Marvel: The Devil’s Reign

The system chimed with excitement.

🟢 [Ding! Favorability with Steve Rogers has increased!]

JM barely reacted, his face remaining unreadable. The former Captain America, battered and bruised but still holding onto that infuriating righteousness, looked up at him from where he sat on the couch in the Obsidian Order's hidden base.

Steve narrowed his eyes. "What was that sound?"

JM ignored the question. Instead, he leaned down, one hand gripping the armrest beside Steve's shoulder, his sharp gaze locking onto his captive. "Do you want me to carry you on my back, or would you rather be in my arms?"

Steve's jaw clenched. He was too exhausted to argue, his enhanced healing struggling against the damage JM had inflicted. His ankle was twisted—his own fault for trying to escape earlier. Now, he was trapped, forced to rely on the very man he despised.

A muscle ticked in his jaw. "…Just—just carry me however you want. Get it over with."

JM smirked. "Alright then."

Before Steve could protest, he was effortlessly scooped into JM's arms, his body pressed tightly against the man's chest. It was humiliating.

"You're too thin," JM commented, his tone bordering on dissatisfaction.

Steve bristled. "Excuse me?"

JM didn't answer. The security system scanned his face, granting them access deeper into the base. The sleek metal doors slid open, and JM stepped inside, carrying Steve as if he weighed nothing.

Steve knew struggling was pointless—JM's strength rivaled, if not surpassed, his own. But that didn't stop the heat of frustration from burning in his chest. "Put me down," he muttered, shifting in the man's hold.

"Almost there."

True to his word, JM finally set Steve down once they reached the lavish private quarters assigned to him. Steve leaned against the nearest wall, trying to regain some sense of dignity. He glanced at JM, irritation flickering in his ocean-blue eyes. "You could've just helped me walk."

JM shrugged. "You didn't specify."

Steve exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You're impossible."

JM merely chuckled, his calculating gaze drinking in Steve's state—disheveled, stubborn, yet still radiating that unshakable moral compass. It was fascinating.

"Are you a strategist?" JM asked suddenly.

Steve frowned. "What?"

"You always overanalyze things," JM mused, crossing his arms. "If you had to adapt to my methods instead of fighting them, you'd have better odds."

"I don't play mind games," Steve shot back.

JM's smirk widened. "That's why you lose."

Steve gritted his teeth, unwilling to rise to the bait. He pushed himself toward the couch, wincing slightly as he moved. JM watched in silence before walking to the cabinet and retrieving a medical kit.

"Sit," JM ordered.

Steve hesitated. "I can handle it."

JM arched a brow. "You'll fumble with the bandages, waste time, and end up making it worse. Let me."

There was an authority in JM's voice that made Steve hesitate. Against his better judgment, he sat. JM crouched in front of him, taking Steve's injured foot into his hands. His touch was firm, precise.

Steve tried to ignore the way JM's fingers felt against his skin.

"How'd this happen?" JM asked, inspecting the damage.

Steve scoffed. "I tripped."

JM's lips curled slightly. "You? The great Captain America? Tripping?"

Steve's glare could have melted steel. "I was running. On uneven ground."

JM hummed in amusement, wrapping the bandage with practiced ease. His proximity was almost suffocating, his presence a force that refused to be ignored.

"You should be more careful," JM said, finishing the wrap. "After all, if you get too injured… who else is going to entertain me?"

Steve's face heated. "You're unbelievable."

JM rose to his full height, looming over him. "And you're predictable." He took a step back and nodded toward the dining table. "Eat."

Steve blinked. "What?"

"I had food brought in," JM said casually, gesturing to the meal spread across the table—warm bread, porridge, protein-rich dishes. "I don't need my bargaining chip passing out from starvation."

Steve's stomach betrayed him by growling. His eyes flickered between JM and the food before he reluctantly stood and sat at the table. He wasn't about to starve himself out of spite.

He took a spoonful of the porridge and immediately frowned. It was bland.

JM watched him with mild amusement. "Not to your liking?"

Steve didn't answer.

With a slow smirk, JM reached for a small jar of sugar and scooped some into Steve's bowl. "Try now."

Steve hesitated, then took another bite. It was… better. He shot JM a look. "That's surprisingly thoughtful of you."

JM leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "I learn fast."

Steve sighed, focusing on his meal. It was easier than trying to unravel whatever twisted game JM was playing.

Silence stretched between them until JM spoke again. "Are you interested in learning a hobby?"

Steve frowned mid-bite. "…What?"

"You need something to do other than brooding," JM said lazily. "I have a few ideas."

Steve exhaled, exasperated. "Let me guess—you want me to join your shadow organization and become one of your little chess pieces?"

JM tilted his head. "That's one option. But I was thinking something more… traditional. Like dance."

Steve blinked. "Dance?"

JM's smirk returned. "Ballet, specifically. You've got the physique for it. Strength, balance, endurance. I think you'd be decent."

Steve gaped at him. "You can't be serious."

"I don't joke," JM said smoothly. "It's excellent for control and discipline. And I imagine seeing Captain America perform a flawless pirouette would be quite the spectacle."

Steve rubbed his temples. "You're out of your damn mind."

JM chuckled darkly. "Am I? Or are you just too stubborn to try?"

Steve didn't answer.

JM stepped closer, his voice lowering. "Think about it."

And with that, he turned and walked away, leaving Steve staring after him, completely at a loss.