I’m on mobile so this looks like crap but please go watch this. I mean we already knew this but God it’s fucking hilarious to see. Also this is the night they went down a back alley to “avoid” the paps.
From this request: Will you do a Steve rogers x reader? And the reader is a bad ass but hydra just got the better of her and she’s taken by hydra and used as an experiment or tortured for info and Steve comes for her once he finds out she’s was taken?fluff and angst?
“Okay, we go in on my signal,” Steve said. “We have information that the files we need are on the fifth floor. Everyone know the plan?”
The group nodded. Steve’s eyes landed on yours, lingering just a little longer. The two of you had been spending more time together recently and Steve… well, he was beginning to feel very attached to you. He was hoping that one day soon he would work up the courage to ask you to dinner. (He could throw himself on a grenade with no problem but the thought of having a private meal with you threw him into a cold sweat.)
Steve gave the signal and the team ran into the building. He watched as you disappeared around the corner, heading for the south stairwell. He headed for the north one.
The going was pretty easy and soon Steve met with the rest of the team on the fifth floor. The files were found and taken, hidden in a pocket on the inside of Natasha’s suit.
“Good job, team,” Steve said. He glanced around—you were nowhere to be found.
“She was located in the south stairwell, right?” Natasha said.
“She should have been up here.”
The two headed for the stairs while the rest of the team quickly exited the building. They clamored down the stairwell, finding it completely empty.
“Where is she?” Steve asked as the two stood on the landing between the second and first floors, his voice echoing in the corridor.
“Steve,” Natasha said, pointing at a spot on the wall.
A spot that now held a fresh piece of graffiti, the paint still dripping off of one of the tentacles of the black octopus.
“Hydra,” Steve said, feeling as if the wind had been knocked out of him.
Natasha studied Steve. “Don’t worry, we’ll get her back.”
Steve nodded, his resolve hardened. He grabbed the railing and threw himself over, landing next to the exit. He quickly threw the door open and headed out into the night.
“McHenry!” Steve shouted, opening the door of the van, startling all the other members of the team. “Where the hell were you when Y/N was snatched?”
“What?” a young man answered. “I… she told me to wait at the entry, making sure no one else went in.”
“And you listened to her? You were told to follow her!”
“She… she was my superior,” the man answered. Steve could see him physically shaking. “I thought I was supposed to take any order I was given by her.”
“I told you to follow her and you should have listened to me.”
“Steve, calm down,” Natasha said. “Get in the van. We can figure out our plan back at Stark Tower.”
Steve clenched his fists. He felt the urge to punch something but didn’t see any viable options. He glanced up at McHenry who was still sitting wide-eyed, wondering what else was going to happen to him. “Apologies,” Steve said quietly, shutting the door.
“You should get some sleep,” Natasha said, leaning against the doorframe of your room.
Steve didn’t even look up. He was seated next to your bed, his eyes trained on you. He’d been there for five hours, ever since they’d gotten back to the tower. “I’m fine.”
“Steve, it’s not your fault.”
Steve shook his head. “I let her get taken.”
Steve turned to her, eyes burning. “I’m staying here.”
Natasha nodded once before disappearing down the hall.
Steve turned his attention back to you. Tony had scanned you when they’d brought you back—your physical injuries weren’t too bad—a few bruises and scratches, a cracked rib. But who knew what sort of psychological injuries you were suffering.
He watched as you twitched slightly in your sleep. “Steve,” you mumbled.
You moaned, your face screwing up in pain. Your breathing grew ragged.
“Y/N?” Steve reached forward, placing a hand on yours. In your sleep you twitched and pulled away from him. “It’s okay,” Steve said. “I’m going to be here all night. As long as it takes. I’ll always be here for you.”
It took you a moment to
realize what you had just done.
It took you another one to
realize who was lying on the ground before you. For a split second,
you were utterly confused, the man you had just knocked down was
groggy, his face was blotchy from healing wounds but there was no
doubt about who it was.
Dean imagine requested by anon! Since I no longer have the request (this is an earlier piece of work, edited to bulk up on details I had left out when originally writing) I’ll just have to sum it up for you guys. “The reader, a doctor, has to deal with all of Dean’s injuries from the hunts he’s been on, even after he promises to stay out of trouble." Hope you like it!
Your emergency room was full to the very brim with children sporting broken arms and elderly women in desperate need of artificial hipbones, the smell of urine, blood, desperation and antiseptic burning through the layer of fog currently clouding your brain, the potent aroma scorching down your throat with each laboured inhale. You were constantly shocked by the amount of room the hospital staff could find to temporarily house the ill and injured, screaming toddlers weeping over road-burn they had achieved while falling from their bicycle (those training wheels, in your experience, were as far from safe as Pompeii was far from Vesuvius). Trying to focus was becoming more of a full-time job than doctoring was, what with the complaints spiraling through the air of not enough morphine or lump pillows, accompanied by the snap of fresh latex gloves exploding around you as you shuffled from curtain to curtain, checking in on the endless flow of patients. The summer days were long and brutal; kids grew reckless from the freedom before school and grannies lost their withered little marbles in the heat. You were living something close to a waking nightmare, the only things tethering you to your vibrant reality being the fact that you rarely slept (which prevented the occurrence of an actual nightmare) and that you hadn’t seen those demon hunters back in about a week, an earth-shattering new record for the brothers. They always found their way back to your exam rooms, though, holding their guts in with some duct tape and a dream, both of them grimacing through the pain to offer bright smiles and the occasional ill-timed joke about how much blood they’d lost. A personal favourite was the mention of demonic forces whenever other nurses or doctors passed by.
You walked across the squeaking, sterile floors to your office with every intention to caffeinate yourself, if excessively, in preparation for the night shift, when your plans were shattered by the appearance of two familiar men walking through the swinging doors and into the emergency ward… well, one of them walked. The other could barely maintain consciousness, slumped against his brother’s shoulders in an effort to remain vertical. You recognized the height, shaggy hair, and cheekbones to be Sam Frehley, meaning the broken, bloodied body he was crutching towards you could only be his brother, Dean. It took these boys one entire week until they came knocking. One. Week.
Your stomach dropped, ice creeping through your veins, the frost crackling in your ears as you absorbed the situation, your world fazing into a slow-motion picture; Sam’s terrified eyes met your own, exhibiting the extent of his brother’s injuries (or loss of blood, at the very least), his lips parting over a cry for help, Dean’s swollen face lifting with great exertion, a thin yet steady stream of crimson dripping from his mouth as he murmured your name, going so far as to try at a grin. You saw everything, yet it was all silent, the ringing in your head overpowering all semblance of sound, masking noise in a veil of numbing quiet. Luckily, the years of medical school and desensitization to those in peril kicked in, saving you from standing shell-shocked as a wounded man approached.
You bolted over, feet surely screaming against the linoleum, Sam’s hurried explanation sounding in your ear as your hearing returned, though his voice was garbled with panic, slinging Dean’s arm over your shoulder as you guided the brothers into one of the final examination rooms unoccupied by bawling children with busted bicycle helmets. Dean left a bloody print on your otherwise pristine scrubs, the snow-white of your lab coat (customary to distinguish doctors from nurses) stained scarlet where he had leaned against you, the older Frehley brother plopping himself down onto the cushioned table, groaning, spitting blood onto the floor in… aggravation. Of course. If anyone would be pissed in a scenario such as this, it would be Dean.
“What happened this time?” You asked, voice far steadier than you would have imagined, your gloved hands probing his neck, temples, wrists, anywhere, feeling along the lines of his veins for his heartbeat. His pulse was strong, a shock to you, given the amount of bloody warpaint he had smeared across his jacket. Dean shuddered when you touched him, eyes squeezing shut from the pain or your proximity, you couldn’t be sure. The last worry on your mind was the off-chance that you were making him uncomfortable. You were sure his wound was doing enough for everyone involved. You extended a hand in the direction of the younger brother, your eyes remaining focused on the collection of blood on the eldest’s upper leg, somewhere near the hipbone, barely missing an artery. Sam pressed a cloth into your waiting palm, his own towel wiping the blood away from Dean’s neck as you did the same to the area around his thigh, noting every flinch.
“Demon got us tied. Beat the living crap out of Dean, took my knife and…” He inhaled, gesturing to his brother, whose head was now tilted against the wall. “I cut free, knocked the demon aside before he did too much damage, kind of threw off his charge, but Dean was already pretty messed up.” He explained, lifting his brother’s shirt to display a good-sized stab wound right above his hipbone on his left side, further from his artery than you had thought, but closer to his organs than you would have liked. He was still in the clear, a minor flesh-wound, but the proximity to so many problems made your stomach turn. You probed at the wound, checking for depth by the surrounding tissue, amazed to find no signs of internal bleeding. They were lucky that this demon of theirs was so horrifically incapable of doing much damage. Must’ve been an off day.
“What was this, torture?” You asked, rhetorically (you preferred not to know the logistics of these monster hunts), wiping once more at the wound to clear the blood and sweat before swiping the jagged edges with alcohol, to which Dean tensed up, your eyes flickering to his scrunched face as you cleaned and sterilized the wound. You shushed him, wincing with his every growl as you cleaned, giving no warning before you poured the more thorough antiseptic onto the injury Dean’s hands clenching the table’s edge. You shushed him, searching your tools for a needle and thread as the eldest Frehley brother mumbled his curses, Sam dutifully smearing the blood from his brother’s face, warning you of any bruising he found from the demon’s fists. You began closing the wound, instructing Dean to rinse and spit the majority of the blood from his mouth before he began swallowing water as you stitched, Sam handing him a bottle he’d found by the sink. As the blood coming from his mouth originating not from the puncture, but from being wailed on twenty too many times, that would not require your attention. You focused mainly on the threading of his skin as you mended his wounds. Dean spent his time gurgling and spewing the contents of his mouth into the bedpan located conveniently, you guessed it, beneath the bed. At least no one would question blood in the tray, then. You weren’t exactly permitted to aide this amount of blood in the examination rooms. You were, for once, thankful that the rest of the hospital staff were occupied. At least now, you wouldn’t be disturbed by prying eyes.
Dean exhaled heavily, choking out that he needed Sam to clean up what he referred to as "the mess,” requesting his brother leave the hospital to burn something. You didn’t ask for the details, as was your way, leaving Sam to depart with a thankful hand on your back. You shot him a grin before he slipped away. You finished your stitching, slapped an ACE bandage over the needlework and set to icing the poor man’s jaw, realigning his nose in the process. He opened his eyes wide, his palm covering yours, if briefly, taking over the task of holding the ice to his swelling jawline.
“God damn it, Dean. You promised me you’d be careful this time.” You scolded him, helping him into a sitting position, his hand resting on your shoulder as you shifted him along the table. He grunted, retracting his hand when he realized his fingers had been dangerously close to your neck, smiling through his pain, eyes blinking slowly from fatigue his lids heavy, and rightfully so. The man had been stabbed, and still the facade continued.
“I was careful, Y/n. This son of a bitch saw us coming,” He rasped at you, chuckling under his breath. You rolled your eyes, handing him another bottle of water, watching his free hand lift the plastic to his lips, eyes squeezing shut as he swallowed. He opened his eyes to find you watching him, smirking slightly, his gaze drifting down your body. “You look like crap, doc.” He added. You gave him a hard look, snatching the water from his hands, pressing the ice further into his face, reminding him somewhat forcefully of the pressure he should be keeping on his bruise.
“I look better than you do, Frehley. And try harder next time.“ You sighed, remiving your hand from his ice pack, smoothing his shirt back over his bandage. "I worry about you two. It’s like you have no lust for self-preservation.” You muttered, packing up your materials as Dean moved himself to the edge of the examination table, his boots skimming against the floor.
“Well…” he trailed off. You glared, rolling your instruments into their holster, tossing the towels into the waste bin for bodily fluids, peeling your now soiled gloves from your hands and doing the same.
“For my sake, could you at least pretend to care whether you turn to mush or not?” You whispered, strolling back to his side, lifting your stare to meet his eyes. They softened from pain-hardened emeralds to glossy, polished gemstones as he cracked you a sly grin, angling his body (with some difficulty) to better face you.
“For your sake? Absolutely.” You grinned, holding his gaze as you tucked a stray strand of your hair behind your ear. “Hey, Doc,” He whispered, calling you by his favourite nickname (his favourite merely because he knew how you loathed it), his eyes sparkling to see your slight aggravation. “I’ll promise to be more careful if you promise me something.” He offered, his voice suddenly serious.
“Anything.” You huffed, your hand resting on the table, propping yourself up, the process of standing without aid beginning to become a chore in itself.
“Go home and get some sleep. I hate seeing you this exhausted. I’m sure one of the other doctors can catch your shift.” He breathed, his voice leaking sincerity, gemstone eyes not once breaking contact with yours. You smiled again, sighing with content. His grin grew to match your own, the edge of his lip peeking out from behind the corner of the ice bag.
I’ve suuuuuuper busy lately because I’ve working on the secrets cosplays and on Luna! I’m super happy on how the over-skirt thing looks but I’m super sad for the shirt because I made major mistake while making it and I don’t have enough fabric to remake it D: Anyway, it will do, now I just have to finish the details on the collar and make the jacket :V I’m also done with the watch which now looks like crap because I have no time to make it look okay, but anyway I’ll probably just wear it for photoshoots so I’m not too sad about it xD