dig into you, as you let him fill your insides. Immediately he’s touching things you’ve never felt, it’s painful in the most remarkable way.

“Shit, babe. Oh my god. Didn’t-Didn’t think you’d take all of me on the first go.” he shifts pulling your chest so he can latch on to his dark purple mark there. It causes a rush inside you even just the slight motion making you want to explode.

“Feels so full, god your fucking humongous Steve.” You whined, high pitched and needy. The ach of his cock started to morph from a burn to a stretch faster than you thought as your arousal dripped down your thighs. In brief circles you moved your hips against him, keeping him completely sheathed inside. Your eyes roll to the back of your head, he moves his hands to your thighs squeezing hard making you grind faster. He comes up for air from you chest and lets out a gracious moan,

“Stevie, pull the handle.” you whimper at him,

“What?” he mutters breathlessly.

“Holy shit, just…” you're on the brink of another powerful orgasm, pussy gripping him like a vice ”pull the handle back, trust me.” he lets go of one of your thighs frantically looking for the handle on the side of the recliner. He finally finds it and pulls hard, sending his lower body up into yours and your upper body over his. You both moan in ecstasy, his hand going back to your thigh. Sitting back up, you place one hand on his lower abdomen and the other on his hairy thigh behind you. He continues to groan affirmations and your name at the changed position, sending you over a small cliff. Only adding to the larger knot in your stomach, running up your body.

“Keep going I want you to cum, cum around my fat cock.”

“Don’t stop, stay right there. I want it all.” You pant feeling him twitch inside you, moving your hips with his.

“God you're so wet, and you ride me so good Sweetheart.” he playfully smacks your ass, you change your position again to bring your lips to his. He moves your body up and down while kissing you, letting you dominate his mouth while he starts to push harder into you. Propelling himself up, while his hands push you down into him in an erratic give and take. This is what you’ve needed, this was perfect but not even the start for both of you. He continues to praise you through breaths of pleasure “I got you” , “I can make you feel so good, Sweetheart.”, he gets filthier and louder and you keep moving, riding each other to passionate oblivion. Your mind ventures to his lips all over you, yours on him, the coil in between you wraps him tightly inside you. Your body starts to shake from the high, you press your upper body against his chest the hair rubbing against your hardened nipples.

"Good girl, milk my cock. Feels so good, gunna cum. You gotta move Sweets."

“Want to feel you, feel you dripping out of me Steve.” He mewls, clinging to you.

“Shit. Beg me for it, tell me how bad you want me to cum inside you.”

“Oh Steve,” you open your eyes, pressing your forehead down to meet him, his open too. You clutch your walls around him harder as he tries to finish riding your orgasm, “Please.” You whimper. That’s all it takes he gasps and finally bursts in you. Lips soothing against yours for that other contact. You feel the hot liquid inside you, wringing him dry of everything that he could possibly have left.

Separating for air out of the kiss, feeling his hot breaths against your cheeks, he groans, swallowing hard at the sensitivity. You brush your hair off of your sweaty face, holding onto the back of his neck to see him better. His eyes gleamed with passion, you smiled back.

“My legs are jelly,” you laugh in his face,

“I’ll take that as an answer to my question then,” he smiles, lifting your hips up. He easily slips out of you, you groan in frustration at the emptiness between your legs. Hissing at the loss as well, his abs quiver against the softness of your soft tummy. He pushes the foot rest back, so he can sit upright in the chair. Capturing his lips in yours, leaning you back as he holds you manhandling your hips, rotating you forward to help you stand.

“I could kiss you forever.” He admits kissing your shoulders as you put your feet on the cold floor, pushing off of his knees. You wobble slightly,

“See,” you turned to face him again, pulling him up to stand together face to face. He stumbled a bit too, “completely fucked out of my mind.” He wraps his arms around your waist swaying you slightly in an embrace.

“You did so good, Sweetheart. We should get cleaned up.”

“I did good, how did you not run out of cum? Three rounds your insatiable.”

"Told you, I don't joke about my porn." He winks, kissing the corner of your mouth as he picks up your discarded clothes on the floor of the living room.

"No wonder you're idolized by 14 year old boys." You roll your eyes, picking up your panties. This time when you bend own he can see his spend dripping down your slit. He chuckles from behind you a free hand, coasting down your stomach to your heat. You gasp as his fingers collect his cum from your thighs, you spin in his hold to meet his eyes.

"Open." Steve commands, eyes clouding with lust as he watches you stick your tongue out for him. His fingers slide along your tongue covered in each other's spend. It's comforting, salty, and heady against your tongue. You moan around him, sucking the taste clean from his fingers. He fingers slip out tongue replacing them, as he tips your chin up to meet his lips deeper, tongue kneading yours as he memorizes you. Inside and out.

“You know,” You murmur into his mouth as his mouth strays from yours coasting to mouth down your jaw. “I have a camcorder somewhere in my closet.” He freezes lips parted and eyes wide.

“Yeah? You don’t want to finish the movie? I was just starting to enjoy it.” You pout your lips, while he picks up all of the clothes from various places you threw them.

“Yeah... We could or..?”

“Or?”

“If you wanted we could make are own video?” Steve doesn’t even dictate your question with a response only hoisting you over his shoulder and burying you in the mattress for the rest of the night.

Masterlist

#steve harrington smut #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington #family video #lesbians are the best wing women #robin buckley matchmaker #stranger things smut #stranger things season 4 #no minors allowed #reader insert #oneshot #stranger things

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thegreatwicked · 1 month

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Star Wars Writing Resources

I write a lot of Star Wars content and in this post you will find all the resources I use and great little things I've found that might help you! Enjoy and show the authors some love! May the Force be with you!

Star Wars Writing Resources provided by @nimata-beroya and this post has SO MUCH to offer if you are writing in the Star Wars universe! There are galaxy maps, calendars, holidays, date converters, media chronology (movie/game/tv show order), hyperspace travel times, several name generators, reference guides to the Jedi Order, infomration on the Clones and Mandalorians, lore, health and medicine and technology, food and drinks, languages, etc! There's a lot here!

Disabilities Exist in Star Wars by @calltomuster this is a good look into the disabilities and the culture around them in the Star Wars universe. A very helpful read with some additional sources listed!

Comprehensive Lexacon Guide for First Time SW Fic Readers by @lightasthesun Wow. What a mouthful! I cannot tell you guys how much I use this one. It's not a clock, it's a chronometer. It's not coffee, it's caf. It's not a bathroom, it's a refresher. Like I said, super helpful.

List of Battles thanks to @monako-jinn-storiesfor linking this because I never would have thought to. It links to Wookipedia but still a great piece of information.

9 Incredible Crosssections Reveal the Architecture of Star Wars by @musewrangler A great visual guide if you're looking to play with the architecture in Star Wars.

A Resource Page for all Your Clone Related Needs by @karttaylir-darasuum Everything you need to write about Clones including their weapons, cannon, terminology, stock photos, things to avoid etc.

That's all I've got for now, but if you find anything for me to add feel free to tag me and lets continue this writing resource for Star Wars Fans!

#writing resources #star wars writing #star wars writing resources #Star wars information #star wars

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raparopa · 9 months

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Hello! May I request general hux with a resistance reader who saves him like he's all bleeding out and dieing but the reader comes along and scoops him up to patch him up for whatever reason maybe they know he's the spy or smth? Anyway have a good day and take care of yourself :)

-🍷

a/n: I am very happy to write about star wars))) thanks for the request! Looking forward to more posts from you guys!

warnings: language (?), mention of blood and violence, reader's POV, I don't know what first order prison cells look like

pairing: Armitage Hux x fem!resistance!reader

hux! hux?

All I found was blood running from my lip and dripping onto the floor of the cell the First Order put me in. In fact, there was nothing surprising in the fact that I was in captivity. When you fight for freedom, you prepare yourself for the fact that sooner or later you will have to give up your life or freedom for your goal.

They needed someone who has information, well, and in addition, someone who knows Rey and her plans (apparently for Kylo Ren's personal purposes, each time he can get it as he can).

I wiped the blood from my face with my palm and found scarlet spots on the skin. I've been in possession for so long that I've already lost track of time. But it was better than facing endless interrogations and forceful methods again. In order not to go crazy, I count the scratches on the seemingly safe walls of my cell and have almost reached a hundred ...

Out of my field of vision, hurried, ragged steps were heard, as if my unexpected guest doubted his actions. I was filled with curiosity, but I didn't move, only peering out of the corner of my eye at the metal that had replaced the wall that opened onto the corridor. But my brain suddenly flashed when something red flashed behind the wall. I turned my head too, extremely sharply when I realized who exactly disturbed my prison peace.

Hux.

Hux!

Hux?

The First Order general stood in front of the door that led to the cell, his face haughty and his chin held high. My brows furrowed as soon as I saw him. He was alone, unguarded, and not even Phasma was around. The corridor was completely empty, only two sides of the same war face to face, separated this time only by an iron grid of bars.

Something was clearly wrong, and you didn't have to be Force sensitive to feel it.

-You,- he said harshly to me. -Come here immediately.

I raised my eyebrows, amazed at the turn of events.

-For what? -I said with a stupid smile. -To what? He grinned viciously, quickly turning his head to the sides, surveying the corridor.

-Get over here quickly, Y/L!- he hissed angrily through his teeth, inaudibly hitting the iron with his fist.

The smile immediately disappeared from my face, and I cautiously got up from the bunk, striding over the distance between them, cautiously pushing my shoulder forward, as if for an attack.

-Closer! You want the entire First Order to run? Stupid revolutionary...!

-Yes, I’m coming!”-I interrupted his angry tirade and slid closer to the grate, crossing my arms over my chest. -What owes such close attention to the general personally?

He rolled his eyes in annoyance at my outburst.

- What, the sadistic vein woke up? Came to take another session of torture? I said that I...

-I'm a spy.

I froze in mid-sentence, interrupted by his sharp, like a shot, statement, and my hands fell like those of a weak-willed rag doll.

-What?- I blurted out involuntarily.

-I'm a spy! How many more times do you have to say it before it gets to your rebel head? I am a spy for the First Order.

My face stretched and my stomach twisted into a tight tube as my mind frantically processed what it had just said and the full meaning finally dawned on me.

-It can not be...

-May be.

-But why?! How so?! - I had a hundred questions and a hundred words spinning on my tongue, but I managed to say only this, and that, with great difficulty. Hux chuckled, eyes flashing.

-I don't care who wins - the Resistance or the First Order, I want Kylo Ren to lose.

-Kriff…- I breathed. Armitage Hux was a fucking traitor, the one who sent data to the Resistance, helped us all along. It couldn't even be called a dream, more like a hallucination, a mirage that caused the hot sun if I was on Tatooine now.

-That changes everything... That's all...- I almost suffocated from everything that was happening. -Kriff...- I looked up at him, thinking that I would find at least a hint that he was lying, but at the mention of Kylo Ren, his face was contorted with such anger that there was no doubt left - he had just confessed to me that he was spying for the Resistance. -And now what? How can I use this information?

Hux lifted his chin again.

- I have data that will be useful to the Resistance. I will give them to you, and you will give them to your general.

-I don’t know if it’s noticeable or not,- I giggled nervously, leaning my shoulder against the cold wall. - But I'm still in the cell. I'm in prison. And a little shocked, but that doesn't matter. Now I wanted to laugh out loud, loud enough for the whole galaxy to hear. Kriff, Poe, and Finn will rip me to the bone if they find out!

Hux rolled his eyes in annoyance again.

- I'll help you leave so that you pay the least attention to yourself and make the least noise. As you usually do, children of Leia.

I thought.

-Why do you think I'll believe you, red-headed bastard?- I said low and softly, staring fixedly at his painfully pale face. He curled his lips arrogantly.

-Don't think. You have no other choice, rebel scum. Well, do you just rot here.

x x x

Surprisingly, this red-haired trickster kept his word and pulled me out of the cell. True, of course, damn it, it didn’t work out without noise, and we drew attention to ourselves. Both. And now Hux was called not a spy, but a traitor and a deserter.

I picked up the stunned stormtrooper's new blaster as I fired at the others around the corner. There was nothing left before the cherished ship, here they are, the cherished couple of meters to my freedom, a little more, and I will again be able to breathe deeply.

I pulled the trigger on the blaster again, glare flickered down the hallway. I saw that somewhere, among the stormtroopers, Hux was flickering - he was darting about in a black-orange spot against the background of light armor and it was hard not to notice him, but he worried me the least while I was fighting for my life again. My eyes were covered with a scarlet veil of excitement and hatred, while the blaster in my hands heated up, and the soldiers remained less and less. Somewhere I heard a loud exclamation, and a strange, dull thud, but I did not pay attention, jumping out from around the corner and removing the rest of the obstacles from the horizon, making my way to the ships.

I looked at every centimeter I passed—quickly, but quickly, adrenaline filled my limbs with unprecedented lightness, blood pounded in my ears, and then my eyes opened and closed several times.

-what, you got shot?- I asked for some reason, as if it was not obvious from Hux, who was pinned to the wall, and a pool of blood near him.

He didn't answer, just looking at me in fear.

-Kriff…- I muttered, shoving the Imperial blaster into my belt. -Where to?-Where is the injury?

He shook his head and I saw how his uniform was smoking in the area of the left shoulder.

-Well, how is it ... - for some reason, I escaped with regret. -Give me a hand. I extended my hand to him.

-Go away,- he fished out a block with information from his pocket with great difficulty and jabbed it at my shoulder.

This made me angry. For some reason I wanted to help him stay alive, he would have died anyway, if I had left him here, he would either bleed out or be shot before I got to the base.

Why am I thinking about this?

I'm sure it's only because he pulled me out of the cell.

Only because of this.

I'm sure.

- And he said that I was a fool, - with an unprecedented force for myself, I grabbed his collar of a black uniform and pulled it towards me, putting the already former general on his feet. Hux immediately hunched over, almost collapsing. -Give at least a modicum of effort so I can help!- I barked at him.

He gave me a wild look, but complied, wrapping his good arm around me like a lifeline.

-You would have been killed here anyway, but at least there is a small chance that you will live longer ...- I muttered to myself under my breath, dragging him along with me. - I'm sure Leia will be very ... glad ...

-She'll kill me.- He protested weakly.

-She won’t kill you,- I drawled. -Other guys are doing this in the Resistance. Moreover, we value guys like you, well, who know a lot about the rear of the enemy. - The power slowly began to leave me, but there was not much left. -Besides, from our base it is much more interesting to watch the defeat of Kylo Ren than dangerously close to him.

Hux mumbled something incomprehensibly, hobbling, trying to echo my heavy steps. Probably agreed. How strange.

x x x

The troughs of the First Order weren't as disgusting as I had previously thought. The general collapsed on another seat, sighing as if he was about to split into two. The ship jumped into hyperspace and I jumped out of my pilot's seat, grabbing my first aid kit.

-Come on, taking off your tunic.-I ordered, and Hux immediately stopped dragging out his extreme drama, again looking at me in fear.

-You look like I haven’t seen naked men.- I grunted, sitting on the floor. -Come on, come on, I’ll treat you, General Hux.

#star wars #star wars x reader #star wars imagine #hux x reader #general hux x reader #armitage hux x reader #armitage hux #general hux imagine #general hux

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coffeeandacig · 5 months

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HUGE M*A*S*H NEWS!

Direct of the MASH Matters Facebook Page

M*A*S*H: THE COMEDY THAT CHANGED TELEVISION, AN ALL-NEW TWO-HOUR CELEBRATION OF TELEVISION’S MOST INFLUENTIAL SITCOM

NEW ORIGINAL SPECIAL AIRS MONDAY, JANUARY 1, ON FOX

Featuring New Interviews with Cast Members Alan Alda, Gary Burghoff,

William Christopher, Jamie Farr, Mike Farrell, Wayne Rogers and Loretta Swit,

as well as Original Series Executive Producers Gene Reynolds and Burt Metcalfe

Plus Rarely-Seen Archival Interviews with Writer/Producer Larry Gelbart,

and Stars Larry Linville, Harry Morgan, McLean Stevenson and David Ogden Stiers

In the all-new two-hour special, M*A*S*H: The Comedy That Changed Television, premiering Monday, January 1 (8:00-10:00 PM ET/PT) on FOX, join the men and women who made M*A*S*H as they celebrate one of the most beloved, enduringly popular, often quoted and influential comedies ever created.

As the definitive look at the 14-time Emmy-winning television classic, the special centers around new interviews with original cast members Alan Alda (Capt. Benjamin Franklin "Hawkeye" Pierce), Gary Burghoff (Cpl. Walter "Radar" O'Reilly), William Christopher (Father Francis Mulcahy), Jamie Farr (Cpl./Sgt. Maxwell Q. "Max" Klinger), Mike Farrell (Capt. B.J. Hunnicutt), Wayne Rogers (Capt. "Trapper" John McIntyre) and Loretta Swit (Maj. Margaret "Hot Lips" Houlihan) and series executive producers Gene Reynolds and Burt Metcalfe. In these intimate, highly personal remembrances, the creation and evolution of the show’s iconic characters are revealed, alongside rare and never-before-seen behind-the-scenes footage, photos and stories.

Writer/producer Larry Gelbart, as well as additional series stars Larry Linville (Maj. Frank Burns), Harry Morgan (Col. Sherman T. Potter), McLean Stevenson (Lt. Col. Henry Blake) and David Ogden Stiers (Maj. Charles Emerson Winchester III) are remembered through a vibrant collection of clips from the series as well as in rarely-seen archival interviews. With unique experiences, observations and memories from 11 seasons of M*A*S*H, this special will make audiences laugh, touch their heartstrings, and leave them on a nostalgic high while celebrating the sustained brilliance of the iconic sitcom.

“M*A*S*H is not only a great television series, it is a cultural phenomenon. It has made multiple generations of viewers laugh, cry and think, often in the same episode,” said Executive Producers John Scheinfeld and Andy Kaplan. “We are excited to team with FOX to create this unprecedented window into an innovative television classic.”

"M*A*S*H is among the most iconic sitcoms in the annals of television history. It's a timeless show that comedically captures the 4077th medical corps and how they managed to maintain their sanity while saving lives on the front lines of the Korean War,” said Dan Harrison, EVP, Program Planning & Content Strategy, FOX Entertainment. “Larry Gelbart, Gene Reynolds and Burt Metcalfe brought this incredible comedy to life thanks to their ensemble cast led by the incomparable Alan Alda. FOX is proud to celebrate the landmark achievements of one of the best comedies ever created."

The M*A*S*H two-and-a-half-hour series finale that first aired on CBS in 1983 remains the highest rated telecast in television history, delivering an incredible 77 audience share and 60.2 rating. To-date, the show has never left the air, continuously running in syndication, on basic cable and now streaming on Hulu. The series was produced by 20th Television.

M*A*S*H: The Comedy That Changed Television is directed by John Scheinfeld (Reinventing Elvis: The ’68 Comeback, The U.S. vs. John Lennon and What The Hell Happened To Blood, Sweat & Tears?) with Scheinfeld and Andy Kaplan as Executive Producers.

Viewers can watch M*A*S*H: The Comedy That Changed Television next day on Hulu, Fox.com, On Demand and FOX Entertainment’s streaming platform, Tubi. On Demand is available for customers of Cox Contour TV, DIRECTV, DISH, fuboTV, Hulu + Live TV, Optimum, Spectrum, Verizon FiOS, XFINITY, YouTube TV and many more.

#m*a*s*h #mash #mash 4077 #m*a*s*h 4077 #hawkeye pierce #mash4077 #alan alda #trapper john mcintyre #mike farrell #wayne rogers

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picturejasper20 · 1 year

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¨When The Owl House finishes we aren’t going to have more story driven animated shows/ shows with arcs¨

This is a rumor that has been spreading lately and it isn’t all true.

Moon Girl and Devil Dinosaur has been confirmed to become story driven early on and based on the latest episodes, it looks like it is starting to do that.

The Ghost and Molly Mcgee Season 2 has been confirmed by Steve Loter to be more story driven. The first season has a ¨bigger narrative¨ as well.

And if you are fan of Star Wars, you could enjoy ¨The Bad Batch¨ on Disney Plus. It’s has story arcs with some standalone episodes in between. Great stuff.

Moving to shows that aren’t from Disney:

Craig of the Creek later becomes more or less this from Season 3 forward. It’s semi-episodic.

In Summer Camp Island takes a while but it later develops complex lore and some character arcs.

Hilda the series is a beautiful show that has an overall story with each episode being a standalone story connected to other episodes.

Lego Monkie Kid is great show with a story driven narrative with complex characters and some morally grey situations.

Kung Fu Panda: The Dragon Warrior has a whole story. It isn’t an amazing show but it has its moments.

My Dad The Bounty Hunter is an space sci-fi show that turns into the protagonists fighting against an exploitative destructive company and explores a complicated family relationship.

Sonic Prime has an story with characters jumping into different dimensions and a main character arc for Sonic.

I also heard that The Legend of Vox Machina is good. It’s a show with a medieval story fantasy setting. Note: It’s an adult animation show.

In addition to that, Fionna and Cake mini series spin off and Unicorns: Warriors Eternal are coming out this year.

I understand if some of you can’t access this shows because they are on Netflix or HBO Max. But the point is that there are still some story driven shows out there and the rumor that there aren’t anymore isn’t totally accurate. You can find them if you look for them.

#The owl house #Moon Girl And Devil Dinosaur #tgamm #lego monkie kid #hilda the series #Craig of the Creek #Animated series

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netmors · 5 months

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STAR WARS: Eleventh Fleet AU

In addition to the previous post… …little about the eternally bombing imperial-chissian marshmallow with a great love for cape.

If in the case of Vanto and Faro I wanted to convey their “similarity” to each other, then Ronan immediately introduced himself as a typical blond with blue eyes. A sharp contrast, so to speak :3

In the design of his images, I wanted to make a transition and separation from the “look” of his boss, whom he almost idolized and copied - from the cape to the hairstyle and manners, into a completely independent personality. Forged by ice… Literally.

However, even Ba'kif did not knock out his endless, like the galaxy itself, love for capes. And then all chiss from the Universal Analysis Group began to sport cloaks when Ronan took the helm.

In general, Brierly is quite an interesting character. Timothy Zan in Treason created an extremely colorful assistant to Krennic.

But more unexpected was Thrawn's decision to send the colonel along with Ar'alani and Eli to the Ascendency. Of course, perhaps the Grand Admiral hoped to create a kind of “triumvirate”: Vanto - make part of the Chiss Domination and gain an ally in his homeland who would serve the entire state and fleet, just like he once did; Faro - promote to the top positions in the Empire and acquire a reliable ally in the person of his protégé, loyal to him; Plus, both Eli and Karyn were his close people, whom he trusted with a lot. …but Ronan… is like a ticking time bomb. It will “explode”, but where is unclear…

Maybe Thrawn wanted to get a “bridge” between the two states (it’s definitely unlikely - Palpi definitely didn’t even consider the option of “allies”), or he saw in the former employee of the Department of Advanced Weapons Research something hidden even from Ronan himself.

Eli and Karyn saw this very “hidden” thing many years later, but Ronan will never admit “this” even to himself… Unless he casts a proud glance at the Chiss version of the TIE/D “Defender”. Or during the creation of an “almost analogue” of bacta. Or when making “hot chocolate”, which temporarily relieves eternal stress. Or, or, or…

…Or proudly accepting a new name - Stybla'ro'nan.

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astxrwar · 3 months

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drops of blood [2/4]

SYNOPSIS: Bucky Barnes has some wires crossed. He fixates on a barista at a coffee shop near his apartment, and tells himself it's fine as long as he keeps his distance. Except you keep making that distance smaller.

Rating: M

Word Count: 9k

CONTENT WARNINGS: Canon-typical violence. We have officially dipped our toes into the angsty guilt-ridden stalking territory, and also into the beginnings of the 'yknow what I'm fine with that' realizations. consensual-but-not-safe-or-sane vibes all the way down. fruit metaphors abound. I am single-handedly forging the grayfic genre, please clap. For easter eggs you can check my AO3 chapter notes; for additional content check my tag "fic; drops of blood". Thanks for reading!

Read on AO3

[ 1 ] [ 2 ] [ 3 ] [ 4 ]

Barnes is waiting outside of the building when you lock up, and it startles you; it’s dim, and the lights in the store are off, and he’s standing so still that you nearly don’t see him.

What you should probably say; why are you still here? Why was there blood on the ground outside? What happened to those men? What did you do?

What you say instead–

“You waited for me?”

He blinks. His eyes are the brightest thing about him right now, the blue of them a violent shock of color with his face in shadow. There’s no moon tonight, just the faint pinpricks of stars, like holes in some great stretch of fabric pulled over the sky, made perpetually gray from the light of the city. It never gets truly dark, here. You wonder if it’s always been like that, if it was like that for him, back then.

“Yeah,” he says. “I, ah, I didn’t want to leave you here alone, in case–” he makes some vague gesture, the movement jerky and halting.

You get about a third of the way through another thank you before he grimaces and looks away and cuts you off, says, again, “Don’t.” Like there’s nothing to thank him for. Like you should maybe even be doing the opposite of that.

You scuff your shoe against the sidewalk. It’s late, the street eerily quiet; the thing with those guys had kind of set you on edge, and something twisty and hypervigilant and uncomfortable churns in your stomach at the thought of walking home alone.

(You wonder if maybe that’s not what you should be wary of.)

“What part of Brooklyn are you in, now?” you ask, not looking at him. Looking at the ground. You’d swept out here earlier, and there are already new cigarette butts, discarded, stuck between the edge of the sidewalk and the street. Never-ending. Worse, now that half the world’s population came back.

“Uh— near the bridge,” he says, haltingly, “I should probably—“

“My apartment’s that way,” you blurt out, not entirely sure if you’d meant to say it. It is; an old pre-war building on Jay street, a straight shot down. “Do you want to—we could walk together, maybe?”

“You—“ his voice is hoarse, and it cracks, and he stops and clears his throat and starts again, “You want me to walk you home?”

You look up, at his face, what you can see in the washed-out perpetual twilight of the city. There’s that flicker of emotion, a burst of red, overripened and bittersweet and something that seems like it might be distraught, but it’s gone so fast you can’t hold it still long enough to figure out what it is or why it’s there or if it even had been, in the first place.

“I mean— unless you were going to catch the train, I thought– we’re going the same direction anyways, right?“ Your voice wavers, uncertain, “Sorry, I didn’t— we don’t have to, if that would be weird—“

“No, it’s— it’s okay,” Barnes says, choppy and strangled and so quiet that you’re not sure he’d even spoken at all, not until your eyes are open again and you can actually see his mouth move, “Don’t apologize, you didn’t do anything wrong, I–“ He shrugs, helpless, and then shuts his eyes for a second; his brow furrows, pinching together a little, curving up, this kind of plaintive look that flattens back out as quickly as it came. A raindrop ripple across a still body of water.

He opens his eyes. His expression is controlled and inscrutable again.

“Yeah,” he says, hoarse, “Yeah, I can– I’ll walk with you.”

The walk is silent; Barnes says nothing, the whole time, barely even looks at you. He keeps to the side closest to the street, and he never veers closer, that gap so constant that it coalesces like physical barrier, like if you were to try to move into the middle of the sidewalk you might hit some invisible wall of glass. You have to walk a little faster than you normally would to keep pace with him, and you still keep falling a few steps behind; he’s taller than you, and you’d known that, but most of your interactions have been either sitting down or separated by a few feet worth of counter space, so it’s different, this time. Your awareness of it.

The stiff, impenetrable silence– it feels like how it did those first couple times, before the pomegranate, when you’d try to talk to him and get brooding one-word answers and an impassive stare and nothing else, and it’s weird enough that you wonder if maybe you’ve made a mistake. Messed up, somehow.

“You’re still gonna come Friday, right?”

Barnes is ahead of you, and you can see the line of his shoulders stiffen under his jacket. He shoves his hands in his pockets. “Yeah,” he mumbles, after a while, his tone stilted and flat, “Contractually obligated, right?”

“Oh, that– I was joking, I mean, I don’t– if you don’t want to–”

“No,” he says, before you can finish, “No, I– I do.”

“Oh– okay,” you say, pleased, and not thinking too much about why. “Good.”

He makes some choked off noise that sounds like a laugh, or maybe just a caricature of one. “Good,” he repeats.

You try to catch up, but it’s like he won’t let you. Which– okay, fine. Guy likes his personal space, you suppose that’s not so surprising, so you settle to just walk a few steps behind him, the angle rendering his expression just out of sight. “Yeah,” you tell him, “I spent like, five dollars on this thing, so if you don’t come it’s totally just a waste.”

Barnes glances back at you, something like alarm flashing across his face, “Five dollars?” he asks, incredulous, and then a frown tugs at his mouth and he shakes his head and turns from you again. “Sorry, it’s– inflation, I’m still not used to it, I guess. That’s– it used to be a lot of money.”

“It’s kind of still a lot of money for one fruit.”

He glances back at you again and there’s something soft in his expression, but he’s looked away before you can decide whether it’s just a trick of the light, the slow flash of the glow from streetlamps passing over his face as you walk underneath them.

You lapse into silence again.

Soon, your apartment building is ahead, the light from the lobby through the plain glass door carving knife-sharp across the sidewalk, splitting the crumbling cement into pieces. “Mine’s up there,” you tell him, only a block away.

Barnes stops dead in his tracks.

It takes you a second from when you realize to when you stop yourself, and in that time you end up in front of him, looking back. His expression is the same as ever, flat and impenetrable, but there’s something in his eyes. Wavering.

“Okay,” he says, and then he swallows, and he clears his throat, and he says it again. “Okay.” His hands are still in his pockets, the leather stretched over them, pushed out like he’s got them tightened into fists.

“I– I’m down this way,” he says, after a moment of strangely charged silence; he tips his head towards the side street, one that heads towards Brooklyn Bridge; it’s a grid system, though, so it’s not like he couldn’t just take the next one after your apartment block.

Whatever, though. Whatever. He’s always been kind of strange, so you think nothing of it. He doesn’t want to actually walk you to your door, whatever. That’s– fine.

“Yeah, alright,” you tell him. “I’ll see you Friday, then, and– thanks for–”

“Don’t,” he says, before you can even finish. “Please don’t.”

You blink at him. In your jacket pocket, you fumble for your keys, but you don’t move. “Okay,” you reply, hesitating, “Okay, well. Goodnight. Get home safe.”

Barnes looks at you like you’d just said something absurd. Because you had. Kind of. You think about the knife you know he keeps in his boot and the blood in the alleyway and what you’d read of what happened to him– what he’s done, what he was made to do– on some internet blog at like three in the morning. He doesn’t need people to tell him to get home safe.

“Dunno, force of habit,” you say with a shrug. “Take care, though.”

He laughs. It’s sharp and brief and hoarse and exactly like every other time. Disbelieving, unintentional, like he’d meant to keep it controlled, but hadn’t quite been able to. “Yeah, you– you too.”

You’re not afraid of James Buchanan Barnes.

Sometimes you wonder if maybe you should be.

It’s called pitaya, technically, but every store you’ve ever seen carry them just has them labeled as dragonfruit. It’s fitting; the way the little leaves encasing it overlap, bright, vibrant pink that tapers to green at the ends, all facing the same direction, laid over one another like scales. It grows on cacti down in South America; Mexico, Guatemala, Costa Rica, El Salvador. The grocery store only ever has it in stock sometimes, and you can’t find any mention of it being available in the 40s when you google it, though you’re not sure how much that actually counts for anything.

“I have to wipe down the tables still, but you—“ you dump it out in front of him, having to shake the bag to jerk it free of where one of the little spines had torn through it and gotten caught in the flimsy plastic, “—cut this up, with your definitely illegal knife that I’m sure you still have.”

Barnes blinks at it. “What the fuck is that?”

You’re already one table down, scrubbing at a stubborn ring left over from somebody’s leaking coffee cup, but you still glance back when he says it, grinning, triumphant. Absently, you’re glad that he seems back to normal, now, whatever’d been bothering him last time apparently resolved. “Dragonfruit. Cactus fruit, from South America.”

You see him in your periphery as you shift down to the next table, leaning to draw the knife from his boot; a part of you wonders if it’s the same one. If he’d kept it. There’s a muttered what the hell and then the quiet thunk of the blade, long and flat and military-grade sharp, cutting clean through the skin, the flesh, the bone of the laminate surface underneath. The sound comes twice, as he carves off both ends; one after another, like a heartbeat. Then once more, when he splits it in two.

You think about the pomegranate.

(You think about the blood.)

“This is— weird,” he says, out of your line of sight, now, as you wipe jelly donut filling off of the corner of the last table. “How do I— what am I supposed to do with this?”

“People just eat it from the skin, with a spoon. Like a kiwi,” you tell him over your shoulder, “I should’ve brought some from home, but I forgot— we have plastic spoons, in the back, but I don’t know how well that’d—“

“Hold on,” Barnes cuts you off. “Hold on, wait a minute. Like a– what?”

“Oh, my god,” You straighten and turn back and fix him with a flat, disbelieving stare, “You– do you not know what a kiwi is?”

He shrugs, nonplussed.

“Next time,” you say, moving back to take the seat across from him, “That’ll be what I bring— don’t google it.”

“Okay,” he says, hands held up. Mock-defeat. “I won’t.”

He has more stubble today than any other time you’ve ever seen him. Bags under his eyes, too, like he hasn’t been sleeping well. You want to ask, but you’re afraid you might upset him, so you don’t. On the table between you, the dragonfruit is halved, ends cut off, the bright pink skin and the white insides and the black seeds, the colors all so uniform and flawless that it almost looks drawn. Imaginary. Like something from a dream.

“I can just cut the outside off,” Barnes is saying, “The white stuff, that’s the edible part, right?”

You make some vague noise in affirmative. He folds the halves together on a spread-out napkin, upright on one blunt end, holds the pieces still with one hand and the knife with the other. You watch, silent, as he carves the skin out from the flesh in clean, deft slices, the scales dropping to the table, curved stretches of pink like rose petals. Like the curve of a mouth. The blade moves with a quick and hypnotically familiar ease, even with how close it is to his fingers, the tips of them where he holds the fruit steady from the top. He never hesitates, or flinches. Not even once.

Barnes lays the pieces out and splits them lengthwise, into eight slices, and then wipes the flat of his knife on his jeans and slides it back to the sheath.

“There,” he says, when he’s done.

You only realize then, like being brought out of trance; you’d been staring.

More than that. You hadn’t even blinked.

The dragonfruit is soft and white and bland-tasting. Pure. When the pieces are gone, the napkin is wet, but the juice is clear, like water. Nothing to stain. Nothing on your fingers.

No blood.

Kiwis, as it turns out, used to be called “Chinese gooseberries”. They were native to China, as the name would suggest, but the fruit was grown commercially in New Zealand in the early 1900s, and became popular with American and British soldiers stationed there during World War 2. It wasn’t until after– sometime in the 50s– that they were called kiwifruits, after the bird, and it was little more than a stroke of marketing luck that the name ended up sticking. Fast-forward to the 60s, and the first exports started arriving in the US; fast-forward to 2024, and you can buy like, twelve of them in one of those little snap-closed plastic bins from the grocery store for just six dollars.

That’s what you bring to work, the next week. Or– it’s what you plan to bring, Friday.

He’s there Wednesday, again.

You’re not closing, this time, only pre-closing, which is a totally arbitrary term for the person who leaves at 9:30 instead of sticking around to lock up at 11; you hadn’t seen him come in this time, only notice him as you’re leaving, in the corner of the room, out of the corner of your eye–

You had the door open, and you stand there for a moment, frozen, indecisive, unable to see without turning to look if he’s staring at you, but still sure of it, somehow. Like you just know.

You let the door fall closed.

“Hey,” you say, stopping in front of his table. He has a cup of coffee; your coworker must have made it for him, when you were doing the dishes.

(You wonder if he knew you were working tonight.)

“Hi,” he says. He looks uncomfortable. He always looks uncomfortable, but it’s– worse, now. “Leaving?”

You’d taken off your apron, your uniform sweater, too, had them folded up in your hands, shrugged on an actual non-coffee-shop-related hoodie and your winter coat over it, and you’d been halfway out the door when you’d seen him, so it’s not really a question. “I– yeah, I’m off at 9:30, so.”

He stares. It’s something about how he does it, you think, something about how focused and unrelenting his gaze is, how his eyes never move or waver, just stay there, trained on yours, perfectly still. A shiver, a tiny one— it works down your spine before you can quell it. You blame it on the cold.

Barnes still hasn’t looked away.

“Are you here in case those guys came back?” you blurt out, and then wince, not entirely sure you meant to ask.

He blinks, finally. Drums his fingers against the table. You think you might be able to tell, now, which hand is which; the metal one is louder. More solid. “They’re not going to bother you again,” he says. Like he knows that for sure.

You stand there for what feels like a long time, not saying anything, not sure of what to say; a part of you, your gut, maybe, is saying he’s here for you, and then another part that’s probably your actual brain is saying that that’s really presumptuous and verging on self-absorbed. He could just prefer sitting in a coffee shop to sitting at home, and maybe even prefers it enough to say no if you ask him to walk with you again.

You do it anyways.

“Are you— heading out, soon? We could walk together. If you are. If— if you want.”

His eyes go wide for a second, wide and glossy and wavering, and it gentles his whole face— transforms his perpetually neutral expression and eases the tension out of the sharp planes of his features and makes him look suddenly so much younger than you know him to be; young and soft and boyish. Not like those photos you’d seen of him, though, the ones they’d had in your history textbooks and in the movie posters for the revamped docudramas everyone made when they found Captain America; you remember those, and you remember how he’d looked in them, confident, self-assured, a little bit cocky. It’s different, how he seems right now. Nervous. Vulnerable. Kind of— wild.

Just like all the other times, it’s only a second, and then he’s calm, expression controlled, reaching for his coffee cup with one gloved hand.

“Yeah, I—“ his voice is hoarse and he has to clear his throat to get it to even out again. “You want me to?”

“If you’re done,” you gesture at his coffee cup, as much as you’re capable of doing so with the bundle of your folded-up apron and uniform sweater tucked over both hands, “Then, yeah, I mean, I just thought— y’know, since we’re both on the same side of DUMBO.“

He’d already been standing as you spoke, the chair scraping against the tiled floor as he pushes it back in, and you purposely push down the beginnings of some small reflexive smile at it, how it seems like he wants to. When you say DUMBO, he gets the same look that he did when you’d said kiwi— flat and blank and disbelieving—and your repressed smile becomes a full-blown one, teeth-showing and wide, asking before he can even speak, “You don’t know what that is, do you?.”

“No idea,” Barnes says, with something pleasantly close to a wry smile, “Figure you’re not talking about the Disney movie?”

You’re sure your answering grin is fucking goofy as hell, but you can’t be bothered to care. “You’ve seen Dumbo?”

Barnes grabs his coffee cup and rounds the table and gets to the door a half-second before you do; “I saw it in theaters— came out in 1941. Year before I deployed,” he says, once it’s just the two of you in the vestibule. He pushes on the second door, and when he holds it open for you, it occurs to you that he’d beat you to it on purpose, wanted to do this. Whatever weird and nervous kind of warmth you feel at that realization, you determinedly shove somewhere into the recesses of your subconscious, where you won’t have to think about it.

“I think they remade it, a few years ago,” you tell him, pulling one hand free of the bundle of your work clothes to flip the hood of your coat up over your head; it’s gotten cold again, and it’s snowing tonight, just a little, the flakes glittering in the beams of the streetlights. “In 3D, so, like, it’s supposed to be realistic-looking, or something.”

His expression briefly wrinkles in distaste, and something remarkably close to a giggle escapes from you before you can contain it.

“Anyway,” you say, working your winter gloves free from your coat pocket and pulling them on one after another, taking care not to drop your apron or sweater on the wet, dirt-streaked sidewalk, “Anyway, no, not the Disney movie—it’s just what everybody calls that part of Brooklyn.” You go to zip up your coat with the bundle of your work clothes tucked under one arm. “DUMBO stands for Down Under Manhattan Bridge Overpass, it’s just a nickname. Like how there’s SoHo and NoHo and Bed Stuy.”

Your nametag dislodges from the apron, jostled by your moving, and skitters out across the asphalt; Barnes bends to grab it for you before you can so much as move and fixes you with this look as he presses it into your outstretched hand; don’t say it.

You don’t thank him. He looks strangely relieved.

“It was just part of Vinegar Hill, when I lived here before,” he says, as you affix it back to your apron. “DUMBO. Christ, that’s stupid. I’m not calling it that.”

“Really sounding your age, today,” you tell him, grinning wide, again; his expression brightens even more at the jab, and you find yourself hoping that he’ll stay like this, for the walk, that it won’t end up like last time, with him shut down and closed off from you again. Well— more closed off than usual, because you think he’s probably always a little closed off from you. From everyone, probably. Maybe even from himself.

It’s cold, you realize belatedly, too cold, and even with your coat zipped and your hood up and your gloved hands shoved in your pockets, you’re starting to shiver.

“C’mon,” you tell him, forcing your limbs out stiff and jumping up and down, trying to generate any amount of body heat, “I can’t stand still, I have to get blood moving or I’m gonna freeze to death.”

He’s still got his coffee, and he finishes it as you watch, then crumples the empty paper cup in his gloved hand and tosses it into the trash by the door.

When he moves to follow you he’s a little bit closer than last time. There’s still this barrier between you, like a dividing line splitting the sidewalk clean in two, and he’s still sticking firmly to the side nearest the street, but the distance—it’s shrunk. You don’t talk much, and he still stops short of the actual block your apartment is on, but you don’t mind.

(He’d been closer, this time, too. Just a little.)

You can’t sleep.

Something inside of you is thrumming and alive, like a second heartbeat; even in the dark of your room, blanket pulled up to your chest and your eyes shut, you can still feel it, a restless energy that quickens your pulse and the pace of your thoughts and keeps pulling you back from the edge each time you get close to drifting off.

It comes up in a stupid fucking video compilation you end up watching on Youtube titled Top Ten CRAZIEST Road Rage Incidents of ALL TIME!! which autoplays because you’d watched or at least zoned out for the entirety of Top Ten CRAZIEST ‘Florida Man’ Arrest Reports OF ALL TIME!!, neither of which, you’re pretty sure, are helping you fall asleep, but they’re at least alleviating your boredom.

You stare mindlessly at the screen for incidents ten through two, and then for the last stretch of the video you watch grainy, low-quality dashcam footage of the Winter Soldier landing on the rooftop of a car on the freeway. He breaks through the window of a black 2000s sedan like the heat-tempered reinforced safety glass is as thin and as fragile as a translucent sheen of ice across a pool of water. The video blurs out when the man inside the car is dragged through the jagged hole, but you know what happens, even with the shapes just foggy splotches of color. He throws him across the concrete barrier and into oncoming traffic and the video cuts to black.

Whatever the narrator is saying about it— you’re not listening.

You don’t know why you’d never thought to do it before, to go looking for what’s out there about that other side of him, the part you didn’t learn about in history books or documentaries on streaming platforms.

In 2014, Captain America fought the Winter Soldier on route 695 in Washington, DC; the highway cuts right through the neighborhood, a main artery shuttling commuters in and out, lifted some hundreds of feet in the air on these massive pillars of concrete. At two in the morning in your pitch-black bedroom you find a video of it on youtube; the creator had released it in 2015, nearly a year after. He’d had to track down all the pieces, he says in the introduction, his home-studio mic setup crackling over your phone speaker; bits of what’d cropped up online in the aftermath and what he’d gotten of private video recordings and security footage. The resulting tangle of evidence had been fact-checked and verified and pieced together, spliced into one cohesive event, and you watch the whole thing with this kind of sick fascination.

The beginning is replay; the dashcam footage, the driver whispering, oh, what the fuck, the tires squealing against asphalt, the crunch of glass, a scream cut short. The other video had faded out after that, but in this one it just cuts to another angle; a dashcam from oncoming traffic, congesting around the body thrown over the barrier. You can see him, Barnes— just a glimpse as the sedan passes in the opposite lane, the long, dark hair, his arm, the muzzle. He’s staring down, anchored to the car rooftop with the fingers of his metal hand. The stitched-together snippets don’t show everything, there are pieces missing, but you watch as he’s sent tumbling over the concrete, the split second of him slowing to a stop, the pixelated shadows of the rivets he’d dug into the asphalt with just his fingers.

The video cuts down to Fourth Street southwest, under the overpass; Barnes had shot Captain America with a grenade launcher, or something, sent him crashing through the steel frames of two city buses like they’re made of paper mache. The fight between the two of them in the street is half grainy security footage, half the shaky phone camera of some bystander either too scared or too stupid to run. It’s the brutality of it, you think, that’s what gets to you, makes your heart feel like it’s stopped and your throat constrict until your breathing gets caught; or maybe it’s the speed, all of it happening so fast that it feels like by the time your brain has comprehended anything he’s done there’s already something else. Maybe it’s the knife, how he handles it, how similar it looks to the one you know he still carries. Maybe it’s the strength of him, how his fists dent cars and leave craters in the street.

Maybe it’s none of that.

You watch the video through until the end, and then you shut your phone off and you stare at the black, empty screen, unseeing, your mind running endlessly, frenzied and wild and beyond your conscious awareness, whatever thoughts you have occurring somewhere you can’t reach them.

It takes you a really fucking long time to fall asleep.

When you finally do, you dream of the coffee shop, the long, gently sloping stretch of pavement leading down to the bridge district. There’s nobody around, no lights on in any buildings, no people, no cars; the perpetual city twilight is gone, and there’s darkness pressing in, full and all-encompassing, except for the streetlamps spaced along the sidewalk. In the dream, you walk the length of the street, alone. Below you, there are holes in the concrete, like footprints; they lead all the way down to the block just before your apartment, and then disappear.

~ On Friday you bring the kiwis and two spoons from home and you rush through the checklist of store-closing tasks and you end up having pretty much everything done by 9:30, which means you have an hour and a half to sit with Barnes at that back corner table in between customers and eat Fruit Of The Week and talk about whatever.

“The skin on these things is— weird,” he announces, dragging the edge of the spoon around the emptied husk of a halved kiwi, scraping the last of it clean. He’d cut them up with his knife— you’d kind of hoped that he would, had even left yours at home, maybe on purpose— and he’d done this thing with it when he’d pulled it from his boot that you’ve never seen him do before, the handle moving between his fingers and the blade spinning out in this dizzying and dangerous-looking arc against his flattened palm, the whole thing only a couple of seconds, done so easily it seemed thoughtless. Like it was instinct. You’re still thinking about it. He hadn’t worn his glove, today, not on his right hand, and you’re thinking about that, too.

You clear your throat and force your eyes to focus on— something. Anything. “I— yeah, it’s controversial. Some people love them, other people, not so much.”

Barnes picks another kiwi from the little plastic tin you’d bought them in. “I might just cut the skin off this one,” he says, “Dunno how I feel about the spoon thing.”

You swallow. Your mouth is suddenly dry. You’d made yourself a coffee today, since it’s free while you’re at work- decaf, because it’s late— and you reach for it, fumble with the snap-lid, and take a cautious sip. It’d been too hot when you’d brought it over, but it’s at a comfortable temperature now; where you’re sitting is right next to the windows, and it’s colder here than it is behind the counter, especially with the sun gone, and the drink warms you from the inside. It gives you something else to focus on besides the other, markedly more dangerous warmth, simmering somewhere lower. Barnes has the kiwi held up and he’s peeling it with that same unnervingly rapid precision, even with how much smaller this is than the dragonfruit, the knife moving in this fluid and effortless rhythm a hair’s breadth away from his own hand. He’s so calm like this, as calm as you’ve ever seen him, that perpetual tension he always carries melted out as the blade works around and carves the skin from the flesh. He makes quick work of it, and then there’s a beat of stillness, before he splits it into four neat slices.

“Here,” he says, placing two on a napkin and sliding it across the table. “Half for you.”

“Thanks,” you reply, automatic and without thinking.

He flinches. It’s almost imperceptible, but you’re getting better at it. Noticing these things about him.

Later, after working your way through a line of late-night customers, you come back to his table and you sit down across from him and you ask him to walk with you, again, and it’s like peeling the skin off a fruit or a scab off a wound, what it does to him. Just for a second, a drop of blood welling to the surface before it’s wiped clean again, but you’re looking for it. You wonder if that’s him, the real him, the part he doesn’t let anyone see. You think about splitting him open and what might be inside if you did, if it’d be sweet or soft or something else altogether. Some kinds of fruit are solid in the center, and you remember once reading about how they’re poisonous, the pits of peaches and plums and nectarines— Cyanide.

Barnes stares at you.

You stare back.

“Yeah,” he says, after a while, “Yeah, okay."

Barnes finishes his coffee and tosses the cup in the trash outside as you lock up, your fingers frozen and struggling to maneuver the ring of keys.

“I don’t know how you can drink that at nine at night,” you say, turning from him towards the bridge and towards your apartment, “I’d be awake for hours.”

When you glance over at him, he’s looking at you strangely. “I, ah— I can’t— caffeine doesn’t do anything. To me.”

You blink at him for a second before it clicks. “Oh. Oh! Really?”

Barnes grimaces in affirmative, awkward and obviously uncomfortable. “Yeah, I guess I just— I like the taste. Used to drink a lot of coffee— before.”

He’s not pulling ahead like last time, but that barrier between you is still there, like a dividing line splitting the sidewalk clean in two, and he’s still sticking firmly to the side nearest the street, hands shoved in his jacket pockets— but the distance has shrunk. Just a little.

“Bet you don’t get cold, either,” you say, half a question and half just an observation, the contrast between you, bundled up and still freezing, and him, just in that same jacket and gloves, walking like it’s a comfortable fifty degrees.

He doesn’t smile, but his mouth does the thing it does sometimes, curls at the edges. It doesn’t look happy. “Nah, I run pretty hot.”

Some small stupid part of your brain turns that information over in your head and conjures up other things you know, bits of himself he’s given to you; your mind brings back the image of him before, the glove off, the knife held in a loose, familiar fist, thumb splayed flat along the edge of it, pushing the blade into the flesh. His hands— rough and calloused and frighteningly agile, the tendons working under the thin stretch of skin, the veins spidering up to his knuckles, spinning the knife like someone would spin a pencil, like he knew beyond a doubt, maybe even subconsciously, that he wasn’t going to mess up. His eyes, the way that he stares, so still that it’s eerie and frightening and makes you think maybe you should feel violated by it, his shoulders, broad and straight, the stiffness to his posture, how he walks, the pace and the rhythm and the length of his stride half military and half— something else. The growing list of things you know about Barnes, the person, things you couldn’t learn from documentaries or youtube videos or history textbooks or wikipedia pages. He runs hot, and you know this now, too, that he’s warm beneath the jacket and the thin layer of his shirt and even underneath that, the blood in his veins, his arteries, filling up the chambers of his heart as it beats in his chest.

The information all slots together like puzzle pieces, only you’re not really sure what the puzzle’s supposed to look like, once it’s finished.

Something jolts you out of— whatever your brain is doing, right now.

Your own name. Because he’d said it.

(And now you have that, too; how it sounds, from him.)

“What?” you say, pushing out whatever’s going on in your head and feeling somehow like you didn’t really succeed at that in any meaningful way, maybe only managed to bury it. But it’s gone, for now, and your mind is clear, and Barnes is staring at you. “Sorry, I was— spacing out.”

His mouth is pressed into a thin, flat line when you glance over at him, his face lit up in the yellow of a passing streetlight. He’s slowed down, a little, shoved his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket, his shoulders tight and bunched up. “I was just— I need to talk to you. About— something.”

“Yeah, go for it. What’s up?”

He’s not looking at you, he’s looking at the ground, eyes set and hard and jaw clenched tight enough that you can see the muscle twitch under the next flicker of streetlight, and it’s almost— weirder than the staring.

“I see a therapist,” Barnes says finally. “One a week. Fridays.”

“Okay,” you reply, uncertain, “That’s— good, probably, I mean. You’ve been through a lot.”

“I told her that— I told her you recognized me.”

He grimaces and glances away from you, out towards the street.

“Sergeant Barnes.” You say it mostly to yourself, wry and a little self-deprecating. “Yeah, I watched, like, a lot of Captain America documentaries when I was a kid.”

Barnes screws his eyes shut for a second, a heartbeat. His eyelashes are dark and long and almost brush the sharp straight plane of his cheeks. Another thing you know, a piece of him you couldn’t have gotten from the pages of a book. “That’s not what she thought I meant, at— at first.”

You prod at the inside of your cheek with the tip of your tongue. There’s nothing you want to say to that, really. You’d read the news articles, his updated wikipedia page, what parts of the court proceedings haven’t been redacted, whole paragraphs erased under thick bars of black; you could guess what she thought. She’d thought you’d looked at him and seen the Winter Soldier, recognized him for the ghost of that past, not the other one. Maybe that’s just luck; you’d stopped caring about all that superhero stuff before they’d found him, and none of that had ever really sunk in. You’d seen pictures, the hair, the arm, the expression that made you think of shell-shock, the eyes that were flat and cold and empty. How pale he’d been, like he hadn’t seen the sun in a long time. It just— it hadn’t stuck, or overridden the things you’d known, before. It wasn’t the first thing you’d thought about, the day he’d come in.

It’s not what you’re thinking of now. You really don’t think of either of them, now. He’s— something different. Something new.

“I— told her, eventually,” Barnes says. Your apartment is the next block away. Your nose is numb, the tip starting to sting, chapped and frostbitten. “She said— I should tell you that I’m— that’s not who I am, anymore.”

You’re crossing the street and he’s following you still, even though every other time he’d have veered off by now, and maybe it’s selfish of you that you don’t want to tell him. “Technically you don’t lose military rank when you retire,” you say, staring down at the pavement. That’s not what he’d meant. You know that.

There is a beat of silence. Your breath when you exhale forms a cloud of condensation in the cold, rising up like ghosts into the sky.

“No, I’m saying he’s dead,” he bites out, harsh and rough and like he’d had to force himself to say it. “And whatever I am now— it’s not— I’m not him.”

It stuns you so completely that you stop walking.

Barnes stills a few steps ahead. When he turns, the heel of his boot scrapes on the asphalt, the sound echoing in the empty street. His eyes are bright and vivid and filled with something you can’t identify.

Not empty, though. Not cold.

“I don’t think it really works like that,” you say carefully. Your apartment building is right there, the door just up ahead, the light of the lobby spilling out through the glass and onto the road, a glowing block of amber in the dark. “You don’t— the people we were before, they don’t die. We change, obviously, but it’s— we grow around it, right? It’s still a part of us.”

His brow furrows just slightly, and then goes smooth a second later, like he’d caught it. Buried it. “Okay,” he says, “Maybe, maybe you’re right, but what I’m trying to tell you is that it’s still— I’m still— part of me is—“

The knife. The pomegranate. The stare, the stiff, stilted veneer, the cracks in it, the blood. Sergeant James Barnes. The Winter Soldier.

“It’s alright,” you say. He’s staring at the ground, the spiderwebbed cracks in the concrete, rippling out through the sidewalk like veins under skin. “You don’t have to say it. I know— I know what you mean.”

Barnes looks up at you, and when you look back something trembles in his eyes and twists in his expression and for a second you can see him, underneath everything. Frightened and guilty and grateful, all at once.

You wonder why he’s afraid.

(You wonder why you’re not.)

“This is my building,” you say, after a while, jerking your chin to it behind him, rows of windows, most of them darkened, a scattered few still bright; on the third floor, all the way on the right, there’s the one that looks in on your living room, lit up a soft, pale yellow, the glow of a lamp you always forget to shut off diffusing out through the slats in your shuttered blinds. “Oh— damn it,” you mumble, mostly to yourself, again. Bad habit, the thinking aloud. “I left the light on again.”

Somewhere to your left in the haze of your periphery you notice Barnes has frozen in place, so completely that even when you look over at him you can’t tell if he’s breathing at all, the whole of his body stuck still and static like he’s been paralyzed. It feels wrong, somehow, sets off those alarm bells in some base and instinctive and evolutionarily conserved part of your hindbrain, the way people sometimes talk about uncanny valley syndrome, things that look human but not, in some essential and viscerally terrifying way. You don’t think normal people would even be capable of this, of being as motionless as he is right now. Like a shadow. Like a corpse.

He blinks and tears his eyes away from where he’d been staring at the far corner of your apartment complex and the spell is broken, he’s alive again, something like panic flashing across his face in the split second before he reconstructs that facade of flat invulnerability. You find yourself taking a step towards him without meaning to, and he flinches back from even that, like it’s— a threat.

Or— no, like he’s done something wrong.

“I, ah— I have to go,” Barnes says, stumbling over the words, a pressure to his speaking that you’ve never heard before.

It’s so abrupt that it takes a second for it to register and for your brain to fully comprehend what’d happened, that he’s leaving and that you must’ve done or said something, something bad, and when you go to speak your throat has constricted and gone tight and your voice comes out so quiet that if it’d been anyone else, you’re sure it would have gone unnoticed.

“Wait,” you call after him, and he hears it, because he’s not anyone else and his senses are somewhere outside of what’s human.

Barnes stops at the edge of the sidewalk, near the street, and he turns back to you, his hands shoved in his pockets and the line of his shoulders tense and raised and this kind of stiffness to his body that you’ve never seen. Like an animal with its hackles raised, a distant part of your brain suggests.

“Will you—,” you swallow, feeling suddenly nervous under the unwavering pressure of his stare, “You’re going to come next Friday, right?”

You say it outright, this time, no bullshit or plausible deniability, some clammy knot of worry tangling itself up in the pit of your stomach at the thought that he might not, that you’d done some miniscule unknowable thing to upset him and drive him away.

“I shouldn’t,” he says, his voice low and strained and hoarse; it doesn’t make sense, there’s something about this you haven’t figured out yet, and the thought tears at you somewhere like it has teeth and claws and a mind of its’ own, how badly you want to know what’s missing.

In the tangle of your work clothes clutched to your chest, your fingers have found the knotted strands of your apron, and you’re picking at it with your nails, trying to pry it apart.

(You want to pry him apart.)

“You know— you know I don’t think any differently of you, right?” you tell him, aware of how you must sound, nervous and uncertain, but— not because of him, not like that.You don’t want to hurt him. You don’t want to mess this up. “I— I didn’t know you, before. I’ve only ever known you how you are now, this you, and— I like you. We’re friends. We still are. Nothing— nothing’s changed.”

He doesn’t reply. Just stares. Whatever’s going on in his head is hidden from you. You think about how he looks at you, like he wants to get inside and open you up and pull all the pieces out.

(You think you must look at him the same way.)

“Please?” you say. In your hands, hidden under your uniform sweater, you’ve finally managed to work the edge of your thumbnail up under the tight bend of the knot in your apron, the strips of linen beginning to unravel. “I still want you to come.”

Finally, his expression slackens. You’re not sure what it is, the way the tension unwinds from him like a thread pulled to snap; relief or defeat or something else entirely.

“Okay,” Barnes says. “Yeah, okay. I– I will.”

He looks strangely powerless. Whatever crack in his exterior has split to allow this to surface— it doesn’t close, not like the others, not for a while. When it does it’s much slower, more difficult, like the stitching of a wound. Like skin knitting itself back together, painstaking and gradual and imperfect. The kind of thing that leaves a scar.

“Goodnight,” you tell him, turning to the lobby door, hand on the bar to pull it open. “Get some rest, all right? You— you look like you haven’t been sleeping well, lately, and I just— I worry about you, sometimes.”

Something softens in him, and he nods, his eyes flicking down, away from you.

“Yeah,” he says. “I’ll– I’ll try.”

The week drags.

Barnes isn’t there Wednesday. You’d been expecting that, but you’d still kind of hoped, and a part of you is still– stupidly, ridiculously, childishly– disappointed, when your shift comes and goes, and his table stays empty.

You spend most of Thursday thinking about Friday.

There’s something buzzing inside of you, when he comes in. Something that falters, disappointed, when the size of the line at the front counter at 7 is too long for you to even speak to him, busy making sandwiches and an outrageous number of frozen hot chocolates for a mom and her four kids when he comes for his coffee. Your coworker makes it for him and there’s a handful of seconds while he’s standing at the pickup counter and you’re on the other side waiting for bagels to toast that you’re able to look up and lock eyes with him for a second.

He seems miles more composed than he had been last week, and you hope that’s a good thing. That he’s doing better. Feeling better. “Busy today, huh?”

You heave an exhausted sigh. “Ridiculously. Nonstop, since I got here, I don’t know if there’s, like, an event, or something, but— it sucks.”

Barnes drums his fingers against the counter. Behind him, the mom is trying to corral her kids, who are making a mess of the condiments counter. One of them is eating sugar packets, spilling it everywhere; his face, his shirt, the floor. A muscle in your jaw twitches.

When you look back at him he’s staring at you, and you wonder if he’d been doing that the whole time, even when you’d looked away. You don’t usually mind, but right now you have syrup on the rolled-up sleeves of your sweater and hot chocolate powder all down the front of your apron and your hair is frizzing out with flyaways at the edges of your uniform hat, some of them sticking to the sheen of sweat starting on your forehead from the heat of all three toaster ovens running at once, and you kind of wish he’d— not. Look at you, that is. Stare. Because you look insane. You feel insane, and that kid is fucking making a mess behind him, and you’re going to get stuck cleaning it up, and—

“If you’re— if it’s a bad time, I can— next week, maybe,” Barnes says.

“No,” you tell him, maybe too quickly, “No, it’ll definitely die down at some point, I mean, if you don’t mind waiting—“

“I don’t,” he replies, stilted and awkward and said before you can even finish speaking. “I don’t, I don’t mind.”

He’s still standing at the pickup counter, not waiting on anything, coffee in hand, and he’s still staring at you, and his eyes are very, very blue, pale and clear and so light they’re almost gray, like the bay of the Hudson on days when it’s overcast, or like once when you were a teenager and it’d gotten so cold that the river had frozen over for the first time in thirty years.

You wonder if he’d ever seen it like that.

You open your mouth to ask and then realize you fucking can’t, there’s other people around, and you’re not trying to out him as being the world’s least-obvious centenarian just because you have a stupid, inane question—

The timer on one of the ovens goes off, followed by the second one, and the third one, the shrill sounds of the alarms overlapping with one another.

“Sorry,” is what you say instead, tearing your eyes away and fumbling for the buttons to shut them off, “I have to—“

“It’s alright,” he says, “I’ll see you when it’s calmed down, right?”

“Yeah,” you reply, distracted again, not sure if it was a question or a statement. “Yeah, ‘course.”

It does calm down, eventually, sometime around 9, which is nuts and totally out of the ordinary. Everything’s a fucking mess; there’s a puddle of coffee and sugar and half-melted ice cubes on the floor and splotches of flavored syrup smeared all on the counter by the espresso machine and you’d missed the fucking garbage can trying to empty one of the brewing baskets and dumped grounds fucking everywhere, and each fuck-up had kind of built on the others without so much as a moment’s break to even think about cleaning. Your coworker helps you get things back to some semblance of organization behind the counter, but after he leaves there’s still the absolute disaster that is the lobby, and—

God, and Barnes had been waiting for you for like, hours.

You rush through the dishes and the stocking up and finish all that shit by 10:30, and you think maybe you’ll be able to get the lobby straightened back out in about twenty minutes, which’d leave all of a deeply unsatisfactory ten minutes to talk to him.

Except—

Except when you look for the broom in the back you can’t find it, and you remember, kind of vaguely, your coworker having tried to get started on all that way back at 6 before you’d gotten slammed, and when you actually go out to try to find it and eyeball the extent of the damage and the degree of the disarray, there isn’t any. The tables are swept off and the chairs are pushed-in and the floor is free of debris and even the counter with the straws and condiments and things where that kid had spilled sugar everywhere is clean except for some dried coffee spills.

The broom and dustpan is leaned carefully against the trash receptacle.

Barnes is still at his spot by the window.

“Did you—“ you make some wordless gesture at the not-destroyed lobby, not even needing to ask, honestly. After the Blip it’d been like all the kindness and empathy people found when half the world’s population was gone had vanished as soon as they’d all reappeared, like both were fundamentally incapable of existing at the same time, and you couldn’t imagine some random stranger had seen two faceless minimum wage nobodies dealing with the cumulative hell that is the entitlement of a bunch of New York strangers and thought, hey, how can I maybe make their lives a little easier?

But of course he would. Fucking— Captain America’s best friend, even way back when Captain America was just some scrawny smart-mouthed five-foot-four asthmatic. The guy who’d stood up for him when he got picked on and protected him when he started fights he couldn’t finish and took him in when his mom passed away from tuberculosis without so much as a second thought. You still know all this, the way you think most people just always kind of know the details of whatever weird fixations they had between the ages of about twelve and fifteen, and you know, more presently, that this guy is not the same guy you know all these details about, but it’s not like people just— stop being who they were, completely, either. It’s not like Sergeant James Barnes and the Barnes that you know are these completely unrelated people, right, it’s not like one of them ceased to exist, he just— got older. Shit happened. He changed.

But— he’s not fucking dead.

Who you are is always made up partly of who you were. Like the way a tree is a tree because it’d been a seed, first. And maybe it’s just really fucking late, right, maybe you’re just really tired, maybe today had just been uniquely fucking exhausting, but your brain just— cannot cope with any of this. The kindness, any amount of it, from anyone, directed at you in any capacity, but also just that it’s from him. The fact that any part of him is like this, still, after everything.

You are not going to cry about his tragic life story and all his obvious and heartbreaking guilt and shit in front of the guy. Jesus Christ. Get a grip.

“The broom was out,” he says, “And— you were busy, and it was a mess out here, so I thought—“

“That was so nice, you’re— you’re so nice to me,” you reply, steady and not tearful but still a lot more plaintively than you intended, “Thank you, really, you didn’t have to—“

“Don’t,” he says, so abrupt that it’s jarring, “Don’t thank me, it’s— it was nothing.”

You blink at him. He shifts in his chair, looking uncomfortable.

You reach for his coffee cup like the last time, but he has a gloved hand around it before you can even get close. His mouth— the corners, they’ve started to curl up, even with the way the line of it is pressed flat and firm and like he’s trying his hardest to keep himself from smiling.

“Not allowed to thank you, not allowed to refill your coffee,” you say, rolling your eyes, good-natured and sounding a lot more flippant. A lot less in danger of being reduced to a crybaby mess because one person had been nice to you all day. “Unfair.”

“Yeah, well,” it inches closer to a smile, like he can’t help it, the upturn of his lips. “Life’s not fair.”

There’s a beat of silence. You should be used to it, by now, the pauses, the quiet, the lulls in conversation; you are, usually, but today it just feels– strange. Makes your stomach twist and your palms itch with some weird and unfamiliar sort of nervous energy. You suddenly have to fight the urge to fidget.

“I’m glad you came back,” you blurt out. “Sorry if– I know it was crazy busy, before, and I was thinking, I mean, if that’s– if it’s too stressful, when it’s like that, you don’t– I don’t want you to feel like you have to stay–”

“No,” he says. “It’s not stressful, seeing you is–” he looks away from you, just for a second, stares at his coffee cup, and the abnormality of that makes something prickle in the pit of your stomach, sparks that jittery feeling up again. “It’s– good. I don’t care if it’s busy.”

Barnes shuts his eyes, then, and his expression screws up, and he runs his hand down the lower half of his face, “Ah, sorry, that was weird.”

“No, it’s not, it’s– that’s literally normal,” you tell him, smiling, “I like seeing you too.”

He looks back at you. There’s that flash of red, again, a burst of color, something breaking through the mask of his composure. Something sweeter, this time, like maybe he’s pleased by that, just for a second, before he shoves it away.

He’s still staring at you. Absently, you scrub the heel of your palm against the smear of powdered sugar you know you still have on your cheek; his eyes flick to it, drawn by the movement, probably, and you have a weird and sudden desire to look at the ground.

“I have— something,” you blurt out, fighting the urge to fidget, “For you. Something for you to try, I mean. It’s in the back, I’m going to— I’ll get it, and I have to do some other little cleaning things, but I’m almost done.”

You think you feel his eyes on you, from the lobby and behind the counter, all the way until you disappear from view into the back room, but you don’t turn to check.

The fruit is on the table, beside an unsealed bag full of bills and change; technically you weren’t supposed to count out the register until close at 11, but you wanted to get out of here as fast as physically possible, after the way your shift had gone. There are a few straggler dishes in the sink, a coffee pot and a latte pitcher and a mixing spoon, and you kind of half-ass them and leave them to dry, snag a few sleeves of hot and iced coffee cups to stock up out front, and a new pump for the caramel syrup.

You glance at your reflection in the stainless-steel side of the ice machine before you head back out onto the floor, and use a wet paper towel to scrub the sugar off the side of your face.

There’s still one pot of coffee left. Fresh; the last one you’d make before close. You hesitate for a second at the swinging gate that divides behind the counter from the lobby, and then you pour him another coffee and you bring that with you, too.

When you set it on the table next to his empty cup, Barnes glances at it and then looks away and ducks his head with this long-suffering sigh, like he’s annoyed, like you’re being a nuisance, but you can still see the way his mouth is angled. How it’s upturned.

“Outsmarted,” you tell him, feeling pretty proud of yourself. “Thank you. You have to accept or I’m kicking you out.”

Barnes looks up at you and there it is again; in his expression, or maybe his eyes, a flash of something, less pleasant than before.

“Yeah, alright,” he says, his voice hoarse.

Your eyes track back and forth across his face for a moment, uncertain, but whatever it was you’d seen, if there’d even been anything at all, it’s clear he hadn’t meant for or wanted you to, so eventually you just decide to pretend it wasn’t there.

“Here,” is what you say instead. “Guava.”

It’s green and vaguely pear-shaped and the insides are pink and soft when he splits it with the knife; you watch him do it, his steady hands, the glove on his left, the blade, deft and sure. It’d been uneven, the fruit, so the pieces are different sizes even with how neatly he’d split it in two.

“You can have the bigger one,” you tell him.

He picks it up and moves to try it and you watch that, too; his hands, his mouth. The flash of his teeth.

The doorbell rings before he can take the first bite.

“Oh, my god,” you say, under your breath, quiet enough that Barnes can hear and the person coming in can’t. “I’ll be right back.”

It’s kind of annoying, the people who feel the need to come in at 10:57 at night when a place closes at 11, but the man only wants a standard coffee, cream and sugar, and he pays with a debit card, so he’s out in under two minutes and you don’t have to recount the drawer.

When you come back to the table the smaller half of the guava is gone.

“Changed my mind,” Barnes says when you raise an eyebrow at him, “You paid for it, so. Only–” he swallows, and his eyes break from yours for a second. Something flashes in them, like ice breaking in the frozen Hudson, the churning water underneath spilling out through the gaps. He looks stricken and ashamed and then fine; frozen over, again, the water gone still and solid. He clears his throat. “Only fair.”

“Okay,” you reply, with an easy shrug.

He watches you eat it. The juice gets on your fingers. You lick them clean.

This time, he doesn’t look away.

“I’ll be out early tonight,” you tell him, after. “If you wanted to wait, we could– walk together. Again. If– if you want.”

He swallows. Your eyes flicker down to it, the column of his throat, the movement. He’d cut himself shaving, or something, because there’s red, just a sliver of it, on the left side of his adam’s apple. Your mouth goes a little bit dry.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I'll walk you home.”

There’s barely any hesitation, this time.

Barnes walks you to your building, or just about.

You glance up at the windows overhead; your light is off. “Awesome,” you mumble to yourself. “Didn’t forget.”

You give him a small smile and an awkward little wave before you turn towards your apartment building. You get as far as into the threshold of the lobby before he calls out to you– calls out for you, uses your name again, only the second time you’ve ever heard him say it aloud, even though you know that he knows what it is. Has known, probably since day one; you have to wear those stupid name tags.

“Yeah?” you say, still in the doorway, the heat escaping all around you.

He’s still standing right where he had been, hands in his pockets, posture stiff and frozen and markedly uncomfortable. You wonder when that’d happened. You wish you’d been paying more attention, but work had been hell, and you’re really fucking tired. “Will you— can you do something for me? Just— make sure you lock your door,” he says, and then, as an afterthought, “Windows, too.”

“I always lock my door,” The smile you shoot back is wry and more than a little cynical. “And I’m on the third floor, so unless Spider-Man has decided he wants to start doing crime instead of stopping it, windows seem like overkill.”

He does not seem to find it funny. You think you see his eyes snap closed, his expression tighten and then relax, again, but you’re too far away to tell. Maybe he’d only blinked.

“Please do it,” he says. “I just want you to be safe.”

You stare at him for a second. Your hands are cold, your face, too. You want to get inside, where it’s warm. You want to go to sleep. “Yeah, okay,” you tell him. “I will.”

You don’t.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #fic; drops of blood

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hesthermay · 2 months

Text

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐓 𝐅𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 (𝐏𝐓 𝟏)

PAIRING: sergeant hunter x fem!oc reader

SUMMARY: the assignment of miri rocksled to clone force 99 brought an even higher success rate than the two groups presented on their own; in the times of the clone wars a well working and formidable team was necessary for the republic, but little did it know that the decision would become the biggest thorn in the empires side. master rocksled had never been like other jedi, and the bad batch had never been like other clones, and as they navigate the end of everything they had known and the beginning of something dark those traits are put to the test. rules no longer exist, lines are blurred, and forbidden waters are tread as the bad batch fight the great fight for everything they deserve.

WORD COUNT: 3.1k

RATINGS + WARNINGS: general audiences, mature themes, angst. female oc, use of she/her, mentions of death and order 66. eventual series. follows the bad batch timeline.

NOTES: bada bing bada boom another one?! what?! im just fuckin good like that (im really not this has taken me a bit but im done and now im ready for you all to see it)

STAR WARS MASTERLIST THE GREAT FIGHT MASTERLIST

The scene that Clone Force 99 and their General walked into was familiar to them at this point.

Chaos, in its entirety, had consumed Kaller as Republic forces fought off Separatist battle droids coming from every direction. The ground, covered with snow, was black with ash from the repeated firing of weapons; this battle had been long, and it was not over yet.

Depa Billaba had requested backup, and though these were not the fighters she had wanted, they were all she was going to get. The Republic was stretched thin, it had seemed they had reached the climax of the Clone Wars and though it was only an inkling, it felt as if something was just over the hill.

“Master Rocksled!” Someone called from the treeline. The young Caleb Dunne, sent to retrieve said backup, watched in awe as the stories he had heard came true right in front of him.

Miri Rocksled was not like other Jedi, and in very fitting fashion, her troopers were not like other clones. Master Billaba had told him that was why she was assigned to them, and together they were the odd ones out of the GAR.

Caleb’s words had been lost in the noise, but eventually the last droid had been smashed and all attention was on him. “Master Rocksled,” he repeated, breathing slightly heavy.

“Commander Dunne, it looks like we’re your reinforcements,” she replied, grinning slightly as she walked closer towards him, the clones following suit. “What’s it looking like down there?”

After a plan was devised, the padawan was sent back to his master with the promise that they were right behind him. There was doubt, and a lot of it, upon his return. It did not look promising, him showing up empty handed with talks of five clones and one Jedi, but he asked for trust anyways. And it was not in vain, as the giant boulder that had caught the attention of the droids came crashing into view, making for a grand entrance.

Clone Force 99 made quick work of things with detonators, blasters, their very skilled sniper, brute force, strategic maneuvers, and one orange bladed lightsaber.

“I don’t believe it,” Captain Grey started, lowering the binocs as he watched. “That’s Clone Force 99.”

The two Jedi turn their heads to glance at him, and then one another. “And that’s Miri Rocksled,” Caleb whispered to his master, eyes blown wide.

……..

“Master Billaba,” Miri greeted, sheathing her lightsaber and clipping it to her waist. For a split second she gave thought to the second saber she was set to receive soon and the excitement to have an addition to her signature handle.

“If you’re done hiding down there, I suggest you launch a counterattack,” Hunter interjected, helmet under his arm. “Another droid battalion’s approaching.”

Grey stepped forward, on attack mode in the presence of clones who regarded the protocol he was held to as merely a suggestion. It was even evident in the way they had just addressed a Jedi General, someone who outranked them all as an army. “The General is the one who gives the orders around here.”

Billaba held out her hand, an effort to ease the clone's frustrations as they were not needed, nor helpful.“He’s right, Captain. This is our chance,” she nodded her head slightly, sure of her words. “Launch the counterattack.”

With that, the men were sent on their way and Master and Padawan came out into the open. “There you are little Jedi,” Wrecker stated, pushing his way to the front. “You missed all the fun.”

Caleb, who pulled his hood off, grinned. “Watching your team in action was all the fun.” Miri was reminded of being a padawan and being in awe of some of the Masters when she watched them spar, or went on assignments with them.

Billaba stepped forward, placing a hand on the young boy's shoulder. “Care to introduce your new friends, Caleb?”

“Yes, Master. This is Wrecker,” he gestured to each one as he named them off. “Hunter, Echo, Tech, and Crosshair.” He turned back to her when there was only one left. “And, you know Master Rocksled, don’t you?”

“Yes, I do,” she affirmed with a slight smile before turning her head back to the rest. “While I’m not sure ‘fun’ is the sentiment I would express, I agree with my Padawan. Your exploits were quite impressive. The Council was right when we assigned you to them,” she directed at Miri, who only shrugged one shoulder.

“Exploits?” Wrecker questioned, confusion written all over him as he looked around.

Behind him, Crosshair walked by with his rifle propped on his shoulder. “Don’t overthink it, Wrecker,” he commented, as snide as ever. Crosshair had been an acquired taste, but his attitude was tolerable with some time.

“Thank you, General,” Echo stepped up, almost as straightlaced as ever. As a reg, Echo expressed different traits than that of the experimental unit when it came to working with others, but that was not a testament to his place within the Batch. Echo had found a home in Clone Force 99, one that he had not thought he would get a chance at after the Citadel.

Master Billaba’s inquisitive eyes were once again on her fellow Jedi. “Would you care to explain where my actual reinforcement are, Master Rocksled?”

Miri sighed ever so slightly, for her answer to that question was not a good one, nor a helpful one. “Rerouted to the capital. I’m afraid we’re all you’re getting, my friend,” she replied lowly.

“Ha! We’re all you need,” Wrecker boasted, hands on his hips. And for almost the first time since this interaction had started, Tech looked up from his device.

“Actually,” he held up a finger, a signature pose for the brainiac of the group. “If my intel is correct, the General will not need any of us. The Clone War may soon be over.”

Intrigue trickled down from the crown of Miri’s head at his words. Her feeling, the one that had been nagging and nagging, that something was to come entered the forefront of her mind. She did not hear the responses to Tech’s statement, but she did hear him begin once again, more information to unload. “I am referring to the encrypted comm chatter. Clone intelligence is reporting that Jedi General Obi-Wan Kenobi has found and engaged General Grievous on Utapau.”

“No way,” Miri whispered. This had been something her, Obi-Wan, and Anakin had been trying to chase for ages now, and it would seem one of her friends had finally reached their goal. General Grievous was the answer to ending the droid army that upheld the Separatist’s defenses.

“If he captures or kills Grievous, the Separatist command structure will collapse,” Echo affirmed her thoughts.

“And most likely the droid armies along with them.”

“A fascinating theory,” Master Billaba cut in, “yet unfortunately not something we can control from here. I suggest we focus on the task at hand.”

Hunter glanced at Miri before looking back at Billaba. With a shrug of his shoulders, he stepped forward. “Any orders? Or shall we do what we do?” Helmets were placed on heads, and Wrecker cheered, boisterous voice filling the space around them.

“Let’s blow something up. Yeah!”

Caleb had watched them this entire time with a smile on his face, and it made Miri feel giddy. She always got a kick out of impressing the younglings and padawans. “Well, Caleb, shall we let them do what they do?” Master Billaba questioned, as if she had seen the same thing. It was nice, to see her Padawan smile in these trying times he was forced to grow up in; a welcome change when circumstances permitted.

“Only if I can go with them,” he countered eagerly, looking up at his mentor.

She glanced over at Miri, who only nodded before the woman grinned. “Very well,” she conceded.

“Hey, kid, you ready for this? We move fast,” Hunter emphasized, deep voice coming out gravelly through the modulator.

“Good,” Caleb shot back with a quirked brow, “that’s the only way I know.” He earned a laugh from Wrecker before they started to dart off, but Miri remained where she was. It was Hunter who shot her a look over his shoulder, a silent question.

“I’m going to speak with Master Billaba for a second,” Miri answered, playing off the heaviness on her shoulders. “Go on, Sergeant. I’ll catch up,” she smiled, hoping it would be enough to send him off. She was his general, and technically she had given him an order that he could not go against, but things were different in the Batch.

Things were different between Miri and Hunter.

As inappropriate and forbidden as it was, the pair had found themselves harboring something of a romance. It was not spoken of, it couldn’t be spoken of; but it did not need to be. Miri knew she was special to Hunter, and he knew he was special to her. It was as simple as that, for the Jedi Order would only let it be so.

It had worked, however she knew she would be questioned later. The pause before he nodded told her he had picked up on whatever it was she was trying to keep at bay, and even though he ran off after one final salute she still felt his presence as she turned to her colleague.

“What is it, Master Rocksled?” Billaba questioned, eyes still trained on her padawan in the distance.

“Do—” she started, but had to rethink her wording once again. “Do you feel like something is about to happen?” She asked, sincerity written on her face because she was desperate to know why she had grown heavier by the minute. Billaba’s focus had now moved to her, squinted eyes watching the young woman as her question hung in the air. “Like…like we're at the top of the hill, but what’s on the other side isn’t what we’ve been expecting?”

“Miri…” She whispered, shaking her head ever so slightly as her mind registered and her thoughts raced. She never got to continue, however, as behind her Captain Grey received a message through the commlink in his helmet. As Miri’s eyes watched him turn away from them, she grew ominously cold. Dread poured over her body, and in her peripheral she saw Master Billaba cautiously look over her shoulder, as a hologram activated.

A cloaked figure, hunched over with a voice almost familiar to them, spoke directly to the clones. “Execute Order 66.”

Captain Grey did not respond verbally, but he did comply by putting the holo device back on his belt and staring at the Generals before him for a moment longer, before drawing his weapon and firing two shots off, both aimed at their heads. Lightsabers were drawn as the pair dodged the blaster fire, but more troopers were closing in.

Depa Billaba and Miri Rocksled found the same weapons their soldiers used against their enemies aimed at them instead. In the back of her mind, Miri knew this was it. The crest of the hill they’d been climbing for three years, the cause of the sick and twisted feeling in her stomach, and the ultimate demise of the Jedi Order as a whole.

In the distance, it would seem that the same feeling had reached Caleb; the dread had stretched through the air and clouded around him through the Force, and he slowed his pace until he was still. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end as he heard the sounds of saber blades deflecting blaster shots, and he slowly turned.

Troopers, his troopers, drawing in on the two Masters, shots aimed to kill. His ears began to ring and he sprinted toward them, drawing his own saber. “Master!” He shouted, a desperation in his voice he knew would raise brows, but he didn’t care. Horror filled his body Billaba and Rocksled were separated, and the distance between the troopers and the Jedi was growing smaller and smaller. He stopped in his tracks as his master risked a look at him.

“You must run!” She screamed, hand held out in a desperation she knew would be frowned upon, but she didn’t care. As his feet remained glued to the ground, her eyes remained on him. With her back exposed, a shot landed on her shoulder that rendered her arm almost useless as she tried to defend herself. “Run, Caleb!” She cried out, words echoing as her padawan turned and followed her orders.

Miri had been pushed far enough away that the Bad Batch couldn't see her when they turned and watched the kid run towards the brutal scene, but she was close enough to still see the fall of Jedi Master Depa Billaba, and every emotion that she had been warned about filled her to the brim. Fear, horror, anger, grief, they washed over her until her limbs felt like they were made of stone. Sweat covered her face despite the snowy climate of Kaller, and she felt every burn from a grazed blaster shot, every bruise from trying to fight them off, and when the first successful shot landed on her left thigh, she fell to the scarlett stained snow. As they drew in closer, like predator hunting prey, one hand reached out on instinct. The Force, a power not to be trifled with yet one she was not even sure one would come to her, pushed them back but did little to stop them.

One opportunity, that she was lucky enough to have given herself, to escape. To where, she did not know. With whom, well, she knew it would be nobody. She was on her own, and she deliberately pushed the existence of Clone Force 99 out of her mind. She could not afford to think of them participating in this betrayal, could not afford to feel the debilitating heartbreak of her boys turning on her. Instead, she grunted as she struggled to rise from the ground, the cold seeping through the gaps between the bits of armor she wore as she held a hand out towards where her friend lay. Depa’s lightsaber flew to her and smacked against her palm, and she grasped it with a tight fist as she retreated. Pain radiated from the wound on her leg, and her skin stung as it rubbed against the fabric of her clothes, but she used it to push her forward, to fuel her escape as she attempted to form a plan in her hazy mind.

The treeline was the obvious choice, more things to hide behind, more things to block their view as they aimed at her. She skirted through the woods, not caring for the prints she left behind; she was too weak to hide in the treetops to avoid the snow so she did the best she could to make up for the trail leading them right to her. Trickery.

They would find her, and they would shoot at her, and to them they would succeed. Miri Rocksled would fall at the hands of the Cone Army, and it would be logged somewhere for someone to keep track of.

But this would not be so, as the drop off before her filled in the gaps of her plan. She would need to pull out some theatrics, rather unconventional for a Jedi but she never claimed to follow the grain, and perhaps she could pull off this scheme.

And so, when the shots started firing in her direction once again, she did not dodge them. She ran towards the drop off, feeling the heat from the blaster fire as it got closer and closer, and once the edge was in sight she drew Depa’s saber, turning as if she was cornered and this was her last chance to fight. Convincing, as the troopers took her bait and opened fire directly on her, and she only put up as much of a fight as she needed before the real test began. Her focus drifted from the men before her, and the outside noise drowned itself out. The Force, as present as ever, was all around. It was one with her, and it was always with her.

Her heart slowed in her chest, and it seemed as if things moved in slow motion as she let Captain Grey shoot her in the abdomen, the pain harsh but dulled with the rest of her senses as she used the Force to put her body in a state of comatose. She dropped the lightsaber, using the momentum from the shot to send herself over the edge. She let herself plummet towards the snowy abyss below, slowing herself slightly. When her body collided with the ground, clouds of powdery snow erupted around her, almost shrouding her as the clones looked over the edge.

Her eyes weren’t quite shut, lashes touching as she lay with her head rolled to the side, arms splayed out. Her heart was barely beating, her body mimicking all signs of death in the very name of preservation. In her mind, she thought of her own clones as the ones above confirmed that they had taken out both Jedi Generals. They scooped up the lightsaber before retreating, the presumed dead woman left to freeze on Kaller only a small blip in their minds.

Memories of her squad replayed in her mind as time passed, the coast long since clear as she remained stuck in the icy hold of the world around her. Memories of Hunter, of how beautiful he really was to her, how much he wanted to protect her.

If you don’t move, you’ll die.

His voice, just a whisper of him, echoed in her ears when all noises had been blocked out by the ringing silence.

You are going to freeze. You are bleeding out.

Wake up, Miri. Wake up.

It was with the last snap of his words that all her senses rushed back to her at once, jolting her from her stupor. She gasped, eyes wide as her body worked to resume its normal functions after such a pause. Pain seeped in as much as the cold, and she reminded herself that she was fighting the great fight; she did not have time to dwell on such things. Escape was imperative, and time was dwindling. She had been trained for this, her whole life had been learning how to survive against all odds with the gift she had been given, and this was not going to stop her.

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