#Hammer and Thor Tablet

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Adam’s Death

Bucky Barnes/femOC! (Aveline). 18+

Part 1! Part8! Part9! Part 10...

Summary: She is a ghost of a lost era, an unsuccessful experiment of resurrection. He is the weapon that gave birth to her return. After the catastrophe in the Siberian wilderness, they remain alone: enemies by order, strangers in life, familiar long before his memory was erased, and she — from life. Avelina is a child of the thirties, daughter of Howard Stark’s laboratory, and a moth lost in Hydra’s captivity. The order was to return her to her homeland, but the program malfunctions. The Winter Soldier initiates a new order: protect the target to the last.

Warnings: Angst, Drama, Blood and Violence, Jealousy, Love, Age Difference, Bucky Barnes Has PTSD, Slow Burn, Suicide, 1930s, 1940s, Reincarnation, Unrequited Love, War, Sexual Content, Miscarriage, Complicated Relationships, Friends to Lovers, Sexism, Child Soldiers, Love/Hate, Blood, Trauma, Psychological Torture, Grief/Mourning, First Time, Developing Relationship, Cruelty, Sexual Inexperience, Masturbation, Character Death, Feelings.

"Renunciation"

“The past clings to us like shadows, but sometimes it comes alive in the faces of those we never hoped to see again.”

Date: 2008. Canon: 2010.

Avengers Tower, New York. The air in the briefing room is thick with the smell of coffee, the metallic ozone of overheated gadgets, and a faint trace of something burnt. A massive table is buried under folders, tablets, torn-up maps, empty cups, and someone’s gloves. A recorded hologram of Fury flickers with an annoyingly monotonous tone, but no one — except Natasha and Steve — pays much attention to it.

In the corner of the room, sprawled heavily on a worn leather couch, Thor fondly cradles his hammer — his fingers idly tracing the handle, twirling it. He looks worn out: a fine layer of dust and ash coats his armor, his hair is tangled from battle, and his cape is singed in places — but the god of thunder seems unbothered. Thor lazily watches Clint, who’s struggling to get comfortable in a chair, clearly irritated and at a loss with where to put his quiver.

Tony, as always, leans back carelessly in his chair, feet kicked up on the table. He lazily chews on gummy bears. His grey t-shirt is smudged with soot, a dark crust of dried blood on his temple. His gaze shifts thoughtfully between the screen and his daughter sitting beside him.

Aveline, curled up in her chair, absentmindedly bites the corner of her lip. Her blond hair is tied into a messy knot, with a few random clips glittering in her bangs. Her cheeks are smudged with paint, though she only holds an ordinary pencil. Tony notices this from the corner of his eye, furrows his brow, but says nothing. He’s used to her being odd. After all, she’s his daughter.

On her lap lies a sketchbook. She’s drawing everyone in the room. Quickly, confidently. The lines are precise, detailed — like a seasoned artist’s. Stark watches her page a moment longer than he meant to. A tightness creeps into his chest: that’s how his sister used to draw. The same lines, the same focus, also far too skilled for her age. Memory jabs sharply at his ribs, but he pushes it away. The past belongs in the past. And if not — well, he’ll chalk it up to Aveline inheriting her aunt’s talent along with her name.

Tony presses his lips into a grim line and rolls back in his chair. Sometimes he wonders why his daughter looks so much like her. Sometimes he notices faint gestures, intonations, expressions — and something twists painfully inside. But he never lets himself dwell on it for long. Just like now — Tony quickly shakes the thought. Not the time for memories.

“Hey, I mean, I’m no expert, but that’s suspiciously good for a seven-year-old,” Clint suddenly says, peering over Aveline’s shoulder. His tone carries a teasing note, but there’s a flicker of surprise in his eyes. “Like, creepily good,” he adds, nodding to himself.

Aveline ignores him. She sits with her legs folded on the chair, swinging them lazily in the air. One hand holds a half-eaten chocolate bar — a gift from Natasha — the other glides her pencil across the page, glancing now and then toward the towering panoramic windows where evening New York glows. The city’s lights reflect off the glass in vibrant flashes. Beyond the thick panel, the city lives loudly, but in here — it’s silent.

“Although,” Clint smirks, crossing his arms over his chest, “if you’re doodling me, could you maybe bulk me up a bit? Just for realism’s sake.”

Aveline raises an eyebrow high, slowly looking up at him, squinting mischievously:

“If I wanted to draw something unrealistic, I’d give you superpowers. Or at least decent sunglasses — unlike the ones you’ve got.” She clicks her tongue.

Thor is the first to burst out laughing. Even Natasha, usually unreadable, lowers her papers and hides a smile behind her coffee cup. The soft desk lamp casts gentle shadows on her face, making it look almost relaxed and light.

“Ooh, harsh critique coming in hot!” Clint throws his hands up, though his eyes are laughing. “Straight to the ego — yeah, you’re definitely a Stark.”

“Did you ever doubt that, Seagull?” Aveline bats her lashes innocently and bites off another chunk of chocolate. “Well, if you’d like, I could give you a shield like Stevie’s. Might help.”

“Please don’t,” Rogers cuts in. “One of those is more than enough.”

A new wave of laughter ripples through the room. Steve smiles, but his gaze returns to Aveline. The glow of the screen nearby softly lights her face, highlighting familiar features. He watches her tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear without thinking. A simple motion — but his heart tightens. He’s pulled back, to the ‘40s, to a cramped kitchen where his sister — his Aveline — tucks her curls behind her ear just like that, sitting by a canvas or a kitchen table, reading a book and scribbling notes. Exactly the same.

Memory doesn’t lie… does it?

Ever since he first saw the girl, something cracked inside him. Time seemed to blur. Steve tried to chalk it up to coincidence, but every time Aveline Stark laughs or frowns in thought, he hears his sister. Sees the shadows of those he’s lost. Sometimes he even smells it — coal, a stove, that old wooden table with its chipped legs and a lid carved with three initials...

It’s impossible — he tells himself that, over and over. His sister’s been gone for over half a century. But sometimes… when Tony’s daughter smirks, argues, or just stares silently out the window — it feels like he’s home again. For a moment. And that moment tears him apart.

“Mini-Stark! And for the record, my nickname isn’t Seagull — it’s Haw—” Clint snaps, then trails off. “Wait, you didn’t get that wrong, did you?” He clucks his tongue, lips pursed. She said it on purpose, not by mistake.

“Well, that’s what Dad calls you,” Aveline shrugs innocently. And Tony mimics her shrug right beside her, as if he’s got nothing to do with it. A heavy sigh rises near the panoramic windows.

“Loki slipped away. We got that the first time,” Steve says, looking off to the side. “So why are we hearing this for the twentieth?”

“Because One-Eyed Drama King loves his theater,” Tony quips, pulling out his tricked-out smartphone, still lazily chewing gummies and passing a few to his daughter with a wink.

Next to him, Natasha folds her arms. Her calm voice cuts through the air:

“Or maybe it’s because our genius, playboy, philanthropist turned the hangar into a ping-pong arena?” She levels him with a sharp stare, perfectly echoing his own words from earlier.

Tony rolls his eyes:

“What is this, nickname appreciation day?” he arches a thick brow, theatrically scanning the room. “Sorry, Romanoff, I just hate wasting time,” he snaps, turning his attention back to his gadget, then throws a glance at Steve. “Why don’t you tell us something fun, American New Hope? Like — do you even have one photo where you don’t look like a living propaganda poster?”

He raises his phone, its screen filled with news articles about the devastation in New York — and every single one of them has Steve’s face front and center.

The room comes alive again with light teasing, cozy bickering. Avelina giggles, her ringing voice seems to fill the space with warmth. Steve turns toward her over his shoulder, and for a moment, his gaze softens. That feeling… it’s almost like hope. Almost. But he knows too well — hope can be cruel.

This isn’t the first time it’s happened, not even the hundredth. He catches himself staring at the girl too long, trying to understand what exactly is bothering him. The first time he saw Avelina, he forgot to breathe. Stumbled, couldn’t get a word out. Standing before him was something achingly familiar. Of course, he was quickly informed that she was Tony Stark’s daughter, but from that moment on…

Steve pushes the thought away. Thinking about his sister is too painful, too terrifying. Even if she and Avelina share the same name, even if they look like two drops of water — it can’t be her. Avelina Rogers is dead. This is not her. And yet sometimes… something warm and aching clutches at his heart when the girl laughs. But he tells himself: hope must not be fed.

Clint leans back in his chair with a quiet sigh, smirking, playing with his tongue against his cheek like he’s holding back an especially witty joke. In the dim light of the room, holographic screens flicker, scattering the shadows, and somewhere in the corner, the ventilation system begins to hum softly…

“Oh, by the way! Been meaning to ask!” the archer exclaims, lazily stretching out his legs. “Stark, do you have a photo of you with those… baby suspenders? You know, when you carry a kid around in a kangaroo backpack?” He squints, watching everyone’s reactions, and knocks over his quiver with a loud crash, sending papers scattering across the table.

The room freezes for a moment. No one moves, no one gives anything away. But precisely because everyone holds still waiting for a response, the silence becomes palpable — it electrifies the air as everyone processes what they just heard.

Tony slowly lifts his eyes, blinks once, then again, and dramatically places a hand on his chest — as if from unspeakable shock.

“First of all, are you seriously expecting an honest answer? Planning to raise tiny special-agents?” A pause. “No?! Then bow and arrows, I’m stunned! You really think that I —” he sweeps his gaze over everyone, as if demanding confirmation of their sanity, “— would carry my child in one of those ridiculous kangaroo backpacks?”

“Oh, I’m sure you did,” Steve smirks, relaxing just a bit, letting himself enjoy this light moment of friendly banter. But his gaze, passing over the laughing Avelina, catches on something else — a flickering shadow.

“No, no, and again — no!” Tony makes a broad, nearly theatrical gesture with his hand. “I am a man of high technology, a walking star of propaganda posters! If I had to carry a child, I’d do it with a mini jetpack or something of the sort,” his voice is too fast, too lively — enough to make anyone suspicious, to plant a seed of doubt.

“But dad, you’re lying!” Avelina declares loudly, putting her drawing aside. Her eyes flash with genuine outrage, and a triumphant smile spreads across her face. All eyes turn to the girl. For a moment, silence reigns, broken only by the soft tapping of rain starting on the windowpane.

“What?” Tony frowns, like he doesn’t get what she’s implying.

“We do have a photo of you carrying me in a kangaroo backpack!” Avelina proudly lifts her chin.

Clint perks up and leans forward:

“Seriously?”

“Seriously,” Avelina nods confidently, hopping off her chair. “Mom showed me!”

“PEPPER!” Tony throws up his hands theatrically. “Family betrayal! Did you hear that?!” A tall, fair-haired woman enters the room holding a tray with juice and something sweet. Her soft gaze immediately envelops the younger Stark protectively.

“Don’t start, Tony,” Potts tosses offhandedly. “You looked like the happiest person in the world back then.”

Avelina jumps up to her mother, peeks at the tray, beaming, and asks to show the photo to everyone. But then JARVIS’s impeccably polite voice chimes in:

“Sir, if I may, I believe you are referring to this image?”

“No, JARVIS, don’t you dare—” Stark tries to stop his voice assistant.

But it’s too late. The next second, the screens around the room light up with the photo: Tony with a baby in a bright red carrier against a backdrop of twinkling Christmas lights. His face — pure, undiluted happiness. And he looks far too content for someone trying to deny the whole thing.

“Damn…” Clint exhales in awe.

“That’s what you call a kangaroo backpack?” Thor rises curiously from the couch.

“Clint, what, you want the baby store brand too?” Stark snaps, glaring at the archer.

“You look like the sweetest dad in the world,” Natasha laughs, already pulling out her phone to capture the image for keeps.

“I refuse to comment on this,” Tony mutters, covering his face with his hand.

And Avelina just laughs, coming closer and wrapping her arms around his shoulder:

“But you’re the best dad in the world!”

Tony lets out a loud sigh, chuckles, but gives in. He picks up his daughter, settling her on his lap. His arms are warm, steady, and the girl leans into him a little tighter, sinking into her father’s embrace.

“Well, can’t argue with that…”

Avelina squeals again when he tickles her. Her giggles are contagious, making everyone in the room fight off smiles. Clint lowers his head, lost in thought, a trace of melancholy crossing his face.

Steve casually says the younger Stark’s name while asking Natasha something. And Avelina flinches. As if someone just ran a cold hand down her spine. It doesn’t hurt — but it leaves a trace. The Captain’s voice sounded so… familiar. Achingly so.

The tone — like a dream that slips away just as you try to hold onto it after waking. Avelina blinks, shaking off the strange, persistent feeling, but it lingers. She frowns, unconsciously placing her hand over her chest, as if searching for something important that should have been there. But under her fingers, there's only the soft fabric of her shirt. Nothing else. And no one notices the gesture.

No one, except Steve Rogers.***

Date: Summer, 1940.

Brooklyn hasn’t yet cooled down from the daytime heat. The air is filled with the smell of heated asphalt, mixed with dust and the fumes of cars. In the alleys, a stagnant stuffiness smolders, which even a light breeze can’t dispel. The streetlamps cast pale spots of light onto the cracked walls of buildings. Their electric flickering barely pierces through the damp haze.

Somewhere in the distance, a car door slams, muffled laughter sounds — the echo of a street celebration, slowly fading into the depths of the night.

At the edge of the sidewalk, a vendor sweeps up the remnants of confetti into a metal dustpan, tiredly brushes off his shirt, and throws a brief glance at a couple walking slowly along the road. Rare lights burn in the windows of the houses — someone is already asleep. And someone is just returning home. The flickering flame of a candle draws vague shadows on the curtains.

The smell of celebration still lingers in the air. The cloying sweetness of caramel mixes with the aroma of roasted nuts and tobacco that trails from weary men stuck at the tables of a street café-bar.

Somewhere on the cobblestones lies a forgotten toy — a plush bunny with a torn ear, lost in the bustle of the fairgrounds. Muffled beats of music tremble in the distance, but now they barely reach. Everything around gradually comes to a halt: vendors fold up their stalls, boys in rolled-up shirts lazily chat, leaning against the wall of a diner, from which wafts the smell of yesterday’s oil.

Avelina and Steve walk slowly, unhurriedly. Their steps echo dully through the empty streets. The festival was too noisy, too crowded, and they didn’t want to be among the masses. So they ran away from it all — from the laughter, the music, and the dancing, from the feeling of someone else’s happiness that doesn’t belong to them. Maybe because the memories of the past, of how the world used to be before all this, weigh heavier than they’re ready to admit. Or maybe because...

They walk in silence, leaving behind the bustle of celebration, as if it were foreign to them, unnecessary. Leaving Bucky among the dancing and joy, among the music that seems unbearably cheerful. They are the first to leave. And Avelina remembers too late about the forgotten stuffed bear from the shooting gallery. Though it used to be different: before, Bucky always walked them home, sometimes even stayed the night. But now he stayed there. Behind. Together with Dolores.

They don’t want to talk about it. But the silence weighs heavier than words.

Sometimes silence speaks louder. Especially this kind — heavy, sticky, nasty. It presses on the chest, turning a simple walk into a painful anticipation, as if one of them is about to break and say something they shouldn’t.

But Avelina knows that in such moments, you can say anything — you can even laugh, blurt out something silly, try to pretend that everything’s fine. But is it really?

Bucky isn’t with them.

Bucky isn’t walking behind them.

Bucky chose something else.

Most importantly — Bucky doesn’t choose them. Doesn’t choose her.

A cool breeze lazily rustles the paper notices stuck to old poles — among them posters of jazz nights and war enlistment slogans, theater ads and flyers about the horrors happening in Europe, faded and torn at the corners. In the distance, a block away, the last tram bell rings, carrying passengers toward the bridge. Somewhere near the diner, chairs clatter. A tired owner swears under his breath as he locks the doors, and the footsteps of a passerby rushing home quickly dissolve into the darkness…

The night smells of: damp rooftops, tired cobblestones, grime, and a faint bitterness of smoke. It feels like the city burned out in the sun during the day, soaked up fire, and now, at last, is slowly cooling down, exhaling the accumulated heat. But this warmth brings no comfort. It reminds that the day has passed, and tomorrow might bring even more changes…

“Bucky’s changed,” Avelina says quietly, breaking the silence first.

Steve slouches. It’s long been obvious, but hearing it from his sister is especially bitter. Rogers stuffs his hands in his pockets, lowers his head. The motion is almost unnoticeable, almost habitual. But Avelina knows her brother too well. He’s trying to hide, shrink, disappear from everyone and everywhere. First and foremost — from himself.

“We all changed,” he says. “Time spares no one.”

Avelina looks at her brother. In his face, she reads fatigue and a lack of strength — something painfully familiar. They have only each other left. Two years have passed since their mother died, the house feels empty, and even when they are together, it feels like something is missing, like her voice still echoes through the walls…

Every morning, Avelina hopes to hear her mother’s call from the kitchen… That first winter without her, when she got sick, she started hallucinating from a high fever. Avelina barely remembers the moment, but she remembers too well the horror in Steve and Bucky’s eyes when, having run out in a clammy nightgown clinging to her skin, with a feverish gleam in her eyes and a trembling smile, she started searching for her mother in the kitchen. Only she wasn’t there. Not there — not anywhere in the house. And her brother’s words: “Mom’s not here. Not anymore…” broke her far more than anyone expected.

In the distance, a car horn wails, and again — silence.

“I just don’t understand. Sometimes he seems so… distant,” she mutters, not looking at her brother. “Sometimes he acts like everything’s fine. But… I know. I feel like something’s bothering him, and he doesn’t tell anyone. Why does he never admit anything? He’s like… like… I don’t know…”

Steve glances sideways at his sister, his eyes warm, understanding. Maybe they all think he’s blind, maybe even a fool, but he sees more from the outside than the two of them do. If Steve is sure of anything, it’s...

“You think I understand him?”

Avelina smirks faintly.

“At least you’ve always been better at it than me.”

Steve doesn’t argue. He just shakes his head, as if unsure whether he should agree with that.

Maybe he did understand Bucky once. But now… his decisions sometimes make no clear sense, as if it would be logical to act one way, but he deliberately does the opposite — and suffers from it himself.

What’s the point? He doesn’t know either.

Steve kicks a pebble under his foot, and it bounces off the road with a soft click and stops near the curb. Somewhere in the alley, mice squeaked, darting off in search of crumbs. In the distance, a thud sounds, and for a brief moment a light turns on in one of the windows — a female figure leans over the sill, adjusting flower pots. Then the window darkens again, leaving behind the faint breath of a home they can no longer return to. No matter how hard they try to build their world anew, brick by brick — everything crumbles.

Steve takes a deep breath. Avelina still remembers the lullaby their mother used to sing to them… The night is filled not only with summer warmth but something else — something elusive, tense, lurking in the shadows and corners.

“You know, when I first met Bucky, he seemed like a carefree guy. The kind who gets everything easily, who lives without much thought, without too much responsibility. He laughed louder than anyone, always knew what he wanted — or so I thought,” he scuffs his boot toe against the ground, then continues: “But over time I realized it wasn’t like that at all.”

Avelina sees before her the Bucky who laughs, who draws everyone along with him, who says everything is fine — but at the same time disappears.

Slips away again and again.

Her heart reaches for Bucky, while she herself moves in the opposite direction. And he — even farther.

It’s like trying to grab something that slips through your fingers. Like holding onto sand — the tighter you squeeze, the faster it runs out. But if you let go, it vanishes completely.

“I don’t understand him at all,” Avelina echoes her own words. And in that confession, there’s more pain than she’s willing to show.

“He carries a ton of responsibility,” Steve mutters, hopping from the cobblestone to a low curb. “For family, for the younger ones, for us. Bucky’s used to being the one who protects, who takes care — and he may seem like an overconfident jerk,” Rogers even allows himself to swear, “but that’s not how it is. Bucky wants to do what’s right, but doesn’t always know how.” Steve looks around and meets his sister’s heavy, restless gaze.

Avelina unwittingly slows her pace, absentmindedly fidgeting with a flower picked from someone else's garden.

“He’s always been like that. Bucky took care of us after Mom died, even when he could barely stand himself. He pulled us out of every mess, stood by us, and never complained. Just did what he had to. Or maybe... the only thing he had left.”

Steve shakes his head and gives a dry chuckle.

“Everyone thinks he knows what he wants. But he just keeps going forward—because stopping isn’t an option.”

Avelina bites her lip, a wave of gratitude rises in her chest... and guilt? How many times had she seen Bucky exhausted, beaten and bruised from training, rushing to help them, to support them even when they should’ve managed on their own? Many times. Too many. He doesn’t owe them anything, yet—Bucky’s always there. And still, she wants even more from him. Maybe… maybe that’s not fair.

“Do you know?” the younger Rogers asks softly. “What he wants?”

“That’s just it—I don’t,” Steve shrugs, exhaling dryly. “Maybe I’m a bad friend…”

“You’re not,” Avelina whispers, catching her brother’s hand and interlacing their fingers. She leans her head on his shoulder. “If you were a bad friend, you wouldn’t understand that.” She lifts the corners of her mouth slightly, but the smile still turns out sad.

Steve only nods and gives a bitter smirk.

The alley they turn into has known them since childhood. The faded chalk writings still mark the walls, and on the corner of the fence a crooked scratch remains—the trace of the day Steve crashed into the wall when Bucky was teaching him to ride a bike.

The damp air smells of old bricks, rusty fire escapes, and the faint sourness of rotting newspapers gathered in dark corners. Glass crunches underfoot—someone shattered a bottle, and its shards glitter in the streetlight like fragments of stars.

Somewhere around the corner, the patter of cat paws on trash can lids is heard, followed by a grumpy snort. Avelina freezes for a moment, peering into the familiar darkness. Here, in this place, the past feels sharper. Here, it’s almost like you can hear their mother’s voice calling them home from an evening walk. Here, you can almost see childlike shadows, barefoot and darting along the pavement.

“You know, Bucky doesn’t understand you at all either,” Steve suddenly says, breaking from his thoughts. Avelina blinks, turning a confused look toward her brother.

“You think so?..”

“I know so. And I know that you two—need to talk.”

The younger Rogers only nods slightly. She knows it too. And she knows they’ll never talk—not until it’s too late. That’s just how it always goes with them. It’s a kind of stability, in its own way. You know what to expect.

Avelina stops, looking at the swing set that creaks softly in the breeze. She remembers how they used to swing here together as kids, back when the world felt simple, when there was no war, no fear, no emptiness inside.

She snorts, then winks playfully at her brother and sits down. The swing groans ominously in response. How has it not snapped yet? Steve silently grabs the chains and gives her a push. At first, gentle, cautious.

“Remember how I always asked you not to swing too high?” he chuckles. Avelina lifts her legs into the air, laughing, grabbing the edge of her dress, hoping they won’t get chased off for the noise. It’s late after all.

“Yeah. But you always gave in anyway. You could never say no to me, Stevie!”

Steve sighs.

“And you never listened,” he replies with a grin.

“And I never listened,” Avelina repeats, smiling wider and raising her eyes to the sky, to the stars barely breaking through the city haze.

She closes her eyes, feeling the wind play with her hair, the heavy, sticky air settling in her lungs. It’s thick, warm, filled with the sounds of the night—distant voices, footsteps, echoes. It lifts the hem of her dress, chills her skin, but brings no relief.

Avelina inhales deeply, trying to push away the images that won’t leave her alone. Back at the festival—there was Bucky, spinning in a dance with Dolores. Sweet, beautiful, kind Dolores. Avelina can’t be angry. There’s no anger left in her. More like... silent acceptance and sorrow. Sometimes, you just don’t have the strength to fight anymore.

Steve pushes the swing again—harder this time. The creak of metal tears through the night. Avelina’s head spins from the sudden motion. And she squeezes her eyes shut, letting go of everything.

Let this moment last longer. Let tomorrow not come. But tomorrow always comes, no matter how unexpected. Tomorrow always comes.

“I still don’t understand him,” Avelina whispers, as if the past few minutes, the stars, and the wind should’ve told her what to do next. Steve, through the squeaking, replies:

“Maybe he doesn’t understand himself.”

Avelina breathes deeply, trying to banish Bucky’s image from her mind. But the thoughts cling like a splinter.

They’re left alone. She and Steve. Always the two of them. Only they know what it’s like—to lose their mother. Pain can be similar, but only theirs is the same. Only they understand each other better than anyone else. Like no one else ever could. And that silly belief eats them from the inside.

The swing slows down. Steve’s worn out. As a child, Avelina used to like it more when Bucky pushed the swing—he always gave it a stronger shove than she expected. Sometimes it felt like she’d go flying and crash her knees into the sand, but her grip was always firm—doesn’t want to let go, won’t let go.

When the swing finally stops, she keeps her hands on the chains for a minute longer, unable to let go. Unable to release. Somewhere beyond the buildings, a sleepy voice calls out, then comes a short bark from a dog. The yard seems empty. But the past lives in these walls, in these shadows, in the rusty howls. It lingers behind, leaving only a quiet ache and the wish to bring everything back the way it was…

A new clang. Steve sinks down onto the swing beside her. If Bucky were here, he’d probably joke that Rogers on their own aren’t whole people—just halves. Sometimes even kids can’t manage to fit on one swing together. But Steve and Avelina, naturally neither tall nor heavy, fit just right. Well, at least they’re quicker than most—especially Avelina.

“I can’t protect you the way he can,” Steve admits. “Bucky will always be stronger, steadier, more reliable… and… and I’m afraid that…”

“Stevie, you’re strong too, smart, and the bravest fool I know,” Avelina interrupts, hugging him and resting her head on her brother’s narrow shoulder. “You’re just not exactly like him. And that’s a good thing too.”

But Rogers stubbornly shakes his head.

“I’m afraid one day we’ll drift apart,” he suddenly confesses. “That Bucky will leave, you’ll leave… and I’ll stay. Stay here, still weak, still clumsy…”

“You’ll never be alone,” Avelina insists. “I’ll always be here. I promise.”

But Steve doesn’t answer, though something warm flickers in his eyes—something almost childlike. Avelina knows he’ll never really believe it. That deep down, he’s afraid one day they’ll be gone for good, and he’ll be left behind… truly alone. But for now, Avelina’s here. For now, they sit on these old swings in this alley that’s known them since they were kids—they’re together.

And for this one moment, everything stays as it once was. For this one moment, it’s okay to pretend everything’s fine. Just hold on a little longer. It will get better. It has to…

Avelina nestles into her brother’s neck and hugs him tighter. Steve remains silent, but gratitude glimmers in his eyes. They sit side by side in the quiet night, just like they used to. For now—they can still believe their small world won’t break. At least for a while, they can…***

Date: The year 2006.

The lab in Stark Tower smells of something metallic and warm. In Avelina’s opinion, it smells like a place where miracles are created. On the tables — a scatter of microchips, thin wires, unfinished models. Somewhere a dim bluish light flickers. In the semi-darkness, equipment softly buzzes, and beyond the glass wall, a view of nighttime New York opens — the city lights blur behind a curtain of rain. Raindrops tap on the glass, leaving chaotic patterns, and it seems even the eternal hum of the metropolis becomes quieter, as if the city is tired.

Tony sits, slightly hunched over, squinting behind the glass of his protective goggles, holding a soldering iron with one hand and fiddling with tiny parts with the other. The light scent of heated metal and plastic mixes with the faint bitterness of coffee cooling somewhere nearby. Work always helps distract. Helps not to think about the fears that whisper in his head when it gets too quiet. And now — the world outside sinks into the melody of rain, while inside the lab, everything is familiar: warm, bright and… safe. His child is at home — as always, which means everything is alright.

At the edge of the table, resting her cheek on her fist, sits Avelina. Her light hair slips slightly across her face, long lashes trembling in sleep. Next to her hand lies an open heavy science book with an intricate title about cell regeneration and cloning — clearly not something that would interest Tony himself. And something that gives him a headache.

On the nearby shelf stands a small terrarium: inside, a tiny plant with fragile green leaves slowly turns under soft light. Scattered near Stark’s daughter are pencils and a notepad, covered in small diagrams and strange notes he doesn’t immediately understand.

Stark lifts the book, squints, wondering if the problem is in the handwriting or… On the cover, in dark letters, is the name of a scientist that Tony doesn’t notice right away, but once he catches it, he involuntarily freezes. It’s one of the surviving books of Avelina — his younger twin sister — which used to rest in the library in the far hall. Tony rarely goes there. When he rebuilt the tower, he couldn’t help but make that room. Sad, as if he still waits for his sister to one day come home…

Avelina had a passion for biology, cell structures, everything related to life — unlike him, focused on metal and mechanics. She always thought it more important not to create machines but to understand the very essence of nature. And, it seems, that trait was passed on to his daughter from her aunt, just like her looks.

A little further away, on a separate stand, stands another "project" — a small glass jar, inside of which stirs a miniature biosphere: tiny plants and a couple of snails slowly moving under the light. One snail is named Natalie, the other — Bruce. Clint, of course, was offended that no organism was named after him. Avelina assembled all of this over several days, with an enthusiastic gleam in her eyes, muttering something under her breath.

Tony hums, examining the terrarium, and a warm wave of pride washes over him. “My girl,” he thinks, and something deep inside squeezes with tenderness. Maybe she’ll go further than him — not just mechanics and tech, but life, the very essence of its creation. Their father had always pinned all his hopes on his sister. So maybe the world decided to give her back?

From the side, JARVIS announces that another microchip is ready.

"Ah, that’s it," Tony mutters under his breath, rolling back to his desk, adding the final touches. "It’s brilliant, Stark. You’re still damn good."

No reply. Silence. He frowns, glancing over his shoulder. Where’s the laughter? Where’s the giggling and smile?

"Well? What do you think, my mini-copy? Should we adopt it?"

Silence. It takes him a moment to realize that through the quiet, he can hear soft breathing. Tony spins around in his chair — and freezes.

Avelina, curled up, dozes, almost slipping from the chair. Her cheek is pressed against the table, breathing steady. In her hand, she holds some gear from his suit. Something tightens in his chest. Soft and warm. A couple of careless marker lines are visible on her wrist — apparently, she was sketching something while waiting for her dad to notice her.

“Seven years… Already seven,” Tony thinks, feeling an involuntary smile tug at his lips. It seems like only yesterday she was a tiny bundle handed to him in the hospital, declared a single father. She was so small, so defenseless, she could barely wrap her palm around his pinky.

That first night home after the hospital — he panicked, of course. What the hell did he know about kids? He was a genius, a playboy on all the magazine covers, a philanthropist on every form, but definitely not a father. And yet…

He remembers how scared he was to hurt her, how he desperately searched for what to feed that little being, calling Pepper, begging her to come and save him. Small, fragile, with messy blonde hair and eyes full of childlike trust, looking at him with such belief…

She didn’t know who he was in the world’s eyes, didn’t know his mistakes and sins — just reached out to him, as if he really could protect her from all the evil in the world. Back then, Stark leaned over his daughter, not believing his eyes or the smile lighting up her tiny face. He…

He really didn’t know how to be a father. Didn’t know how to be a good one. He had no good example, no guidance. He had no role model, nothing to lean on. And this child, barely born, seemed to already love him with her whole little heart. And then he understood — whatever he did, whoever he was, however he acted, his daughter would always love him. Always, no matter what.

And then, her tiny fingers grabbed his hair and yanked so hard it made his vision blur — and something inside, like a jammed part, broke free, leaving a sense of long-awaited release.

Her first “Daddy” came unexpectedly. He remembers every detail. Evening, another presentation, a fancy hall and a crowd of people, each wanting something from him. Tony, out of habit, held Avelina in his arms — small, nearly weightless. Her fingers clutched the lapel of his jacket, and suddenly, through the noise of the crowd, he heard that simple word. “Daddy.” As if it was the most natural thing in the world. And damn it, nothing in his life had ever sounded more beautiful.

He almost dropped his glass then. All the bravado, his carefully built image, vanished in a second. He just stood there, staring at his daughter, feeling his heart painfully pulse under his ribs. How did he even deserve something so pure and innocent? He was called the “merchant of death,” and she calls him, so simply yet lovingly — “Daddy…”

Sighing, Tony slowly stands up, approaches the table, and — acting with the precision of a man who can assemble and disassemble a reactor blindfolded — gently lifts the younger Stark into his arms. Avelina stirs slightly, buries her nose in his neck, but doesn’t wake.

“You’re getting old, Tony,” he mutters to himself, but his voice sounds warm, more like joy, pride in who he’s become.

The living room is quiet. Not the suffocating kind, but a different one — a homely kind. Soft lamp light, a faint scent of beer and chips. The Avengers sit scattered: Natasha is comfortably settled in a chair, watching some movie on TV. Steve — on the couch, in his usual thoughtfulness, and Clint quietly arguing with Bruce about something clearly unimportant.

When Tony enters, carrying the sleeping Avelina, the conversations fall silent. And JARVIS instantly mutes the TV. Natasha smiles warmly, corners of her lips slightly trembling. And Steve looks at the child intently, as if pondering something, but stays silent. Stark doesn’t pay it any mind. Rogers is a hundred-something years old — who knows what’s going on in his head.

“What?” he hisses at Clint. “Haven’t seen enough of a superhero playing daddy?” Tony grumbles, but his voice lacks its usual bite.

“It’s sweet,” Natasha notes, not lifting her eyes from the popcorn bowl.

“Too sweet,” adds Barton with mock horror, but Tony only snorts.

He walks past them, carefully holding his daughter, heading to her room. It’s dark and quiet there — the air smells of children’s shampoo, vanilla, and something sweet. On the bed — a soft blanket with a star print, and by the pillow — an old plush bunny with a slightly worn ear. Avelina didn’t let him buy a new toy, even though she already has plenty of dollhouses, cars, and stuffed trinkets.

Laying his daughter on the bed, Tony slowly brushes the hair from her face. Avelina mutters something, barely audible in her sleep:

“Daddy…”

And with those words, his heart seems to tremble. Tony leans in and kisses her forehead.

“Sleep, baby,” he whispers. “I’m right here.”

For a moment, he lingers, adjusting the plush bunny under her arm. His fingers tremble slightly as he strokes her cheek. Avelina sighs and, as if sensing his presence, hugs the toy tighter, smiling in her sleep.

Tony straightens up and casts one last glance at his daughter. In the soft light of the night lamp, her face looks so defenseless, and something in his chest painfully tightens. After all, there is room for a miracle in his life. And that miracle is now sleeping in her little bed, hugging a worn-out bunny. And it’s the most precious thing he’s ever had…

Stark closes the door a little quieter than usual and stays standing in the hallway for a few more seconds. Then, taking a deep breath, he walks away — for the hundredth time promising himself that he will never let anyone hurt his child. No one will hurt Avelina. Never. No matter what.***

Date: 1940. End of November.

Avelina slowly flips the page, absorbing the lines printed in typeface. The dense silence of the library, filled with the faint crackling of wood and the occasional rustling of paper, envelops her in a thick veil of solitude. It smells of time here — of old books exuding the scent of yellowed pages, dust, and a barely perceptible sweetish hint of mold, stuck in the spines damaged by dampness.

The library is a special place. High ceilings with massive wooden beams create a sense of grandeur. Along the walls stretch shelves, crammed with heavy volumes with worn corners. Ladders stand by the cases, allowing access to the very top shelves. Somewhere in a far corner, a typewriter clicks — Mrs. Meredith is filling out the catalog, quietly sighing over the worn-out index cards.

Avelina ventures deeper into the dark hall, where the faint light of a desk lamp pulls her silhouette out of the gloom of the shelves. The bulky cabinets loom over her, but she feels comfortable here. In this place, one can feel how time stands still, caught in the spines of forgotten folios.

She is used to these walls, to their muffled, almost conspiratorial silence. She has come here since childhood, from the moment an unbearable need arose to somehow distract herself from her own thoughts, disappearing for hours studying formulas, structures, medical theories. Avelina managed to skip several school grades even before the examination date. Her success was not based on magical insight or random luck — only strict, precise, reliable logic.

It is precisely here that her boldness transforms into an endless calculating mechanism, analyzing variables, calculating probabilities, untangling the most complex biochemical puzzles. It is here, among lines about the conformational stability of proteins and mechanisms of gene regulation, that she lays the foundation of her future.

Because science is the only thing one can be sure of. The laws of thermodynamics don’t change their minds, molecular interactions obey strict rules, and the algorithms of biological system modeling do not betray. Science will not let you down. At least, it hasn’t yet.

Today, Rogers’s attention is wholly drawn to the fourth-year biochemistry textbook. The chapter on the stabilization of complex compounds interests her the most — mechanisms of molecular folding, hydrogen bond dynamics, thermodynamic stability optimization. Deriving the perfect balance of components in a formula, their interaction with receptors, and their impact on metabolic pathways.

In her mind, it all comes together: the Michaelis-Menten equation, Gibbs free energy calculations, kinetic models of ligand binding — everything connects into a unified network until suddenly something goes wrong. Irritation flares up inside — not because she doesn’t understand, but because the answer slips away, leaving only the premonition of a guess.

She just can’t focus.

Something undefined, shapeless, is wandering inside her, pulling her in different directions like stochastic fluctuations. Avelina can’t figure out her feelings. But she can easily write down formulas so complex that students at Northfield University take several days to solve them. She manipulates biocatalysis parameters, models the kinetics of enzymatic reactions, and accurately calculates the stability of recombinant proteins in an artificially created microenvironment. But she can’t express in a single word what abyss has opened up inside her.

Avelina can’t tell her brother about it — she can’t find the words, can’t convey what’s tearing at her from within. Instead, she throws herself into calculations — modeling the diffusion of signaling molecules and predicting the behavior of biopolymers in a changing environment.

Because emotions are chaos, resembling random fluctuations in living systems. But science is stable, like the principles of gene regulation or self-assembly mechanisms, and that gives her a sense of control.

Here, Avelina is preparing to apply to MIT — the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, to the faculty of bioengineering. She dissects equations of enzyme kinetics, dives into methods of gene therapy and synthetic biology.

Teachers at school didn’t like her — for asking too many questions, for not being afraid to argue, and for refusing to conform to the standards and the rest. She was ridiculed, openly ignored, punished for the smallest infractions, but in the end of high school, they still let her go with tears in their eyes.

Of course! — how many olympiads and competitions she had won for the school! Without her, the institution would have long since lost its funding. So even the principal, who had grumbled about her inappropriate character for years, on the last day said he was proud of her and personally submitted her university application with a recommendation.

But she was rejected. Because she’s a woman. Discrimination by gender — it’s almost laughable.

Steve was angry, but also unmistakably proud of his sister — even if society doesn’t recognize her talents, he knows what she’s capable of. Mom would probably be proud of her too, if she were alive. It was Stevie who convinced Avelina to try applying to MIT, assuring her that this was her future, her chance to go further than either of them could have dreamed.

Right after the war began in Europe, everything started changing rapidly. The world turned upside down, familiar boundaries shifted. Fears arose that a new demographic crisis was on the horizon. And now Avelina herself was offered a chance: if she passes all the entrance tests, she’ll be admitted directly into the second semester.

If she passes the exams and passes them well, she’ll head to Cambridge in January — with full funding and a scholarship. And that’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. One you simply can’t refuse.

But admission means she’ll have to leave. MIT is eight hours from New York, from Brooklyn, from home. A new life awaits her — discoveries, research, the chance to work with cutting-edge technologies, but also loneliness. She will be among others like her — future scientists, engineers, innovators. But her family will remain here…

Rogers’s fingers nervously run along the chain with the pendant — an old, familiar gesture that’s become almost subconscious. A butterfly carved from cold metal sways slightly in her hand. Avelina sighs heavily and clenches the medallion, trying to concentrate.

But a sharp pain slices her finger. She winces, gritting her teeth. Looking down, she sees a crimson drop of blood slowly running down her pale skin. Her pulse quickens. She lifts the pendant higher, inspecting it from all sides, but… nothing. No sharp edge, no burr, not even the slightest hint of something that could have cut her.

What the hell?

Avelina runs her finger across the pendant’s surface again. The cold metal — smooth, without a single rough spot. And yet, the fact remains: her finger is bleeding.

A quiet rustle comes from the depths of the hall. Rogers turns sharply, alert. The dark corners of the library remain still. Only the weak light of the lamp casts shadows on the walls. Perhaps a mouse ran between the shelves? Or the old building is creaking with age? She knows she could explain the sound rationally, but the unpleasant feeling does not go away.

For a moment, Avelina sits, listening to the ringing silence, as if trying to catch some hidden meaning in it. Then, taking a deep breath, she returns to the book. The lines blur before her eyes, her thoughts are tangled, and the strange incident with the pendant refuses to leave her mind.

But one thing she knows for sure: in this world, there are no coincidences. Even the smallest detail — an error in an equation, a barely noticeable shift in molecular structure, an unremarkable choice in everyday life — affects our future.***

Date: 1941. Winter, January.

Bucky steps cautiously onto the staircase, and the rickety wooden steps creak under his weight, as if in protest. The cold handrail under his palm is rough, the paint peeled off, exposing the gray wood carved by time. The Rogers' house is old. The walls have absorbed thousands of days and nights, soaked in laughter, screams, whispers, and their mother’s singing.

He remembers running here as a child with Steve, holding onto this same handrail, tripping over the same steps, now even more worn. Back then, the staircase seemed endless, and the house—though old—was a fortress, protected from the whole world. Now, any careless movement could bring about its final collapse.

The smell of warm dinner floats in the air, spicy, thick, as if covering the walls with a sticky film. Somewhere in the kitchen, the radio crackles softly—a melody plays, simple, tugging at the soul, with a lazy rhythm, reminding him of those summer evenings he spent in this house.

Bucky absentmindedly climbs a few more steps, about to call out for Avelina to hurry down. His thoughts scatter—how often does he spend the night here? Almost the whole week. Month after month, day after day. As if this old creaky Rogers house has already become his, too. He doesn’t think about it seriously until his gaze catches on a half-open door, and the world narrows to a thin gap from which light spills out.

Bucky freezes in front of it, while a stripe of soft yellow light from the room etches across his face, flickering on the edges of the window frames like melting wax. It spreads across the floor, touches the worn boards, slowly runs down the wooden panels, clings to the mirror in the corner, catching a reflection—a delicate silhouette of a girl. Avelina.

And Bucky forgets how to breathe for a second.

She stands with her back to him, swaying her hips slightly, as if lost in thought. Her light curls are tied with a ribbon, but a few strands have come loose and stuck to her neck, to her bare collarbones. A thin strap of her slip has slipped down, revealing the line of her shoulder, the sharp corner of her shoulder blade...

Bucky clings to the outline of her body—the garment traces every curve of her figure. The fabric clings to her skin, emphasizing the curves, hollows, and sharp angles, the slender waist, the arch of her lower back, the faint shadow of her spine, the protruding ribs, her hips—not plump, but rounded. The hem of the slip barely covers the most intimate parts. Avelina, a little thin, and because of that—delicate, fragile, like a ballerina figurine.

Her movements reveal displeasure—a barely noticeable curl of her lips, tension in her fingers, a sullen glance sliding over the reflection. But Bucky ignores it. Again, his gaze drops lower.

Her skin, where it’s visible, seems porcelain-like, as if made of sunlight, but her elbows, knees, and ankles are tinted with the hue of a warm sunrise on frosted glass. Avelina straightens her shoulders, and Bucky’s gaze once again catches on her shoulder blades—sharp, defined, like those of a sculpture.

And Bucky swallows. His throat tightens. When he inhales, the sweet scent of jasmine and powder stings his nostrils, the air catching somewhere in his chest.

He should leave. He must.

But he stays, unable to look away. Instead of turning and walking off, he watches as Avelina grips the fabric of her slip at the waist, pulling it tighter, inspecting her own body with a critical eye. She pulls harder, stretching it over all the things no one… No one should be looking at.

Completely unaware of his gaze. Of how Bucky clenches his fists, how his fingers ache from the tension.

The light glides across her skin, brushing against the birthmark under her left shoulder blade—pinkish, irregular in shape, resembling a heart, but elongated, smudged. Bucky had seen it before, briefly, when she was younger. Much younger. And then it didn’t matter. But now… It’s a reminder that the Avelina before him is still real. That her body is alive, warm. And he shouldn’t be looking at it, let alone dreaming of touching it.

Barnes exhales quietly. A knot twists inside him—something dark, unforgivable, and definitely indecent.

The stockings on her legs are slowly slipping down, and Bucky unconsciously clenches his jaw so tightly his teeth creak. His chest rises in a breath that’s too slow, too heavy. This is wrong. This is forbidden. This is… this is—

He can’t look away.

His gaze is glued to her legs, her thighs, her backside, to the way the fabric of her slip lifts with each movement. One more second—and he’ll cross a line that must not be crossed. If Avelina makes one more move, the line will be crossed. If he stays for one more second—he’ll do something he’ll hate himself for.

But he doesn’t leave. He can’t.

Low in his abdomen, near his groin—it pulls, painfully and hot. The taste of the forbidden spreads through his veins, sticky and sweet, aching, tightening his mind in a loop.

And Avelina stretches her arms upward, arching like a cat, and the slip barely covers her chest. Her face frowns in a faint, barely noticeable expression of displeasure—she studies her reflection as if it's a stranger’s body. But to Bucky, it’s perfect. Too enticing. And the stockings keep sliding down toward her ankles. One more movement—and Bucky knows he’s already close to the edge.

Barnes notices the tension in her shoulders, how the thin skin stretches over fragile bones, highlighting the almost painful ethereality of her figure.

Bucky likes Avelina as she is. All of her. Entirely.

Rogers reaches back, as if testing her reflection for strength, for harmony—but he sees in it something frighteningly intimate, private and…

“Leave!” he commands himself. But his legs won’t move. Everything inside him tightens to a single point. His pulse hammers in his temples, blood flows through his veins too thick, too hot.

This is wrong. Dangerous. He’s known her since she was eight. This is Avelina. The girl he used to tug by the ear when she hid his boots, who ran after him down the street with a silly grin, never falling behind…

He must leave. Now.

But the hem of the shirt finally jumps higher, sliding over the buttocks, lower back, and Bucky exhales completely. The smooth skin is exposed more and more, and just a little bit—the line of the underwear, a narrow waist, a flat stomach, a graceful dip of the navel. A soft yellow light slides over her body, accentuating all the lines. Avelina barely turns sideways. If she had torn her gaze away from her own reflection for even a second, she would have noticed him in the mirror.

Only she is too deeply lost in her own doubts and doesn’t see how Barnes' eyes darken, how his Adam's apple jerks when his gaze accidentally touches her chest. It restrains him, as if he's sinking in hot tar.

The thin, translucent fabric of the shirt almost reveals nothing, and Bucky could swear he sees not just the small hemispheres but also the areolas of her nipples... Heat pierces him through. There is a ringing in his ears, a dull pulse in his temples, and this rhythm reverberates through his body in a burning electric shock. He feels his heart wildly pounding in his chest, his breath faltering, his palms sweating, and his nails digging into his skin.

Bucky tries to look away. He has to look away. But he can’t.

His eyes greedily explore every inch of her skin. They follow every movement of hers. Bucky is enchanted by her...

It's pathetic. It's miserable.

He shouldn’t be looking, but his groin aches mercilessly...

Struggling to unclench his fingers, and remembering that he needs to breathe, Bucky steps back. He jerks away sharply, pressing his back against the cold wall of the corridor. He shuts his eyes, grinding his teeth, trying to drive away the image that has burned into his memory. A dull ache is pulling at him from below — hot, torturous, unbearable. And he feels nauseous. He curses himself for it. He curses his own thoughts. He curses himself for allowing himself to look. For wanting to see more and... Damn it, not just see.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not with him, and not with her. Not with Avelina. His heart pounds loudly in his throat, desperately, as if demanding air. It’s agonizing. It pulls him downward.

He shouldn’t have looked. He shouldn’t have, but...

He needs to leave. Right now. But his body doesn’t obey.

Bucky catches himself realizing he’s suffocating. It’s terrifying. Disgusting. But even scarier is that, in this moment, there’s something inevitable, something that with every next glance pulls him closer to the edge of the abyss.

Barnes lowers his eyes, gathering his thoughts. Inhale-exhale. Get a grip! Bucky raises his hand and knocks on the door. Once. Twice. With a bent finger — not too loudly, but enough to snap Rogers out of his reverie.

She flinches. He understands it from the barely audible rustle of fabric and swallows again, because it doesn’t matter whether his eyes are closed or not — before his inner gaze flashes: how her shirt jumps up again over her rounded hips, exposing too much. If Avelina had raised her arms a little higher, arched her back... He could have even remembered it...

"I’m not dressed!" — her voice is sharp, frightened.

Bucky slowly exhales, heavily. His head drops, his forehead pressing against the cold surface of the door. Rage churns in his chest, contempt for himself. Gods, how he wishes he could hit himself right now — with all his strength, right in the jaw, so that the heat would rush to the wound and burn his filthy thoughts to the ground.

"I know you’re not..." a barely audible, hoarse, ragged exhale slips from his lips.

And then in response to Avelina, he says hoarsely, soaked, and strangled, sending a shiver down younger Rogers’ spine:

"Dinner," he exhales. "Ready."

He has to clear his throat so as not to give himself away. His fists are trembling. He clenches his teeth, furrows his brows... but notices how traitorously the fabric pulls at the zipper of his pants. Damn it!***

Date: 1991.

The dim light trembles under dusty lamps, leaving ragged yellow streaks on the concrete walls, like dried bloodstains of a faded color. There are no windows here — only cold, oiled walls, soaked with the smell of sour chemicals, rotting flesh, and the iron taste of stale blood. The air is heavy, sticky, like an inseparable layer of dirt that has settled on the skin.

Inside, everything is burning. An invisible flame eats away at the nerves, burns the consciousness, and scorches the remnants of will. His head still cracks from the electric shocks — a dull pain digs into the bones, echoes in the skull, spreads through the body like a painful wave. Scarlet flashes pulse under his eyelids, and inside — there is emptiness, wrapped in a sticky smoke of his own brain’s burning scent.

Everything is familiar. Everything is as usual. Everything is unchanging.

Somewhere far away, beyond this cell, there is a world full of sunlight and fresh air. But here — it is eternal night. In this prison, there is no time, only endless cold, soaked with the iron smell of blood and rust. The air is thick, suffocating, and each breath seems to cling to the lungs, leaving a metallic taste. The dim light trembles under the ceiling, casting long, ugly shadows, and it seems that these shadows are the only witnesses to everything that happens. There is no beginning, no end — only pain, enveloping, slowly blurring the boundaries between reality and the program.

Inside him — silence. But not the kind that brings peace, but the kind that rings in the head like an echo of a distant scream that no one will hear. He knows that memory doesn’t completely disappear — it’s somewhere deep, behind layers of commands and codes. Sometimes, flashes appear in this emptiness: someone’s laughter, sunlight, the warmth of another’s hand. But every time this happens, the pain returns stronger, not letting him hold even the tiniest shards of himself.

The cold here is special. It clings, penetrates under the uniform, gnaws into the bones, spreads inside like black mold. The sounds are muffled, distorted. Somewhere behind closed doors, instruments tick evenly, footsteps creak, and a quiet, dull cry is heard. Someone is sobbing — suppressed, as if they understand that tears will only make things worse, but for some reason, they can’t stop suffering.

From this sound, Activ thinks of breaking someone’s neck and, if not the guards, then himself.

Activ sits, head lowered. His hair clings to the damp sweat on his forehead, hiding his eyes. But he sees. He feels. He watches. Every movement. His muscles remain still, but inside — inside is horror, freezing, numbing, aching like phantom pain. But now, a burning pulse in his temples adds to it. The system has been rebooted, but there’s a glitch in its operation — something clings to his consciousness, not letting him fully plunge into the emptiness.Click.

A dull squeak of the door behind.

Before, there was another sound — sharp, dry, creeping under the skin. The smell of burned flesh, like on that operating table. They shocked him, again and again, until he forgot who he was. Until the world became just a gray spot, full of foreign voices and agony. Only the smell of burned meat let him know he was still alive.

"Soldier," the voice slides like a knife along a raw nerve, even, measured, but with a hint of something maliciously self-satisfied. The Curator enters slowly, step by step. He moves like a snake, lazily and dangerously, as if stretching the pleasure before making the bite.

Activ doesn’t move, but he feels him. He knows what’s coming. Something inside contracts. What remains — is instinct. The reaction of a cornered animal, who knows: any disobedience will be punished. And yet deep inside, something else smolders — a barely perceptible resistance, a tiny crack in the perfect program. He shouldn’t feel. But he does.

The man wears a perfectly fitting suit, impeccably pressed. He enjoys this. He examines Activ, studying him like a collector examining a rare exhibit, a trained beast who doesn’t know that his freedom is always an illusion.

Man is pitiful in his knowledge and desire for independence. Humanity is an organism, and it must be carefully managed — otherwise, everything will collapse.

The Curator stops in front. He dives his hand into the inner pocket of his jacket.

A folder. Click. The paper lies on the table.

A photograph. Activ recognizes the man in it instantly — Howard Stark.Pause.

A click inside his skull. Blurry, rusty, but tangible. He remembers. It’s like a feeling — causing a barely perceptible burn, like a phantom noise at the back of the brain, from which there’s no escape. He didn’t remember him until they showed him.

"Do you recognize him?" the Curator knows the answer. He doesn’t even need a voice. He sees the slightest reactions, tiny glitches in the program. "Of course, you do."

Pause. Activ doesn’t respond. But inside, something shifts.

A new photo. A woman. An older woman. Gray strands, wrinkles on her face. But she looks… happy? Her eyes are full of life. Warmth, light, something indefinably real.Click.

The Curator leans forward slightly. His voice becomes lazy, almost bored:

"There are changes in the mission. With Stark, it will be his wife, Maria." Pierce shakes his head, smirking. "You know what to do, right?"

The Curator turns the page with a new photo.

"You have a privilege," the man continues, crossing his arms over his chest, as if in mockery. "Not everyone can leave their mark on history. But you..." he leans even lower, looking into the Asset's eyes, stretching the word louder. "You're changing it." I'm rewriting everything as it should be. Shouldn't that make you proud of yourself?"Click.

Something stirs in his head.

"No witnesses," the Curator says this not as an order, but as a reminder. A simple, understandable truth.She’s not the target.She mustn’t be.She is not guilty.

"The road is slippery, the night is dark. An accident. Shoot the tire, or better yet, break the glass. The important thing is to make it look clean. Everything, as usual, Soldier."

He has no choice. Activ doesn’t choose. The metal of his fingers creaks barely perceptibly. Somewhere deep, in the place that should have been his mind, something tiny cracks. Insignificant. He has never had a choice. He has never had his own desires. He has never had the ability to act as he wants…Maria Stark — is not the target.She’s a random factor.She’s not guilty.But the order…

His brain struggles to process the words, but the program — precise, relentless — digs in, erasing doubts. He’s been taught that choice is an illusion. He is a tool, a weapon, devoid of will. But every time the task concerns not just objectives, but people, innocent victims, something breaks inside over and over again. His own scream is an echo. He doesn’t know why this order causes a tremor in his fingers.

But he will carry it out. He will kill Maria Stark."No witnesses."

The program glitches. For a split second. But the Curator notices. He smirks crookedly, predatorily, like a snake slipping under the skin.

"You look… concerned," the mockery burns under the skin, leaving poison in the blood. "Does this cause you doubts, Soldier?"

Pause.

Pierce waits. Presses with his gaze. Presses with his presence. But Activ remains silent. Silent, his eyes darting from side to side.Are you afraid? You should be afraid.

The Curator smiles wider:

"The most important thing," his voice becomes even more even, dry, emotionless, "is the serum. Stark has samples. The latest developments. We need this formula. You need to get it. Everything else is just territory cleanup."

Cleanup. The word settles somewhere deep in the retina.Do you remember? We will fix it.

The woman… The system reboots.

Something pulses deep inside the skull. Dull, but persistent. As if the remnants of the electric shock still wander through the nerve endings.

The Curator leans forward again, looking directly into Activ’s eyes. Thin lips move, driving the last nail into the coffin lid:

"What’s your plan, Soldier?"Click.

The program is activated.

The road is slippery. A shot to the tire. The car loses control. A flip. A crash into the glass. Howard loses control. The car skids.

If Stark is alive — finish him off on the spot.

The woman… Maria Stark."No witnesses."

The gears slow down.

The serum.

Get the super-soldier serum.

His head again splits with pain. Something suffocates inside, barely noticeable, but dying slowly...

"The mission will be completed," his voice is even, empty, dead.

Pierce smirks.

"Good, Soldier." His palm rests on Activ's shoulder. A light, almost friendly gesture. Metal creaks faintly.

There are no foreign voices in his head anymore. Only death.

He will carry out the mission unquestioningly. That’s what he was created for. That’s what he was born for.***

Date: 1941. Winter, January.

The train howls long and drawn out. Its sound is long, harsh, like a scream or a wail. The air on the platform is dense, heavy, mingled with coal soot, the cold breath of winter, and something elusive and bitter—the smell of farewells. Snow, once soft and clean, has turned into a dirty mixture of ice and soot beneath hundreds of feet, sticky, clinging, like regrets that follow those departing.

Between the light posts slicing through the dark mist, shadows of people flicker—hurrying, bidding farewell, silently waiting. Someone quietly whispers a prayer, someone hides trembling fingers in mittens, and someone simply stands, weak and speechless, watching the carriages, as if hoping the train might change its mind and not leave.

People bustle back and forth, dropping suitcases, belatedly embracing, laughing—but the laughter is fragile, brittle, strained, like a shard of ice before it cracks. Someone hides their tears, turning away, someone clings to a precious person until the last moment, as if hoping to hold them with their fingers.

Avelina stands by the carriage. In her palm is a crumpled ticket to Cambridge. Her fingers clench it until her knuckles turn white—she holds onto it like a last support. The paper burns in her hand, searing from within. She could tear this ticket. Just squeeze it tighter, and the thin paper would rip. And then she wouldn't have to leave, wouldn't have to take that step into the unknown. But that would only be a postponement, not a solution.

Avelina looks at the city, at the gray rooftops, at the snow-covered streets, at the faces of people who have become her family. She is leaving all of this behind. Her heart beats a dull, slowed rhythm, as if already sinking into the emptiness of parting…

She never thought she would leave New York for such a long time. Years of study at MIT lie ahead. And only in the spring, perhaps, will she manage to return, if only for a short while... Her home—will remain behind. Even the beloved library at Northfield Institute, the smell of its old books, and the quiet hours between the shelves. All of this will become nothing but wistful memories.

Stevie stands a little to the side, wrapped in a warm scarf, his hands in his pockets. He hardly speaks, but Avelina sees how tensely he grits his teeth, as if afraid to say something that would make her change her mind.

"I... I still have to ask. Are you sure, Avelina?" His voice is soft, almost pleading, not wanting to sound weak, but still betraying anxiety.

Avelina swallows, feeling the lump of tears rise in her throat. She nods.

"Yes. But that doesn’t mean I’m not scared."

"You’ll manage," her brother insists, though doubt reflects in his eyes. Or maybe, he doesn’t want to believe she’s really leaving. "Just... Just be careful."

Avelina nods, and suddenly, unable to hold back, she throws herself into his arms, and he holds her so tightly that for a moment, it’s hard to breathe. His fingers seem to dig into her shoulders, trying to remember, hold on, not let go. He exhales, then shudders, and it hurts even more. Stevie holds her tighter, as if afraid that if he lets go—he’ll never see her again.

As though she will never return.

The warmth of his embrace offers some comfort, but inside, something still tears. Avelina feels his fingers twist for a moment, then release. Stevie steps back, unable to look her in the eye.

Then Dolores comes closer, wrapped in a warm woolen coat. Her usually carefree face now looks bewildered. When Avelina turns to her, she sees the tears shining on her cheeks.

"You’ll come back, right?" Her voice trembles. Dolores tries to smile, but the smile comes out painfully, like a wound that hasn’t been allowed to heal.

And Avelina sighs hoarsely, squeezing the strap of her bag tighter. They weren’t close friends... or at least, that’s what she thought. But now, looking at the tear-streaked face of the girl in front of her, she understands: Dolores is also a part of her life. In some way, important, significant. Even though sometimes Rogers envied her, even though her ease and femininity sometimes annoyed her, but now...

Now, it doesn’t matter.

"Of course," Avelina tries to say it confidently, but it comes out too muffled. Dolores hugs her suddenly, desperately, and Avelina feels their shoulders shake in rhythm, as Dolores clings to her, afraid to release her grip.

What did she do to deserve this?

Tears begin to fall down her cheeks, and Rogers no longer tries to hide them. There are few people in her life who truly love her, and those who do... too often leave and never return.

And then—him.

Finally, it’s Bucky’s turn. He stands a little apart. Snow falls in a thin layer on his coat, and he doesn’t brush it off, as if he doesn’t even notice. His face is almost calm, but in his eyes... In his eyes, something bottomless, burning, lies hidden, something he will never say. Something he won’t admit to anyone.

Farewell. Pain. Helplessness.

Bucky never imagined that the "persistent nonsense"—as he had called it in childhood, would someday be so far away that he wouldn’t be able to care for her at any moment she needed him. He wouldn’t be able to help, protect, keep her safe…

Now, to see her, he will need to spend a whole ten hours of travel one way, and to return to New York—another ten hours. Avelina had never been so far from him. And if only a few weeks ago, he could reject the fact of the impending separation, now he feels it fully.

Avelina takes a step, hesitant, but Bucky takes it first. And embraces her. Suddenly. Too tightly, so that she gasps for air. Not just an embrace—it’s desperation, hopelessness, an attempt to say without words: "Stay. Please." Avelina feels his fingers digging into her coat, squeezing at the back of her neck, tangling in her hair. He doesn’t want to let go. He can’t let her go.

And Avelina feels how his fingers tremble. Barely noticeable, but still trembling. If she were braver, she would tell him she doesn’t want to leave either. That every movement toward the train is a betrayal. But the words won’t come. All that remains is a few moments, in which she tries to remember the warmth of his hands and the thumping of his heart, pressed to her temple.

The embrace is such that her bones creak. Her body aches, it’s hard to breathe. For a moment, Bucky squeezes her even tighter, and Avelina wants him to press her deeper into his body, to never part from him, to always be by his side. To become one with him…

But with the next breath—Bucky lets her go.

"Don’t forget us, okay?" His voice sounds muffled, hoarse, painful. Bucky, if he were a little braver, if he could be honest with himself, would say: Don’t forget me, okay? Don’t leave, don’t abandon, don’t go, please…

Avelina clenches her jaw to keep from bursting into tears right on his shoulder. She doesn’t want to leave, but she knows she must.

"Never," she whispers, gripping him a little tighter. Their fingers intertwine, palms pressed together in the tightest grip: Please don’t leave…

But this is her future. Her life. And she can’t be tied to Bucky, like a keychain on a ring—forever. There will come a time, and they will drift apart. And by then, Avelina doesn’t want to be completely crippled by her feelings and helplessness. Love will always lurk in her heart. But she must think with her head.

The embrace ends too quickly, and now the conductor announces boarding. Avelina looks back one last time at her family—the soft lines of Stevie’s face, Dolores’s sparkling tears, the shadow of pain in Bucky’s eyes. She wants to hold onto this moment, preserve it in her memory, like an old photograph that can be taken out on cold nights of loneliness. But the train does not wait, time does not wait. It pulls her forward, like a tide washing away traces in the sand.

Stevie—tense but smiling through the pain. Dolores—wiping away tears but trying to look cheerful. Her smile is sincere, despite everything. And Bucky… Bucky—with that unreadable expression in his eyes, as if he wants to say something more, but it’s already too late. If he starts, she’ll miss the boarding, and the train will leave. And he can’t do that to her.

Avelina climbs the steps into the carriage, shivering as she grips the handle of her travel bag, in which she managed to fit eighteen years of her life. The train jolts, slowly gaining speed. Through the window, she sees her family left behind. With every new meter that separates her from the platform, it becomes harder to breathe. As if something inside is tearing, like invisible threads that bound her to home, snapping one after the other.

She knew this moment would come, she prepared for it, but only now has she fully realized its inevitability. Time moves in only one direction. And she—she is heading into the unknown, to a new beginning, to a new life…

English is not my native language! Maybe there are a lot of mistakes. ♡♡♡

My AO3^ My Tiktok My Wattpad

[mrs-johansson]

Chapter 5: Avengers: Age of Ultron - Two Ghosts

Part 9:

“Say hi to Auntie Nat and Auntie Y/n,” I listened to Laura’s voice on the video of baby Nathan that she sent us. “Look at your cousin, Rina,” I showed the video to my daughter. “He’s cute right?” I smiled as she nodded.

Walking through the hallways of the new Avengers facility was something else. “The rules have changed,” said Steve. “We're dealing with something new,” I looked at the three men. “Well, the Vision's artificial intelligence.” “A machine.” “So it doesn't count,” Steve tried his best, hoping his failure would be overlooked by this. “No. It's not like a person lifting the hammer,” shrugged Dad who was also on Steve’s side on this one. “Right. Different rules for us.” “And what do I get? I lifted the hammer,” I asked and Steve looked surprised along with my father. “Free vacation to Asgard?” Offered Thor. “I will take you up on that one.”

“Aren’t you bummed that Tony is stepping back?” Asked Steve as we made our way back inside. “He won’t stay away for long, I know him.” “And what about you? Taking some time to yourself and Katarina?” “Maybe… But we have plenty to do here, so maybe some other time…” We reached the hall where Natasha was. “You want to keep staring at the wall, or do you want to go to work? I mean, it's a pretty interesting wall,” said Steve, and Natasha turned around immediately. “I thought you and Tony were still gazing into each other's eyes. How do we look?” She asked as she walked up to us. I handed her the tablet that held all the information that we’d need to make new Avengers. “Well, we're not the '27 Yankees.” The stupid baseball references. “We've got some hitters.” “They're good. They're not a team,” I said. “Let's beat 'em into shape.”

***

Steve was given the task to show the 4 new team members the whole facility. Since it is a big building, I thought I would just relax a little with Katarina in the sleeping floor’s living room. We watched some cartoons and had some fruit snacks.

We were sitting on the floor, playing with some wooden building toys when Katarina threw her hands in the air and smiled widely, looking behind me. I turned around and saw Natasha smiling at my daughter. Katarina stood up and ran to her. “Hey Bubba,” Nat picked her up and kissed all over her face, making the little girl laugh so hard. “How about you watch some cartoons with Auntie Maria while I talk to your Mama, hm? We could get ice cream after,” Natasha whispered to her and she nodded. Maria came in and took Katarina with her.

Natasha watched as Hill walked off with my daughter before turning to look at me. She put her hands in her pockets and stood up straight. “What is happening?” I was confused about the situation. I sat up on the couch and with a big sigh, she stood in front of me. “I want you to listen to what I’m gonna say next, without interrupting me. I thought about it… a lot, so please hear me out,” she said and I nodded.

“We’ve had a rough couple of months, maybe even a year. I think we both made it difficult but I did a lot of awful things. I said a lot of things that I regret. I never intended to refer to you as a…” she cleared her throat. “A whore,” I helped her out. “Yes, I’m sorry about that. We were extremely mean to each other but you still looked out for me and I’m thankful for that…” “Natalia, stop with the big speech. We both know that we didn’t mean the things we said. We talked about this,” I spread my arms and she sighed, looking everywhere but me. She was fidgeting with her hands, she looked very nervous. “Nat…” “I love you, Y/n. And this thing with Bruce just made me realize that I could never love someone like I do you. What I’m trying to say is…” My eyes were wide open at this point. “Is that I’d like us to try again with full honesty and directness, no hiding things from the past.”

I was speechless for a second and very much surprised. Getting to this point meant that we really treated each other shit and it clearly affected both our lives. For Natasha to stand here and talk about her feelings is beyond her. And I respect that and am glad to see her be more connected to her emotions.

But she can’t expect us to go straight back to where we left off even though I miss her a lot too.

“I hope you don’t think that we can go back to exactly where we left things off,” I glanced down at my hands then slowly looked back up at her hoping she wouldn’t throw a tantrum.

“Yeah, I know that. But Y/n…” She sat down next to me and reached for my hand. At first, I was hesitant to let her take a hold of it but my senses seemed to shut down and she easily did as she wished. “We can work this out. Slowly but we can. We got through more difficult times together and separately too. Дорогая (darling), it’s us.”

One look in her eyes and I got back into the same moment I fell in love with her. Natasha doesn’t change in a lot of ways, her heart will always be the same but as a person, she evolves a lot. Maybe not fast but very efficiently. I believe she learned and found out what I meant by being honest. Bruce didn’t speak about his past often but he didn’t hide a single thing and I think she realized how important honesty is in every relationship. She needed more proof I guess.

But man how I am in love with this woman. She will never fail to amaze me. No matter what will happen to us, she will forever be my always.

“I miss you a lot, Nat,” I squeezed her hand. Her eyes were full of hope and she was so eager for my answer. “I want to try again too, but things are different. I have a plus one now. She’s growing so fast and the thing with James is very unstable. We won’t have as much time together as we used to. Katarina is my number one priority now.” “And I understand that completely. Oh and besides she loves me, come on. I’m her personal clown basically,” she smirked and it made me laugh because it was true. “Let me take you on a date and we’ll see how it goes,” Natasha suggested. “I’d like that.”

***

“I’ll see you tomorrow, okay? You have fun with Grandpa,” I kissed the side of Katarina’s head before she ran off to her playroom. “Not that I mind spending time with the little devil here, but where are you going?” He crossed his arms and tilted his head. “I’m uhm… going on a date,” I cleared my throat, avoiding his eyes. “With whom?” “Natasha,” I mumbled, scratching the back of my neck. “Who?” “Natasha, I’m going out with Natasha.”

Silence fell on us, and I didn’t know what he was thinking because I didn’t even wanna know to be honest. “Okay, have fun.” And then he left for the playroom. “My family is so weird.”

***

Getting ready was nerve-wracking. I felt like we were gonna meet for the first time again, like we never even dated and I was extremely nervous. Even though we both want this to work out, nobody knows if it will or not. I made sure I looked my best, ready to make Natasha swoon.

On the way to the restaurant, I checked the time about a hundred million times just as many times I looked in my little pocket mirror to look at my makeup.

“So this is a date, huh?” Asked Happy from the front seat. “Yeah. I’m actually a little nervous,” I chuckled nervously. “Oh please, if you didn’t exist I don’t think Romanoff would have feelings,” he said and I took that as a compliment. “With you weird people comes strange history, don’t let that get between the two of you. I’ve seen the way you look at each other, it’s a once-in-a-lifetime thing. Be grateful to have found it already.” “Wise words from the man himself. How are you still single Happy? You’re a good catch,” I suggested. “Your dad. That’s why.” “I wouldn’t even doubt that.”

We pulled up to the restaurant and I got even more anxious. “You’ll be great. She’s already head over heels for you.” “Thanks. Go home and get on a dating app or something.” “You’re worse than him sometimes,” he said, as I got out of the car. “Bye Happy.”

He drove away and I took a deep breath before turning to the entrance of the restaurant.

I asked for the reservation and the lady at the front showed me to the table where Natasha was sitting already. She looked beautiful. I wasn’t the only one who went all out on looks.

She had this amazing deep green suit on and honestly, I wanted to die from how good she looked in it. With her red hair… perfection.

Once she saw me, she put her phone away quickly and stood up. She looked a little jumpy.

“Hey,” she said softly as she took a good look at me. “Hi, you look amazing,” I said and leaned in to give a kiss on her cheek. Her hand came up to my waist, knowing her way around. “So do you, as always.”

We sat down and soon the waiter appeared with our menus and we started to pick and choose our meal. “This is a very nice place, how did you find it?” I asked as I looked around the beautifully decorated restaurant. It was very fancy and it felt like I was in a movie.

“Maria suggested it, I didn’t know she goes to places like this. I didn’t know she goes anywhere, to be honest,” said Natasha as she looked through the different options on the menu.

“Should we get the wine we used to get?” Asked Nat. “Yeah, I was thinking the same. I have my dish too so if you’re ready we can order,” I closed the menu. “Yeah, I’m ready.”

We soon ordered our food and as the waiter left, my nerves came back as I looked at the beautiful redhead in front of me. “Why are you nervous? It’s not like we haven’t done this before,” she said with a grin on her face. I sighed with a small smile. I can’t hide a single emotion from her.

“I know we did, but I still feel like it’s a first date. We haven’t talked about our lives a lot lately and I don’t know… We also changed a lot so it’s kinda like a… upgraded version of us, first date.” “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

“So anything new that I may not know about?” I asked as the waiter came back with our wine. “Uhm… I’m not sure. Oh I got a cat,” she said and I couldn’t believe what she just said. “You what?” “I have a cat. She’s been outside of the apartment building for a while and I kept feeding her, and after a week I just took her in. It was pretty lonely at home so I thought why not?” Explained Natasha and I just smiled. “That’s cute. I’d never thought you’d take some random cat in. Does she have a name?” “Liho. It’s fitting for her situation.”

We talked through the whole night and I just felt so relieved. It’s like we haven’t skipped time. The conversation didn’t stop, we shared everything and more with each other and I was really happy.

“Have you heard anything from Barnes?” Natasha asked softly and I glanced up at her before going back to my dinner. “He hasn’t even checked the mailbox for at least a month. I just hope he’s alive. Katarina already asked about where he is and I don’t even know myself,” I sighed, and the next moment Natasha’s hand was on mine giving it a gentle squeeze. “I’m sure he’s fine.”

“And how’s it being a mom? You wished for that since I’ve known you,” smiled Nat. “It's honestly one of the best things in life. She’s such an amazing little girl, I mean you’ve seen how incredible she is. She doesn’t have a bad bone in her body. It’s just so hard to see her grow so fast. I’ve missed so much already with her and I don’t want to lose a single thing. I’ve never planned to have a child at this age but I couldn’t imagine my life without her anymore.” “You’re an amazing mom, Y/n, I hope you know that,” said Natasha with a cute smile on her face. “Thanks, I try my best,” I looked down at my food shyly. “Do you want kids?” I asked bluntly and I didn’t know if she’s gonna take the question well but she just looked surprised. “Well… I haven’t really considered it. I wouldn’t say I didn’t think about it but… I don’t know, it seems like a very far stretch.” “You’d be a great mom,” I said and she looked at me with a concerned look. “You think so?” “Oh definitely, I see you with the Bartons and Katarina. You’d give everything to your baby the moment they arrive. You would be the good cop for sure,” I chuckled. “No, I wouldn’t. I’d be strict,” she straightened her posture, trying to look strict. “Oh come on, Natalia… you would spoil them for life,” I said and she thought about it for a second. “You’re probably right.”

“You said you haven’t spoken to your family since Russia. What’s that all about?” I asked and she seemed like she was ready to share her story. “They are not my real parents but we… We acted like a family for 3 years on a mission. It was the four of us: Alexei, Melina, Yelena and me. That was the only time I got to experience a family life. Alexei and Melina had to retrieve some data in Ohio so we lived there for that time. But of course, we had to go back once they got the job done. Melina was raised in the Red Room and I think she still works for them, Alexei is in jail if I’m right, and Yelena… I have no idea. I couldn’t trace her back to anywhere. We were used like puppets, Yelena was so small that she barely understood the concept of us being a fake family.” “Were Alexei and Melina good parents?” I asked and she shrugged. “They did the best they could.”

“Any plans for the near future?” Asked Natasha as we were waiting for our dessert. “Actually… I’ve been in talks with Nick and Maria about starting a new… SHIELD, but with a couple of changes. We’ve been compromised way too many times since SHIELD operates and we need to change that. So if you’re looking for a new employer…” I suggested and she chuckled. “Then you’re gonna be my boss again.” “When was I ever your boss?” “When I was in Stark Industries,” she said and I playfully rolled my eyes. “Okay, well that wasn’t on paper. You were my dad’s assistant.” “You could’ve bossed me around if you wanted to,” she said with a slight smirk on her face. “I should’ve lived with the opportunity.”

After we had our dessert, we bickered over who’s gonna pay but in the end Natasha won. We called a cab for ourselves and as each of our cars arrived we turned to each other on the streets of Manhattan.

“I had a great time,” she said with a knowing smile. “It wasn’t so bad,” I shrugged with a smirk and she chuckled lowly. “I think we’ll be fine, Romanoff,” I bumped my elbow into hers and she quickly had her eyes on me. She looked almost shocked when I said this and I just thought she had some hope in herself. “So it didn’t work out the first time. That’s what second chances are for,” I said and with a kiss on her cheek, I said my goodbyes. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” “See you tomorrow,” her cheeks rounded with a slight pink tint on them. We both left for our cars, making our way home.

[ghostly-wisteria-tea]

In my fic, MCU Khonshu really, really have a bad opinion on the modern cults.

This grew from stopping a lot of apocalyptic cults who want to take over the world in the past millennia. Even from a branch of his own cult at the early century, which he had to stop personally when they refused to listen to him and start making up stuff about his character.

The thing about cults in Khonshu's home, is that it emphasizes on not being the "supreme" god, there are hundreds of them so they all have to share followers, priests and worshipers. Each city have their own creator god, trinity, and patron that intersect, so it's not a problem if you move to another city that worship Sobek, but prefer Osiris since it is the patron on your old birth city. All that matters is that you don't be a jerk to everyone and the patron just because the patron is not one prefer. They all have to be tolerant and co-exists because Khonshu isn't the only god around. He even shares one temple with his parents, and other gods, and got fused to bunch of others over the years from Thoth, Osiris, Ptah, Yah, etc.

But later, cults have changed from being a center of benevolent reverence, respect and co-existence, to just brainwashing centers that preach supremacy, and soft-ideas of world-domination that makes you intolerant to other gods. Becoming more and more territorial that focus more on survival and staying relevant, AND crushing the competition, regardless of if it means twisting the old rules. And since the MCU Ennead made a huge rule about not showing themselves, Khonshu's own cult was monitored in case they might start expanding to other territories and adding extra features to Khonshu. Like they end up lumping so many attributes that have nothing to do with him, practically trying to make him Egyptian Jesus/Yahweh. And this end up having a huge effect on Khonshu as they are essentially creating a new identity to Khonshu. Which he really doesn't appreciate since they are essentially erasing any trace of the OG Khonshu. Which is like, "Killing" his soul.

HYDRA actually came close to figuring out the Egyptian gods still exist, and with it, the Emerald Tablet of Hermes Trismegistus. Along with all the other still working relics.

And since a Nazi scientist wanted to get the Holy Grail, and Thor's hammer, if he found out that the Emerald Tablet, another object of an ancient civilization exists, he will start targeting the Egyptian Gods to add to his list of "mythological items he wants to add to his collection".

So Khonshu had to find any of the remaining working relics and destroy them when the Ennead refused to because of the whole, "non-interference" rule. While avoiding all the HYDRA spies around the world.

Then Arthur Harrow tried to start one.

Khonshu practically have PTSD from Arthur Harrow's attempt and the Ammit cult, which is pretty much fresh for his age. And the internal guilt of not stopping the man from the beginning, and practically enabling Arthur's decision by being a really shitty boss.

His guilt grew when he realized that he was so focused on his duty, that he didn't saw Arthur's deteriorating mental state until it was too late and it all bite him in the ass.

So yeah, he really, really doesn't want that to happen again. Especially with a second Marc who he realizes now, is doing what Arthur Harrow did with the whole cult thing.

I mean, he tries to rectify his past actions. But it just what he thinks is the right thing and done so recklessly that it will just crash and burn.

He was never one to do things in moderation. He usually has this philosophy of Go Hard, or Go Home.

So even his definition of being more "Helpful", can be a bit much.

[mr-tony-stark]

Tony is enjoying himself immensely, chatting with his friends, drinking, having Clint casually touching him.  It’s really nice.  It feels so much more real than anything else he’s had.

When Clint gets up and tries the hammer, Tony can’t help but laugh.  He’s curious though.  It should be liftable.  When Clint can’t lift it he laughs and gets up. “You’ve had a big week, Cupid.  It’s understandable that you couldn’t get it up for this,” he teased as he approached the hammer.  “It’s just physics.”

He tries to lift it and nothing.  “Wait.  Wait, I’m going to get this.”  He scurries off to the lab and returns with the gauntlets for the Iron Man and War Machine armor, and then tries again, this time with Rhodey.  Nothing.

The team then all take turns trying to lift the hammer.  The game is probably the most fun of all.  Just all of them being silly.

“The handle's imprinted, right? Like a security code. "Whosoever is carrying Thor's fingerprints" is, I think, the literal translation?” Tony says.

“Yes, well that's, uh, that's a very, very interesting theory. I have a simpler one,” Thor says, getting up and picking up his hammer easily and flipping it in his hand.”You're all not worthy.”

“Worthy... No, how could you be worthy? You're all killers.” Everyone looks over at the sound of the voice, one of Tony’s broken Iron Legion comes dragging itself out of the elevator.

“Stark?” Steve asks as everyone gets up.

“JARVIS?” Tony asks.

The only answer comes from the Iron Legionnaire.  “I'm sorry, I was asleep. Or... I was a-dream?”

Tony grabs one of his tablets and starts typing into it, trying to get control of the broken Legionnaire.  “Reboot, Legionnaire OS, we got a buggy suit.”

“There was a terrible noise... and I was tangled in... in... strings. I had to kill the other guy. He was a good guy,” the Legionnaire continues.

“You killed someone?” Steve asks.

“Wouldn't have been my first call. But, down in the real world we're faced with ugly choices,” it replies.

“Who sent you?” Thor asks.

The sound of Tony’s voice echoes out of the robot. "I see a suit of armor around the world."

“Ultron!” Bruce gasps

“In the flesh,” Ultron replies.  “Or, no, not yet. Not this... chrysalis. But I'm ready. I'm on a mission.”

“What mission?” Natasha asks.

“Peace in our time,” It responds and the windows smash in as more legionnaire burst into the room and start firing on everyone.

Clint chuckles looking at Rhodey and nodded. “Don’t worry. I love him but I’m not going to let him run me over,” he spoke and smiled softly and hummed at Tony showing PDA back. He sighs happily and nodded a bit looking down at Tony.

And he did. Throughout the whole evening he was holding Tony close, touching him, kissing him. And he was slowly getting a little buzzed. He was sitting on the ground infront of Tony inbetween his legs sipping on a flask of wine with Natasha, taking turns. He then turned around looking at Tony and smiled gently.

“It’s been a nice party, baby,” he pointed out and smiled looking at him before he looked at the others talking about the hammer. Aka, thors hammer. “So, if I lift the hammer I rule Asgard?” He spoke and looked at Thor, making Thor nod. “Yes. At all means, be my guest,” he spoke as Clint shot to his feet.

“It’s all just a trick,” he pointed out before he grabbed onto the hammer and of course it didn’t budge making him huff. “There has to be a button on it.”

[georgiaandgray]

Thor, Social Media and Midnight Thunder (Suburbia, With Thunder)

The bedroom was dark, quiet, and finally cooling from the chaos of the day.

She was already halfway to sleep, sinking deeper into the warm comfort of their bed, the soft weight of the blankets pulling her under.

Thor was supposed to be asleep too.

Instead, he sat propped up against the headboard, giant tablet in hand, blue light casting a halo over his ridiculous, happy face.

At first, she tried to ignore him.

The occasional snort of laughter. The bed shaking a little when he stifled a guffaw. Fine. Annoying, but fine.

Until—

"HA! HAHAHAHA!" Thor’s booming laugh shattered the silence, rattling the lamp on the nightstand.

She bolted upright, hair wild, heart hammering.

"Thor," she groaned, voice muffled by the pillow she dragged over her head. "For the love of everything, I'm trying to sleep."

Thor’s voice, utterly unbothered, rumbled back: "But my love! You must see — the tiny dog believes itself a dragon! It has stolen a slipper and—"

"Thor," she said again, dangerously low, "turn it off."

He made a wounded noise — the kind usually reserved for battlefield betrayals — but slowly lowered the tablet.

Obedient. (Well, mostly obedient.)

She sighed in relief, shifting back down under the covers, willing herself to relax. Then she felt it.

The mattress dipped as Thor leaned over — his giant body curling around hers, massive arm slipping over her waist, pulling her against his chest.

"Perhaps," he murmured, voice low and mischievous against her ear, "you could assist me in finding sleep, Lady Thunder."

She made a half-hearted attempt to wiggle away. "Thor, it's late—"

He only pulled her tighter, nuzzling into her hair, the rumble of his amusement vibrating through his chest.

"I find myself... restless," he said, lips brushing her temple. "Your nearness soothes me. Your touch —"

"You are ridiculous," she said, trying not to laugh, trapped against the wall of warmth and muscle that was her husband.

"And you," Thor said, with all the earnestness of a man declaring undying love on a battlefield, "are my peace."

He punctuated it by pressing a slow, tender kiss to her bare shoulder.

She melted a little. Just a little.

Sighing in mock defeat, she shifted, tucking herself fully into his arms.

"Fine," she whispered. "But if you wake me up again, I get the tablet for a week."

Thor chuckled — a softer sound now, full of love instead of thunder — and buried his face in her neck.

"I would gladly surrender all the treasures of Asgard," he murmured, "for the honor of sleeping at your side."

She smiled sleepily, feeling the deep, steady thump of his heart under her palm, and let herself drift down with him.

The bedroom was finally still.

Thor was wrapped around her like a living blanket, his huge hand splayed across her stomach, his nose tucked against her hair. The deep, even sound of his breathing told her he was almost asleep — almost — but not quite.

She smiled to herself, tracing idle circles over the back of his hand.

"Thor," she whispered into the dark.

"Mmm?"

She felt him nuzzle closer, his whole body relaxing even further at the sound of her voice.

"Have you ever thought," she murmured, almost slyly, "about trying for another one?"

There was a long pause. Thor’s hand froze mid-breath against her belly.

She smirked into the pillow.

"Another child?" he asked, voice careful.

"Mmhmm," she said, innocent. "Maybe a girl this time."

Another long pause. Then, very quietly, almost fearfully:

"A girl," Thor repeated, as if testing the words in his mouth and finding them slightly poisonous.

She couldn't help it — she laughed, soft and wicked.

Thor pulled back slightly so he could see her face in the faint moonlight, his expression grave.

"My love," he said solemnly, "our house is already ruled by your will alone. I am but a humble servant to your wisdom."

She snorted.

"And yet you wish to unleash another of your kind upon me?" he continued, as if pleading for his life. "A smaller, more chaotic, infinitely louder version?"

She grinned wickedly. "You’re scared."

"I have three sons to protect me," Thor said dramatically, throwing an arm toward the ceiling. "Three mighty warriors to shield me from your wrath."

"Uh-huh."

"If another woman joins your ranks—" He shook his head, looking truly stricken. "I fear I shall be... outnumbered. Forever."

She was laughing helplessly now, muffling it against his chest.

Thor sat up slightly, bracing himself on an elbow, looking down at her with shining eyes.

"You would train her," he said, mock-accusing. "You would teach her your ways. Your glares. Your unstoppable arguments that even Odin himself could not withstand."

"Obviously," she said smugly.

Thor groaned and dropped his forehead against her shoulder like a man defeated in battle.

"But," she added, softer now, fingers threading into his hair, "you would adore her."

He lifted his head, looking at her with that stupidly earnest, adoring expression she could never resist.

"Of course," he said simply. "If she is even half of you... I would love her beyond reason."

They lay there for a moment in silence, the weight of the possibility settling between them — warm, heavy, wonderful.

Then Thor sighed, dramatic again.

"But still," he said mournfully, "I shall pray for another son. For my own survival."

She laughed again, softer this time, and pulled him back down against her, tucking him under her chin like a giant, ridiculous child.

"We'll see what happens," she whispered.

Thor rumbled something wordless against her skin, already half-asleep again, and she smiled in the dark.

God of Thunder. Defender of the Nine Realms. Afraid of a tiny daughter who would probably steal his hammer the moment she could walk.

She couldn't wait.

[fmp2anyapriceundrill]

Famous items ( research)

--- VHS Tapes - ( The Ring ) ---

--- The One Ring ---

--- The Holy Grail ---

--- Excalibur ---

--- Mjolnir ---

It was used both as a devastating weapon and as a divine instrument to provide blessings. The hammer is attested in numerous sources, including the 11th century runic Kvinneby amulet, the Poetic Edda, a collection of eddic poetry compiled in the 13th century, and the Prose Edda, a collection of prose and poetry compiled in the 13th century. The hammer was commonly worn as a pendant during the Viking Age in the Scandinavian cultural sphere, and Thor and his hammer occur depicted on a variety of objects from the archaeological record. Today the symbol appears in a wide variety of media and is again worn as a pendant.

--- Pandora's Box ---

Pandora's box is a container left in the care of her husband, thus releasing curses upon mankind. Later depictions of the story have been varied, with some literary and artistic treatments focusing more on the contents than on Pandora herself.

It's also an artifact in Greek mythology connected with the myth of Pandora; who is a forced wife of Hades.

--- Ark of the Covenant ---

The Ark of the Covenant is also known as the Ark of the Testimony or the Ark of God.

Is supposed to be believed to have been the most sacred religious relic of the Israelites. It is described as a wooden chest coated in pure gold and topped off by an elaborate golden lid known as the mercy seat. According to the Book of Exodus and the First Book of Kings in the Hebrew Bible and the Old Testament, the Ark contained the Tablets of the Law, by which God delivered the Ten Commandments.

[hammer-of-thor-blogs]

Common Reasons for Low Libido in men

Perhaps you've become less keen on sex. You might wake up and realized that your sexual desire was no more. Whatever the reason you ended up to this point, you may have some question in your head which you're not willing to answer: why can't I get a sex-drive ever again?

It's completely normal for male sexual desire (the similar to sex drive) to change between high and low. The stress of work, major life events and duties can create a mess into your relationship, however, it tends to bounce around.

However, for certain men the low sex drive can be persistent. While a strong sexual drive might not be medically required but sexual health and happiness are crucial to overall well-being and satisfaction for a lot of people.

Below, we've given you the basics of what the fling is for males and why it can alter, as well as useful tips to talk with the doctor who treats you regarding your concerns as well as possible treatments.

What is Libido in Men?

It's likely that you've heard sexual drive or libido tossed about before even reading this piece. What is the truth about the term "libido?

Male libido can be described as a man's sexual drive, or the desire to engage in sexual activities. There's no single measurement of the libido of a person and each is unique and influenced by factors such as hormones and brain functions, health circumstances, personal and many more.

Must Check: 3 Ways To Last Longer In Bed | Hammer of Thor Tablet

We've mentioned before that the male libido is likely to drop from time-to-time. If you're having a unendingly low sexual desire it may cause stress in your sexual life and lead to relationship problems.

A low level of libido among men can lead to:

The loss of desire to sexually the romantic partner

The disinterest of masturbation

Very few or no sexual fantasies

Fear or stress over the loss of desire for sexual sex

The low libido state isn't identical to erectile dysfunction (ED) Although both can be co-existing.

Similar to erectile dysfunction the low libido issue can be attributed to many factors, instead of having one primary causes. Recognizing the causes is crucial to combat the problem of low sexual drive among men. You can solve using Hammer of Thor Tablet.

The causes of low Lungs in Males

Do you wonder why you're not investing in sexual arousal? The reason behind the loss of sexual libido among men may be a variety of reasons, from physical or mental health concerns to a major event that is happening in your life at this time.

The loss of sexual desire is common as you get older However, suddenly experiencing a decrease in sexual desire can be a cause for concern.

Most of the time there are psychological reasons that can be an important factor, but in some cases, a decrease in testosterone levels are due to drugs and lifestyle habits or medical issues.

Very Low Testosterone

It's likely that you've heard of testosterone. However, if you're there's no way to know, here's an easy review. Testosterone, a male sex hormone that is produced mostly within the testes. It's a key factor in the development of bone and muscle mass, and also stimulates the production of sperm.

Normal testosterone levels vary. The production of testosterone naturally declines as we age, commonly referred to "male menopausal."

The low levels of testosterone can be caused by a condition known as hypogonadism. This happens in which the sexual glands (the testosterone glands of men in particular) produce very little or zero sexual hormones.

The signs of a low testosterone are a decrease in semen volume as well as a shrinking testicle's size. reduction in weight loss, tiredness, and you've guessed it, less sexual drive.

There's also a link between testosterone deficiency and ED due to the fact that testosterone deficiencies affect your sexual functioning.

Also Read: Guys! Here's *Some* Way To Last Longer In Bed | Hammer of Thor Tablet

Depression

A different cause for low sexual libido among men? Depression, which is a mood disorder that manifests as symptoms that are characterized by low mood, difficulty getting enough sleep, decreased concentration, and a loss of satisfaction in activities that you do every day and sexual activities, such as sexual activity. People suffering from depression are more likely to suffer from another sexual disorder like Erectile dysfunction (which is something you'll learn about by reading this comprehensive guide on depression as well as ED).

Stress

If you're facing financial obligations at work, or other issues that cause stress it's likely that you've observed that your mood as well as the libido drop. This is because stress affects more than the mental state of your body, but it may also trigger the men who have a low desire for sex.

In addition to the stress and anxiety about sexual performance which can be triggered by high stress levels, they may influence the production of sexual hormones that may affect your sexual libido.

Stress can trigger the body's production of cortisol. It is a hormone that regulates a variety of vital bodily activities. In excess, this hormone could negatively impact the male reproductive system.

If you're stressed out over a long period of time the cortisol levels remain high that can lower the production of testosterone and also your sexual motivation. Use Hammer of thor medicine. It can positive impact various Sexual Stamina Supplements activities

Sleep Apnea

If you've had a partner complain of your loud snoring when you've awakened having a dry mouth it could be that you're suffering from sleep apnea. It's an illness of sleep that is characterized by frequent pauses in breathing while you the night.

Other signs of sleep apnea can include the need to breathe while sleeping, trouble getting to sleep and excessive insomnia. The most serious sleep-related disorders, such as sleep apnea may affect your quality of sleep. This is in addition to daytime sleepiness could have a major influence on your overall general health.

There is a clear relationship between sleeping less and ED. In addition to being exhausted throughout the day, why does sleep apnea affect sexual desire in males? In the end, the lack of sleep may reduce testosterone levels, leading to lower sex drives.

A second, very brief study which mimicked the absence of sleep induced by sleep apnea, and also tested testosterone production, discovered that healthy males experienced lower levels of testosterone following the loss of four hours sleeping.

Relationship Probleme

Stress is a monster which can come in many ways and at times, you don't know the impact it's causing to your health, mental well-being and general health. Relationship anxiety and issues are distinct kinds of stress that may influence your sexual desire.

If you notice a dramatic decrease in the amount of sex you desire It could be the right the time to consider asking yourself difficult but crucial concerns about your relationship.

Are you happy with your spouse? Are there any concerns or concerns that might contribute to the problem? Are you facing any issues that remain unresolved or do regularly argue with your partner?

A different fact that could be difficult to take in It could also be that your attraction toward your lover has decreased.

The emotions and the attraction will naturally change during a long-lasting relationship, however do not be afraid to ask you some tough questions to determine the root reason behind your current problems with your sexuality.

Drug Side Effects

As we mentioned, depression may be the reason for your lack of sexual desire. If you're experiencing depression, your doctor could prescribe medication for depressionhowever, just like depression, antidepressants can result in a lower sex desire in males.

Side effects from antidepressants may include an enlargement of sexual desire among women and men. Two common types, selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors (SSRIs) and serotonin-norepinephrine reuptake inhibitors (SNRIs), have low libido as a listed side effect.

This is a vicious cycle however, if you're feeling diminished libido because of antidepressants you should talk with your physician about altering the dosage of your medication or changing to a different medication.

Another medication that could have caused a low-than-normal sexual drive?

Drugs for blood pressure (like beta-blockers, or ACE inhibitors)

Treatments with radiation and chemotherapy

Opioid pain reliefrs (like the oxycodone and morphine)

Anabolic steroids and corticosteroids

Certain antifungal medications

Chronic Health Problems

As mental health issues can impact your sexual desire Certain health conditions could also hinder your need for sexual intimacy. This is logical, when you're suffering from constant pain or discomfort sexual activity may not be the first priority on your agenda.

Health issues for men that decrease libido can include:

Obesity

Type 2 diabetes

High blood pressure

Hypothyroidism (underactive thyroid)

Problems with kidneys and the liver

Cancer

Heart failure with chronic heart

The cruel absurdity is that the medications prescribed to are prescribed to treat these ailments can also result in a decrease in testosterone in males. If you're suffering from one of these health issues discuss with your medical doctor about any concerns you have regarding the treatment you receive and your sex desire.

Must Read: Is It Possible to Treat Erectile Dysfunction With Vitamins?

Another Possible Reasons for low Libido

Alcohol and drug consumption could also cause lower testosterone levels and decreased levels of libido.

Drinking heavily is more prone to experiencing sexual dysfunction, such as ED early ejaculation, premature ejaculation, and sexual drive that is low.

A few nutritional deficiencies can contribute to lower sexual desire. A recent study of animals and humans found the zinc deficiency can reduce testosterone levels.

Also, if you're struggling with another sexual issue that has resulted in sex being difficult or not fulfilling (such as Erectile dysfunction, premature ejaculation This could result in a reduction in your libido.

If you are struggling with erectile dysfunction, early ejaculation or another sexual issue discuss it with your healthcare physician to find and address the root cause.

Treatment of the Low Sex Drive for Men

The issue of low libido could definitely make your life more difficult. There are solutions to deal with a low sexual drive based on the cause.

Speak to a health expert about your the low level of sexual libido. First thing to discuss is with an expert in healthcare. They'll help to determine the cause behind lower libido levels and provide possible treatment options. For preparation, make the most current list of medication you're currently taking. Try to remember the moment you first felt a diminution in sexual libido.

Change your lifestyle to be healthier. your eating habits and lifestyle. When you're getting adequate nutrition and exercising and feel healthy the sexual desire increases. Exercise has been proven to lower the chance of developing erectile dysfunction in addition to reducing anxiety and improve your mood as well as your performance levels. If you're in need of assistance beginning your journey, these lifestyle suggestions could boost the sexual quality of your partner.

Keep your mental health under control. Depression or high-stress levels may also affect the desire to sex, which can cause your interest to decrease to engage in sexual activities. The internet can allow you to get linked to the mental health specialist or therapist who can help you address the issues in your head, regardless of whether you're just thinking about yourself or couples counselling to help your relationship.

TRT is an option to consider for people with those with a low level of testosterone. Low testosterone -and consequently, a decrease in your sexual drive is a result of a variety of causes, such as insomnia, stress and many more. TRT is an effective treatment. It is delivered as an oral medicine injector, intramuscular injection, or transdermal patches. There are a number of methods to boost testosterone naturally through exercise, for instance having enough rest.

Most likely, when you type in "low sexual drive males," hundreds of results that promote the best drugs to boost sex drive beverages that enhance libido be displayed. Even though the research isn't enough on drinks that boost libido or magic pills, certain definitely could be beneficial for general health and aid in treating other sexual disorders such as ED.

Reasons for Lower Libido: Conclusions

Loss of libido isn't something that's unusual. The sex drive of men can fluctuate and what appears to be absent one day can bounce again the following day. There are a few possibilities for the root cause of an ongoing lack of sexual desire.

We'll go over what you need to remember when you're not attracted to the sex.

Sexual drive or libido is an urge for sexual pleasure. Men who experience a decline of sexual desire, they could be able to notice a decrease in sexual attraction to a woman and are not interested in the sexually active and possess any sexual fantasies.

There are many reasons for lower libido among men including lower testosterone levels, depression anxiety, sleep apnea and stress relationships issues, adverse consequences of medication or health problems, frequent drink or drug usage and other issues with sexuality such as Erectile dysfunction or premature ejaculation.

The treatment options for low libido will depend on the root cause. However, they it can vary from exercising and eating a balanced diet and therapy, or the treatment of testosterone loss.

The best option for dealing having lower sexual desire? Speak to your doctor to find out the reason. After you've identified the root cause, they'll supply solutions for you. If, for instance, your decreased libido results from the result of sexual insufficiency, then they might suggest one of these remedies for erectile disorders or early ejaculation treatment.

Visit Now: Some shocking facts about the health of erections and the ED

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