#kree!reader | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

justsleepybeans · 2 months ago

Text

𝗩𝗮𝗻𝗶𝗹𝗹𝗮 𝗧𝘄𝗶𝗹𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁

Adam Warlock x Fem!Reader(Y/n)

Story Notes: Reader is half-celestial, half-human. Adam is irrevocably obsessed. Yearning!!

Author Notes: I love Adam too much NOT to write about him. Bro needs to be buffed in MR tho. I listened to this while writing and proofreading! Def recommend for reading! Ambience Vid <-Link

Word Count: 7,746

—☆ KNOWHERE

The Kree were relentless but too cocky for their own good. You had just finished destroying the last fleet, their mission being to wipe out the existence of the harmless Utarians. You would've rather been at your favorite club in Contraxia but happened to be flying by when you saw the chaos. Peter had called in the middle of it all, his voice cutting out multiple times.

"Well, I think it would be nice if you joined us! It was your favorite holiday back on Earth, wasn't it?" he had asked with far too much enthusiasm for your liking. Halloween. Of course, he would know, considering you had shared that fact with him when you were "abducted" by Yondu and his crew off Earth, which was around the time you had found out you weren't just human.

Since then, Peter had been like a brother, except when he flirted horrendously with you in your mid-teens, which obviously didn't work out. Even though you didn't see each other much anymore, not after the Guardians formed, you two would still pick each other's favorite holidays and celebrate, his being Christmas, and yours? Halloween.

"(Y/n!)," Peter calls out your name as he walks towards you. Behind him is Gamora, and at her side, Mantis. However, there was someone else trailing behind them. A…golden man? You have seen many species in these galaxies, but none like him.

"Hi, Peter. Gamora. Mantis." you greet them all politely, giving an awkward little wave. The golden man steps forward, though he doesn't extend his hand. He stands there, closer now, and his chest is just a little more puffed out.

"I am Adam Warlock. We have not met."

"Clearly, we haven't. I'm-"

“(Y/n), yes. Peter spoke of you. He described you in precise detail." You look at Peter, giving him that 'the hell did you say about me' look. He puts his hands up in defense and promises it's nothing bad.

After a short debriefing between you and the girls, the four of you head into the center of Knowhere, where the Guardians live, and most things happen. The place seemed disjointed, colorful, and highly diverse amongst its citizens. Though, what you notice the most is the vast array of mismatched Halloween decorations. There were children of all kinds going around and ringing doorbells, knocking on doors, and then receiving some interesting-looking treats.

"So, you brought Halloween to Knowhere.", you say to Peter as you watch two kids fight over some tentacle-looking thing.

"Ah yeah, you know. It'd be nice to bring the culture. Plus, a way of getting to see you for once."

You smile at that, a feeling of admiration for Peter's thoughtfulness. However, all this Halloween stuff has you thinking of one thing. "Twizzlers?"

Peter raises his hand as if to stop you from speaking further. "Already done. When we went to Earth, we picked up plenty of candy and took loads of decorations."

"Wait…you took all of this? Peter, you can't just do that."

Peter shrugs, brushing your scolding off. "I'm just borrowing it."

—☆ FIRST SECOND ENCOUNTER

You've settled in your room, one of the many in the complex where the Guardians and others live. While laying down clothes you'd wear tonight for the "Halloween Party", you hear a soft knock on your door, followed by a slightly familiar deep voice.

"It's Adam."

The Warlock. Or Adam, so he's called, a name you'd find out he adopted. It suits him, you think. Setting down a pair of tights on the bed, you open the door. You're almost his height, so you don't have to look up much, though up close, you notice his eyes more. They're not exactly white, but a pale yellow, maybe light gold. The lack of pupils and complete coloring in his sclera should be unsettling, but you find it oddly...comforting.

"Hi. Adam. Do you need anything?"

“(Y/n)…I am...deeply attracted to you. I am certain I've felt a pull the moment you reached this galaxy. Then, when you came here, it became stronger than ever before. That's when I confirmed that it had to be you. It's a magnetism, and I cannot stay away longer. Allow me to court you."

Oh. Well…that is very direct.

“Oh…I…” You were left without words for a moment because how does one even respond to that from someone they met this morning? Was he sure that it was you? He's being ridiculous, you think, but the thought of entertaining this, whatever this is, was ever so tempting.

"I sense hesitation."

You shift your weight to your right side and tilt your head curiously. "Right, well, I did just meet you."

"Yes, I am aware."

You huff, somewhat annoyed but also amused. "Listen…whatever it is that you're feeling…I don't feel that. "

"Surely you must. I feel your celestial energy practically radiating off-"

"How do you know that." you interrupt him. He gives you a look that could only be described as confusion.

"I sense it. I am a cosmic being, (Y/n)."

"You're technically human," you argue.

"Perhaps—but I am far from any human. I was created with cosmic power," Adam takes a step closer, his eyes boring into yours like a hawk. "Allow me to court you."

"Stop saying that…feels like I'm in the Medieval times."

"Medieval times?"

Of course, he wouldn't know about that. "Nevermind. Just… that's now how things work, okay? Listen, I gotta start preparing for Peter's Halloween thing, so…"

"Right. Yes. The party. Very well, (Y/n). I hope you have time to…think about what I said."

"Mhm. I'll see you around."

With that, Adam gives you a slight nod, then walks off, his posture slightly less upright than usual. You watch him as he walks off and think to yourself, what if you say yes? What's the worst that could happen? A cosmic and celestial being coming together…surely nothing bad.

—☆ THE PARTY

You weren't wearing a costume.

Being invited on the day of a Halloween party, which doesn't even align with Earth's Halloween, would make it pretty damn hard to prepare a costume. Currently, it's October 28th on Earth, but close enough, right?

You carry a variety of clothes on your ship for all occasions, but not for a Halloween party. With a sigh, you smooth down the side of your red dress as you step into the center hall of one of the many buildings in Knowhere. This one was on the outskirts of the city and had a bar. The color of your dress matches your tights, deep and blood-warm, clinging like a second skin. It was the most Halloween-esque thing you could pull out.

The music was a mixture of strange tunes you hadn't heard before and some Earth songs you assumed came from Peter's tapes. You remember sharing an earbud with him and listening shoulder to shoulder on Yondu's ship. The crowds buzzed with sugar highs and very spiked drinks, beings of all kinds dancing without much rhythm, and the decorations glowed a little too bright for your liking as if a Spirit Halloween had blown up.

You scanned the place, finding Peter almost instantly, dual-wielding candy bowls and passing out the sweets while talking about famous horror movie slashers, who the citizens of Knowhere believed to be real people from how they were reacting. Mantis waved dramatically across the way, her cute buggy eyes locked on yours. Gamora was trying to keep Peter from falling on his ass, while Rocket was nowhere to be found, most likely on his usual antics with Groot. Drax seemed asleep, his head on the bar countertop, surrounded by a handful of empty bottles. And then—

There he was.

Adam.

Leaning against the wall like he had been carved there—perfect human and all. You may have turned down his advances, but you couldn't deny that he is, in fact, attractive. His expression is unreadable, as usual, and you notice he has no costume. He was still looking at you like he did earlier as if you were the only thing in this galaxy worth orbiting.

You reached for the table beside you, grabbed the nearest drink — bright neon green, fizzing, definitely alcoholic — and pretended not to notice him.

Didn't work.

He was already moving before you could take a second sip, golden eyes fixed, posture straight like he'd been waiting for a cue. He stopped in front of you. Too close, you think. Not close enough, you feel.

"(Y/n)," he said, voice low and smooth, "You didn't dress up."

"Neither did you."

"I didn't need to." Of course, he didn't.

You take another sip, eyes on him now. "You're staring."

"Perhaps I am."

There's a pause, though not awkward, but electric. Adam wasn't hiding it — the way he looked at you like he was trying to memorize every minuscule detail, though he never did hide it in the first place. Not once. It should've been unsettling, but somehow, it wasn't.

"You look..." He pauses, eyes trailing down your length, slow and deliberate. "Dangerous."

"Oh." You couldn't help the smile that tugs at the corner of your lips.

Then, his voice quiet, as if he didn't want the crowd to hear, "Are you avoiding me, (Y/n)?"

After what happened earlier? Oh, you should've been, but no, you weren't...at least, not intentionally. Taking a deep breath, you look around before speaking up. "I'm gonna...go see how Peter's holding up."

You drifted, dancing near the edges of groups, getting pulled into half-hearted conversations with half-sober Ravagers and aliens in glittery face paint. But Adam was always there—watching without pressing, standing just far enough to give you space. Your drink was gone now, traded for a lollypop someone shoved into your hand with a slurred "Happy Humanween." Humanween? You didn't eat it, preferring your promised Twizzlers, which were nowhere to be seen. Instead, you rolled the stick between your fingers and your mind elsewhere. Still aware of him.

Then Peter—bless his drunk, clumsy soul—came barreling in out of nowhere, arms wide and voice loud, a bottle in one hand, and absolutely no concept of personal space, as usual.

"(Y/n)!" he called like he hadn't seen you some hours ago. His shoulder caught yours mid-spin, not hard, but enough to send you slightly off balance, your heel catching on the edge of the floor panel.

You were falling—until you weren't.

A hand wrapped around your upper arm, firm and warmer than others. Another gently caught your waist, steady and grounding.

Adam.

The contact wasn't much. Two hands, a beat of closeness, but it was enough. Too much.

It felt like something clicked, as if a thread snapped into place between your body and his, humming. Loud. Burning. Almost overbearing. You inhaled, chest still against his as you blinked at him, confused—for the first time— not by him, but by you.

Because you felt it. Whatever he had been talking about outside your room, all that talk of a magnetic pull, cosmic alignment—you felt it now, you think. It hit you fast and bright, like a fucking supernova, and far too much all at once.

You moved back quickly. Not dramatically. Okay...maybe a bit dramatic, but it was enough to break the contact. Adam's hands dropped, and though it wasn't visible, the imprint stayed. You could feel it.

"I—Peter's drunk," you used as an excuse to leave.

Adam's expression didn't change. But something in his eyes did. Softer. Knowing. He didn't have to say I told you so. He didn't even say anything at all.

He didn't have to because he knows you felt it. And worse? You know it, too.

Still—you wouldn't admit it. Not out loud. Not to him.

So you straightened your dress, fixed your hair like nothing happened, and pretended your heart wasn't beating inside your throat.

Adam said nothing, simply watching you with that same quiet hunger.

—☆ SUPERNOVA (5 Months Later)

It wasn't supposed to go this way. The mission was simple enough—answer the distress call of the Valturians and help out in whatever way was needed. You decided to tag along with the Guardians to help after Rocket bugged you about being a valuable asset. He also tried convincing you to join the Guardians, which you refused, and he may have tried to buy off your ship.

Though, you really wish you hadn't come.

Multiple fleets of the Kree appeared—a species you didn't exactly hate but were very annoyed with. However, a massive ship came out of hyperspace this time along with the fleet, sitting just above the atmosphere of Valtur. A loud voice boomed from the ship, practically shaking the ground.

"I hoped you would come, (Y/n). My men have been watching you. You didn't think that your destruction upon my fleet the other day would result in no punishment, did you?"

It was Al-Null—the leader who had stepped up to replace Ronan, The Accuser.

"I guess that's what happens when your cowardly ass ain't there with your men. I mean, come on, did you watch from your little jerk-off corner? Because listen, if you get off on that stuff, I'd say you need some therapy, buddy." The insult was very Peter-coded, showing just how much time you spent around him when you were with Yondu.

"You dare? You, the great mistake. Your father was the coward, and spineless to fall for some weak, pathetic excuse for an incubator. She died giving birth to something which was never meant to be. And you? You killed her. Since the day you were born you have caused nothing but chaos..."

The smile slowly fades off your face. And then, there's silence. At least, you think there is, but apparently, Al-Null kept going on and on. You couldn't hear him. You couldn't hear anything but your heart beating with such intensity that it felt like your head would explode.

Peter tenses up, having seen the degree of your powers firsthand. Gamora's hand hovers over her blaster inside her holster, though not exactly for the Kree. She knows what you can do because Peter told her before, but she also knows that a blaster won't stop you. Not even close.

The rage builds within you like a supernova waiting to burst. Your vision begins to blur at the edges, turning red with fury. You can feel your celestial power surging through your veins, threatening to overflow. Your feet lift off the ground as energy crackles around you.

"(Y/n)," Adam's voice cuts through the haze, steady and grounding. "Look at me."

But you can't. All you see is the massive Kree ship and all you hear are Al-Null's words about your mother echoing in your mind. The power builds, your hands glowing with energy as you prepare to unleash devastation upon the fleet.

"She is losing control," Mantis whispers, her antennae quivering with anxiety.

Peter steps forward cautiously. "(Y/n), hey, don't listen to that blue asshole—"

With a scream, you take off up into space, a colorful aura of hot energy trailing behind you like a flying torch.

The first ship explodes before anyone can react, pieces of metal and screaming Kree soldiers tumbling through the void of space. You're a blazing comet, your celestial power unleashed in its rawest form. Another blast from your hands tears through a second vessel, then a third.

"By the stars," Drax murmurs, watching the destruction from below.

Adam doesn't hesitate. He launches himself upward, his own golden energy propelling him toward you. He can feel your pain, your rage—a hurricane of emotions that threatens to consume not just the Kree fleet but yourself.

In space, surrounded by debris and fire, you hover before Al-Null's command ship, hands raised to obliterate it. Your body pulses with celestial light, eyes glowing with power no half-human should possess. You don’t remember what happened next, but you do remember that it was cold, and quiet, your body floating without any constraints of gravity.

—☆ TETHER

When you awake, it's not in the vacuum of space or surrounded by the wreckage of Kree ships. You're in a dimly lit room, lying on something soft. Your body feels heavy, drained of the celestial energy that had threatened to tear you apart.

"She's awake," Mantis says softly from somewhere nearby.

You try to sit up, but a gentle hand presses against your shoulder. "Don't," Adam says, his voice closer than you expected. "Your body needs time to recover."

As your vision clears, you see him sitting beside you, his expression unreadable yet somehow concerned. Behind him, Peter paces nervously while Gamora watches from the doorway.

"What happened?" Your voice is hoarse, barely audible.

"You nearly destroyed an entire Kree armada," Gamora answers matter-of-factly.

"Cool…," you manage to utter, your voice barely more than a whisper, strained and fragile.

Peter takes a tentative step toward you, his face etched with concern. "You should sleep. Al-Null escaped, but most of his fleet is scattered across three sectors."

"Doesn't matter," you mutter, attempting to push yourself up again. "He's still out there. He’s still—"

"You need recovery time," Gamora interjects firmly. "Even celestials have limits."

Adam's gaze hasn't left your face since you awoke, his golden eyes tracking every expression that crosses your features. There's something different in the way he's looking at you now—not hungry, but... protective. Soft.

"We'll check on the Valturians," Rocket announces, already heading for the door. "Make sure they ain't got more surprises waitin'."

"I am Groot," comes the agreeable response.

Peter hesitates, clearly torn between going off with the Guardians and staying to watch you. He comes to the decision to go off with them, but, Adam stays, much to your slight annoyance. You had planned to just sneak off when they were all gone.

"We'll be back soon," Peter says with a final concerned glance. "Just... stay put, okay?"

You nod halfheartedly, waiting for the door to slide shut behind the Guardians before immediately throwing your legs over the side of the bed. Your body feels surprisingly good—the celestial half of you working overtime to repair the damage.

"Where do you think you're going?" Adam's voice is calm but firm as he steps between you and the door.

"To finish what I started," you reply, standing up straight. "Al-Null is still out there."

"No." The single word carries the weight of a thousand. Adam doesn't raise his voice, but his eyes shine with intensity.

"Move, Adam. This isn't your fight."

He steps closer, golden skin catching the dim light. "You nearly burned yourself out. Even with your healing abilities, that level of power expenditure—“

“I said move.”

He stays put, arms crossed over his chest, his eyes now harder—firm and demanding. “No. You’re not leaving.”

A surge of anger rushes through you. Who does he think he is to tell you what you can and cannot do? The energy within you flickers to life again, not as powerful as before, but enough to make the air around you thick with tension.

"Get out of my way," you hiss, taking a step forward. Your hands curl into fists at your sides, a faint glow emanating from beneath your skin.

Adam doesn't budge. Instead, he moves closer, his own cosmic energy rising to meet yours. The space between you becomes charged, golden tendrils of his power weaving with the aura of yours.

"I will not let you destroy yourself," he says, voice dropping lower. "Your recklessness will be your undoing."

"My 'recklessness' is none of your concern!" You shove against his chest, but he barely moves. His body is warm and solid against your palms, and the contact sends a jolt through your system, like it did months ago at the Halloween party. You hadn't come into physical contact with him since that day.

"Get out of my way," you snarl, shoving harder this time, your energy flaring. The room's lights flicker as your power pulses outward.

Adam's hand suddenly catches your wrist, his grip firm but not painful. "Enough." His voice has dropped an octave, resonating with authority.

"Let go of me!" You wrench your arm, but he holds fast, pulling you closer until your bodies are nearly flush against each other. The air between you crackles with energy—yours wild and chaotic, his controlled but equally potent.

"You're not thinking clearly," he says, his face now inches from yours. "Your emotions are clouding your mind. Don't be rash."

You’d come to regret what you do next, but a small part of you wouldn't, and never will. You emit a sudden wave of energy, sending Adam flying back against the wall, hitting it hard enough to leave a small crack. “I told you to move.”

You make a beeline for the door, your mind focused on one thing. Al-Null.

You barely make it two steps before a golden blur moves with inhuman speed. Adam is suddenly before you, his eyes blazing with an intensity you've never seen from him. In one fluid motion, he grabs your shoulders and spins you around, pushing you back against the wall with enough force to knock the breath from your lungs.

"No," he growls, pinning you there with his body. His hands move to capture your wrists, holding them firmly against the wall on either side of your head. "You will listen to me."

Your celestial energy surges in response to the threat, but Adam's power counters it immediately, creating a cocoon of golden light that seems to dampen your abilities. You struggle against his grip, but his strength matches yours in your weakened state.

"Let me go!" you snarl, thrashing against his hold.

Adam leans closer, his face mere inches from yours. "You would risk your life for revenge," he says, his voice dangerously low. "I cannot allow that."

Something shifts in his eyes—a decision made—and suddenly his grip tightens. You feel it then, a strange sensation like a thread being pulled from deep within your chest, connecting to him. His eyes glow brighter, the golden light intensifying as he presses his forehead against yours.

"If you won't listen to reason," he whispers, "then feel what I feel."

A wave of foreign emotion crashes into you—concern so deep it borders on anguish, fear so primal it makes your heart race, and beneath it all, a devotion so absolute it takes your breath away. These aren't your feelings. They're his.

"What are you doing to me?" you gasp, trembling under the weight of his emotions pouring into you.

"A soul bond."

Your body suddenly feels weak as the wave of emotions crash over you. Was this everything he felt? All this time? All of this, and yet he always managed to seem like everything was under control—the complete opposite of you. You somewhat tried to snap out of it, feelings of anger still there. “Stop…I don’t understand..,” you breathe, your resistance weakening as the soul bond takes hold.

His golden eyes bore into yours, pupils dilated with something primal. "I've tethered us together," he murmurs., "Now you'll understand."

The connection between you pulses like a living thing, and suddenly your senses are heightened, every point where his body touches yours sending electric currents through your skin. Your anger dissolves into something else entirely—a mixture of pain and longing that mirrors his own.

"I can feel everything you feel," Adam whispers, his grip on your wrists loosening but not releasing. "Your rage, your pain...”

You gasp as his emotions flood through you—possessiveness, need, and a desperate yearning that makes your knees weak. The bond amplifies everything, creating a feedback loop of sensation between you, as if trying to take away, or rather, distract your anger.

Adam's eyes narrow, something dark and primal flickering across his face. In one fluid motion, he spins you around, your chest now pressed against the wall, his body flush against your back. The heat of him radiates through your clothes, his breathing heavy against your ear.

His arm snakes around, fingers splaying across your throat before moving upward to grasp your face, thumb and fingers gently digging into your cheeks as he tilts your head back against his shoulder.

"Do you remember what I asked of you?" he whispers, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. "When I came to your door?" His grip on your face is firm but careful, holding you in place as if you might slip away. "I asked to court you."

You don't answer—can't answer with his fingers pressing into your cheeks, but your true feelings become clear through the soul bond.

"You truly feel it now," he breathes, the words vibrating against your skin. "The connection that's been there since I first sensed you across this galaxy. My mate."

"Mate? What are you—"

But Adam doesn't explain, doesn't pause to clarify. He captures your mouth with his own before you can finish, your body still sandwiched between him and the cold wall, though his higher-than-average body temperature provided the perfect warmth. The kiss was far from gentle, instead full of possession and need.

His hand drifts from your face to your throat, not squeezing too hard but maintaining enough pressure to hold you in place. His other hand slips beneath your top, his palm pressed flat against your stomach to pull you closer as his lips roughly claim yours. Eventually, he parts them, leaving behind a thin thread of mixed saliva lingering between your lips before it breaks.

"I've been waiting," he murmurs softly by your ear, "ever since I first sensed you." His hand moves lower, dangerously near your clothed core, then his fingers travel over the delicate fabric of your panties before venturing further down to explore the damp spot beneath.

"Adam," you gasp as his fingers confidently press against your mound.

"Is this the effect I have on you?"

You bite back a moan as his digits locate the side seam of the soft fabric and tug it aside just enough to expose you.

“You don't need to voice it. I already know,” he whispers, gently running his fingers through your slick folds, tracing a line up to your clit before pressing down, testing your reaction.

"Oh—" you sigh, tensing as a jolt shoots through your nerves. While you have touched yourself before, the connection between your souls amplifies everything. You barely have time to register how different this feels as his fingers begin with light, deliberate strokes before progressing into slow, circular motions. "Adam…"

To your mixed frustration and arousal, he withdraws his hand from your pants, instead grabbing your hip firmly, leaving your core softly pulsating, getting wetter by the second.

"You're coming with me."

—☆ COCOON

His room is simple yet filled with lush green plants that fill the space with warmth and a welcoming energy—every scent in the room reminiscent of him, intensified by the soul bond.

His hands stay on your hips as he gently guides you against the wall by his bed. Leaning in close, his lips brush behind your ear while his nose caresses your skin as he takes in your scent. “I need you to smell more like…me.”

Smirking against his tousled blonde hair, you tease, “You take me to your room and yet you don’t put me on your bed,” while he continues to nuzzle, savoring every nuance.

His tongue flicks behind your ear before traveling down to your neck, sending shivers that ripple between your thighs. “I know,” he murmurs against your skin.

You shudder at the moist trail of his tongue, surprised by how soft it feels despite his synthetic nature. “You’re like a damn cat…”

“I’m not exactly sure what a cat is, (Y/n),” he replies, as his hands slide from your hips to your ribcage. With large, steady hands, he lifts you off the floor. “But if that’s how they behave, maybe I am.”

His bed is firm—a perfect match for him if not entirely for you—and he settles on his side behind you, drawing your body close so you blend together. One of his arms wraps around your neck gently, while his hand travels along your collarbone, down to your chest. His fingers brush over your hardened nipple through the fabric of your top, pinching it lightly with curious care.

“Hmm,” he purrs, shifting from a soft pinch to cradling your breast with a gentle squeeze. Meanwhile, his other hand glides briefly across your stomach before returning to your growing center. “You’re... so soft.”

His fingers slip beneath the waistband of your panties again, finding you wet and wanting. The bond between you heightens every sensation—you feel his touch as deeply as he feels the effect it has on you. “And here, too,” he murmurs, slowly gliding his fingers up and down, deliberately teasing the wet heat of your folds before lightly rubbing your clit.

A quiet moan fills the room as his fingers pick up pace, each rhythmic movement sending waves of pleasure through you. He shifts slightly, partly laying over you, pressing his hardness against your ass even as his hand continues its exploration. His warm, erratic breath against your neck reveals his own mounting desire. “I want you to feel what I feel,” he whispers with raw intensity.

The energy between you builds as Adam’s presence seems to fill the space. Moving his hand lower, he pushes two long fingers inside you, meeting no resistance as you arch your hips toward him.

“Adam—” you breathe, but your voice falters as he curls upward, finding that soft spot inside and pressing with precise intensity.

A rush comes over you, skin tingling like pins and needles, your muscles tightening around his fingers. Your breath catches in sharp cries as they curl again, fucking you with a steady rhythm until you feel yourself cumming around them.

He doesn’t stop. Even as your body shudders with aftershocks, his fingers remain, now moving slowly and tenderly as they explore each reaction. “So responsive,” he murmurs against your neck, withdrawing his hand to taste you. “Your taste,” he breathes, as if it were the most precious flavor.

Before you can reply, Adam moves with fluid precision down your body until his shoulders rest between your legs. His hands press firmly on your thighs, gently spreading you open. “I need more.”

His golden eyes lock onto yours—seeing you wet, flushed, and completely exposed. He leans in, his breath sending shivers through your already sensitive core. Then his mouth latches onto you, warmth and urgency igniting every nerve as his tongue replaces his fingers.

“Oh fuck—Adam,” you gasp, the sound airy in the heavy room.

He doesn’t pause or hesitate. His focus is complete, consuming. The bond magnifies everything—the texture of his tongue as it works its way inside you, pushing deeper before flicking up around your clit with steady precision. The friction sends waves through your body, overwhelming and perfect all at once.

You writhe beneath him, gasping as his grip tightens on your thighs to keep you still. The tension coils inside you, rising so fast it steals your breath and turns it into ragged cries.

Even as you cry out, he doesn’t relent. Your body tenses again, but he keeps going like he needs every last drop of you.

“Adam,” you plead softly.

His response is a low, vibrating hum that sends tremors through you. He shifts his hold on your thighs, flipping you onto your stomach and lifting your hips with sure guidance. The change makes you gasp as his hands spread you open. You squirm beneath him, desperate for more than just his mouth.

Holding you there, exposed and needy, he commands softly, “Be good.”

His mouth resumes its work with unwavering hunger, the wet heat of his tongue driving you wild as his hand lands with a quick, light smack on your ass. The sharp sensation makes you catch your breath, your body jolting in surprise.

“Adam,” you gasp again, his name melting into a moan as he soothes the sting with his palm before delivering another firm, playful slap—adding to the building intensity inside you.

“That…was for earlier,” he whispers against your slick heat before plunging his tongue back inside. His hands keep your hips steady while he devours you from behind, each movement pushing you closer to a place you have never reached. His hand slips between your legs, his fingers exploring until they find you wet and swollen, then push inside again, moving with a rhythm that matches his tongue.

The intensity builds impossibly as he takes you higher, pushing beyond any limit you’ve ever known. The motions of his mouth and fingers combine into a perfect storm of sensation that leaves you breathless, gasping for something you can’t name.

“Too much,” you choke out, barely audible amid the overwhelming rush. But it isn’t too much—it’s exactly what you need.

A tidal wave of pleasure surges through you, larger than anything you’ve ever known. And then—

You’re cumming—and, you’re squirting. A lot.

He pulls back slightly, watching with fascination as you ride the aftershocks. Breath ragged, you search for words—but Adam shifts again, his movements deliberate as he climbs up your body, slowing down until you find yourself pressed against his chest.

“Turn around,” he murmurs darkly in your ear, his hands guiding your hips until you face him, breathless and ready.

His mouth meets yours once more with an urgent, unapologetic kiss. His hands are everywhere—one tangling in your hair to tilt your head back for deeper access, another sliding down your back while one more grabs your ass, pulling you against the hard outline of his suit. His need is clear, insistent as he rolls his hips with growing urgency.

You feel his hardness, the bond amplifying every touch until your pulse races and you grind against him. The friction makes you gasp into his kiss, and he swallows your sounds with matching hunger.

Breaking the kiss, he watches you with a look of pure possession, as if he’s claiming every part of you, before his fingers trace gently across your lips. “I need to know,” he murmurs softly, “every part of you.”

With a subtle insistence, he guides your lips to his fingers, letting you taste him. You hum softly against his skin as your tongue meets his touch, exploring deeper.

His eyes darken at the feeling, a new fascination taking over. The slick warmth of your mouth wraps around him, and he pushes further than expected—just a little too far—brushing the back of your throat.

You gag slightly, eyes wide as the small sound echoes between you. He seems to enjoy it—more than he probably should—and a dark thrill pulses through him, leaving both of you breathless with need. He pushes further, feeling the wet, flexible tissue, earning another soft gag from you, to which he groans in satisfaction.

His fingers slip from your mouth, leaving you flushed and gasping. “I want all of you,” he murmurs, voice low and claiming. “Everywhere.”

With sudden speed, he rolls onto his back and pulls you up to straddle him, your thighs spread beside his waist. His hands hold your hips firmly, positioning you as if he’s certain this is where you belong.

The thin fabric of his suit does little to hide the hard length pressed against you. He rocks upward so you can feel the full weight of his desire. You can barely breathe as he holds you there, his eyes burning into yours with a look that leaves no doubt—you’re his.

“Take it off,” he orders softly.

You’ve never seen him so raw and demanding.

His fingers dig into your hips, guiding the movement as you press against him. You’re flushed and breathless, the urgency in his touch mirrored by your own desire.

Somewhere along the way, he had stripped you of all your clothes. It was only right to return the favor. Your hands tremble until they reach the seam of his suit, peeling it away to reveal the hard, eager length straining between his thighs. The sight was…ethereal. It was thick, very thick, and just the perfect length for you. The base matched his golden skin, while the color fades to a lighter gold towards the tip.

Lifting you slightly, he positions you above him with confidence that quickens your pulse. The tip of his cock presses against your entrance, slick already from his earlier efforts. He doesn’t push inside—not yet—but the pressure is enough to leave you trembling.

“I want you,” he growls, his voice rough with need. “I want you now.”

There’s no question about who’s in charge—and you realize just how much you crave him. With a firm grip on your hips, he lifts you just enough to let the head tease your entrance before slowly letting you sink down. It’s both intense and teasing, filling you inch by inch until he’s deep inside.

“Ohh fuck…big…you’re so…”

Not ready to give up control, his hands still guide your hips as you ride him slowly at first, adjusting to the fullness and heat inside. The rhythm is gentle, allowing each shared sensation to build with the bond linking you.

You tilt your head back with a moan, your body arching as his movements stretch you perfectly. Even now, every pulse sends waves of pleasure through both of you.

Then it becomes too much for him to hold back.

The primal need takes over. His grip tightens and he starts thrusting harder, faster—a force that makes you cry out.

His hands leave your hips, gliding up your back to pull you closer against him. Your chests meet, and he wraps his arms around you, locking you in place as he drives into you with raw, unrestrained force.

Every thrust sends shockwaves of sensation, each movement deep and deliberate, claiming you again and again.

Adam’s breath is hot against your neck, ragged with desire as he thrusts relentlessly. The sound of skin meeting skin fills the space, accompanied by his low growls and your breathless cries.

“Is that good? You like this? Tell me you do.”

“Y-Yes, I—,” Clinging tightly to him, your fingers dig into his shoulders as he fucks you harder in response.

“Good,” he breathes against your skin, a single word full of possession.

A soft glow begins to shine behind your eyes, resembling the colors of your celestial aura, reflecting in his burning gaze. The sight sends a shiver through him, and his eyes blaze with soft gold as he watches you unravel in his embrace.

The room grows thick with heat and tension, your bodies slick with sweat. His grip tightens even more, drawing you closer until there’s no space left.

“Fuck—Adam!” You cry out as the friction builds impossibly high, pushing you both to the edge.

The rush of sensation becomes overwhelming—you could feel everything he felt on top of how his cock rammed inside you over and over. Then, in an explosion of pleasure, you’re cumming.

A surge of energy courses through every nerve as your body convulses, releasing all at once. You tremble, barely coherent, while Adam’s mouth remains on you, savoring all of you.

He pulls back slightly, watching with fascination as you ride the aftershocks. The bond between you amplifies everything, until it feels like every sensation is doubled. His steady hold keeps you grounded as your body trembles against him.

Catching your breath, you try to find words, but Adam moves with quick precision, turning you over onto your back, still inside of you.

He's relentless now, determined and unyielding as he pins you beneath him, fucking you with raw intensity, his heavy balls slapping against your ass, the sounds filling the room. The shift leaves you gasping, unable to find words.

With a deep groan, he moves faster, harder—a force of nature that leaves you breathless. His hands seize your wrists again, pinning them above your head with firm control.

“You’re mine,” he breathes fiercely, his eyes wild with hunger.

You can barely respond as each thrust sends shockwaves through you, building into a storm of shared sensation that fills every inch of space.

“Adam,” you gasp, barely coherent as white-hot pleasure takes over.

With a primal growl, he drives into you one last time—deep and claiming. Then he cums so hard that it leaves him trembling above you. A low groan escapes his lips as he fills you completely, the hot temperature of his cum rushing through your pussy.

He keeps moving, his hips rocking with focused intent like he wants to fill you until there’s no space left. “So much,” he whispers in awe, voice low and rough. “Take all of it.”

You feel him emptying into you—again and again—each pulse deliberate and consuming. The sensation is overwhelming, a flood that leaves you gasping.

He slows but doesn't stop, his thrusts shallow and steady, aiming right at your g-spot as his release seems endless. His lips brush your ear, murmuring with soft insistence that makes your heart race. “I’ll fill you with everything,” he breathes, the words wrapping around you like a promise. “Make you mine completely.”

The bond amplifies each word, every sensation, until it takes over your body entirely. Breathless and overwhelmed, you arch against him as the feeling builds again.

“Oh—fuck!” Another orgasm rushes through you in waves of overwhelming release. Your body tightens around him, leaving you breathless and shaking beneath him.

Adam holds you still, his primal need unrelenting as he fills you with consuming warmth. He groans, low and satisfied, whispering your name like a claim.

Seconds feel like minutes that stretch into forever, until he slows to a stop, body tense and trembling above you.

Then he pulls out, finally, his thick cum spilling from you. But Adam’s fingers are already there, picking up whatever he could, which was leaking out from your used hole from the sheer volume of it all.

Oh—

His brows knit with focus as though a sudden new fascination overtakes him. His thick seed leaks past his fingers even as they slide in and out, faster now, until wet sounds fill the room and your breath catches ragged in your throat.

You gasp, knowing what he's trying to do—and embarrassed despite yourself after what happened earlier. The sight of it had entranced him too much. Again? Really?

“Wait—,” you plead, your hands already moving to try and stop him.

Adam shifts up and his hand catches your face, firm and commanding. He holds you there, keeping your eyes locked on his as he watches each reaction, intent and consuming. His fingers never slow, relentless as they push deeper, stretching and filling you with everything he has.

“Let me,” he whispers.

You writhe beneath him, overwhelmed by the intensity of his touch and the steady pressure inside you. The bond amplifies each sensation until it feels like too much. You’re already so close again—and Adam knows it.

A dark thrill pulses through him as he picks up speed, driving into you with raw precision. He wants to see you cum again like you did—a crying, squirting mess. And judging by that look in his eyes, he doesn’t plan on stopping there.

"Be good," he breathes, his grip tightening on your face.

Your pulse races as his fingers pistoned into you with building force, reaching deeper than before. "You're gonna...make me cum..." You can barely breathe, the relentless rhythm pushing you higher until—

You cum again, a flood of sensation and warmth erupting in a way that leaves you gasping for air. This time it's even more intense, your body releasing with such force that you feel it everywhere. An almost transparent, milky liquid rushes past his hand in hot, uncontrollable waves, soaking him completely. Your eyes roll back as the bond flares bright behind them. "Fucking hell—Adam!" you cry out, voice breaking with each surge of pleasure.

Adam watches in awe, golden eyes wide as he sees you unravel beneath him. His breath catches at the sight of your wetness spilling over his fingers, dripping onto the sheets with each convulsion of your body.

He grows harder still at the sight—the pressure so intense that it pushes him over.

“(Y/n)—” The word escapes his lips in a low groan as he cums hard and untouched, white hot ropes spilling across your stomach.

He continues fucking you with his fingers, his touch relentless despite his own release. The pleasure is overwhelming, eventually your body shaking with aftershocks. Only then does he slow, watching as the last tremors rock through you.

Breathless and exhausted, you collapse against the sheets, your skin damp and flushed. Adam pulls his hand away finally, fingers glistening wet as he traces them up your stomach before bringing them to his lips.

He tastes you slowly, deliberately—his gaze locked on yours with a look of pure possession. You can feel the effect it has on him as though it were your own.

The bond still flares bright between you, every shared sensation magnified until it feels like there’s no boundary left. For the first time, you understand what it means to belong completely to someone—and have them belong entirely to you.

You draw in a ragged breath while your body shudders beneath him. “You’re insane,” you murmur softly against his lips.

Adam's mouth curves into a slight, breathless grin. He shifts onto his side next to you, pulling your body close and keeping it there. “Then you are, too.”

Knowing you’re not going anywhere now, Adam’s arms wrap around you with an unyielding grip. His breath is warm against your skin as he nuzzles against you, his need to mark with scent strong. He seems content to have you so close, to feel every inch of you pressed against him in the quiet aftermath.

You draw a deep breath, letting your senses adjust to the new reality between you. It feels different now—right. Like something that was missing has finally clicked into place.

Don’t be rash 🤚🏼

#adam warlock #adam warlock x reader #adam warlock x fem!reader #adam warlock x y/n #marvel rivals fic #adam warlock smut #adam warlock x you

450 notes · View notes

orellazalonia · 24 days ago

Text

Raccoon Negotiations

Summary: You finally get to meet a talking raccoon whom tries multiple times to bargain for your boyfriend’s metal arm. (Bucky Barnes x chaotic!reader)

Word Count: 1.3k+

A/N: Requested by @daystarpoet and @michaelfuckinglangdon which was super fun to fulfill and imagine. Happy reading!!!

Main Masterlist | Earth’s Mightiest Headache Masterlist

You were mid-bite of a bagel (untoasted, cold, probably two days old, yet still incredible) when a voice said, “You gonna eat that, or are you just giving it mouth-to-mouth?”

You froze.

Your eyes scanned the room. Empty except for Bucky, still in the hallway arguing with Stark about defensive systems. And then, sitting on the counter next to the coffee pot like he’d always belonged there, was…

A raccoon.

A small, vaguely pissed-off raccoon standing on two legs, holding what looked like a plasma rifle, wearing a jumpsuit, and staring at your bagel like it owed him rent.

You blinked.

He blinked back.

Then, with the certainty of someone who’d clearly never interacted with you before, he added: “You alright there, human? Or did you have a stroke while chewing?”

You stood up slowly, eyes wide. “You can talk.”

Rocket snorted. “Wow. You must be the brainy one around here.”

“Okay, no like- I knew there was a raccoon on the ship. Bucky told me. I just thought he was exaggerating. Or having another weird Winter Soldier-flashback dream thing.”

“Ex-cuse you,” Rocket said, leaping off the counter and stalking toward you. “I’m not just some Earth-trash mammal with a vocabulary. I’m Rocket. I’ve broken into more heavily-armed fortresses than you’ve had dumb thoughts.”

“That’s a bold claim,” You said. “Because I believe the moon is just Earth’s emotional support rock and thunder is just the sky clapping for itself.”

Rocket squinted at you. “…okay, yeah, maybe I underestimated you.”

You leaned forward slowly, eyes narrowing in awe. “You’re so small. And yet, the homicidal energy is enormous. You’re like if Bucky had fur and worse impulse control.”

“Hey-“

You turned to where Bucky had finally entered the room and was already sighing. He didn’t even look surprised. “Yeah, that’s Rocket. Rocket, this is the disaster I’m dating.”

You beamed. “He talks! He walks! He’s a death machine in a jumpsuit! I love him. This is so validating.”

Bucky rubbed his temples. “Please don’t encourage him.”

Rocket perked up immediately. “Wait… you’re dating the arm guy?”

You paused. Looked at Bucky. Then back at Rocket.

“…Yeah?”

A slow, terrifying grin spread across Rocket’s face.

“You got any plans for the arm?” He asked casually. “Like… long term?”

You tilted your head. “Other than excessive touching and probably biting it during arguments? No.”

Rocket rubbed his furry little hands together. “Because I have a few ideas. Think we could reach a business agreement? Little trade? You get, say… a box of Kree tech I may or may not have stolen, and I get to borrow the arm.”

“Borrow?” You asked. “Like, while Bucky’s still wearing it?”

“Oh no,” Rocket said gleefully. “I mean borrow in the very permanent, kind of dismember-y sense.”

Bucky crossed his arms. “You touch the arm, you lose yours.”

Rocket scoffed. “Killjoy.”

You grinned, still watching the two of them bicker like this was the most normal day of your life. Honestly, it was close. You had once gotten into an argument with Sam about the physics of penguin knees for forty-five minutes. This? This was pretty average.

Rocket narrowed his eyes. “You sure you’re not a Guardian? You’ve got the same mix of brilliant and brainless I usually work with.”

You put your hands on your hips. “You think I’d survive five minutes on your ship? Clint holds it against me that I once put a Pop-Tart in the microwave in the wrapper. I’m a walking OSHA violation.”

Rocket smirked. “I like you.”

You beamed. “I like you too, murder rat.”

“Raccoon.”

“Tomato, to-mah-to.”

Bucky, in the background, stared into the middle distance like he was reliving every bad decision that led to this exact moment.

While the two of you clicked in some strange way, it became increasingly exhausting when you realized Rocket was not a quitter. Not when it came to schematics, explosions, or black-market tech auctions. And certainly not when it came to Bucky Barnes’ vibranium arm.

The first time he brought it up again, you were eating spaghetti with a fork that bent mid-twirl because you'd put it in the dishwasher with an experimental metal compound. You stared at the spiraled noodle carnage with mild offense.

Rocket, perched on the back of the couch, cleared his throat. “So. Hypothetically. If someone were to give you a fully operational piece of alien tech that projects holograms and can play music through bone conduction-“

“No,” You said without looking up.

Rocket scowled. “You didn’t even let me finish!”

“You said ‘hypothetically.’ That’s code for ‘I want to take Bucky’s arm again.’”

He grumbled something in what might’ve been space-raccoon swear words.

You smiled faintly. “Also, holograms and music? Tempting, but I already built something that projects TikToks onto the wall when I whistle the opening to Phantom of the Opera.”

Rocket blinked. “…You need to be studied.”

You stuffed more spaghetti in your mouth and spoke through it, “I have been. Briefly. They sent me home with a helmet and a fidget cube. 2/10. Never again.”

The second time was more of a performance. Rocket had dragged you into a secure SHIELD hangar with a tarp over something massive.

“This,” He said dramatically, yanking the cover back, “is a rebuilt Sakaarian battle drone. She sings, flies, and makes waffles. Trade you for the arm.”

You took one look, gasped, and immediately sprinted past him.

“Oh my god! She has a toaster slot!?”

Rocket beamed. “So we have a deal?”

You turned, clutching the side of the drone with wide, reverent eyes.

“No,” You said, “but I will name her Beepie.”

Rocket’s face fell. “You’re not even gonna run this by him?”

You gave him a look. “Rocket. I love you. You’re the first talking raccoon I’ve met that wasn’t a hallucination and validated my belief that half the raccoon species are murderous. But if you think I’m trading even one bolt of Bucky’s arm, which, by the way, I have kissed more than I care to admit, then you don’t understand the depth of my insanity.”

There was a long pause. Then:

“I’ll throw in a jetpack,” Rocket muttered.

You gasped. “With adjustable altitude?”

“Yep.”

“Still no,” You said even though your answer sounded like it physically hurt you.

The third time, he got sneaky.

You were tinkering in the lab late at night, hunched over a circuit board, tongue sticking out in deep concentration, when Rocket skittered in and dropped a sleek metal glove onto your desk.

“Custom-made,” He said nonchalantly. “Enhanced dexterity. Built-in taser. Perfect for a girl with too many ideas and not enough restraint.”

You barely glanced at it.

“Rocket.”

He leaned in. “You could build anything with this. A gravity-flipping belt. Portable wormholes. A coffee maker that actually respects you. All I need is-“

“Bucky’s arm. I know. I’m not stupid.”

“Debatable.”

You gave him a tight-lipped smile and leaned in conspiratorially. “Here’s the thing, furball. That arm? Not mine to give. I didn’t build it. I didn’t earn it. I just kiss it sometimes and occasionally let it hold snacks. I love him. I’m not trading a part of him. Even for cool stuff. Even for toaster robots.”

Rocket looked genuinely surprised. “You’d really pass up a Sakaarian war-toaster… for him?”

You nodded. “Yeah. Even when he leaves wet towels on the bed. Even when he sighs like an old man every time I rewire the TV to play Jeopardy in reverse.”

There was a beat.

Rocket groaned, flopping onto the table in defeat. “You’re the worst. The absolute worst.”

You grinned and patted his head. “Thanks, murder rat.”

“Raccoon.”

Bucky appeared in the doorway then, raising a brow as he took in the scene: Rocket sulking, you cradling a vibro-glove like it was a puppy, and your very serious expression of moral superiority.

“I don’t wanna know,” He said dryly.

You beamed. “Good. Because if you did, you’d probably start sleeping with your arm chained to your chest.”

#Earth’s mightiest headache #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #bucky x reader #marvel fic #marvel x reader #bucky barnes fic #bucky x you #rocket raccoon

239 notes · View notes

arrowthrewme · 3 months ago

Text

Sorry that I've been gone for a bit! School has been a bitch and I couldn't really think of any ideas :( But I'm gonna try to come back since I already have a few ideas in mind (as well as my drafts)

(P.S. this was inspired by ScribbleMama's Clara and Kree (you can find them only on youtube as far as I know))

WARNING: Soft yandere behaviour, male reader intended, co-depended like behaviour

It's Your Golden Hour

"You've healed the hurt inside me. Now, I will protect you from those hurts."

Moving to an old cabin, surrounded by the forest, was a long time coming. Surprisingly. Almost everyone in your family had left their city to move to a small town, disconnected from most of the human population. Either it being money problems or some breakdown because of the uncertainty of who they were—it all led to them moving.

Now it was your turn.

Arriving at the small town—if it could even be called that with how little people it held—you were greeted with smiling, welcoming faces and small treats from the elders. The people helped you get your things inside the old, but stable cabin, but didn't stick around. Which was probably for the best.

You spent the day putting things away and finding their place in your home. Yet, even after so many things found their homes, there were just as many boxes full of even more things.

That's tomorrow's problem.

So, with a tired, aching body and dull mind, you went to bed. Sleeping soundly before a rhythmic tapping awoke you.

Yan Harpy, who saw you when you first arrived and immediately knew he found the one. It's an old tale, one as old as the trees surrounding the half-bird/half-man creature. But it states that after meeting for the first time with your destiny, you will know in a lights flicker.

Yan Harpy, who spent the day preening and grooming himself so you wouldn't think he was some slob. Even surveying the forest for something to bring as the first gift (he settled on a handful of pine tree branches)

Yan Harpy, who was startled when you didn't welcome him with open arms, but loud screams and wacking. He spent so long preening himself! Was it not satisfactory??

Yan Harpy, who sulked for two days before coming up with a brilliant idea

Yan Harpy, who built his nest on your roof

Yan Harpy, who secretly (aka you know he's were very well) to make sure you don't get hurt

Yan Harpy, who brings you every find from the forest. Leaving it on your front door step and cawing when you come to pick it up so you know who gifted it (it's always him)

Yan Harpy, who soon starts to get closer. Not flying up to his nest after leaving his gift of the day, walking next to you when adventuring through the forest and even joining you in your back garden, where you take care of your crops

Yan Harpy, who, as it comes closer and closer to winter time, gets sadder and sadder. Harpies who don't have a secure, warm nest (which is practically just a larger version of a bird box) leave east to escape the cold. Even as a crow harpy, he couldn't stay the winter. He doesn't want to leave you, afraid that you would find a mate or move somewhere where he could never find you

Yan Harpy, who's filled with those types of thoughts. Each thought making him more depressed as the minutes ticked by

Yan Harpy, who was ecstatic when you offered for him to stay with you. He could stay! But not only that, you invited him into your nest. Your private space. He felt like he was going to faint

Yan Harpy, who built a nest made out of blankets and pillows in your bedroom (there is only one bedroom in the cabin). It was big enough for two people, which meant he would sit down inside it and pat it happily. Inviting you to sit beside him

Yan Harpy, who gets embarrassed by how quickly his winter coat grew in. It made him look like a puffball! That wasn't what he wanted!! He wanted to look distinguished for you...wait...you like it? Well... he guesses it isn't so bad

Yan Harpy, who is like a person heater, seeing as he runs hotter than humans (perfect for cuddling as the weather gets cooler)

Yan Harpy, who, you quickly learn, doesn't really have a name. Most harpies call themselves by their titles in their main family. And seeing as he's the youngest, that was what he was mainly called

Yan Harpy, who spends evenings going through baby name books, trying to find the perfect one (he picked out Circe. What a coincidence.)

Yan Harpy, who growls when anyone approaches you or the house. It doesn't matter if the person is married, single, old, young—he doesn't like them coming near his mate (except for little kids)

Yan Harpy, who, when jealous, just gets clingy and needy. He won't fight or yell. All he can do is think of all the ways he isn't good enough. His feathers aren't soft and neat enough, he isn't strong enough, he isn't a good provider. You'd have to spend a day or week (depending how jealous he feels) cuddling and assuring him that he's perfect the way he is

Yan Harpy, who slept in your bed for the first time during a particularly cold night. It was cold enough that even Circe was shivering. So, you invited him into your bed so both of you could get a night's rest without freezing to death

Yan Harpy, who adores spring. Yes, the shedding it... hectic. But seeing everything bloom once more, gaining back its vibrancy—oh, it makes him want to sing!

Yan Harpy, who let's you use his feathers as stuffing for pillows

Yan Harpy, who loves to hold you to his chest. Feeling your back press against his front makes him feel like time slows down.

Yan Harpy, who preens you every day. Let him brush your hair; he's begging you! On his hands and knees, begging

Yan Harpy, who speaks in chirps, caws and body language, but after some time learnt sign language to communicate better with your

Yan Harpy, who will be your mate forever. He will keep you warm and happy. Just pick take the mating feather and he'll be fully yours. Only yours.

#male reader #original character #soft yandere #x male reader #yandere #yandere x darling #yandere x male reader #yandere x reader #harpy oc #yandere harpy #harpy

177 notes · View notes

raccoonfallsharder · 3 months ago

Text

some questionable headcanons.

navigation | headcanons & imagines

just thinking too much about how (and why) rocket doms & subs in all (well, most??) of his different incarnations. of course there’s lots of crossover because at his core, rocket is always rocket, but sort of… reskinned by the experiences in his different worlds.

i spent way too long thinking about this while traveling over the weekend. NSFW (mdni) with gn reader below the cut my loves. just some ramblings/musings that are subject to change according to my mood.

ROCKET DOMS/SUBS FOR YOU.

WARNINGS: all sorts of kink including bondage, blindfolds, mild painplay, collaring, crawling, intox, gunplay, marking (scratches, come), ropeplay, masturbation (guided- and un-guided), overstim, edging, general bossiness, sex toys, cockwarming, size kink, exhibitionism, voyeurism, threesomes... did i get em all?

mcu rocket

DOMS YOU: by doing whatever it takes to make you beg for him — to force you to convince him that you want him, that you need him. he’s a master of edging, and he wants desperately to leave marks on you as proof that he was there. it’s not a dealbreaker if you aren’t into spanking or biting or spanking or clamping or spanking or bruising, but he’d love to give you just a little bit of pain if you’re into it. also likes to degrade you a little too, but has a hard time bringing himself to be really mean when he likes you oh-so-much. oh — and the top-drop is real with this one, so make sure to provide good aftercare for your dom.

SUBS FOR YOU: the amount of trust it will take for this rocket to explicitly sub for you is immense (though it’s pretty clear early on that even if he likes to degrade you a little bit, you’re the one with all the power in the bedroom). he doesn’t like to be restrained by anything but his own willpower, which is admittedly flimsy. but for you, he’ll try: clenching his fists into the sheets of his bunk, gripping onto shelves and hatch-frames and anything else he can brace himself against to try to keep from touching you when you tell him to keep his hands to himself. he might even let you blindfold him, though he’s honest enough to admit that he can use his other senses to get a pretty clear idea of where you’re at and what you’re about to do. the truth is, this rocket really does want nothing more than to make you feel good — and if that means letting you take control, he’ll figure out a way to do it. after the first time — when you’ve given him so many orgasms he thinks he might’ve actually died and gone to a better afterlife than he deserves — he’s more willing to explore whatever options you want, just as long as you keep murmuring those sweet little reassurances that you’ll take care of him.

eidos rocket

DOMS YOU: most rockets have something of a gunplay-kink, but this guy takes it to the next level. he loves to both toss you around and boss you around, and lavish you with all sorts condescending praise — particularly when stretching you out on a cannon. plus, ever since that night you let him get you high on everbloom, he can’t stop thinking about how sweet and silly and eager-to-please you’d been while intoxicated. he won’t do anything without your explicit consent, but he can envision a whole galaxy of fun if you let him do that again.

SUBS FOR YOU: this rocket generally avoids situations where he’s vulnerable, so at first it seems like you’re unlikely to ever get the upper hand. secretly, he also worries about having flashbacks to the labs when restrained, or the sensory deprivation chambers when, well, sensory-deprived, so traditional bondage is a no-go. i don’t think he minds you taking the lead, though — just be prepared for him to be bit of a pillow princess when roles are reversed. that said, the truth is that between the cold contempt of the kree scientists, lylla’s sacrifice for his life, and tella’s betrayal, this rocket — while vain as hell in regards to his pretty fur and stunning physique — does worry that there’s something intrinsically inadequate about himself as a person. shower him with enough authentic praise, and he’ll do just about anything to keep it (and you) coming.

cartoon rocket

DOMS YOU: this rocket absolutely sees himself as a dom and is also absolutely not one. underneath it all, some part of him believes that he’s still the unloved runt of his family and the weird one on halfworld — and no matter how amazingly brilliant and capable he’s become, that perception of himself never fully goes away. except for when he’s with you, that is. look, he tries to boss you around a bit. but when you give him that sweet, indulgent little smile and massage the base of his ears, he’ll do whatever he can to please you. the closest this rocket gets to “calling the shots” is when he leaves fine red scratch marks somewhere visible on your skin — loving the way it looks like he’s claimed you (even if part of him would much rather be claimed).

SUBS FOR YOU: did you see the episode with ja kyee lrurt? sure, it’ll take a whole lot of trust-building to get there, but once he’s fallen for you, this rocket will worship the ground you walk on. he’ll trip over his own tail trying to make you happy, both in and out of bed. step on him, spit in his mouth, and call him a good boy, and he’ll be thankful.

universe-killer rocket

DOMS YOU: WARNING. DANGER. if this rocket decides to let you live in the first place, he’ll be wanting to keep you collared around the clock. imagine everything the other rockets do to dom you, but dial the intensity up to thirteen and make it at least six shades darker. loves to see you crawl.

SUBS FOR YOU: oh honey. you’re in the wrong place. at best — once he softens up to you — you’ll get a part-time service dom. maybe. it’s not even that he doesn’t want to submit to you (though he doesn’t). it’s mostly that he wouldn’t remember how if he tried.

marvel rivals rocket

DOMS YOU: i’m still getting to know this rocket but it’s clear he likes variety, based on his dramatically-different looks. i suspect he’s got a major size-kink to go along with that tendency, too. it doesn’t matter that he’s smaller than you in stature: this rocket has at least fifteen different prosthetic cocks and about ten of them are too big for you to take without substantial prep. don’t worry, though: while rocket is not patient in most things, he makes exceptions for this. he loves sinking into you nice and slow while you’re all teared up and dripping, grinning maniacally against your damp skin and purring, “easy, sweetheart; biiiiiig stretch”

SUBS FOR YOU: this rocket’s got super-soldier trauma too, but i think he’s also way better at being part of a team — which means he’s willing to take one for it, too. submitting to you is the equivalent of a trust-fall, and once you’ve had his back in battle, he’s willing to at least give it a shot. give him a playful flick to his earring and a smirk to let him know you’re in the mood to boss him around, and he’ll let you as long as it leads to multiple orgasms for both of you. as mentioned, he’s also a big fan of shaking things up, so feel free to try out all your new ideas, just as long as you’re communicating beforehand.

ewing/rosenberg/et al rocket

DOMS YOU: this rocket spent some time with a pretty little thing from the aceta system and learned all about traditional krylorian ropeplay. he loves tying you up with all sorts of deviously-positioned knots that tease your poor, delicious body every time you take a breath. then he just sits and drinks his angargal’s (neat) and watches you with a predatory grin and a few casual — if absolutely filthy — “compliments.” is it even edging if he’s not actually doing anything? he’s innocent, your honor! except that he might jerk off on you, just so he lasts longer when he finally gets inside you (plus there’s something about see you you helpless and dripping — with his fluids and yours — that makes him dangerously feral). he’s also a big fan of directing you on how to touch yourself — especially if he can make you edge or overstim your own body. it feels like the ultimate control to him.

SUBS FOR YOU: this rocket loves cuddles, physical affection, and quality time — though he’ll never admit it. it’s on account of him being the loneliest flarkin’ guy in the universe, of course. he hadn’t remembered his past for circs — just a big ol’ hollow void in his history that he’d filled with persistent dread, raw nerves, and more cons and grifts than even he can recall. had his heart broke once or twice, and generally perceives himself as too much of a d’ast grizmod to be worthy of another person’s genuine love. and then he’d gotten his memories back… only to find out he’d been an authentic dumb-ass hero in a past life, before his former enemy had married his girl. it had really sent the message home: that nobody’s just gonna give him nice things. well. nobody until you. so cuddle this rocket up tight in your arms, and treat him oh-so-lovingly — spend late nights with him in the cockpit and listen to his stories — then stroke his tail while you ask him so sweetly to jack himself off. he’ll find himself doing whatever you say before he even realizes it. or — if you want to give him a real treat — make him promise not to move while you cockwarm him for an hour or two. make sure he knows that there will be no orgasms for cranky gunsmiths who can’t stay still. he’ll stare at you like you’re absurd for suggesting it — why the flark would he agree to something like that? — but after two minutes of you holding him snuggled tight inside you, he’ll start getting teary-eyed from the sheer emotional intimacy of it all.

skottie young rocket

DOMS YOU: by tying you up and overstimming you — again and again and again and again — with his tail and a dozen new toys he made himself. today. look, he’s gotta try ‘em out somehow, and you’re both his lucky muse and his favorite lil test-subject. loves to make you cry — but only for fun reasons. would absolutely arrange for another sub to wreck you under his direction, but only if you told him you’d be into it. he’s one-thousand percent a showman of the highest caliber and he’s gotta make sure everything’s over the top so he doesn’t disappear without ever being loved, which means he also doesn’t mind a full-fledged audience.

SUBS FOR YOU: if you’re looking for vulnerability with this rocket, you’re more likely to find it in unguarded moments of sexual intimacy that are remarkably vanilla. why? mostly just because it’s proof that he doesn’t always have to be the most outrageous thing in the galaxy to keep your attention. these are the moments when he’s heartwrenchingly soft, when he might explain to you how isolated he feels, how he’s searched high and low for “his own people” and has always been reminded that he’s the only thing like him in the universe; that he’s tried to fill the void with an endless parade of gender-variable space-princesses only to find that no-one ever made him feel less-alone — until you. but if you’re looking for submission… well. this rocket is the switchiest switch to ever switch. he has no issue subbing for someone with whom he expects to have fun, mostly because he doesn’t have to trust you to play sub for you. he’ll let you do pretty much whatever you want in the name of brat-taming, but the joke’s on you if you think he’s not capable of wresting back control the moment he wants it. for flark’s sake, he can get out of those electrocuffs in less than two seconds if he wants to — and he’ll never be done being a brat.

#rfh headcanons #rocket raccoon #guardians of the galaxy #rfh smut #eidos rocket #gotg video game #marvel rivals #gotg fanfiction #gotg rocket #rocket raccoon fanfiction #rocket raccoon x you #rocket raccoon x reader

158 notes · View notes

reveryfics · 4 months ago

Text

I Was Made For Lovin' You

Peter Quill x FtM Reader

Summary: Peter was hopelessly in love with you since you joined the Guardians. Despite your attempts to ignore him, he finally convinces you to dance.

A/N: I never see any Peter Quill with any type of masculine reader, so I offer this. Highly recommend listening to the cover of "I was made for lovin' you" by YungBlud while reading this.

The moment you officially became a Guardian of the Galaxy, two cosmic truths aligned like celestial bodies. First, you’d found a family, a ragtag bunch of misfits who embraced you, quirks and all, in a way your own blood relatives never had. And second, well, the second truth shimmered with the intensity of a supernova: Peter Quill, the self-proclaimed Star-Lord, was head-over-heels, irrevocably smitten with you from the very millisecond his eyes locked onto yours. It was a love story written in the stars, even if he was too stubborn, too adorably dense, to admit it.

He’d sputter denials, of course, a blush creeping up his neck as he vehemently refuted Rocket’s teasing jabs whenever he was caught gazing at you, lost in the constellation of freckles scattered across your nose as you expertly tinkered with the Milano’s engine. He might have tried to play it cool, to maintain that roguish, devil-may-care façade, but it was as transparent as a Kree force field. Everyone saw it: the way his eyes lingered a little too long, the soft smile that played on his lips when you laughed, the way he always seemed to gravitate towards you, like a moth to a particularly dazzling, grease-covered flame. And, of course, there was that one fateful, tequila-fueled night under a canopy of a million shimmering stars, when secrets whispered between you like cosmic winds, and Peter learned everything.

He learned about your journey, your struggles, the ache of feeling like you were always on the outside looking in. He learned about the quiet battles you fought within yourself, the lingering insecurities that clung to you like space dust. He learned about the pain of a family that couldn’t, or wouldn’t, understand. And then, he did something extraordinary. He saw you. Truly saw you, the man you were, the man you were always meant to be. He accepted you, celebrated you, with an open-heartedness that made your soul soar. Perhaps it was his own experience of being an outsider, a human raised among the stars, that gave him such profound empathy. Whatever the reason, his acceptance was a balm to your heart, a validation you had craved for so long.

He knew all your vulnerabilities, the way you sometimes still felt like you were being judged, scrutinized, found wanting. He knew the lingering fear that people didn’t truly see you as a man. But Peter, with his goofy charm and surprisingly insightful heart, always had a way of chasing away the shadows. He’d make a silly joke, or tell a ridiculous story about his own insecurities, and suddenly, the weight on your chest would lighten, the darkness would recede. He had a knack for making you feel seen, truly seen, and loved, just the way you were.

With a sigh, you wiped a smudge of engine grease from your cheek, leaving a dark streak across your skin. Rocket had conscripted you into helping him finish some repairs, and since you had nothing better to do than contemplate the vast emptiness of space and your own complicated feelings, you’d agreed. The ship’s radio hummed with the familiar strains of 70s rock, a comforting blanket of sound that drowned out the rest of the world, including, you thought, Peter, who had wandered into the engine room, ostensibly to check on your progress, but, as always, had remained to simply watch you work.

He leaned against a bulkhead, a soft smile playing on his lips as he took in the sight of you. One of his old t-shirts, ridiculously oversized, hung loosely on your frame, your hair a tousled mess, your hands and face smudged with grime. You were a vision, a beautiful, grease-covered, utterly captivating vision. If hopeless romantic was a person, it would be Peter Quill, standing there, bathed in the dim light of the engine room, his heart overflowing with a love he couldn’t quite articulate.

“Going to stand there and make heart eyes all night?” you chuckled, a playful smirk tugging at the corner of your mouth. You plucked a greasy rag from a nearby pile and tossed it playfully at his face.

Peter blinked, startled from his reverie. He cleared his throat, a faint blush dusting his cheeks. “I wasn’t…I wasn’t staring,” he stammered, the lie so transparent it was almost endearing.

“Oh, really? Because your face says otherwise,” you countered, raising an eyebrow. “It’s saying, ‘Wow, look at him, so strong, so capable, covered in grime… I’m in love!’” You exaggerated the last part, batting your eyelashes dramatically.

Peter spluttered, his blush deepening. “That’s… that’s not what my face is saying at all,” he insisted, but his voice lacked conviction. He fidgeted, running a hand through his hair, dislodging a stray piece of space dust. “My face is saying… ‘Is that a new kind of… uh… wrench?’” He gestured vaguely at a nearby toolbox, clearly grasping at straws.

You snorted. “A wrench? Seriously, Quill? That’s the best you’ve got?” You leaned closer, your voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “You know, everyone sees it, right? Rocket, Groot, even Drax, who barely understands metaphors, has commented on your ‘intense admiration’ for me.”

Peter groaned, covering his face with his hands. “Okay, okay, you got me,” he mumbled from behind his palms. “I think you’re… pretty cool. And… good at fixing things. And… not repulsive when covered in grease.”

“Wow, high praise indeed,” you deadpanned. Just then, as if the universe itself was conspiring to embarrass Peter further, “I Was Made For Lovin’ You” crackled to life on the ship radio. Peter’s head snapped up as if he’d been electrocuted.

“Oh! This is your favorite song, right?” he exclaimed, his embarrassment momentarily forgotten in his eagerness to change the subject. He pointed at the radio, a little too enthusiastically. “You love this song! Always singing it… terribly, I might add.” He grinned, nudging you playfully.

Before you could retort, Peter grabbed your hand and began to sway, attempting a clumsy dance move. “Come on, let’s dance!” he declared, pulling you towards him.

“Absolutely not,” you said, laughing, but the smile on your face betrayed your true feelings. You knew you couldn’t resist his goofy charm for long. He started chasing you around the cramped engine room, his movements surprisingly agile despite the confined space. You squealed with laughter as he finally cornered you, grabbing your hands and pulling you into a clumsy two-step.

You danced like no one was watching, lost in the music and the moment. Peter’s earlier embarrassment had melted away, replaced by pure joy. As the song reached its crescendo, you leaned in and kissed him.

His eyes widened in surprise for a split second, but then he kissed you back, his hand tightening around yours. When you finally broke apart, breathless and grinning, he leaned his forehead against yours.

“I was made for lovin’ you,” he sang, his voice a little shaky, a little off-key, but full of genuine emotion.

You laughed, echoing the lyrics, equally terrible but equally sincere.

“So,” Peter said, after a beat of comfortable silence, “does this mean we’re… you know… boyfriend and boyfriend now?”

You grinned, leaning in for another kiss. “Yeah, Quill,” you whispered against his lips. “Yeah, it does.”

#peter quill #peter quill x ftm reader #star lord #star lord x ftm reader #xftmreader #x ftm reader #fanfic #fanfiction #marvel #marvel x male reader #marvel x ftm reader #mlm #x male reader #xmalereader #gay #gay fanfiction #queer fanfiction

138 notes · View notes

arcane-vagabond · 2 months ago

Text

An Gealbhan

Pairing: Dr. Frank Langdon x Reader

“Maireann lá go ruaig ach maireann an grá go huaigh.” A day lasts until it's chased away, but love lasts until the grave.

Summary: When you're touched by the fae, the price is almost always a heavy one. Frank doesn't listen to the stories, and so he learns the hard way.

Content Warnings: Liberties taken with Celtic mythology and tales, Magic, Struggles to conceive, Talk of sick baby, Deals with the fae, Old time beliefs, Proposals, Self doubt, Marriage, Wedding night, Smut [oral (male receiving), dry humping, p in v, dirty talk, groping], Infertility, Major Depression, Grief, Alcoholism, Allusions to self harm, Happy Ending (sort of?), Angst, Fluff. I think that's it for the major ones, but PLEASE let me know if I missed anything!

Word Count: 12.7k

Helpful pronunciations (not exact, but close):

A chroi (uh kree) -- My heart

A chuisle mo chroi (uh hoosh-luh muh kree) -- Literally "pulse of my heart," but figuratively means "darling," "beloved," or "my everything."

Wean (wee-un) -- Just slang for "wee one"

Mo fhíorghra (muh heer-graw) -- My true love

Frank Langdon Masterlist || Main Masterlist || Song Inspo

All his life, Frank Langdon had heard stories of those who had been touched by the fae. People who had a gift unique to themselves—whether big or small. There was an old woman who could guess the gender of any baby the moment another knew they were expecting. A man outside of town could fashion a horseshoe in no time at all, never missing a beat with his hammer. He had even heard the whispers of the townsfolk talking about some newborn spirited away to the wilds, none of which he particularly believed. There was one person, though, that had Frank pausing every time he saw them.

The farmer’s daughter was a beautiful girl, of that no one was keen to argue. It was the peculiar way about her, though, that had people whispering.

“Touched by the fae, that one is,” his mother would cluck on their trips into town. “Might even be one of them herself for all we know.”

Her words were never spoken in malice, but rather a wariness that had Frank’s attention. He would look at the pretty girl, studying her and trying to find what it was about her that had his mother so on edge. Try though he might, he could never find it.

Sure, she was strange in a way. Her skin seemed to glow from within, the warmth of her smile drawing him in. Her laughter, like that of chiming bells, left him in awe. Even the hardest man was hard pressed to remain so when in her presence at her family’s stall. Frank would watch as the sun gleamed in her hair, her eyes always seeming to catch him staring at her. She would smile at him, a twinkle in those pretty eyes before returning to her task at hand.

Frank Langdon considered himself as someone who was not unusual, but as someone who was gifted. He was handsome, a fact he was made aware of every time he was the subject of his friends’ teasing or when he caught a village girl smiling at him too long. He was confident, often talking his way out of trouble when he found himself in the mood for mischief, and he considered himself to be well spoken on top of it all. He was smart, often praised by his teachers for his achievements and natural abilities, and his mother wished to see him off to school to become a doctor. Frank paid them all no mind—he only had a mind for the farmer’s daughter when all was said and done.

Perhaps that was why he found himself growing bolder as he got older—daring to step foot near the stall where he often found her. She was already helping the widow Connor when he happened by, and so he pretended to busy himself with the produce, picking them up one by one and turning them over as if inspecting them.

“Think you’ll find something interesting if you look hard enough?”

He started, eyes wide as he swiveled his head to look at her, the smile that warmed him now took his breath away as she stood across from him now. She glanced down at the carrot in his hand before meeting his eyes once more, a question on her brow as she fought back a smile.

“Huh?” He asked, cursing himself for how stupid he sounded and how off kilter he felt in that moment. She breathed out a quiet laugh, her eyelashes fluttering in a way that made Frank feel as if his heart might stop.

“It’s just a regular, old carrot,” she continued. “Many more like it here, so there’s no need to look so hard.”

Frank could feel the blush creeping up his neck to his cheeks and then to the tips of his ears. She leaned in closer to him—the sweet scent of her, something akin to the heather that grew in the wilds filling his senses—their noses almost brushing as she quirked a brow.

“It’s not filled with magic or whatever the folks around here accuse me of doing to it,” she smiled. Frank’s eyes grew wide as he stared down at her.

“I wasn’t-” he cut himself off, the heat under his skin blazing into an inferno as he attempted to recover. “I didn’t mean-”

“I’m not accusing you,” she chuckled, leaning back and allowing him a moment to recover himself. “Only assuring you that my da’s the one who grew’em. Nothing hokey about our produce.”

She paused, rubbing her pointer finger along her bottom lip—a movement Frank found himself enraptured with.

“They are the best you’ll find though,” she continued, meeting his gaze once more. “But that’s more the soil’s doing than mine, rest assured.”

“The best I’ll find, huh?” He said, a small smile finding its way to his lips. “That’s a bold claim if ever there was one.”

“Ah, but is it bold if it’s a fact?” She countered, her eyes glittering with mirth as she leaned forward once more. “Go on, then. Take that and another on the house, and if you cook’em up tonight and they aren’t the sweetest morsels you’ve ever had I’ll…”

She trailed off, seeming to ponder her threat, her teeth worrying at her bottom lip.

“You’ll give me a kiss,” Frank said, his heart pounding in his chest. He half expected her to slap him right across the face for his presumptuousness, but to his great relief, she smiled.

“Aye,” she nodded, fighting back a grin. “But if they are, you have to stand on my stall and shout to the whole market about how tasty they are.”

Frank let out a belt of laughter, startling the passersby as they milled about around him. He nodded, extending his hand.

“You’ve got yourself a deal,” he grinned. She grinned back at him, her smile squeezing at his heart as she slipped her hand in to his, squeezing slightly.

“A deal it is then.”

And true to his word, Frank went home that night and had his mother cook up the carrots, delighting in the sweetness of them as he thought about the bonnie girl who made a living at the market.

He dreamed of her that night, the way her hair fell past her shoulder as she grinned back at him. They ran in the forest, the green sweeping by as his feet hit the ground. The market girl seemed to fly across the peat, her toes barely touching down before she was springing back up again. Her laughter peeled in the quiet of the forest, the birds joining in with her in a cacophony of song.

He awoke with a start, the birds singing sweetly outside his window as the sun rose above the horizon. He closed his eyes on a deep sigh, relishing in the warmth of his bed for a moment more before resigning himself to the day. He had been studying under the local doctor—Michael Robinavitch, or Robby as he kindly reminded everyone. Today would be a half day under Robby’s tutelage as the older doctor had business a few towns over that afternoon. He ate his breakfast quickly, ignoring the chastising of his mother to slow down, and out the door he was.

The town was already rife with activity—the market opening, the baker firing up his ovens for a second round of baked goods, and the bell signaling the start to the school day. Frank looked for the farmer’s daughter amongst the chaos, frowning when he couldn’t spot her.

The door to Robby’s creaked open and jerked shut behind him as he stepped into the open room of the shop. The smell of herbs and remedies hit his nose, and he wiggled it to abstain from the sneeze that threatened to overtake him.

“You’re late.”

Robby appeared in the doorway, pursed lips and brow high as he peered at the younger man. Frank gave him an apologetic grimace.

“Yeah, sorry about that,” he said, moving behind the counter. Robby watched him silently, arms crossed and expression passive as Frank put his things away.

“Don’t suppose you were late because of a certain girl, hm?”

Frank nearly choked on his breath, his cheeks blazing for the second time in twenty-four hours as he looked at his mentor with wild eyes.

“What?” He said, voice much higher than it should be. “What girl? Huh? No. No girl. What makes you think that? Did someone say something?”

Robby hummed, a ghost of a smile on the corner of his lips as he walked up to the counter.

“Well, since you’re here now,” he drawled, “you can start by cleaning out the old containers. We’ll leave them to air dry for the next few days, and you’ll repack them with the new stuff when I get back.”

Frank worked diligently for the next few hours on the various tasks Robby assigned to him, his excitement growing as the clocked ticked on. A little after midday, Robby sauntered in from the backrooms, shrugging on his coat as he set his suitcase down by his feet.

“You’re free to go,” he stated simply, sparing Frank a glance.

“You’re sure?” He asked, already scrambling to his feet and inching for the door.

“Yeah, I’m sure,” Robby nodded, Frank already making a beeline for the exit. “Say hi to your girl for me!”

Frank barely heard him as he all but ran towards the market. There were more people out than this morning, something to be expected as the day had progressed. Frank muttered half hearted apologies as he pushed his way through the crowd and to her stall. He was disappointed to not see her already standing there, and so he busied himself with the pick of vegetables laid out for customers to peruse. He bent down to inspect them, pretending to consider the different produce carefully.

“The carrots must have been just fine if you’re back already.”

Frank’s heart skipped a beat, his eyes darting up to look at her as she smiled down at him. A warmth radiated from her, and he was tempted to simply stand there and bask in the light that was her.

“More than that,” he grinned, standing straight. “They were the tastiest carrots I’ve ever had.”

“Were they now?” She hummed, peering up at him through her lashes.

“Yes,” he nodded, his smile growing even bigger as he recalled their words from the day before. “And I believe we had a deal.”

She squawked as Frank hoisted himself on top of the table, the old wood creaking in protest as he stood. Several heads turned in his direction, and Frank cleared his throat.

“Excuse me!” He called out, drawing the attention of the rest of the market. Every pair of eyes felt like a hole in his skin, but he ignored the nerves in his stomach. “I feel it is my duty to inform each and every one of you of the tasty morsels you’ll find at this here stall. Truly the finest produce in all the land!”

“Get down from there!” She laughed, her lips split into the smile he loved so much. “You’re a mad man!”

“Aye, mad for you,” he agreed with a laugh, teetering on the table as he clumsily crawled back down. The girl wrapped her arms around his shoulder, hiding her face into the sleeve of his shirt as the passersby cast them a mixture of disapproving and bemused looks.

“I can’t believe you did that,” she mumbled, though her shoulders shook with her giggles.

“I’m a man of my word,” he shrugged, his cheeks aching from how hard he was smiling. She pushed away from him, and Frank found himself missing her near already.

“That you are,” she hummed, hands on her hips. “Tell me your name?”

It was only weeks later when Frank found himself following her into the woods, the trees looming high over their heads as they journeyed deeper.

“Where are you taking me?” He asked, his hand tightening around hers. She tossed him a mischievous smile over her shoulders, her fingers squeezing his.

“It’s a secret,” she murmured, turning to look back forward. Frank huffed, the strands of his hair falling into his eyes as he stumbled over a wayward branch. The birds chattered around them, and Frank found his gaze drifting upwards more often than not, his eyes trying to follow the small creatures as they danced through the air.

She came to an abrupt halt, and Frank nearly stumbled into her. They stood at the treeline, a small clearing before them. The sun shone in rays that touched the peat on the ground, a small, babbling brook running through. A tree stump stood proudly on the tiny bump in the ground, the base wide, and Frank briefly thought about the mighty ash that must have stood there once. He watched as she stepped forward, her feet never making a sound as she stepped into the sunlight. The beams of light cast a glow around her, a halo shining atop her head as she basked in the warmth of the sun's touch.

“Where are we?” Frank asked, taking a hesitant step towards her. She blinked at him, as if surprised that he was still there.

“I come here to think,” she answered, looking up at the sky above. “Or when I'm sad, or have a lot on my mind.”

She paused.

“Which is often, I suppose,” she hummed, tapping a finger to her bottom lip in thought. “No one from home dares to venture this far. Not unless they're willing to bargain.”

“Bargain?” Frank asked, taking another step forward.

“Aye,” she nodded. “With the fair folk. They're a cheeky bunch, but they're always looking for a trade.”

Frank scoffed. “Don't tell me you believe in that nonsense.”

“Don't be calling that which you don't know 'nonsense,” Frank Langdon,” she scowled. “It'll do you good to show some respect to the wee creatures.”

“Right,” he hummed, but his skepticism was still plain on his face. “And what have we come to bargain for then?”

“Nothing,” she replied, shrugging her shoulders.

“So...what? You've brought me out here to tell me stories?” He teased, crossing the rest of the distance between the two of them. She hummed, casting him a less than amused side-eyed glance. She pulled away from him, her fingers lingering against his before dropping her hand.

“You've heard tales of the ones touched by the fae?” She asked, though Frank knew it wasn't really a question. He nodded anyway, eyes trained on her as she took a deep breath, playing with a fold in her skirt.

“Well,” she continued, “most people don't know that in order to be touched, something must be given. It's the way of things, you know? The old woman who can guess whether a baby will be a boy or girl before it's even born?”

Frank nodded again, his brow creasing in confusion.

“Haven't you ever wondered why she's never had children of her own?” She asked, a wry smile on her pretty lips.

Frank frowned. No, he hadn't considered that before. He hadn't thought much of her beyond the odd time he accompanied Robby to help deliver a baby. She was always present at the births, a smile on her face, though now Frank thought he recalled a sort of resigned sadness in her eyes as she watched the new mothers hold their babes.

“And the old man who could always make a perfect horseshoe?” She prodded. “You remember what happened to him, don't you?”

Frank recalled the old man, his grown growing deeper. It had been a tragic accident, he was sure of that. The old man had lost his hand while working on a project for the local lord, and now relied upon his children to provide for him.

“That was an accident,” Frank insisted, shaking his head. She smiled wryly at him.

“Are you sure about that?”

Frank didn't respond. He chewed on the inside of his cheek, eyes set on the ground beneath him as he mulled over her words. Shaking his head, he glanced back up at her.

He had never seen her look so sad, and his heart ached when she hung her head, turning to put her back to him.

“Many, many years ago,” she began, “there was once a farmer who loved a girl, and she loved him in return. And so, the two were married.

“The farmer's wife wanted nothing more than a child, and try though they might, the powers that be never saw fit to grant them their wish. They tried everything, of course. Every remedy, every treatment—nothing was too outlandish in their pursuit for their child.

“Finally, the farmer's wife fell pregnant, and nine months later she gave birth to a baby girl. But, the baby girl was sick, you see, and the doctor said the wean wouldn't live to see the end of the week.

“The farmer and his wife were devastated, and so they decided to do the unthinkable. Under the cover of darkness, they took their baby girl to the forest that lay on the edge of town. They walked and walked and walked until they came to this very spot right here. They lay their baby girl in a faerie ring of wild mushrooms, and they waited. They waited for hours until suddenly before them stood a man.

“The man was not like any man they had ever seen before. Where feet should stand, two cloven hooves were in their place. Antlers grew out of his head like that of a stag, and his eyes were dark and full of stars.

“The man asked them why they trespassed on lands that didn't belong to them. The farmer and his wife explained their plight to him, begging him for help to save their daughter. The man waved them away, telling them that they didn't know what they were asking of him, and to leave from this place and never return.

”The farmer and his wife would not heed the man's warning, and once more they begged him to save their daughter.

“'Very well,' he said. 'I will save the babe, but what have you brought me as payment?'“

She paused, a wry smile on her lips as she tilted her head up towards the sky.

“The farmer and his wife hadn't thought to bring any form of payment, you see,” she continued. “In their grief, they had forgotten that the fair folk never did anything out of the goodness of their heart. There was always a price to pay for their magic.

“The man saw their plight, and once more he took pity on them.

“'Turn out your pockets,' he said. And the farmer and his wife both did as instructed. The farmer's wife had nothing in hers, but the farmer, ever a hard working man, had twenty-five seeds in his pocket. In the blink of an eye, the hooved man was standing right before them, peering down into the farmer's hands. He stood there, not a word spoken before passing his hand, the tips of his fingers black as coal, over the farmer's hand. The farmer looked down to see that the seeds had disappeared.

“'Your payment is accepted,' said the man. 'For each seed you have payed me, I will bestow one year of life to your babe. On the harvest of the twenty-fifth year, her life will be returned to me.'

“And then the man stepped back, and in another blink, he vanished,” she finished. Frank blinked at her.

“Why are you telling me all of this?” He asked, frown pulling on his lips. “Why bring it up now?”

“You know what they say about me, aye?” She said softly. “That I'm one of them. One of the ones touched by the fae? Well, it's true, and one day I'll return to them that which they gave.”

Frank felt the anger rising in his chest.

“It won't happen,” he snapped, hands clenched into fists at his side. She blinked at him, lips parted as she inhaled. Frank marched up to her, grabbing her hands in his and squeezed them tightly against his chest.

“It won't happen,” he repeated, a hint of desperation in his words this time. “Even if all of that is true—and I don't believe it is—I won't let you be taken away from here. You belong here with your parents, your brothers and sisters, your friends, and—”

He stopped himself, heat creeping up his chest and to his cheeks as he averted his gaze. The farmer's daughter squeezed his hands now, her head dipping to try and meet his eyes.

“And?” She questioned, a soft look on her face as she finally met his gaze. Frank studied her for a moment, much like he had all those weeks ago. He saw the warmth that radiated from her, felt it in her fingertips as he loosened his grip. He smelled the sweetness of her, something distinctly floral and distinctly her that drove him almost to madness. He felt the tremor in her hands as he held them, the tickle of her exhale as she waited for his answer.

“And me,” he said finally, resting his forehead against hers and closing his eyes. He let the confession roll over the both of them, his heart hammering in his chest as he waited for her rejection. He was a fool to think that she would want anything to do with him when it came to love. She was an angel on earth, and he was just a man. A man who would do anything for her to look at him, to hold him, to love him. He'd give up everything he had for one moment in her presence.

The softness of her fingertips tracing up to cup his jaw drew him out of his thoughts, and he pried his eyes open to meet hers. A quiet curiosity sat in her irises, studying him—for what, he didn't know. He let her look, bared his soul to her in that moment, and she graced him with a soft smile.

“Kiss me,” she whispered, and Frank thought he had made it up. He blinked at her, disbelief evident in his eyes as he looked at her. She giggled, “kiss me, Frank Langdon.”

He inhaled sharply, his heart jumping in his chest. Slowly—hesitantly—he pressed himself closer to her, her skirts billowing around them as a breeze kicked up. He brought his hand up to cup the back of her neck, her eyelashes fluttering closed as he leaned in.

The second their lips touched, Frank knew he was done for. Her lips were soft against his, eagerly seeking him out as he gripped her waist. He pulled at her gently, moving his lips against hers as he lost himself. He knew without a shadow of a doubt that he would have no one else.

Slowly, she pulled away from him, giggling once more as he chased her lips with his own. He kissed her again, running the hand that had been at the back of her neck down to rest on the small of her back.

“Frank,” she said against his lips, the smile he loved present once more. She pulled her head back, placing a gentle hand on his chest. “Frank, we should head home.”

His breathing was heavy as he looked down at her in his arms. He willed himself to let her go, albeit slowly, and took a step back as she brushed her skirts.

“Okay,” he nodded, gesturing towards the edge of the clearing. “Lead the way then.”

Months passed, turning into a year, and the two were happy. Frank continued to train under Robby, and the time soon came where he would know longer need his mentor's supervision.

When Frank wasn’t in town, he was out in the forest and glens collecting herbs and plants for Robby. There were times when he would stop and listen to the birds, reminded of the sound of his sweetheart’s voice, and he would feel an ache so deep, that he would rush through his task, hurrying back to the town.

“There’s roots on these,” Robby would tisk, but Frank was already out the door, feet carrying him to the familiar stall at the market.

“I brought you something,” he said, presenting her with a stem of wild heather, the purple petals shining brightly in the sunshine.

“It’s beautiful,” she smiled, plucking the sprig from his hand and marveling at it. “I’ve always loved flowers.”

“I’ll bring you more,” he replied without hesitation. And he did. Every chance he could, he’d bring her a flower from the mountain. He’d watch her smile before tucking the bloom somewhere within the folds of her dress. He never knew what she did with them, just that she showed the same fondness for them each time he presented her with a new one.

Frank had visited the farmer one spring day, dressed finely and a tremor in his hands as he made his way up the dirt path to the old farmhouse.

The farmer sat on the bench just in front of the door, his hands covered in the dirt from the field and one of his boots in his hands as he inspected the bottom. He peered up, a hard set look in his eyes that nearly made Frank stop in his tracks and turn around. He stopped at the gate, waving to the old man where he sat.

“Good day, sir,” he smiled, a gesture that went unreturned.

“What business have you here, lad?” The farmer asked, dropping his boot to the ground and stuffing his foot inside.

“Might I come a bit closer?” Frank asked, sweat dripping down the back of his neck as he bounced on his heels. The farmer sniffed, nodding.

“Aye,” he agreed, scratching at his beard before picking up a knife and his whetstone. “The gate's unlocked then.”

Frank jerked towards the gate, taking a steadying breath as he pushed it open. He let it shut behind him with a crash as he hurried towards the older man, this time stopping only a few feet away. A beat passed between them as Frank waited for permission to speak.

“Well,” the farmer huffed, eyes focused on the task in front of him. “Get on with it.”

Frank swallowed around the lump in his throat, clenching and unclenching his hands at his sides.

“Sir,” he started, clearing his throat. “As you probably know, I've been spending quite a bit of time with your daughter these past few months.”

The farmer hummed, and Frank's fingers curled around the edges of his pockets.

“That is to say,” he continued, swallowing once more, “that I'm quite fond of her.”

The old farmer sighed, setting down his task and fixing Frank with a hard look.

“If you're going to keep wasting my time,” he growled, “you can go on and leave me be.”

Frank felt his stomach drop, his eyes widening.

“Or,” the farmer continued, resting his hands on his knees, “you can just say what it is you came all this way to say.”

“Sir,” Frank cleared his throat, pushing his shoulders back in a bid to appear more confident than he felt in that moment. “I've come to ask for your daughter's hand in marriage.”

“Marriage, eh?” The farmer hummed, stroking his beard. “And what have you to offer my daughter, hm?”

“I've nearly finished my apprenticeship under Dr. Robby,” Frank explained. “I'll be making my own rounds and taking on my own apprentice soon enough.”

“A healer,” the farmer nodded, “always work for a healer.”

“Yes, sir,” Frank nodded, his confidence growing at the thoughtful tone of the other man. “And I've got plans to build ourselves a house here soon. Your daughter will want for nothing, sir, I promise you.”

“Don't be getting ahead of yourself now, lad,” the farmer huffed. “I've not given you my blessing yet.”

“Don't you be listening to him now, lad.”

Frank and the farmer turned to see the matriarch of the old farm standing in the doorway, hands on her hips as she glared at her husband.

“Ma'am,” Frank nodded, giving her a polite, albeit nervous, smile. ”How are you today?”

“I'm just fine, thank you for asking,” she replied, stepping out of the doorway and onto the porch. The door clattered against the frame, but the old woman paid it no mind. “I'll be much better once my husband comes to his senses and gives you the blessing he and I both know he'll give.”

“Quiet now, woman!” The farmer griped. “Can't think with all yer racket now.”

“Seamus, you promised her you'd give it if he asked,” his wife scolded, dark eyes narrowing in warning. The farmer blew out a long breath before ducking his head and nodding slowly.

“Aye,” he agreed. “Aye, that I did. The good lord knows I can never say no to that one.”

It was the farmer's wife's turn to hum now, her face relaxing as she looked over at where Frank stood awkwardly.

“Go on now, lad,” she smiled, waving towards her husband. “Ask him again.”

“Sir,” Frank started, “I've come to you today to ask for your permission to marry your daughter. I'll admit that at this moment, there isn't much I can offer her, but with time, I'd be able to offer her a roof over her head, food in her belly, and all the comforts my station in life would allow.”

The farmer didn't reply immediately, instead choosing to study Frank. After a tense moment, he sighed.

“I won't give you my permission,” he began, and Frank's heart sank to his stomach, his face falling in despair. The farmer held up a hand.

“Let me finish,” he said, glancing at his wife.

“I can't give you my permission,” he continued, “but I can give you my blessing to marry my daughter.”

Frank couldn't stop the smile that threatened to tear his face in two. The farmer's wife let out a belt of laughter as she clapped her hands, and even the farmer had a ghost of a smile on his face now, though something like sadness shone in his eyes.

“I wish you two a lifetime of happiness,” he said.

Frank left the farm in good spirits, and once he had rounded the bend on the road and was out of sight, he broke into a sprint. He reached town in no time, several people crying out in protest as he nearly ran into the, and he shouted several apologies over his shoulder. It wasn't until he caught sight of his love that he slowed down.

She caught sight of him, a smile breaking out over her face as she continued talking with the old woman purchasing some of the vegetables at the stand. Frank trotted up, sneaking behind the table as he waited for her to finish. After what felt like hours, but was really only a few minutes, she turned her attention to him.

“Frank,” she greeted, smile still firmly on her face. “What are you-”

He cut her off, taking her hand in his and pulling her away from the stall. “Come with me.”

“I can't just leave,” she scoffed good-naturedly. “I have to tend to my customers.”

She gestured towards the small gathering of people still waiting to make their purchases, all shooting him varying degrees of dirty looks. He gave them a grimace of apology, turning his gaze back to his love.

“When will you be free?” He asked, leaning in to rest his forehead against hers.

“Not for a while yet, I'm afraid,” she said apologetically. “Come find me at the usual time—round sunset.”

And so Frank reluctantly let her go, some of the older folk sharing knowing smiles between one another while others continued to frown.

A few hours later, once the sun was dipping towards the horizon, Frank trekked from his home back to the market in time to find his love closing her stall for the day.

“There you are,” she grinned, laying a tarp over the potatoes. “I'll be finished in just one second.”

Frank shuffled on his feet, eyes wandering around the nearly empty market square as stragglers finished their purchases and shopkeepers closed their carts and doors. He would take her away from here. No more standing in the sun or haggling with cheap customers looking for a bargain. He would have her home, tending to a garden of her own where she would only sell what she wanted. She wouldn't want for anything as far as he was concerned, and maybe in a few years, they'd have a couple of weans running around as well. He smiled at the thought, his heart beaming with pride.

A hand slipped into his, drawing him from his thoughts, and he looked down to meet her eye.

“Where did you want to take me?” She asked coyly, pressing against his arm.

“Come with me, and I'll show you,” he grinned back. He squeezed her hand, pulling her away from the market and out of town altogether. The sun continued to dip, casting shadows around them as they walked along the path that led to one of the hills that overlooked the valley. Atop the hill sat an old ash tree, it's branches expanding far and wide. Frank stopped underneath, taking a moment to steady himself as his love admired the evening view.

“It's beautiful,” she murmured, eyes sparkling as they reflected the rays of the sun. Frank was speechless for a moment—to enamored with how she looked standing there before him, and he swore he would never grow tired of the feeling.

“A chroi,” he started, turning to face her. She turned her head, a question on her lips as she watched him fidget nervously with the cuffs of his shirt.

“A chroi,” he tried again, willing his voice to steady. She quirked a brow at him.

“Frank,” she replied, bemused by his nerves. He swallowed thickly, clapping his hands against his sides before steeling himself.

“A chroi,” he began for a third time, “never in my life did I ever think I'd meet someone like you. You're kind, smart, funny, and you don't need me to tell you this, but you're not half bad looking either.”

She let out an indignant gasp, but the smile gave her away as she smacked his arm. He laughed, his love joining in after a moment and the two giggled as he took her hands in his.

“It has been an honor getting to know you more and more these past months,” he said, smoothing his thumb over the back of her hand. “And I hope that you feel the same way?”

“I do,” she nodded, looking up at him through her lashes.

“Good,” he breathed, “good. I wanted to tell you that I went to see your father today.”

Her smile slipped as her brow furrowed in confusion. “My father? But why?”

“I went to ask for his permission, and he gave me his blessing instead,” Frank explained, letting go of one of her hands to dig through his pockets. Slowly, he knelt on one knee before her, holding out a small, emerald ring before her. It had belonged to his mother, and he had asked for it after the day he had proclaimed loudly to the market square that his love sold the best carrots in the county.

She gasped as she looked down at him, a hand over her heart as he gripped her other gently.

“Marry me, mo fhíorghra,” he said, eyes watching her every move as she stood still. Slowly, her hand reached out to take the ring, stopping short just as her fingertips brushed the golden band. Shaking her head, she withdrew from him, and Frank thought he might crumble and be swallowed whole by the earth beneath him.

“I can't,” she whispered, turning away, though Frank caught sight of the tears that lined her bottom lashes. He staggered to his feet, keenly aware of the ache in his chest that threatened to consume him in that moment.

“But why?” He asked, cursing his voice for cracking. He gripped the ring tight in his hand. He didn't understand, why was she saying no? He thought she felt the same for him, but had he been mistaken all along?

She kept her back turned to him, hands clutching at her shoulders and hugging herself. Frank's first instinct was to rush to her side and hold her, to tell her everything would be okay, but right now the demand for an answer far outweighed anything else.

“You know what the folks in town say about me,” she replied, shoulders hunching even farther. “I'm touched—cursed.”

“I don't believe in-” Frank started, anger rising up within him, but she cut him off.

“I know you don't believe the stories,” she sobbed, “but it's true! All of it! One day my time will be up and I'll have to leave. You deserve someone who can give you a full life with happiness and love. I can't give you that.”

Frank felt like she had ripped his heart out of his chest.

“Do you,” he murmured, “do you not love me?”

“What?” She asked, whirling around to face him. He saw the tears streaming down her face, the sorrow nestled within her eyes.

“Of course I do!” She exclaimed, taking a step towards him. “I love you more than anything in this world, Frank.”

“Then...why?” He asked, shoulders slumping. She crossed the distance between them, reaching up to cup his cheek as she stared up at him.

“You deserve a normal life, Frank,” she whispered earnestly. “You deserve a girl who won't draw the ire of everyone around you—someone who won't draw the whispers and ruin your reputation. You deserve someone fitting of your station.”

Frank huffed out a disbelieving laugh. Certainly she wasn't serious? He searched her eyes and found only a reluctant resolve within them. He pursed his lips, shaking his head as the anger rose up within him once more.

“I don't want anyone else,” he hissed through gritted teeth, eyes flashing dangerously. “Just-”

He stopped, taking a deep breath and closing his eyes to steady himself. He opened his eyes once more, locking with hers.

“You listen to me, alright?” He said, face as serious as the grave, and she fixed him with an uncertain look, but he pressed on. “I won't hear you disparage yourself like this, a chroi. I won't. You are the most extraordinary woman I've met in my entire life, and I'll hear nothing on the contrary, do you hear me?”

He paused, letting his words sink in.

“I will have you,” he continued, his hands coming up to frame her face as his eyes searched hers, “or I will have no one at all. You've bewitched me, and no other will do. Every morning I think of you first thing, and when I lie in my bed at night, it's you who haunts my dreams. I will do whatever it takes to convince you of my feelings for you, just name it. Do you want me to bring you every flower on the mountain? I'll do it twice over. Scream to the world until my voice is hoarse and my throat is raw about my love for you? It's done. You want all the jewels and fineries this side of the world? They're yours. Whatever you want, I'll make it happen, just-”

He took a breath, willing the tears to leave his eyes as he leaned his forehead against hers once more.

“Please say yes,” he whispered, nuzzling his nose against hers. She closed her eyes, basking in him as he pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead.

“Please,“ he murmured.

A kiss to her temple.

“Please.”

A kiss to the tip of her nose.

“Please.”

He hovered above her lips, waiting. Her chest wracked with a sob as she slowly nodded.

“Yes.”

Frank thought he imagined it—her voice so soft and small in that moment, but when he looked at her, he knew he had heard correctly.

Slowly, he leaned forward, pressing his lips to hers as she carded her fingers through his hair. They stayed like that for a long moment before finally pulling away.

“I could die a very happy man right now,” he confessed, a smile pulling on the corner of his lips. His love grinned.

“If you do that,” she teased, knocking her nose against his, “then who will meet me at the altar, I wonder?”

Frank laughed—a laugh that rang out in the twilight and startled the birds nesting in the tree above them. They both looked up, the birds chirping almost angrily down at them, and when Frank looked back at his love, he saw that her smile had dropped into a thoughtful frown, her eyes looking far away.

“Sometimes I think I can understand them,” she confessed quietly. “Like they speak to me.”

“What do they say?” Frank asked curiously, glancing between her and the now quieted birds. Her frown deepened.

“Time's almost up.”

The wedding took place only a few months later, just before the harvest. The leaves were starting to turn, and there was a coolness in the air that hinted at the return of Father Winter.

Frank stood at the altar, hands clasped tightly together in front of himself as he bounced on his feet, eyes darting wildly around the sanctuary.

“Relax,” whispered Robby, nearly causing Frank to jump out of his skin. The older man chuckled as he leaned back. “She'll be here.”

“I know,” Frank nodded, pressing his lips together firmly. “I know she will be.”

At that moment, the church doors opened to reveal his love. She wore a simple dress of light cream, the hem falling to the floor, and the sleeves stopping at her elbows. In her hands she held a small bouquet of white campions, cress, daisies, and ferns.

Frank felt his throat constrict and his eyes water. He ducked his head to wipe the tears from his eyes, and he felt Robby pat him on the shoulder. His love stopped before him, a thing of beauty like he had never seen, and as she kissed her father's cheek, Frank extended his hand to her. She slipped her hand in his and allowed him to guide her across from him.

The rest of the ceremony passed in a blur, and before he knew it, the priest was pronouncing them man and wife.

His love looked at him expectantly, and Frank couldn't stop the smile from crossing his face as he leaned forward and pressed a chaste kiss to her lips. The church erupted into cheers as the happy couple walked out of the church and into the brisk air. The church bells rang as everyone followed suit, the reception being held in the main square of town.

The night was filled with merriment and congratulations from their friends and family, and as the day gave way to night, Frank's father made the announcement that he had secretly had one of the old houses just outside of town quietly remodeled for the newlyweds. Frank thanked his father and shook his hand while his love bestowed her father-in-law with a sweet kiss to his cheek.

Soon after, the two departed with well wishes and another round of congratulations from their rowdy guests.

The house stood just a stone's throw away from the neighbors, the stone looking somewhat warn and the thatched roof looking fairly new. Frank unlocked the front door, pushing it in as they both took in the already furnished entry.

“It was mighty kind of your da to do this for us,” his love smiled, squeezing his hand as they both looked around at the room. Frank didn't answer. Instead, he leaned down to scoop her up in his arms, laughing as she shrieked.

“Frank!” She laughed, arms wrapped around his neck as he kicked the door shut behind them. He set her down gently, a smile on his lips as he leaned in to kiss her. She met him eagerly, her lips moving against his as they basked in one other.

“I'll light us a fire,” he murmured, pulling away reluctantly as the evening's chill ran through him. He made quick work of the peat, the fire lighting up the small room in no time.

“That should do it for now,” he muttered, dusting off his hands and standing once more. His love caught his lips with hers, stealing the breath from his lungs as his hands immediately found purchase on her hips.

Her mouth was hungry against his, and Frank returned the kiss with just as much fervor and passion. He bunched the skirts of her dress up, pulling her closer to him as her fingers dug into the muscle of his upper arms.

“We should,” Frank gasped breathlessly as pulled away, her teeth biting into the fullness of his bottom lip. “We should find the bedroom.”

She let go of his lip, dragging the tip of her tongue across his jaw and to the shell of his ear.

“Later,” she smirked against him, and he shuddered. Suddenly, she dropped to her knees before him, looking up at him demurely as she fluttered her lashes at him. She pressed her face against the rapidly growing bulge in his pants, and Frank thought he might pass out from the barrage of thoughts running through his head. He watched as she dragged her fingers up to undo his belt, undoing the clasp of his trousers before sliding them down far enough to release him from their confines.

Frank's breath was coming out in shallow pants, his eyes hooded as he looked down at her. A deep moan left him unbidden as she wrapped her fingers around him, his cock twitching and hardening at the foreign feeling. He had fooled around with some of the girls when he was younger, but he hadn't sought the touch of anyone since he had returned from school so many years ago.

Frank through his head back as she licked the tip of him, his hips bucking forward involuntarily as he sought the heat of her mouth on him. He heard her chuckle before she gave him another teasing lick.

“A chroi,” he groaned, squeezing his eyes shut and gripping her shoulder for leverage. “Please.”

She hummed, granting him mercy as she slowly wrapped her lips around the tip of his cock, sucking lightly. Frank's hands found their way to her hair as she began to bob her head, swallowing more of him down her throat until she gagged. The movement caused him to cry out into the dark room, and the pair of them paused as they adjusted.

Her hands slid up and down his thighs in a soothing gesture, as if she didn't have him inside of her in such an obscene way. He looked down at her, meeting her gaze, and Frank felt utterly at her mercy in that moment. He saw the corners of her mouth twitch—as if she too were realizing this.

She began to move once more, the sound of her gagging on him mixed with his cries of delight ringing in his ears. She sucked and licked along his length, increasing her ministrations as time passed, and before he knew it, Frank felt his cock twitch in warning.

“A chroi,” he gasped, his fingers tightening ever so slightly in her hair. If anything, this seemed to spur her on, and Frank gave out another guttural cry before his cum was shooting down her throat. His hips thrust of their own accord as he road out his release, and his wife practically purred as she took everything he gave her.

Slowly, she pulled off of him, a strand of saliva connecting from her lips to his softening length. Frank's skin was covered in a thin sheen of sweat as he struggled to regain his breath. He fell to his knees in front of her, leaning in to kiss her. His tongue ran over her bottom lip, plundering into her mouth eagerly. He tasted himself on her, and that drove him mad once more.

She pushed him back, disconnecting their lips as he blinked up at her in surprise as she removed her dress. She straddled his hips, lifting her skirts as she settled on top of him. She nipped and sucked at his skin as he settled his hands on her hips. She rolled against him, letting out a low groan as his cock stirred to life once more. She leaned down to press her lips to his ear.

“Want to feel you inside me,” she purred, slowly grinding down on top of him, the heat of her cunt driving him wild. “Want to feel you fill me up.”

Frank whined, closing his eyes as he felt the wetness of her. She smirked against him.

“Do you like that?” She asked, nails digging into his chest as she picked up her pace. “You want to be inside me?”

“Yes,” he croaked, reaching for her. She circled her hips, whining as his length brushed against her clit. She lifted herself up long enough to line him up at her entrance before slowly sinking down on top of him. The pair of them let out a pleasured cry. Neither of them moved as they basked in the feel of finally being connected. She reached for his hands, pulling them up to cup her breasts, and he gave an appreciative squeeze as his eyes roved over her. Slowly, she began to rock her hips against his, and Frank watched her in wonder. What had he done to deserve the love and want of this creature atop him? He silently thanked any god that was listening for his good fortune, losing himself in the feeling of her inner walls squeezing and milking him.

“You feel so good inside of me,” she gasped, grinding her clit against him. “So big, so full.”

“Feels like heaven being inside of you,” he admitted on a whisper as he thrust upwards. She cried out as he did so, nose scrunching in pleasure. Frank could feel his release rapidly approaching, and he sat up, leaning her back so that she sat in his lap, hips still straddling his own. He planted his feet onto the ground as he started thrusting up into her, the sound of skin clapping filling the otherwise silent room.

“A chroi,” he gasped, locking eyes with her, trying to convey to her his predicament. Her lips quirked up into a mischievous smile, and she leaned forward to kiss him, licking into his mouth with fervor as she picked up the pace of her grinding.

“Come for me,” she whispered, pulling away, using his shoulders as leverage as she bounced on top of him.

“Want to feel you,” she gasped, her own climax drawing near. “Want to feel you stake your claim. Fill me up, a chuisle.”

The endearment caused something inside of Frank to snap, and he choked on a groan as his cock twitched inside of her, his cum painting her inner walls as she came with a cry. Frank whined as she milked him, burying his face into her chest as her pace slowed to a stop. They stayed like that for a moment, catching their breath and basking in the glow of their shared release. Frank pulled away, glancing up at her with reverence. She had a blissed smile on her face, and she looked down at him with a contented look. She kissed him once more, and he returned it, their lips moving lazily against each other. She pulled away first, framing his face with her hands as she locked eyes with his.

“Mo ghrá thú go deo,” she whispered, eyes almost glowing as they reflected the flames from the hearth beside them.

You are my love, forever.

They lived peacefully together—Frank nearing the end of his apprenticeship with Robby, and his love began to grow a garden of her own. He would come to find her hard at work planting or weeding. She would always left her head as he was coming up the path, a tired smile on her face as she wiped the sweat from her brow.

“How was your day, a chroi?” he'd ask, the weight of the day settling on his shoulders as he stopped by the gate. She would rise to greet him, wiping the dirt from her hands onto her apron as she neared him.

“Another day come and gone,” she'd reply, placing a kiss to his cheek. “What about yours?”

He'd regale her with the different tasks that Robby had asked of him, noting anything particularly interesting—though those days were few and far in between.

“Come inside,” she'd urge, pulling his hand to follow her. “Come and rest while I finish up supper.”

They were happy for a time, but as time went on, Frank noticed a sadness that began to creep into their home. A year after they were wed, he'd catch her cradling her belly, a forlorn look on her face as she gazed out the window. He'd come up behind her, his arms encasing her as they swayed.

“It'll happen,” he tried to assure her. “These things take some time.”

She would hum, giving him a small smile before returning to whatever task she had been working on.

Their home was filled with love, and for that Frank was thankful. He had seen what a home without love looked like. His parents didn't hate each other by any means, but they had certainly married out of convenience rather than any fondness for one another. Their love was not like the one he knew now, but rather, one that had grown over time and through the hardships endured together.

Domesticity was something Frank quickly grew fond of during their time together, and he found that it soothed something inside of himself that he didn't even know had ached.

He would sometimes find her singing as she tended to her various chores and tasks, and he would stop to lean against the door or the gate or whatever else was nearby as he listened to the sweetness of her voice.

There was a particular time where he had come home early, finding her hanging the wash out to dry. She was singing a favorite of his, and he watched her as she carried on.

“Oh the summertime has come,

and the trees are sweetly bloomin'.

The wild mountain thyme

grows around the bloomin' heather.

Will ye go, lassie, go?

And we'll all go together

to pull wild mountain thyme

all around the bloomin' heather.

Will ye go, lassie, go?”

Frank stepped forward then, a hand to her waist that startled her. He smiled down at her, a gesture that was reciprocated warmly, and he handed her a sprig of sheeps-bit. She accepted the powder blue flowers with the same enthusiasm as all the times before, thanking him with a kiss.

They were happy, but Frank did not expect the sorrow that was to come.

More and more time passed, and still her womb remained empty. He saw the way her eyes lingered on the babies in town or at church, and despite his constant reassurance that it would soon happen to them too.

“What if I,” she paused, tears welling in the corners of her eyes. “We should talk to Robby. Just to be sure.”

Frank had agreed reluctantly, if only to assuage her fears, but he wasn't prepared for the news his mentor bestowed upon them.

“I'm so sorry,” Robby had murmured, a sheen to his own eyes as he looked at her. “There's nothing I can do.”

His love had bowed her head, her hands coming up to shield her away from the world as her shoulders wracked and her sobs tore through her. Frank had held her tightly, unsure of what to do in that moment. How could he assure her that this changed nothing when it was all she had wanted?

He had led her home, cooing softly as he guided her to sit in one of the armchairs in the sitting room. He moved to walk away, but her hand shot out to grab his and stop him. He looked down at her, her eyes bloodshot from the tears she had cried, a quiet restlessness buzzing about her as she stared up at him.

“I'll be right back,” he assured her gently, squeezing her hand. “I'm only going to put the kettle on.”

She released him slowly, and he grabbed the blanket from atop the chair to wrap around her.

He had hoped with time that the pain of the news might lessen, but perhaps he was a fool to think otherwise. He did his best to care for her in the days after receiving the news, but he feared he might never do enough to ease that ache that rested inside her.

“I should have known,” she whispered one day. Frank looked over from where he was crouched by the fire, startled to hear her voice for the first time in hours.

“I should have known,” she repeated, her eyes looking far away and glassy. “I'm not supposed to be here. It all makes sense now. Any children I would have cannot exist because I was never meant to be as I am now.”

She took a shuddering breath. “I should have died long ago, and saved everyone the heartache.”

The poker clattered to the floor as Frank rushed to her side, gripping her shoulders in his hands.

“Don't say that,” he hissed, though what he was feeling in that moment wasn't anger—not quite.

“You belong here,” he said, tilting his head to lock eyes with her. “You belong here with me. I don't care that we'll never have a wean of our own. All I've ever wanted was you. To stay by your side and grow old.”

She stared at him, and he took a deep breath, cradling her jaw in his hand.

“Do you hear me?” He asked, searching her for any sign of acknowledgement. “All I need to live a happy life is you by my side. I know it hurts now, and believe me when I say that I would do or give anything to take this pain—this burden—away from you. But, I don't have that power within me to make this right. I will stay beside you, shoulder the pain as much as I can and make it a little lighter for you. But please, don't speak like that again—I cannot bare it.”

Her eyes focused on him for what felt like the first time in a long, long while. Slowly, she nodded leaning into his touch with a flutter of her lashes, and the tension in her shoulders seemed to ease, if only slightly.

“Okay,” she whispered.

Slowly, day by day she began to return to herself, but Frank kept a watchful eye on her still. He saw the way she seemed to drift away, lost in her thoughts. At first he thought that's all that it was, and he allowed her that time to work through her grief.

One winter day, he happened upon her in her garden, her back hunched forward, and it wasn't until he got closer that he realized that she was looking at a finch sat before her. He stopped, watching the pair as the bird chirped up at her, and to his shock, it appeared she was talking back to it.

“Time is drawing near,” she nodded. “Aye, I know this. But what's your price? What must I give you for you to give me a child of my own?”

The bird chirped, and for a brief moment, Frank noted how odd that his wife should be out in the cold—having a conversation with a bird no less. No sooner had he thought it, his wife straightened up, and the bird took off. She whirled around, her feet already moving to follow it.

Frank blinked before chasing after her, his heart pounding almost as loudly as his feet against the snow. Something was wrong, wasn't right. Fear gripped Frank like it never had before as he chased after her.

She plunged into the forest, Frank still a little ways behind her. She seemed to fly across the forest floor, almost as if her feet weren't even touching the ground.

”A chroi!” He hollered, his lungs burning with the effort. “A chroi, come back!”

She paid him no heed, continuing her trek through the forest. The trees seemed to grower taller and closer as they continued forward, as if trapping the two inside.

“A chroi!” Frank yelled again, pushing forward with all his might—willing his feet to move faster. He was gaining ground on her, reaching out his hand, he was only a whisper away from being able to touch her. The clearing was coming up ahead, and something inside him told him it was now or never. He pushed forward just a little more, the trees now dispersing as they entered the clearing. He extended his fingers as far as they would go. Blinking, he lunged forward and-

Frank stumbled forward, almost falling face first into the snow beneath him. He caught himself just before he fell. Looking around, he found that he was alone, a strange crop of mushrooms encircling himself and the ash stump.

“A chroi?” He called out, sure that some sort of trick was being played on him. “Where are you?”

Only silence answered him. The sun had disappeared below the horizon, but Frank refused to return home without her. He walked along the perimeter of the clearing, hoping that she would appear from behind one of the trees to tell him that it had all been a joke.

He made his back to the center, falling back into the snow, his back pressed against the stump as he waited. The cold nipped at his ears and nose, his breath coming out in puffs of steam, and still he waited.

Why was she not answering him? Why had she run into the forest in the first place?

Frank shivered, burrowing into his coat to ease some of the pains the cold caused him. He waited and waited and waited, only getting up to circle the clearing and keep himself awake in case his wife returned. After hours of this cycle, the dawn greeted him, the hint of pale blue lighting up the sky.

Frank's joints were stiff as he moved them. Perhaps his wife had returned home without him. Yes, he thought to himself, that must be the case. Just as he rose from his spot against the stump, a small sparrow landed before him. He looked down curiously, noting that there was something odd about such a creature coming up to him like this. He stared down as the bird began to chirp at him, moving its wings as if trying to tell him something. He said nothing, a sense of familiarity shrouding him as he locked eyes with the bird.

His heart stopped in his chest as the unthinkable dawned on him. The bird ceased its chatter as the pair stared at one another. Tears sprang to Frank's eyes as he searched for his voice.

“A chroi?” He whispered. The bird tilted its head at him before darting upwards into the sky. Frank watched as it flew away, the tears falling freely now. He had been warned time and time again. He had been warned that his happiness would be taken from him, and he had ignored them like the fool he now knew himself to be.

Frank returned to his home, collapsing into a chair in the dining room. The morning light cast an eerie glow around the home that he had once found comfort in. Now, it was too big—too quiet. He had no one to share it with, this he was certain of at least. He stayed there for what felt like days, but was probably only hours. It wasn't until Robby came around to look for him later in the morning that he was drawn from his stupor.

“Frank,” Robby called, the older doctor standing in the doorway with a look of concern. “What are you doing?”

Frank looked over at him, a vacant, dazed look on his face.

“She's gone,” he murmured, not quite believing it himself. Robby's brow furrowed as he stepped forward to crouch before his pupil.

“What do you mean?” He asked, looking around the room as if Frank's wife might magically appear. “Christ alive, Frank. What happened?”

Frank did his best to recount the events of the night, still clinging to the hope that he might wake up from the nightmare he now found himself in. Robby frowned when the younger man had finished, running hand over his jaw as he contemplated. He stood wordlessly, walking out of the room.

He was gone a long while before he returned, friends in tow. Frank hadn't moved an inch in the time since Robby had left, and the doctor's worry grew.

“I found him like this,” he said, gesturing toward Frank. “Says his wife turned into a bird and flew away.”

“What?” Frank's father gaped, glancing between the doctor and his son. He stepped towards Frank, the younger man flinching only slightly at the sudden movement. “Frank, what are you going on about?”

“She's gone,” Frank repeated, eyes still looking far away. “She's never coming back. I've lost her.”

“Well,” Frank's father started, pausing in his unease. “It's clear something terrible has happened to her. We should go look for her.”

“We could,” the old farmer, Seamus, said, tears in his eyes to the surprise of those present. “It wouldn't do us any good. She was touched, and her time was up.”

“You can't be serious?” Frank's father sputtered, looking from the farmer to Robby. “Surely you don't believe the man?”

Robby sucked in a breath, pursing his lips as he considered his next words. Frank's mother stepped forward, a solemn look on her face.

“I always warned him,” she murmured. “I always told him that she was touched by the fae. He would never find lasting happiness with her.”

“Have you all gone mad?” Frank's father cried, looking between all of them. “Surely you have enough sense, doctor.”

“I know better than to question the powers that be,” Robby said finally. He spared a glance at Frank. “Do you really think he would

It was ultimately decided that the fae had collected as they had promised twenty five years before, though only about half the town believed that. The other half began to spread vicious rumors about the doctor's apprentice. Frank paid them no mind, too consumed in the grief of his love. He spent most of his days at the pub, drinking away his sorrows until he could feel nothing more.

Robby confronted him one day, desperate to save his friend from the depths of his despair.

“You can't keep going like this,” he had said, eyes hard as they fixed on Frank. The younger man was on his third glass of whiskey, eyes glassy and confused as they tried to remain focused on Robby.

“You have to accept that she's gone, Frank,” Robby pressed, clasping a hand on his friend's shoulder.

“I 'ave accepted it,” Frank slurred, lifting his glass to take another sip of the amber liquid. “But if I 'eep lookin' maybe I'll find 'er.”

“Well you won't find her at the bottom of a glass,” Robby scowled. “Maybe you should try moving on. Try settling down with someone else-”

Robby barely had time to duck as Frank whipped the glass tumbler at his head, the glass exploding against the wall of the pub. The bartender moved to grab him, but Robby held up a hand to stop him.

“It's alright,” he told the barkeep, waving him off. The man shot the two a wary look before moving to the other end of the bar to tend to another customer.

“You've no right,” Frank seethed, unadulterated anger in his eyes. “You've no right to tell me to move on from her. You don't know. You don't know how much I loved-”

He choked on the word, tears slipping down his cheeks as he hung his head.

“You need help, Frank,” Robby murmured. “You can't keep going on like this. It's not good for you.”

Frank said nothing for a moment, instead staring at the wood of the bar.

“I wait for her,” he whispered, glancing up at Robby before quickly looking away once more. “I go to the clearing where she disappeared, and I wait from sundown to sun up. Every week I do it.”

“Do you really think she'll come back?” Robby asked quietly, a pang of sympathy coursed through him as he looked at the man before him—only a shadow of what he once was. Frank shrugged.

“I have to try.”

Try he did, but all Frank was ever greeted with was the quiet stillness of the clearing.

Decades passed, and Frank never remarried. He could never bring himself to move on from the girl he loved wholeheartedly. He locked himself away in the home they once shared, allowing himself to be consumed by the ghost of her. He had gone through her things once, trying to find some clue that might help him bring her back.

He had stumbled upon her diary, and it sat on their shared bed unopened for days before he found the will to read it. the pages were littered with her handwriting, notes of how happy she was with him and her hopes for their future together. For a moment, Frank felt he was sitting there talking with her once more. He smiled at her words, allowing the faded warmth to watch over him. It wasn't until he realized that each section was marked with a flower—the ones he had brought her every day—that the moment broke, and he was reminded of the time that had passed and the time together that he had taken for granted for so many years.

He never finished his apprenticeship under Robby, instead turning to the odd jobs that needed done around town. He'd set enough aside for food and fuel to light the fires in his home, and even then it was never guaranteed. Most of his money went toward his time at the bar, and it was a wonder he managed to make it home as often as he did.

As time went on, Frank got older, and the rumors surrounding his wife's disappearance grew uglier. The younger folk in town would whisper to each other and cast him wayward looks, but he would pay them no mind. Life became a chore for him, and his mind would often wander to thoughts of what life might have been like had his wife not been taken from him.

Frank found it harder and harder to keep up his income. He was now an old man, and his health was failing him. Robby had passed a decade prior, and Frank had mourned him as best he could. Without his friend to help take care of him, Frank now had to rely on the charity of others when looking for his next meal. He had to cut back on his drinking, and the withdrawals had been excruciating, but somehow he had managed, though a part of him had wished they'd put him out of his misery.

It was winter once more, and Frank was now a grey-haired old man, the whiskers on his chin mostly unkempt as was the rest of him. He had a limp when he walked now, and his joints ached from the cold. Something inside of him told him he was not long for the world, and he wondered if the ones he loved had felt the same before their passing.

Frank looked around his house one final time, allowing himself to think about the memories he hadn't allowed himself to visit in years. He took a steadying breath before looking out the window toward the treeline. The sun was nearing the horizon once more. It was time.

He didn't bother locking the door behind him, instead hobbling towards the trees on a path that was familiar to him. Just like they had years before, the trees seemed to bend towards him, closing in around him as he made the journey towards the clearing.

It looked the same as it always had—as if time did not touch the place where he now stood. The brook babbled along as he crossed it, stepping foot over the fairy ring and towards the ash stump. He meandered down to the ground with a grunt, his old bones aching in protest. He situated himself with his back against the stump, preparing for the long night ahead.

Frank had the suspicion that he wouldn't walk out of the clearing this time, but he had accepted his fate. Hours passed, and the cold seeped through him much more easily than it had when he was younger. He nestled into the tattered coat he had brought with him, shivering as the wind blew around him. Sleep beckoned him, but Frank wasn't ready—not quite yet. He fought against it a best he could, his eyes drooping closed as the cold embraced him. The sky was beginning to tinge with that familiar shade of blue he had learned to dread.

A flutter of wings startled him, his eyes shooting open for a brief moment as a sparrow landed just passed the ring of mushrooms on the ground. Something stirred within him as he stared at the bird. There was something achingly familiar about it.

His eyes drooped once more, his exposure to the winter's night becoming too much for his old body. His mind was foggy, his gaze hazy, but he watched as the bird hopped towards the ring. He closed his eyes, the cold dragging him down further and further towards the abyss. The soft crunch of snow had him fighting to pry his eyes open.

He watched, though only a part of him comprehended, the woman slowly walking towards him. Her feet were bare, which he found odd, and she was wrapped in a thin cloth, though she didn't appear phased by the cold and snow around her.

A hand came up to cradle his jaw, her fingers warm against his flesh, and the scent of her was so familiar, that Frank thought he might have died and not even known. She crouched before him, a soft, loving smile on her face.

“It's you,” Frank croaked, and even to his own ears he sounded weak and feeble.

“It's me,” she whispered, the sound of her voice bringing tears to his eyes. Shakily, he brought a hand up to the one cradling his cheek, his time worn hands gnarled and wrinkled in comparison to her own. There were so many things that Frank wanted to say to her in that moment, but all he could think about was how much he had missed her in that moment.

She leaned forward, resting her forehead against his.

“It's time to go home, a chroi,” she murmured, pressing her lips to his.

On the edge of the clearing, a man with cloven hooves for feet and antlers like that of a stag watched as two sparrows took flight. His eyes reflected the stars that clung to the disappearing night sky as darkness gave way to the morning—a day of new possibilities.

He smiled as the two birds echoed their song to one another, flitting through the trees as they chased one other, their cries sounding like laughter if you listened closely enough. They circled the clearing once more before taking off towards the sky, the man's gaze following them until they were no longer in sight. The man turned and disappeared back into the forest.

All was well.

A/N: If you've been around this blog or me long long enough, you know one of the things I love the most is old folktales and myths. The fae are especially interesting to me. I've been wanting to write something angsty for a while now, but couldn't settle on what exactly. I also knew that I wanted to write something for our resident ER Ken doll, but also wasn't sure what. I went and saw Sinners recently (Fantastic movie, please go watch it if you haven't already), and was pleasantly surprised when they sang my favorite folk song. I love how this version because, at least for me, it feels like there's just so much longing in it.

Not long after that, I came across that image of Patrick Ball, and thus the idea for this story was sparked! Anyway, I hope you enjoyed it!

As always, reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated. I no longer do taglists, so if you would like to be notified on when I post, please follow my sideblog ( @arcanevagabond-library ) and turn on post notifications! You can find me and my works on AO3 under the username arcane_vagabond. Until next time!

#ag #an gealbhan #frank langdon x reader #frank langdon x you #frank langdon fanfic #frank langdon imagine #dr langdon x reader #dr langdon x you #dr. langdon x reader #dr. langdon x you #dr frank langdon x reader #dr frank langdon x you #dr. frank langdon x reader #dr. frank langdon x you

56 notes · View notes

togrowoldinv · 1 year ago

Text

To Love Her

Carol Danvers x Reader

You help Carol calm down after she has an intense day in space

Note: Carol Danvers just needs a hug and someone to tell her she’s good enough. And you know, her abs to be admired. Enjoy this one!

Carol Danvers Masterlist, Main Masterlist

Every so often Carol asks you to spend some time in space with her, and you always say yes. How could you not when she’s such an alluring woman?

Most days flying around the universe are pretty uneventful. But the intense days are nothing short of insane.

Today has been one of those days. Carol woke you up urgently when she was notified of a disturbance on a planet that you were nearby. She kissed you briefly, cloaked the ship, and flew off to investigate the scene.

You’ve been watching from afar since she left. You’re not really able to tell what’s happening, but it’s been so long you can’t imagine that it’s anything good.

After hours, you finally see Carol flying towards you. She uncloaks the ship and flies into the hatch. When she lands, she stumbles a bit.

“Are you okay?” You ask her, rushing to her side.

“I’m fine,” she says, but you can tell she’s lying. She types in coordinates for the next location.

You pour her a glass of water. She drinks it down quickly and sits on the edge of her bed. Carol unzips the top half of her suit and pulls it down to her hips. You love when she does this. Her arms and abs are on display.

“What happened, baby?”

“The Kree. Again.”

“I’m sorry,” you say, knowing of her long history with them.

“I just hate that I hurt them even though I thought what I did was the right thing to do. Even though they are the evil ones,” Carol explains.

“I think it’s okay to feel guilty for hurting them even if they hurt you first,” you say. “And they have the wrong perception of you.”

“The annihilator,” she says dryly. “Maybe they’re right.”

“No,” you immediately say. “They couldn’t be more wrong, Carol. You are so good. So so good.”

She stands abruptly and speaks again, “I just cause destruction. I’m no good.”

“Carol,” you say. “Carol, look at me.”

When she doesn’t, you walk to her. You try to take her hands but she pulls away.

“I don’t want to hurt you too,” Carol says.

“You won’t.”

“I will. In fact, I’m sure I already have.”

“Sweetheart, please just give me your hands,” you try. “Please?”

She looks at you reluctantly, but lets you slide your fingers into hers. You step closer to her, looking her in the eyes.

“You are not an annihilator,” you say firmly. “You’re Carol Danvers. You are the love of my life. You are the most beautiful, loving, and badass woman I have ever met.”

“I’m not- I’m not good for you,” she says. You haven’t seen her lack this much self confidence before. Today really rattled her.

“How can I prove to you that you are?” You ask. “Because you are, my love. You’re so good for me. You make me a better person.”

“I do?”

“Oh yeah.”

“I just- I got scared today. Truly terrified. I’m sorry I’m taking it out on you.”

“You do seem shaken up. Can I help you calm down?”

She nods. You lift her hand to your lips and kiss it. And repeat it with the other.

Next, you hug her. You wrap your arms around her waist while she embraces you back. One hand comes to the back of your head to pull you closer while the other drifts down your back.

“I love you,” you whisper with your head buried in her neck.

“I love you,” Carol says. “Thank you for being here.”

“Of course, my love. Do you want to lie down?”

You feel her nod against you. Maneuvering the strong woman as best as you can, you move to the bed with her. Carol lets herself relax against you.

Her body weight against you calms you down as well. You hadn’t realized you needed to relax so badly.

“If we stay like this, I might fall asleep,” Carol says.

“What’s wrong with that?” You ask in a tone so cute Carol chuckles.

“Nothing at all. It always feels like nighttime up here anyways.”

“It does,” you agree. “Get some sleep, baby. I love you so much.”

“I love you more,” Carol replies. Her voice is sleepy. Her arm wraps tighter around your body as she buries herself impossibly closer to you.

“I’ll let you win this time,” you say. “But I love you most and you know it.”

“No way,” she mumbles.

You rub your hand over her back as she falls asleep. Eventually you fall asleep too.

Carol is so glad that you were here this time to save her. You’ll always be there to remind her just how good she is.

#carol danvers x reader #carol danvers #carol danvers fluff #Carol Danvers comfort #captain marvel #she just deserves the world

318 notes · View notes

nessieart · 3 months ago

Text

The Way Back. XII

WC: ~5k

Summary: These powers were meant to help people. Help The Avengers, your family. It felt like every time you used them, something bad always happened. Maybe someone has the answers, somewhere.

Bucky x reader(past) || Steve x reader

AN: HI! i'm so sorry this took SO long! Not proof read, I just wanted to get this out. Please enjoy, let me know what you think :)

Masterlist

Previously:

You both study each other for another moment. Carol smirks after a long moment, "Show me what you can do," it's not a question. She nods her head to the side. "I'll race ya."

A small smile curves your lips. When you go to take a step closer, Steve puts a hand on your shoulder, stopping you. "I'm not sure if she should. Y/N just woke from a month long coma. Maybe she should take it easy." There's a squeeze to your shoulder.

Carol looks you in the eyes, raising her eyebrows in amusement. "Yeah? She needs to take it easy? Seems like you've gotten enough rest to me."

You huff out a laugh, smile tugging wider, "I'll be fine, Tough Guy. Thanks," you step away from him, and Carol ignites her powers first, then you do.

She takes off like a shot, a bullet through the sky as she gets farther away. You haven't used your powers like that in a very long time. At least, that's what it feels like.

"You don't have to do this, sweetheart. You have nothing to prove." You look back at Steve then, resolute in your decision.

"Yes, I do."

Flying through the skies with Carol was exhilarating. She never asks if you're ok, or if you need a break. She waits and lets your powers surge and grow. Because if anyone knows something about what your powers could do and what they're capable of, it would be Carol.

You both landed hours later, you felt better than you had in a long time.

Stretching muscles that you had never known to be there.

"I've never flown like that before," you let out a breathy laugh. "never knew I could do half that, really."

Carol smiles at you, bumping her shoulder with yours as you both make your way back to the compound.

"stick with me, kid. I'll help you out."

"I'm in my 30s. Why does everyone call me kid?" you heave a sigh.

"I'm 64," Carol smirks at you. You squawk in surprise, tripping over yourself as you try to keep up with her.

A while later, you and Carol were in the kitchen. You sipping tea, and her going through a bag a pretzels.

"So," she hedges, "you knew Nick?"

You huff a laugh, "Sure, not enough to openly call him by his first name to his face," a fond smile spreads across your face. "After New York, he wanted me to work under Maria - train and learn from her - in D.C."

"And, did you?" Carol perches herself on the counter top, another pretzel crunching in her mouth.

"Nah, turned him down," you laugh. "I don't think Fury ever heard the word 'no' before."

You both share a laugh.

"I've been meaning to ask," you set your cup down, leaning your arms on the counter next to where Carol sits. "How come I've never felt you before? Until now, that is."

Carol hums, thinking for a long moment, she studies you, eyes searching for something you aren't sure of.

"Maybe we were too far apart. I could feel it as soon as we entered the solar system."

After another long moment, you fidget with your now empty tea cup in your hands. "do you ever feel like you aren't enough? Even with these powers?" your voice is small and quiet, unsure. And when you glance back up, Carol just smiles.

"At first, maybe. When I was with the Kree and lost my memories of home and the people I cared about. Then I Remembered," there's a fire in her eyes as she talks to you, it burns bright the more she speaks. "There's people that care about me, that can't fight. So I have to."

You try to suppress the emotions that want to bubble out of you, but you can't fight back the few tears that blur your vision before you blink them away. You swallow around the lump in your throat. Give her a grateful smile and a nod.

Maybe that's all you really needed to hear. Reassurance.

You know you're more than capable of fighting and protecting others, but sometimes it's nice to hear. That you can do it. It's all worth it. It makes your chest warm, your lungs don't constrict with the anxiety of letting your friends down anymore.

Carol steers you out of the kitchen, her touch leaves you when you follow her, "Let's find the others, they're probably worried about you."

"…Missed your sense of humor, Rodent," you hear Tony's sarcastic comment as you and Carol near the garage.

"The Flark you do," Rocket snarks back.

"I know you missed me, it's ok, you can say it."

Rocket spies the two of you before Tony does, his ears perk up and he puts his tools down. "Oh, about damn time! Can we go now? Terrans are so primitive, I literally wanna rip my fur out," he groans.

Tony grabs his chest, mocking hurt, "Ow, you wound me, Rocket. I thought we had something."

Rocker snickers, a toothy grin on his muzzle. "Flark you, Stark." But he makes no move to leave like he said he wanted to.

"Ms Y/N," FRIDAY calls over head.

"Hey FRIDAY. What is is?" There's a pause, and your eyebrows scrunch in confusion. You share a look with Tony.

"Fri?"

"Ms Y?N. Captain Rogers is looking for you. He's in his room."

"Ok, thanks, FRIDAY," you wave to everyone around the room before you leave.

As you near Steve's room on the other side of the compound, you can hear things being moved - heavy things. Frantic movement, things being thrown against a wall.

"Steve?" you call as you near the door. Its ajar enough for you to see inside a little, you push the door open more so you can step inside. There's shuffling and mumbling. You call out for him again, and step into Steve's room.

It's a mess, furniture upturned, papers everywhere. His bed sheets are in a tangle on the bed - messy and wrinkled.

Steve is standing in the middle of the room, the bathroom door is open, steam still curling out of it. HIs back is to you, bare chest and feet, low hanging sweatpants on his hips.

He's panting, chest heaving in ragged breaths, hands clenching tight and releasing at his side.

You call out to him again, but he doesn't seem to hear you. You place a hand on his back, the muscles under your hand tense, he whips his head around so fast you think you heard it crack.

His eyes are wild, stormy blue and so deep, bloodshot with dark circles underneath. His nostrils flared, chest heaving. But then his eyes refocus, he blinks long and hard, and notices you. Steve lets out a shuddering breath, his eyes glaze over and he reaches for you.

"Yo-you're here," its rough and raw, he has to swallow against the tightness in his throat as his large hands grasp onto you. His arms wrap around your middle and he hoists you up and your wrap your arms around his neck. He tucks his face in your neck and takes big, deep breaths. A satisfied hum vibrates through him.

You run your fingers through his hair and your legs lock around his waist. One of his hands cup the back of your neck to keep you there.

After several minutes go by, you place a hand on Steve's cheek, urging him to look at you. He peeks up, barely leaving the spot he was previous.

"Are you ok?" you ask softly. "Do you want to sit down?" Instead of answering, Steve carries you over to his bed, kicking the door shut with is foot before he sits. He pulls you along as he rests his back on the headboard and tugs you tighter in his lap.

"I'm here, Steve. I'm not going anywhere," you mumble into his hair. His arms cling tighter in response.

"I-I had the briefest moment where I thought - thought it was all a dream. And you were still gone." He mumbles into you skin, nose running along the column of your throat. Your fingers grip tighter in his hair, pulling him back to look at you all the way.

There's a small whimper that gets stuck in his throat, his pleading eyes search your face. You're not sure what's going through his mind.

You lower your face to his, lips ghosting over his, a smile pulling at the corner of your lips as he inhales sharply.

"Let me show you that I'm right here," your fingers run across his cheek, Steve's eyes flutter closed and his breath stutters out of his lungs.

"H-how?" he whispers. You grind your hips down to emphasize your meaning. His fingers grip you tighter, he goes to move his lips closer to yours, but you pull back, only slightly.

"Will you let me show you, Stevie baby?"

"Yes," he whispers again. "show me." You kiss him, deep and raw. Like you want to consume him, body and soul. He moans into your mouth and you swallow it whole. When you tug his hair again, he gasps, you plunge your tongue in his mouth, he tastes like cinnamon toothpaste. And he chases your lips when you pull away.

In the early morning, when the suns rays were finally peeking through the blinds, you stirred a little. Something feather light running up your bare spine, it pulls you from consciousness. You him, turning your head into the warmth beside you. There's another groggy hum that leaves you, followed by a low rumble of a chuckle.

You peek an eye open to see Steve awake, his fingers running up and down your back. "It's way too early for you to be this awake," you curl into him more, swatting his hand away. Steve chuckles again, pulling you tighter against his bare chest.

"Y'know… Tony told me you had a beard," you hum. Your lips kiss up his chest, Steve groans in exasperation. "You should grow it back," you smile into his skin. Steve groans again, his head falling back into the pillow, you shake with laughter, but he smiles despite his attempts not to.

Weeks go by, months, you've finally adjusted to being back in your time. It was different at first, trying to navigate life with technology you had to live without in the '40s.

But, it was like riding a bike. That's what Tony had said, anyway.

Everyone went back to their normal lives. You had fallen into a routine of helping Nat with the goings-on around the compound. Sitting in on holo-com meetings with Rocket, Carol, and Nebula. The three of them kept you and Nat appraised of the news in Space. Nothing that either of you could do from Earth, though. But it made Nat fee better knowing everything.

The other part of your routine was spending time with Steve, the two of you growing closer, loving each other. Most nights you'd spend in his apartment, some nights he'd stay at the compound. But the nights at the compound where few and far between.

Steve likes to say it's just easier for you, because you can portal to him in an instant.

One afternoon, your StarkPhone vibrates, a message from Tony asking if you're around, and when you tell him yes, he very casually asks you to come by the cabin. You put your shoes on and Portal, no ones around the compound today, and FRIDAY can forward all holo-coms to your phone - just in case.

You step through your portal, the gravel of Tony's driveway crunches under your feet. You can see the garden on the side of the house. A shed that looked too out of place to be just a normal shed.

As you ascend the porch steps, you hear the screen door slap closed, quick footfalls running in your direction. Then a squeal of laughing as she turns the corner, you kneel down just as Morgan launches herself at you. You laugh as she squeezes you around the neck. Your eyes snap up to approaching footsteps, Tony stands casually with his hands in his pockets.

"Pwincess Charlie!" She adjusts herself in your arms as you stand, one arm around your neck as she pointed to Tony. "Daddy never tolded me you were coming. Will you play with me?" Her large brown eyes turn to you and you smile.

"Later, pumpkin. Auntie and I have some grown-up things to do first," Tony raises and eyebrow when Morgan pouts.

"Promise we can play before I leave, ok?" Morgan seems to find that suitable enough, and she shimmies out of your hold and runs back inside.

Tony stars at you for another moment, a small smile on his lips, "You're really good with her, Y/N."

You scoff, "She's the best, it's not that hard." You push him back towards the door, "Ok, Old Man, what did you want to show me?"

Tony leads you to his study, he walks around his desk and places his hands on a large box. His fingers drum against the cardboard for a second before he heaves a large sigh, then pushes the box across the desk towards you.

You arch and eyebrow, "What's in the box?" Tony shakes his head, a scoff leaving his lips.

"Certainly not the worst thing you can think of," he motions toward it again. An uncomfortable noise leaving his throat.

"Tony…"

"Just- please. Open it."

Inside the box are a bunch of papers. Folders stacked sideways with worm out notebooks -no, journals. There's an envelope with your name on it. It's stuffed to the brim. You run your fingers over the lettering, your breath catches.

"It's - oh," when you flip the envelope over, there's an H under the seal. You glance up at Tony, his brows are drawn close, a half grimace on his lips.

"Only read one of two, they're from dad," he clears his throat. "didn't feel right reading them. He wrote to you. A lot. Birthdays, holidays, every day in between. The, uh - The day he died."

You eyes burn, and the tears well up. "Thought you didn't read many of them," you try to tease.

Tony slides a piece of paper to you, "He wrote me. Just one, and it was about you, too." You feel overwhelmed. Your chest aches. You missed Howie so much. But this, this is too much. You still reach out and read Howard's letter to Tony. You feel almost sick.

"God, yo- you must hate me, Tony…" you whisper.

"What? No! Of course not - Y/N- "he stumbles over his words as he comes around his desk to hug you.

"Why…?" you mumble into his chest. "If I were you, I'd hate me. It's my fault Howie was the way he was. To you. Your mom… If I had only listened - maybe-"

Tony pulls you back by your shoulders, and gives you a small shake, "No, Dad was dad. He drank and he was mean. He didn't drink and he was still an asshole. The only time he was ever anything different was in front of a crowd or those old reels from the '60s. He loved my mother, he just couldn't look at me and-" Tony shakes his head a little.

"Still," you say. You shrug your shoulders.

"Things happened. There's no going back. We can't change the past, honey. Them's the breaks."

You glance at the box again, "did you read my journals?" Tony takes his hands from you and rubs them together. "Tony…?"

"Uh- well," he clears his throat again. "To be fair, I thought you were dead?"

A heat of embarrassment crawls up your chest. A whine leaves you. "To-o-onyyy!"

You spend the rest of the afternoon at Tony's. Going through old photos Howard had taken with the camera you bought him. One or two old reels from the '60s no one has ever seen. One was to Tony, he told you about how it saved his life with a new element for his Arc Reactor.

The second reel was about you.

The room, Howard's office, you assumed. Was dark, the only light was the one on his desk. The camera was unfocused, staring off into the distance over Howard's shoulder. He's hunched over some papers on his desk, his hand skims down a few lines, the other holds a cigarette between his fingers as his thumb runs at his forehead.

He exhales a large cloud of smoke, it billows out onto the desk and around him. He then tosses the papers aside and leans back in his chair. He looks tired, dark circles and bags under his eyes. There's a knock off screen and Howard grunts.

"Mr. Stark, your wife is on line 3," a woman says quietly.

He hums, placing the cigarette between his lips, "Thanks, Helen. You can head out for the night." She gives a quiet thanks and Howard takes a deep inhale, then the click of a phone. "Honey," he greets and lets the smoke out through his nose. There's some shuffling of papers before Howard stands, the cigarette still in his mouth.

"No, no, you're right," Howard chuckles. "Of course, you're always right. Maria - " he stops. One last drag of his cigarette before he snubs it out. "You know what today is - yes I get it." Howard scrubs a hand down his face and sits on the edge of his desk. He picks up his glass next, downs the liquor contents in one swift gulp. He kisses his teeth, a grunt of disapproval leaves his throat.

"Not this again. I told you I don't like to be at that house around this time of —"

He stops again, a click of a case, another cigarette between his lips before the flick of a lighter ignites it.

"My sister was my whole world, honey — God knows I love you, but please, just allow me two days a year to feel like shit. Please —" Howard inhales deep from his cigarette, then exhales after a second.

He's quiet for a long moment, you assume to listen to Maria talk.

"No - no, don't call Peggy. Ugh, I already get an earful during the week. I don't need it today."

Howard stands, twisting around like he wants to pace his office. His eyes scan around until they fall on the camera. He must notice it's still filming. He swallows thickly, then places the cigarette in his mouth again.

"Oh, yes, darling. - I'll call Peggy tomorrow. No- I'll be home in a few hours. - Yes, alright," Howard hums a goodbye and hands up.

He then moves around his desk, the camera lens finally focuses on him as he sits on the edge. He's silent for a moment.

"I think I've written you a few dozen letters over the years, kid," he chuckles humorlessly, taking another drag of his cigarette.

"When did he start smoking?" you ask Tony. Tony just shrugs.

"Picked it up a few years ago," Howard seems to answer. He rolls it between his fingers. Carelessly flicking the ash onto the carpeted floor. "I know what you're gona say - don't think I don't know. Sure, they might kill me, but we both know that's not true-"

"Howard!" you screech.

Howard raises his hands in mock surrender. A bitter laugh leaving his lips. "Alright, that was too much," he shrugs.

"You're a mess…"

"You know he can't -"

Your eyes glass over as you stare at the grainy film.

His eyes come back to the camera. His hand rakes through his short graying hair, "yeah… you're right," he huffs out a cloud of smoke.

"He can't, huh?"

"Sometimes," he chuckles again, "Sometimes I talk to you. Maria thinks I'm crazy. So does Peg. Shit, maybe I am…"

It's quiet for awhile. Howard doesn't move from his percho n the edge of his desk. The cigarette between his finger tips smokes slowly, he picks at his lip with his teeth.

"That might be it, Y/N. We can turn it off."

"No, wait," you inhale a deep breath, waiting.

Howard's eyes look into the camera lens. And you think he can almost see you, there's a small smirk on his lips. "I love you, kid. Don't think I've ever said so to your face. But I do. Love you, Y/N."

You sniffle, Tony's hand covers yours and you cling to him to him like a lifeline. "Love you, too, Howie."

There's a wet laugh that comes from Howard, he scrubs a hand down his face and inhales the tears that burn at his eyes. He smiles, then. He moves toward the camera, "See you later, kid," and the film shuts off.

It's silent in Tony's study for a long while. It's quiet, but not lonely. You can feel the love in the room. from Howard, from Tony. You lean your head on his shoulder and the two of you enjoy just being present.

A year goes by faster than a blink of an eye, you've moved into Steve's apartment in the city. It's quiet in the city. Less cars, less people.

The once busy streets of New York are almost laughably barren. The people that were once here, either moved away or were Dusted.

"You should come today, doll," Steve calls from the kitchen. When you don't respond he finds you on the ouch, the book you were reading open on your chest, brows furred and a frown on your lips. "Doll face?" Steve calls your name again, this time pulling you out of your daze.

"Hmm? What'd you say?"

"I asked if you wanted to come to the session today," Steve leans over the couch, placing his palm on your cheek. It's warm and you nuzzle into it.

"Promised Tash I'd drop by before heading to Tony's," Steve runs his thumb over your cheek, and sighs as he straightens up. He takes a step back, arms crossed tight over his chest. "Skip the meeting today, come with me," you plead. "Morgan would love to see you."

"You know I can't," he shakes his head. You sit up and lean of the back of the couch, reaching for him. But he steps back again, out of reach.

"Steve, they can miss you for one day. C'mon -"

"Forget it. Have fun with Tony."

"What - that's not. Hey!-" Steve turns to leave, you portal in front of him, hand on his chest to stop his retreat. "Talk to me, Tough Guy."

There's a storm brewing in his eyes, his nostrils flare as he stares down at you. His hand comes up to cover yours on his chest. "For once, I want you to choose me." He says low, voice dropping to the space between you. His hand travels to your wrist, gripping it and moving your hand off him so he can step around you.

As he walks around you back towards the kitchen, you follow him. "I did choose you. I chose you when I got back here. I love you, Steve."

He scoffs, "you only chose me because -" he stops. A sharp inhale and he turns away again.

"No, say it. I wanna hear it," you stop on the other side of the island from him.

"You're only with me. Because Bucky is dead," he says bluntly. And it stings more than you think it would.

"Being with you is always like waiting for the other shoe to drop," you mumble. "You're here, but you're never present. At least not with me," your confidence wavers, voice going soft and cracked towards the end. "Maybe I want you to choose me first. For once, Steve. I'm always the last person in your list of everything else in your life. We may life together, but you're just going through the motions. Do you - do you even want to be with me?"

When you glance back up at Steve, he can't meet your eye, you click your tongue. "I'll be here, Steve. Whenever you're ready to actually talk to me and not a support group. We lost people, too. Just remember I'm right here."

You portal away, stepping back and then you're at the compound.

You find Nat in the kitchen, making lunch. She turns her head to see you over her shoulder.

"Hey, stranger," she greets. "made you a PB&J," she points to the plate with the sandwich on it. You mutter a thanks and follower her to her office.

Nat studies you for a moment, her green eyes searching your features. "what did he do now?"

You sigh, picking at the bread, "He said I never pick him. Over everyone else. He's never my top priority."

Nat's face scrunches as she takes a bit of her sandwich, "But you moved in with him. Instead of of staying here. And it's not like you two need jobs - cause Tony owns the building. You're always around each other."

You hum.

"And I only see you on the weekends. He has you the other five days."

You scoff, "You make it sound like you're sharing custody," you roll your eyes.

"Nah," Tony won that custody battle the minute you reappeared back in this time," she tries to joke.

You glance away from her, picking at the bread of your sandwich.

"Oh. It's about Tony, isn't it?" Nat sighs when you let out a hum. "Don't think too much about it, Y/N. Steve's always been jealous of your relationship with Tony."

"That doesn't make it better!" You slump back in your chair with a huff. "Tony and I are just friends. He's married with a kid. I love him like family - its -"

"Complicated?"

"No, not really. I - I'm in love with Steve. But sometimes, I don't know," your voice goes soft. "I feel like he's never really here with me. That his mind is somewhere else and he won't let me in." You look back at Nat, her smile is encouraging, and a little sympathetic. "Does that make sense?"

Natasha hums around her sandwich, and puts it down as she finishes chewing before she speaks.

"I think - Do you wanna know what I think?" you nod. "He's restless, or his body doesn't know he can just stop. We've all been constantly on the go since the alien invasion back in New York. To Ultron, and then Thanos. The treats were getting bigger and badder and we never stopped."

Nat waits, for just a moment, "Maybe I've never stopped either. I'm still here, listening to the world's - the universe's problems." She shakes her head, "I think it's just a distraction -"

"From not thinking about what we've all lost…"

"…Yeah."

You're both quiet as you finish you lunch. The both of you content with just being there for each other. No matter how that is.

You give Nat a hug before you go, a long squeezing hug, like you don't ever want to let her go. Not yet.

"Let me know if someone needs saving, ok?" You tease.

"Yeah, yeah. Tell the troublemaker I said hi, and Morgan too."

You laugh as you step back into a portal. Then the crunch of gravel under your feet as Tony's cabin comes into view.

Tony and Morgan are in the yard, she sees you fist - like always. Her face lights up with a huge grin, its magnetic. The hold this little girl has on you. You'd burn the world to the ground, all for Morgan H. Stark.

She wiggles out of Tony's arms, and skips toward you, "Princess Charlie!" she launches herself into your arms with a squeal. You laugh and twirl her around.

"Hello, Lady Morgan," you peck her on the cheek.

"Auntie," Tony greets with a smirk as he makes his way over. His brows scrunch as he eyes you. "What's the matter?"

You hate that he can tell when something is bothering you, or you're upset. Howard could tell, too. Maybe it was a Stark thing.

"Nothing for you to worry about," Morgan maneuvers herself so she's on your back, hands and feet hugging you like a koala bear.

Tony grunts, skeptical of your answer, he just shrugs and motions for you to follow him back inside.

The rest of the day is spent at Tony's. You help pepper make dinner, and play with Morgan until Tony and Pepper tuck her in for the night. The three of you share drinks out on the porch well into the night.

It's peaceful here. It's quiet here. Like this is where Tony was always meant to be. Him and Pepper cuddling on the porch swing while they look out onto the lake in the backyard. You don't feel like an intruder, not anymore. You feel like part of their small family, like you matter just as much to Morgan, too.

"I'm gonna head out," you say as you stand from the steps. "Thanks for today." You stretch your arms above your head.

"Are you sure? The guest room is there, if you wanted to stay," Pepper says around a yawn. You shake your head, and hug her when she stands to say goodbye. Pepper kisses Tony on the cheek before she bids you both goodnight.

Tony motions with his head to the side, "C'mon, I'll walk you out." He leads you around the porch to the front yard. It's quiet. Only a few crickets break the silence, an owl hoot far in the distance.

But it's so damn quiet.

As you stand side-by-side next to Tony, he lets out a heavy breath, he glances at you a few times before he speaks. "You gonna tell me what's wrong?" he says quietly. When you don't answer right away, he says your name. Pleading for you to just open up.

It takes you a minute, another sigh leaving your lips. "Steve and I had a…disagreement. It'll sort itself out. Don't worry."

Tony turns to face you, "I'll always worry about you, kid," and it's soft and meaningful. You know he means it.

"I know, but you don't have to, Tony," you shrug.

"Yeah. Doesn't mean I still won't worry. It's in the job description," he smiles when you playfully shove him away. "Come by tomorrow, yeah?"

You hum, "We'll see." It's something you've both been saying since you got back. But you always see him the next day, even if it's for a little while.

Tony pecks you on the forehead before he bids you goodnight. "Love ya, kiddo."

"Night, love you, too," and then you portal back to Steve's and your apartment.

It's dim, the only light on is the stove light. It's quiet here, too.

You call out for him, the only answer is your heavy sigh as you make your way to the bedroom. It's empty. Maybe he needed space. Or he's out running to let off steam.

There's no note where he usually leaves one, so you send him a text saying you're home, and crawl into bed.

Next>>

-----

tags: @valckenaux ; @yunloyal

#The Way Back #Steve Rogers x Reader #Bucky Barnes x Reader #mcu imagine #mcu fanfiction #marvel fanfiction #Steve Rogers #Tony Stark #Natasha Romanoff #Pepper Potts #Carol Danvers

46 notes · View notes

onlyforsebastianstan · 5 hours ago

Text

VANTA

(Winter Soldier!Bucky Barnes x Reader!Vanta)

Summary: The story follows Y/N, the youngest Avenger, nicknamed "sunshine" for her warmth and positivity, who is secretly battling terminal cancer. Known for her kindness, she’s beloved by the team—Tony, Steve, Natasha, Bruce, Clint, Thor, and Sam—until Lila, a cunning new recruit, frames her as a traitor, leading to her expulsion from the Avengers Compound. Betrayed and sick, Y/N collapses in a storm and is rescued by the Winter Soldier (Bucky), who’s on a HYDRA mission. Taken to a HYDRA facility, Y/N is transformed into Vanta, a super-soldier weapon, through painful memory wipes and a serum that stabilizes her cancer but erases her identity. She trains alongside Bucky, forming a deep bond born of shared trauma. Meanwhile, Natasha and Bruce uncover Lila’s deception, revealing her as a HYDRA spy who orchestrated Y/N’s downfall.

📎Genre: Angst | Hurt-Comfort | Action-Thriller | Tragedy | Drama

⚠️ Warning: → Terminal Illness (Cancer) → Medical Neglect / Withholding of Medication → Emotional Abuse / Isolation → Betrayal by Trusted Figures / Found Family Conflict → Gaslighting and Framing → False Accusations / Expulsion → Mild Violence (Punch to the face, physical collapse) → Captivity / Restraint Scene → Espionage / Infiltration (HYDRA subplot) → Emotional Distress / Crying / Panic → Mentions of Weaponry / Combat Training → Themes of Death, Mortality, and Abandonment

The Avengers Compound is a fortress of glass and steel, its halls buzzing with the rhythm of heroism. Screens flicker with mission updates, the gym echoes with the thud of fists on punching bags, and Tony Stark’s voice, sharp with sarcasm, cuts through the air like a blade. You’re at the center of it all, the youngest Avenger, barely twenty, with a smile that could melt frost off a winter morning. They call you their sunshine, a nickname born from the night you stayed up until dawn baking cookies for a bleary-eyed team after a grueling mission. Thor still swears your chocolate chip recipe is a gift from Asgard, and Clint claims you could talk a Kree into a truce with that laugh of yours.

But beneath your warmth lies a shadow you keep locked away. An incurable cancer, its roots spreading through your body, stealing time you can’t afford to lose. Only Bruce Banner knows, his gentle eyes meeting yours over the hum of lab equipment as he works in secret to find a cure—or at least slow the disease’s relentless march. Every night, his call comes like a lifeline, “Did you take your meds?” His voice is steady, but you hear the strain, the unspoken fear that he’s racing a clock he can’t outrun.

Natasha Romanoff is your other anchor. She never misses a check-in, even when she’s dodging bullets in some war-torn corner of the world. “You holding up, kid?” she asks over comms, her voice a mix of steel and warmth. She sees the cracks in your smile, the way your hands tremble when you think no one’s watching, but she doesn’t pry. She just stays, a constant in a world that feels increasingly fragile.

The others love you too, or so you believe. Tony ruffles your hair like you’re his kid sister, Steve sketches you in his notebook when he thinks you’re not looking, and Thor’s bear hugs lift you off the ground, making you laugh until your sides ache. Clint teaches you archery, grinning when you hit the bullseye, and even Sam Wilson, with his endless teasing, sneaks you extra pancakes at breakfast. You’re their sunshine, their light in the chaos of saving the world.

Until she arrives.

Her name is Lila, the new recruit, and she sweeps into the compound like a wildfire. She’s younger than you—eighteen, maybe nineteen—with a cascade of auburn hair and eyes that spark with confidence. Her laughter fills the common room, sharp and bright, as she regales the team with tales of her training missions. Tony leans in, charmed by her quick wit. Steve nods, impressed by her tactical instincts. Even Thor, usually loyal to you, booms with laughter at her stories of outsmarting SHIELD instructors.

You try to join in, lingering at the edge of the group with a tray of your famous cookies. “Hey, I was thinking we could do a movie night tonight,” you offer, your voice soft but hopeful. “Maybe Star Wars? Or something new?”

Tony glances at you, distracted. “Sounds fun, sunshine, but we’re kind of in the middle of something. Later, okay?” He turns back to Lila, who’s demonstrating a knife trick with a butter knife, her movements fluid and precise.

“Later,” you echo, your smile faltering. You set the tray down and slip away, the cookies untouched.

‘Later’ becomes tomorrow, then next week, then never. You try again and again—suggesting game nights, training sessions, even a simple coffee run—but the excuses pile up. “Got a meeting,” Tony says. “Mission prep,” Steve mutters. “Rain check,” Clint calls over his shoulder. Lila’s always there, her presence a magnet pulling them away. She challenges Thor to arm-wrestling, spars with Steve in the gym, and trades tech banter with Tony like she’s been here for years.

You catch her watching you sometimes, her lips curling in a smirk that doesn’t reach her eyes. It’s a predator’s look, sizing you up, and it sends a chill down your spine. You try to shake it off, telling yourself you’re imagining things. You’re still their sunshine, right?

Then things start to go wrong.

Clint’s favorite arrows vanish from the armory, only to turn up in your locker. A mission report you spent hours perfecting is corrupted, your access code logged as the last edit. Tony’s prototype gauntlet—a sleek piece of tech he’d been tweaking for weeks—goes missing, and security footage shows someone with your build slipping into his lab. You plead your innocence, standing in the briefing room as the team stares you down.

“I didn’t do it,” you say, your voice trembling. “I swear, I’d never—”

“The evidence doesn’t lie,” Tony cuts you off, his arms crossed. “Your fingerprints were on the console. Your code, your locker. Come on, kid, what’s going on with you?”

“I don’t know!” you cry, looking from face to face. Steve’s brow is furrowed, his disappointment a knife to your chest. Clint won’t meet your eyes. Thor shifts uncomfortably, his hammer resting on the table like a judge’s gavel.

Lila steps forward, her voice soft but laced with pity. “Maybe she’s just… stressed? I mean, being the youngest Avenger can’t be easy. Maybe she needs a break.”

Her words are kind, but her eyes glint with triumph. You clench your fists, your nails biting into your palms. “I’m not stressed. I’m being set up.”

“Set up?” Tony scoffs. “By who? The boogeyman?”

The room falls silent, the weight of their doubt crushing you. You turn to Steve, your last hope. “Steve, please. You know me.”

He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “I thought I did. But this… it’s not like you.”

You feel the tears prick your eyes, but you blink them back. You won’t cry in front of them. Not now.

That night, you try to reach Natasha and Bruce. You huddle in your room, the comms unit crackling as you whisper into it. “Nat, it’s me. Something’s wrong. Lila—I think she’s framing me. The team thinks I’m stealing, sabotaging missions. I don’t know what to do.”

Natasha’s voice comes through, sharp and steady despite the gunfire in the background. “Hang in there, kid. We believe you. Bruce and I will sort this out when we get back. Don’t let her get in your head.”

Natasha hands over the phone to Bruce, as she walks to check on intel.

Bruce’s voice follows, low enough for Nat to not hear, softer but urgent. “You okay? Did you take your meds tonight?”

You glance at the pill bottle on your nightstand, the label a stark reminder of your ticking clock. “Yeah,” you lie, your throat tight. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” Bruce says, and you can almost see his worried frown. “Stay strong. We’re coming back soon.”

But they’re alone now, and the compound feels like a maze of strangers. Your illness flares under the stress, dizzy spells that leave you gripping the walls, headaches that pulse like a drumbeat. You hide it, forcing smiles when the team passes by, but Lila’s shadow grows longer every day.

She corners you in the common room one afternoon, the team out on a training drill. You’re curled up on the couch, trying to read, but her presence is a weight you can’t ignore. She leans against the counter, tossing an apple between her hands.

“God, they’re idiots,” she says, her voice low and mocking. “The Avengers. So easy to wrap around my finger. And you can’t even do anything about it.”

You stiffen, the book slipping from your lap. “What are you talking about?”

She laughs, sharp and cruel. “Oh, come on. You can’t see it? Stupid Avengers don't even know who’s spying on them.” A smirk shows on Lila’s face.

“What the hell do you mean? Are you… a spy?” You ask with a growing anger.

Lila laughs manically, “You’re all idiots, I swear.” She walks to you and whispers, “Hail HYDRA, bitch”

You snap. Your vision blurs with rage, and before you can stop yourself, you’re on your feet, your fist swinging. It connects with her jaw, a sickening crack that sends her stumbling back into the counter. Pain shoots through your hand, but you don’t care.

For a moment, there’s silence. Then Lila straightens up, clutching her face, her eyes wide with feigned shock. “You hit me,” she gasps, just as the door swings open.

Tony and Steve step in, their conversation cutting off mid-sentence. “What’s going on?” Tony snaps, his eyes darting as they take in Lila’s reddening cheek and your clenched fist. Steve steps forward, his hand on your shoulder, his grip firm but not unkind.

“What did you do?” he asks, his voice low. “This isn’t you.”

“She was—” you start, but Lila cuts you off, her voice trembling as she cradles her jaw.

“She’s trying to kill me! She’s HYDRA! I thought she was talking to herself but she had an earpiece on and leaking intel.” she cries. “She saw me and started attacking me while whispering, ‘Hail HYDRA’.”

Tony’s eyes narrow. “Talk,” he says, his tone flat.

You shake your head, desperation clawing at you. “She’s lying. She—” before you could finish talking, Steve saw something on the floor. An earpiece. Calling out to “Agent Y/N”

“Enough,” Steve says, his voice cutting through your words like a blade. He looks at you, his expression in his eyes is worse than anger—it’s disappointment. “Agent Y/n?” He shows everyone the earpiece he found.

“I swear Steve! I’m not HYDRA. Believe me please!”

The others trickle in—Clint, Tony, Thor—and the air grows heavy with judgment. Clint crosses his arms, muttering, “You’re not our sunshine anymore.” Thor’s silence is deafening, his usual warmth replaced by something cold and distant.

Lila’s crocodile tears work their magic. Tony steps forward, his voice final. “We can’t have this kind of thing here. You’re out.”

You freeze, the words not registering. “Out?” you whisper. “You mean…?”

“Leave,” he says, not looking at you. “Now.”

It’s pouring outside, the rain a roaring beast against the compound’s windows, but they don’t care. You stumble to the door, your bag slung over your shoulder, your heart pounding in your chest. You turn back, your voice breaking. “Please, don’t do this. You don’t understand—I need you.”

But Steve shuts down the door, his expression unreadable, and the lock clicks into place.

The rain hits you like a slap, soaking through your clothes in seconds. You pound on the door, your fists slipping against the wet glass. “Please!” you cry, your voice lost in the storm. “Let me in! I—”

Your head spins, the world tilting as your illness flares, its vicious grip tightening around you. Your knees buckle, and you collapse into the mud, your breath coming in gasps. The rain is cold, stealing your warmth, and your vision darkens at the edges. You’re fading, the world slipping in, when a shadow falls over you.

A man kneels beside you, his silhouette sharp against the lightning. His metal arm gleams under the rain, and his blue eyes—cold, piercing—study you with an intensity that feels almost human. The Winter Soldier, on a covert HYDRA mission to infiltrate the compound, hesitates for a moment. His hand hovers over you, as if unsure, then he lifts you effortlessly, your weight nothing in his strength.

You’re barely conscious, your head lolling against his chest. His breath is steady, a faint warmth against the storm’s chill. “What are you?” he murmurs, his voice low, almost to himself. You can’t answer, the darkness claiming you, but his gaze lingers, a flicker of something, maybe curiosity, or maybe something more, crossing his face as he carries you away into the night.

When Natasha and Bruce return from their mission to find you gone, the common room filled with laughter as Lila holds court. Natasha’s eyes narrow, her voice cutting through the noise. “Where’s Y/N?”

The team falls silent. Tony shifts, scratching the back of his neck. “She, uh… she’s not here.”

Bruce steps forward, his glasses fogging slightly as he clenches his fists. “What do you mean, not here? She didn’t take her meds last night. I called, and she didn’t answer.”

Clint looks away, guilt etching his face. Steve clears his throat. “We… kicked her out. She’s HYDRA, comms coming from an earpiece calling her an agent”

Natasha’s laugh is sharp, bitter. “You idiots. Because comms called her “agent”, you assumed it was HYDRA?” No one dared to speak. Nat’s right. They didn’t hear anything about HYDRA, they just assumed because Lila said it.

“She’s your sunshine, and you threw her out in a storm?” She storms toward the door, pausing only to glare at them. “You’re gonna regret doing that to her.”

Bruce follows, his voice low but urgent. “Nat, wait.” In the hallway, he grabs her arm, his face pale. “There’s something you need to know. Y/N… she’s sick. Cancer. Terminal. I’ve been working on a cure, but she doesn’t have long.”

Natasha freezes, her eyes widening. “What?” Her voice breaks, and for a moment, she’s not the Black Widow—just a woman who’s lost her friend. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I promised her I wouldn’t,” Bruce says, his voice cracking. “She didn’t want pity. But now… we have to find her. If she’s out there, alone, without her meds—”

Natasha nods, her jaw set. “We’re finding her. Now.”

Meanwhile with you. The first thing you hear is the echo of boots on concrete, sharp and deliberate, pulling you from the haze of unconsciousness. Your body feels heavy, as if gravity itself is pinning you down. Cold metal bites into your wrists, and the sharp sting of antiseptic fills your nose.

You’re strapped to a hard, sterile bed in a room of white walls and flickering fluorescent lights, a far cry from the warm chaos of the Avengers Compound. Your head throbs, a dull pulse syncing with the beeping monitors beside you. You tug against the restraints, panic rising like bile, but they don’t budge.

“Where am I?” you croak, your voice barely audible over the hum of machinery.

Before you can process the silence, the door hisses open, and Alexander Pierce strides in, his face a mask of controlled fury. You recognize him from SHIELD’s files, a HYDRA specter with eyes like ice. Behind him stands the man who carried you here, the Winter Soldier, his metal arm glinting under the harsh lights. His expression is blank, but his shoulders are tense, his jaw set.

“Welcome to the land of the living,” he says, his tone clipped. “You’re in HYDRA. Quite a find, considering the Avengers threw you out like trash.”

Your stomach twists, the memory of the stormy night flooding back—Tony’s cold dismissal, Steve’s disappointed gaze, the rain soaking through your clothes as you collapsed. “They didn’t…” you start, but the words falter. They did. They turned their backs on you.

Pierce leans closer, his eyes glinting with calculation. “Oh, they did. And now you’re here. Tell me, what do you know about their operations? Their weaknesses?”

You swallow, your throat dry. “Nothing,” you say, and it’s half-true. The Avengers’ secrets are locked away in your heart, but so is their betrayal. “They don’t care about me. They won’t care even if you use me against them.”

Pierce’s smile widens, a predator scenting opportunity. “Good. That makes things… simpler.” He turns to the door, where another figure stands—silent, broad-shouldered, his metal arm catching the light. The Winter Soldier. His blue eyes are blank, but they linger on you, a flicker of something unreadable passing through them.

“Get her ready,” Pierce orders, not looking at him. “I want her stabilized. And wipe her clean.”

The Soldier doesn’t respond, but his jaw tightens as he steps forward. You thrash against the restraints, panic clawing at your chest. “No, please—don’t—”

But Pierce is already gone, the door hissing shut behind him. The Soldier’s hands are steady as he adjusts the machines around you, his movements precise, mechanical. You catch his gaze, searching for something, something human. “Why are you doing this?” you whisper.

He doesn’t answer, but his fingers pause, just for a second, before he steps back. The machines whir to life, and pain explodes in your skull.

The memory wipes are a descent into hell. You’re strapped to a chair, electrodes clamped to your temples, their cold bite a prelude to the agony. The first session is a blur of screams, yours, raw and desperate, as electricity sears through your mind, shredding memories like paper. You see flashes of the compound.

Tony’s grin as he ruffles your hair, Natasha’s steady voice over comms, Steve’s sketchbook filled with your smile. Then they’re gone, replaced by static, a void where your past used to be.

You’re not alone in this torment. The Winter Soldier, though you don’t know his name yet, sits in the chair beside you, his own screams muted, his body rigid as the machines tear into him too. His metal arm clenches, the plates whirring with each jolt, a mechanical echo of his pain. You catch his eye between sessions, his gaze haunted but resolute, and you wonder what they’re taking from him.

“Does it ever stop hurting?” you gasp one day, your voice ragged as the technicians prep you for another round. Your body aches, your mind a fractured mess, but you cling to the sound of his breathing beside you.

He doesn’t look at you, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. “No,” he says, his voice low, almost a growl. “You just… forget why it hurts.”

The words chill you, but there’s a strange comfort in them. You’re not alone. Not here.

The scientists are relentless. One, a wiry man with glasses perched on his nose, briefs Pierce in front of you, his voice clinical as he gestures to a screen displaying your scans. “Her cancer is aggressive,” he says, pointing to the dark patches on the images. “Metastasized to her lungs and liver. She’s got months, maybe weeks, without intervention. The serum we’ve developed can stabilize her, enhance her strength, but it’s not a cure. It’ll keep her functional, for HYDRA’s purposes.”

Pierce nods, his eyes gleaming with ambition. “Do it. I want her ready for the field.”

The serum burns as it flows through your veins, a fire that rebuilds you from the inside. Your muscles grow stronger, your reflexes sharper, but the cost is your identity. Each wipe strips away another piece of you, your laughter in the compound’s kitchen, Natasha’s voice calling you “kid,” the warmth of Thor’s hugs.

You’re Vanta now, HYDRA’s weapon, forged in pain and purpose.

Training is a crucible, a brutal dance that shapes you and the Winter Soldier into a deadly pair. The HYDRA facility’s training arena is a cavernous space of concrete and steel, littered with obstacles and targets that mimic battlefields.

You stand across from Bucky, his stance low, his blue eyes locked on you like a predator’s. The trainers watch from a platform above, their voices barking commands through speakers.

“Again!” one shouts. “Vanta, strike faster. Soldier, cover her flank.”

You move like a shadow, your enhanced agility letting you vault over crates, your knives flashing as you hit targets with pinpoint accuracy. Bucky is your shield, his metal arm a blur as he deflects drones, their lasers sizzling against the vibranium. You leap over his crouched form, your foot connecting with a dummy’s head in a spinning kick that sends it crashing. He rises in sync, hurling an enemy sim into your path, and you finish it with a blade to the chest, the motion fluid, instinctual.

“Sloppy,” a trainer snaps. “You’re a unit. Act like it.”

You glance at Bucky, panting, sweat stinging your eyes. He nods, almost imperceptibly, and you try again. This time, your movements are seamless. You dodge a barrage of gunfire, a vibranium-laced shield, your new weapon, absorbing the impacts with a dull thunk. Bucky anticipates your path, pulling you behind cover with a grip that’s firm but not bruising. You counter, rolling out to throw a knife that pins a drone to the wall, its circuits sparking. He charges, his fist shattering another drone in a spray of metal.

“Better,” the trainer grunts. “Again.”

Hours blur into days, then weeks. Your coordination with Bucky becomes near-telepathic. You weave through his attacks, using his strength as leverage to launch your own. He catches you when you stumble, his metal hand steadying your arm, lingering a moment too long. You notice it, the way his eyes soften when you’re panting from a drill, the way he steps closer than necessary when adjusting your grip on a weapon.

One night, after a grueling session, you sit together in the dim light of the training room, sharing a water bottle. Your fingers brush as you pass it to him, and a spark runs through you, unexpected and warm. “You’re good at this,” you say, your voice quiet, almost lost in the hum of the facility. “Better than me.”

He shakes his head, his voice rough. “You’re fast. Precise. I just… keep up.”

You smile, a rare thing in this place, and he looks at you like he’s seeing something beyond Vanta. “What were you?” you ask, the question slipping out before you can stop it. “Before this?”

His jaw tightens, his eyes distant, searching a void you both know too well. “I don’t know,” he says, but his hand brushes yours again, and you don’t pull away. There’s a connection here, fragile but real, born in the shared pain of the wipe chair and the relentless rhythm of training. It’s not love, not yet, but it’s a spark, a warmth in the cold of HYDRA’s grip.

During those months Natasha didn’t stop gathering evidence to prove your innocence, to prove the team they’re wrong.

Natasha’s trust in the team was shattered, but her instincts screamed that something was wrong beyond their betrayal. Lila’s accusations had been too perfect, the evidence too convenient.

While Bruce focused on tracking your medical records, Natasha turned her attention to Lila. She’d been trained to spot liars, and Lila’s performance, though flawless to the others, had cracks only a Black Widow could see.

Natasha slipped into the security room late at night, overriding the system with her SHIELD clearance. She pulled up the footage of the alleged assault, analyzing it frame by frame. A glitch in the timestamp, a shadow misaligned with the lighting, subtle, but damning. “Got you,” she muttered, downloading the raw data.

Hacking Lila’s tablet revealed encrypted files: payments to an offshore account, correspondence about “neutralizing” you, and software for editing footage.

Armed with evidence, Natasha called a meeting two weeks after your expulsion, ensuring Lila was present.

She slammed a tablet onto the table, displaying the doctored footage alongside the original. “Lila played you all,” she spat, her voice cutting like a blade.

“She framed Y/N. Doctored footage, planted evidence, and leaked intel”

Lila’s eyes widened, her composure cracking. “That’s not true! Natasha, you’re grasping—”

“Save it,” Natasha snapped, playing audio from Lila’s burner phone.

“Yeah, it’s done.I’ve sent you all the information for their missions to HYDRA. No one suspects.”

The room went silent as Lila’s voice filled the air. Natasha followed with footage of Lila applying fake bruises, her laughter chilling.

Natasha turned to Lila, her voice low and lethal. “You’re done here. Pack your bags and get out, or I’ll drag you out myself.” stepping closer, her presence menacing. “You have ten minutes before I make this personal.” then points her gun towards Lila.

Lila smirked. “I wasn’t planning to stay anyway.”

She grabbed her bag and walked to the door. “Oh, and by the way. You’ll meet your precious sunshine pretty soon.” she said, smiling as she walked away.

Everyone was confused with her statement. No one knew what she meant. Natasha shrugged it off for now. There was something more important that she needed to say.

Natasha dropped the bombshell. “She knew Y/N was dying,” she said, her voice trembling with barely contained fury. “She had Y/N’s medical records. She used her illness to break her, to make sure you’d all turn on her.”

The team froze. Steve’s face paled, his hands clenching. “She was… sick?”

“Dying,” Natasha corrected, her eyes blazing. “And you threw her out into the rain, alone, because of her.”

Tony ran a hand through his hair, his voice hollow. “We… we made a mistake.”

“A mistake?” Natasha laughed bitterly. “You betrayed her. Y/N was innocent, dying, and you threw her out like garbage. She’s gone because of you.”

Bruce, silent until now, spoke, his voice heavy. “I knew about her illness. She made me promise not to tell. But I never thought… I should’ve said something.”

Natasha turned to him, her expression softening slightly. “Even if they didn't know, they shouldn't have kicked her out in the rain. sick or not, no one deserves that.” She tries to hold her tears as she speaks, "You loved her too, you showered her with love and affection too. But the moment that snake arrived, everything went down the drain. All she wanted was to be with you before she leaves. And you failed her... Of all the people, You failed her the most."

Tony looked up, desperate. “Nat, do you know where she is?”

“I don't even know if she's alive, but whatever that bitch said must mean she is.” she snarled, storming out. The tablet lay on the table, its evidence a silent accusation. Bruce followed, the weight of his secrecy crushing him. They stayed for missions but avoided the compound, their trust shattered.

The night is alive with the hum of HYDRA’s transport, its engines a low growl as it cuts through the sky toward the Avengers Compound. You sit in the cargo hold, your vibranium-laced shield strapped to your arm, knives sheathed at your thighs.

Across from you, the Winter Soldier checks his rifle, his movements precise, his blue eyes scanning the shadows. Your codename, Vanta, feels like a second skin now, your past a distant echo erased by HYDRA’s machines. The mission is clear: infiltrate the compound, neutralize the Avengers, leave no survivors. You don’t question it. You don’t feel anything—except the steady rhythm of Bucky’s presence beside you, a tether in the void.

“Ready?” he asks, his voice low, barely audible over the engines. His gaze flicks to you, and there’s something in it—concern, maybe, or something deeper you can’t name.

You nod, adjusting your grip on the shield. “Always.” Your voice is steady, but your fingers brush his as you stand, a fleeting warmth that lingers. He doesn’t pull away, and for a moment, you’re not Vanta and the Soldier—just two broken souls bound by pain and purpose.

The transport doors hiss open, and you leap into the night, Bucky at your side. The compound looms below, a fortress of glass and steel, its lights glinting like a challenge. You hit the ground running, explosives tucked into your belt. Bucky covers you, his rifle picking off perimeter drones with surgical precision, their sparks lighting up the darkness.

“Security systems first,” you say, your voice clipped as you sprint toward the east wing. You plant a charge on a control panel, the timer blinking red. Bucky guards your back, his metal arm deflecting a laser that grazes your shoulder. “Move,” he grunts, pulling you clear as the panel erupts in a fireball, alarms blaring across the compound.

Inside, chaos erupts. You move like a shadow, your shield absorbing gunfire as you weave through corridors. Bucky’s a force of nature, his fist shattering a reinforced door, his bullets finding their mark with lethal accuracy. You vault over his crouched form, your knife slicing through a guard’s armor, and he rises to hurl another into a wall, the crack of bone echoing.

“Like we practiced,” you murmur, and he nods, his eyes locked on yours for a split second before you charge into the main hall.

The Avengers are waiting.

Tony’s in his Iron Man suit, repulsors glowing. Steve grips his shield, his face a mix of resolve and pain. Clint nocks an arrow, Thor’s hammer crackles with lightning, and Sam hovers above, his wings humming. Natasha stands at the center, her eyes fixed on you, her expression unreadable. Bruce is absent—likely in the lab, you think, but you don’t dwell on it.

“Y/N,” Steve calls, his voice raw. “What happened to you?”

The name—Y/N—stirs nothing. You tilt your head, your grip tightening on your shield. “You’re mistaken,” you say, your voice cold. “I don’t know a Y/n”

Tony’s visor snaps down. “Damn it, kid, are you really HYDRA?”

“She is now.” Lila emerged from behind, putting her arms on your shoulder. “One of our greatest weapons, Vanta.”

You charge, your shield clashing with Steve’s in a shower of sparks. Bucky engages Thor, his metal arm absorbing a lightning strike that scorches the floor. You dodge Clint’s arrows, your knives flashing as you counter, one grazing his arm. Sam dives, but you roll, using your shield to deflect his gunfire, then throw a knife that clips his wing, sending him spiraling.

“Nice shot,” Bucky grunts, ducking Thor’s hammer and landing a punch that staggers the god. You leap over a repulsor blast from Tony, your foot connecting with his chest plate, denting it. He stumbles, cursing, and you press the advantage, disabling his suit’s left repulsor with a precise knife strike.

Steve grabs your arm, his strength matching yours. “Y/N, listen to me,” he pleads, his eyes searching yours. “We messed up. This isn’t you. Please, you’re our sunshine.”

The words are noise, meaningless. You twist free, your shield slamming into his chest, knocking him back. “No more talking,” you snap, but something flickers in your chest—a ghost of pain, quickly buried.

Natasha moves like a phantom, dodging your attacks, refusing to strike back. “Kid, it’s me,” she says, her voice steady despite the chaos. “You’re stronger than this. You’re Y/N, not whatever they made you.” She ducks your knife, grabbing your wrist, her grip firm but gentle. “Come back.”

You wrench free, your breath hitching. Her voice tugs at something deep, a crack in HYDRA’s programming, but you shove it down. You spin, your shield catching her side, sending her skidding across the floor. Bucky covers you, his rifle pinning Tony behind a pillar, but Thor’s hammer grazes his shoulder, drawing blood.

“Soldier!” you shout, instinct overriding training. You hurl your shield, knocking Mjolnir off course, and Bucky nods, his eyes meeting yours with a gratitude that feels… personal.

The fight drags on, relentless. You’re stronger now, faster, your serum-enhanced body a match for theirs. You disable Tony’s suit, leaving him grounded, and pin Clint with a knife to his bowstring, rendering it useless. Sam’s down, nursing a damaged wing, and Thor’s breathing hard, his lightning dimmed by Bucky’s relentless assault.

But they’re not giving up. Steve tackles you, pinning you to the floor, his shield discarded. “Y/N, I see you in there,” he says, his voice breaking. “You’re not their weapon. You’re our family.”

You snarl, bucking him off, but his words linger, a splinter in your mind. Bucky’s at your side, his metal arm hauling you up, his hand lingering on your shoulder. “Focus,” he murmurs, but his voice is softer than it should be, his touch a steadying force.

Natasha’s back on her feet, her eyes locked on you. She doesn’t fight, just moves closer, dodging your half-hearted strikes. “You don’t remember me, but I remember you,” she says, her voice thick with emotion. “You’re the kid who baked cookies at three a.m., who laughed at my bad Russian puns. You’re not gone, Y/N. I won’t let you be.”

Your head throbs, a flash of warmth—cookies, laughter, her voice—cutting through the static. You stagger, your shield slipping, and Bucky steps between you and Natasha, his rifle raised. “Back off,” he growls, but his stance is protective, his body shielding yours.

“Buck,” Steve says, his voice softer now, directed at the Soldier. “You’re in there too. You don’t have to do this.”

Bucky’s grip falters, his eyes flickering with something—confusion, maybe pain. You feel it too, a crack in the void, but the mission overrides it. You grab his arm, pulling him back. “We finish this,” you say, but your voice wavers.

The Avengers rally, their coordination tightening. Thor summons a bolt that grazes Bucky, knocking him to his knees. Tony, back online, fires a stun blast that clips your leg, slowing you. Clint’s trick arrow releases a net that tangles your shield arm, and Sam tackles Bucky, pinning his metal arm.

Natasha moves in, her tranquilizer dart hitting your neck before you can react. Your vision blurs, your limbs heavy, but you fight it, slashing weakly at her. She catches your wrist, her eyes wet. “I’m sorry, kid,” she whispers. “We’re getting you back.”

Bucky roars, breaking free from Sam, but Thor’s hammer slams into his chest, pinning him to the wall. You collapse, the dart’s sedative pulling you under, but you reach for Bucky, your fingers brushing his before darkness claims you.

You wake in a cell, your wrists cuffed with vibranium restraints. The room is stark, a reinforced glass wall separating you from the Avengers’ briefing room. Bucky’s in a cell beside yours, his head bowed, his metal arm locked in a hydraulic clamp. You feel a pang at the sight of him, an instinct to protect, to reach out, but the cuffs hold you fast.

Across the glass, the Avengers argue. Steve’s voice carries, thick with guilt. “We should’ve seen it sooner. Lila played us, and we lost her.”

Tony paces, his face haggard. “HYDRA turned her into a damn super soldier. And Barnes—God, what did they do to them?”

Natasha stands apart, her arms crossed, her eyes fixed on you. “She’s still in there,” she says, her voice firm. “I saw it. She hesitated when I talked to her. We can break HYDRA’s hold.”

Bruce, quiet until now, adjusts his glasses. “Then let’s find out how to get rid of whatever HYDRA put in them.”

Clint leans against the wall, his voice low. “We owe them that.”

You don’t understand their words, but Natasha’s gaze meets yours through the glass, and something stirs—a flicker of warmth, a memory of her voice calling you “kid.” You push it down, focusing on Bucky. He lifts his head, his eyes finding yours, and his hand twitches, as if reaching for you. You mirror the gesture, your fingers pressing against the glass, a silent promise in the space between you.

Steve steps closer to the cells, his voice soft but resolute. “Y/N, Bucky, we’re not giving up on you. We’ll fix this. I swear it.”

You don’t respond, but Bucky’s gaze holds yours, a spark of something—hope, maybe, or defiance—burning in the blue. Whatever HYDRA took, whatever they made you, this connection remains, a thread they couldn’t sever.

The compound is quiet now, the battle’s scars etched into its walls. Natasha sits by your cell, her hand pressed to the glass, her voice a low murmur as she tells you stories—silly ones, about movie nights and burnt popcorn, about you teaching her to braid your hair. You don’t react, but you listen, the words chipping away at the static in your mind.

Bruce works in the lab, analyzing your blood, searching for a way to undo HYDRA’s programming. Tony and Steve pour over HYDRA files, desperate for answers. Clint and Sam keep watch, their guilt a heavy shadow. Thor, silent, prays to his gods for your soul.

You don’t know if you’re Y/N or Vanta, if you’re an Avenger or a weapon. But Bucky’s presence, even through the glass, is a constant, a reminder that you’re not alone. His fingers brush the wall between your cells, and you feel it—a spark, a promise, a light in the shadows.

The fight isn’t over. Not for you, not for him, not for the Avengers who lost their sunshine. But for now, you’re here, bound by cuffs and glass, but tethered to something stronger than HYDRA’s chains.

Weeks blur into a rhythm of scans, tests, and stories. The memories come in jagged shards, each one a piece of the life HYDRA stole. You see a man with a bow, his grin wide as he adjusts your stance on an archery range. A god with a booming laugh, spinning you in a hug that lifts you off the ground. A sketchbook, its pages filled with your face, drawn by steady hands. Each flash is a wound, raw and aching, but you chase them, desperate for Y/N.

Bucky shares his fragments too, whispered in the quiet hours when the guards are distracted. “Saw a park,” he says one night, his voice low through the glass. “Kids running. Someone beside me, holding my hand. Felt… warm.” His eyes meet yours, vulnerable. “You ever see something like that?”

The words stir a memory—a training room, his hand steadying yours, his eyes soft in the dim light. “Maybe,” you say, your voice hesitant. “Someone… steady. Always there when I stumble.” You don’t say it’s him, but his hand presses against the glass, mirroring yours, and the unspoken truth hums between you.

The bond grows, fragile but fierce, rooted in shared pain and these stolen glimpses of your pasts. His touch—through glass, through fleeting brushes—ignites a warmth Vanta shouldn’t feel. It’s not love, not yet, but it’s a light in HYDRA’s shadows, a promise you cling to.

Steve visits, bringing a tray of chocolate chip cookies, their scent wafting through the cell’s vents. “Your recipe,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. “You baked these after missions, said they fixed everything. You were our heart, Y/N. We need you back.”

The smell hits you—a kitchen, warm and messy, your hands covered in flour, Steve’s pencil scratching in his sketchbook. You grip the bench, the memory so vivid it steals your breath. “I… remember,” you whisper, your voice breaking. “You drew me. By the counter.”

Steve’s eyes glisten, a faint smile breaking through. “Yeah,” he says softly. “You were our sunshine.”

Bucky shifts, his voice low. “You drew her?” There’s a hint of possessiveness, softened by curiosity. Steve nods, glancing at him. “You saw her too, Buck. Always did.”

The exchange lingers, a thread tying you to them, but the memories bring pain, and Vanta’s programming still hums beneath your skin. The promise of freedom looms, but Bucky’s unease gnaws at you, a warning you can’t shake.

The breakthrough meeting comes in the thirty-first week. You’re escorted, cuffed but unrestrained, to a secure conference chamber, Bucky at your side. The cuffs hum, a reminder of your threat, but the Avengers’ eyes are soft, searching for the people you were. Tony stands at a holo-screen, displaying neural maps crisscrossed with HYDRA’s red code. Bruce beside him, his voice brimming with cautious optimism as he explains.

“We’ve cracked it,” Bruce says, pointing to the screen. “The neural implant’s signals can be disrupted with nanites, followed by a cognitive purge to erase HYDRA’s programming. It’ll free you—make you Y/N again, and you, Bucky, whoever you were before the Soldier.”

You nod, a flicker of hope stirring, but Bucky’s tense, his metal arm whirring. “What’s the cost?” he asks, his voice sharp, his eyes on you, protective.

Tony waves a hand, dismissive but strained. “Some neural static,” he says. “Headaches, maybe. We’ve tweaked the nanites—minimal risk.”

Natasha leans forward, her voice firm. “You’ll be free, Y/N,” she says, her eyes locked on yours. “No more Vanta. No more HYDRA. We’ll be there with you.”

Steve nods, his voice heavy. “You’re our family,” he says. “We’re bringing you home.”

The team’s eyes are on you—Clint’s quiet sorrow, Thor’s solemn vow, Sam’s steady support. You feel their hope, but it’s Bucky’s hand, brushing yours under the table, that steadies you. You’re about to agree when Bucky stands, his presence commanding, his voice cutting through the room like a blade.

“Stop,” he says, his voice raw, trembling with a fear you’ve never heard from him. All eyes turn to him, and he faces the team, his metal fist clenched, the plates whirring. “You don’t know what you’re asking her to do.”

Tony frowns, his arms crossing. “What are you talking about, Barnes?”

Bucky’s eyes lock on you, desperate, then turn to Bruce. “I found the files,” he says, his voice breaking. “The serum’s not just keeping her strong. It’s keeping her alive. Her cancer—it’s dormant because of HYDRA’s tech. You pull out the programming, you pull out the serum’s hold. The cancer comes back, worse than before. Or…” He pauses, his breath ragged. “Or she dies on the table.”

The room freezes, the air heavy with shock. You stare at him, your mind reeling. Cancer. The word is a phantom, a truth you’ve felt in the dizziness, the bone-deep aches, but never named. The memories—pills on a nightstand, a voice urging you to take them—snap into focus, a puzzle HYDRA shattered.

Natasha’s hand flies to her mouth, her eyes wide with horror, glistening with unshed tears. She looks at you, her face crumpling with regret, as if she’s failed you all over again. “No,” she whispers, her voice breaking, her gaze locked on you like you’re slipping away.

Bruce’s tablet clatters to the table, his hands shaking as he removes his glasses, his face ashen. “I didn’t know,” he stammers, his eyes darting to you, filled with a guilt so raw it’s palpable. “The files… I didn’t check the serum’s full effects.”

Tony’s shoulders slump, his usual bravado gone, his eyes meeting yours with a sorrow that cuts deep. “We thought we could save you,” he says, his voice low, trembling. “Not… this.” His gaze lingers, heavy with regret, as if he’s seeing you for the first time.

Steve’s hands clench, his jaw tight, his blue eyes fixed on you with a pain that mirrors Bucky’s. “Y/N,” he says, his voice thick, his look one of quiet devastation, like he’s already mourning you. His regret is unspoken but etched in every line of his face.

Clint leans back, his eyes haunted, his fingers gripping the table’s edge. He looks at you, his gaze soft but anguished, a silent apology for a wound he can’t name. “This can’t be the only way,” he says, his voice barely audible, shaking his head as if denying the truth.

See my other stories here >>> Masterlist <<<

#bucky barnes #bucky x reader #james buchanan barnes #bucky x you #james bucky buchanan barnes #james barnes #bucky angst #bucky fanfic #the avengers #bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes one shot #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x y/n #winter soldier #the winter soldier #winter soldier fanfiction #winter soldier x reader #winter solider x reader

29 notes · View notes

syntheticavenger · 5 months ago

Text

Splinter - Three

Two

Dark! Alpha! Thor x Omega! Female Reader

Word Count: 3K

Warnings: 18+ ONLY, world building, Alpha/Omega dynamics, intimidation. We get some Breakable and Fragile mixed in here as well. I know I said the last part was going to be tame and this is… sort of tame but we’ve lit a match for sure with this powder keg.

Summary | Your dream job provides prestige, security and a chance to shape your future. When one little mistake leads to Thor saving you in a time of crisis, his past promise comes back to haunt you.

As if on cue, the three warriors bow to you, Paloma’s eyes widening as her hand covers her heart. They place their fists on their chests, tapping twice. You’ve seen it once before, a long time ago in Asgard.

What she finds as a sweet gesture, you know the importance of what it means.

An unbroken promise.

“It’s been a long while,” Volstagg says with a heavy nod. “You’ve done well for yourself. A peacekeeper in a time of uncertainty. Much like our Thor. He’s taught you well.”

The trio laughs, Paloma joining in before your eyes narrow at his comment.

“He did not teach me to be a peacekeeper. I know my own way.”

Their laughter ceases at your censure, Paloma clearing her throat to try to ease the tension. It’s obvious that she’s enthralled with the men in front of her. They look massive standing next to her, their eyes still on you.

“They’ll make sure you’re safe,” Paloma reminds you, giving you a careful gaze of a reminder to not lose your temper. “That reminds me… there’s a dinner tomorrow, I believe the Ambassador to Sakaar has invited you to a dinner to discuss their opportunity to bring sanctions to the Scrappers.”

”Sakaar,” Hogun repeats, turning his head at the mention. “What do they want with you?”

Before you have a chance to answer, Paloma rushes in.

“The Sakaarians have a bit of a problem with people being stranded on their planet,” she says quickly. “With the creation of the IDD, the Intergalactic Diplomacy Division, they are looking at a possible goodwill tour of how they are perceived in the general universe.”

“Does Thor know about this?” Volstagg questions.

“No,” you answer. “And he doesn’t need to know because there will be a full security detail, including yourselves apparently, to make sure that the meeting does not go off the rails.”

”Sakaarians,” Fandral repeats to Volstagg. “They’re not to be trusted.”

”Well,” you say loudly, interrupting their side conversation. “Since you’re deemed to keep me safe, be on your guard then. But I’m going. This is my job, you’re here to keep me safe at my job and that is that.”

Their silence unnerves you when you continue down the hallway, hearing Paloma clap her hands together before speaking.

”Shall we order take out?”

⚡️

“The Intergalactic Diplomacy Division is kicking off the first of their initiatives, created by President Miriam Sharpe to attend to the universe’s complex societies after they were first discovered over ten years ago. Congress voted to create the division after much speculation surrounding trades with other planets,” a news reporter says, Steve looking up at the TV.

”I don’t like it,” Steve says, crossing his arms over his chest. “Since when does the government lean into diplomacy?”

“Since you decided to ignore everything about the Sokovia Accords,” Clint reminds him.

“Didn’t make sense then and it doesn’t now,” Steve counters. “What about her?”

He points to you, standing next to a senator and a person identified as a Zehoberi, a green skinned man wearing a formal suit as you smile for the camera as they sign a declaration of peace.

Thor doesn’t look up from what he’s doing, reading a message from Fandral before he hears his name being called again.

“Let her believe that she is creating peace in worlds that I know will never see it,” Thor says with a shrug. “What is the harm?”

”First the Zehoberi,” Clint chimes in. “Then what, the Sakaarians? They’re next on the list, aren’t they? They shake hands with the Kree and -”

”It won’t happen,” Thor snaps. “She wouldn’t betray us, meeting with the Kree.”

“Does she know the history? With Steve’s wife stepping down from her director spot, the job hasn’t been filled. Not for lack of Fury trying. All these threats,” Clint reminds him, slapping a hand on Thor’s back. “Makes sense this diplomacy division is suddenly created if we’re trying to scramble to make sure every society is on their best behavior.”

”That’s our job,” Steve replies, meeting Thor’s gaze. “She’d tell you if she met with any of them, wouldn’t she, Thor?”

”She has a security detail,” Thor answers with a simple shrug. “They’ll tell me before she does.”

Steve seems to relax for a moment, Thor showing him his phone as there is a picture of you sitting down and going over a stack of reports, Volstagg in the background. Your expression is tense, your eyes focused on the giant man sitting behind you.

”Warriors Three,” Steve says with a smile. “Why didn’t you say so?”

⚡️

At the knock of the door, you open it to find Hogun standing in front of you. He says nothing at first, giving you a once over before he finally speaks.

“For your event tonight, will the Sakaarians accompany you there or are they sending you transportation?” He asks.

“I have my own,” you reply, Hogun nodding at your response. He seems a little relieved but you know there is more under the surface of his calm demeanor.

“Do you think it’s wise to meet with them? Sakaarians do business with the Kree.”

“This isn’t about the Kree. This is about the Sakaarians trying to make amends for the people who have been stranded on their planet.”

“Stranded,” Hogun repeats. “Is that what you think?”

“It’s what I know. Scrappers drop them off at a planet and the Sakaarians are forced to take care of them. It is a strain on their resources but they continue to do so out of goodwill.”

“Forced to take care of them? Is that what the ambassador told you? You are a smart woman. I would have expected you to do your own research.”

“Asgardians have an understandable grudge against the Kree that goes back centuries, maybe more. Sakaarians may do business with the Kree but I’m not sitting down with the Kree, am I?”

“Not yet,” Hogun counters. “Not that it would matter. I highly doubt you would kowtow to the Kree, even if you and Thor are no longer together.”

“Is that why you’re guarding me? To make sure I stay in line?”

Hogun stands at his full height, giving you a hard look.

“I have to tell him you’re meeting with the Sakaarians.”

“No,” you snap, shaking your head. “You do it and you’re no longer part of my security detail.”

“We don’t answer to you. We answer to Thor, who provided us to keep you safe. When he tells us that we can go, we’ll go. But he’ll want to know that you’re determined to meet with them.”

“Determined?” You echo. “It’s my job, Hogun. I’m sorry that you can’t understand that. I’ve worked for years to get to where I am and I’m not letting anyone, not even an Asgardian God, stop me from what I’ve worked for. Tell him that.”

“Does the Ambassador know about your designation? They are a sensitive sort, nearly primitive in a way. You might want to think about that as Paloma has blocked out your calendar for next week, hasn’t she? Thor has made it clear he wants to help you. I can’t see this boding well for you if you don’t take heed of what is happening biologically.”

“I can take care of myself.”

Hogun simply cants his head toward you before walking away.

Closing the door, you lean up against it, opening your shirt to inhale your scent. Gripping the collar, you close your eyes in defeat, knowing your upcoming heat cycle will be here soon. Hogun is right - Sakaarians could hold it against you, especially if you find yourself fending for your designation.

There’s only one way out of this and you know you won’t be able to get past the three of them by going out the front door.

Opening your bathroom medicine cabinet, you spy the suppressants in the bottle, only a month away from expiration, leaving two pills left. It had been for emergencies, you’d told yourself, popping the top off before you pause, looking in the mirror.

This was one of those times.

⚡️

Even though you don’t see them, you know they are hiding somewhere in this upscale restaurant, Paloma following you to the table. She’s been oddly quiet, so much so that you’re beginning to wonder why she’s changed in such a short amount of time. Perhaps it’s the fact she has to wrangle three burly men without much of a plan, navigating their directive to guard you and get you to your events in a timely manner.

“Ah, welcome,” the Ambassador to Sakaar greets you, shaking your hand as he motions to a woman in a tuxedo, her hair slicked back as she gives you a cold smile. “This is General Topaz. She is the direct head of the Sakaarian Guard and personal assistant to the Grandmaster.”

Paloma freezes at the statement, watching you extend your hand to General Topaz.

“It is a pleasure to meet you,” you begin, General Topaz warming to you by placing her hand on top of yours.

“The Grandmaster is very sorry he could not be here today.”

“He was going to be here?” Paloma sputters, gaining a concerned look from the Ambassador and General Topaz. “I… I’m sorry, I just didn’t know that he was planning to come. Was the IDD notified? This is a big deal.”

“He was planning on making it a surprise but he was held up, as the Grandmaster seems to be more often than not,” General Topaz admits. “He extends his best wishes and hopes that you will visit him in Sakaar very soon.”

The Ambassador narrows his eyes at the invitation, shaking his head slightly.

“How very flattering,” he says, assisting you into your seat. “I’m sure there will be time for that, one day. Right now, we are here to discuss an on-going issue, one that General Topaz is extremely passionate about.”

General Topaz shifts in her seat, looking at the champagne being poured in the glass.

“You have shimmering water here,” she says in awe. “Very dangerous to drink on Sakaar when it flows from the mountains.”

“It’s champagne,” you correct, the General picking up the glass to sniff it, looking at you for a moment before she takes a small sip. She pauses for a moment, looking back at you and the Ambassador before she takes another.

“Not poison,” she grunts with a laugh. “Dry… but good.”

”General Topaz, please tell me about Sakaar and some of the issues you’ve been facing.” You want to get back to business, feeling eyes on you that you know won’t reveal themselves until they are ready.

“Most think of us as a scavenger planet. That all we do is pit the stranded ones against each other in a fight to the death. We are so much more than that,” General Topaz declares. “The system is designed for them to have dignity. Those who survive, continue on to be greatly well regarded in our society. Much like your… people on the… televisions, you call it?”

“You’re still allowing them to fight?” You question, giving the Ambassador a look. “Under Title 4, I believe Sakaar had promised they would not be pitting survivors against each other.”

General Topaz downs the champagne, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

“We’re scaling back.”

“Scaling back?” You question the Ambassador. “Were you aware of this?”

“That’s why I asked you to come. We need your assistance, your counsel in this delicate manner,” he says in a near plea, Paloma shaking her head in disbelief.

“Delicate manner? You’re killing the stranded! I fail to see how I can assist you. You’re due to sign a treaty in three weeks, pledging peace.”

“Then you understand that time is of the essence,” General Topaz agrees. “I know that we have a lot of work to do but I assure you, we will cease fighting in the arena.”

“That’s not a promise that you will cease your fighting altogether, General,” you point out, General Topaz nodding.

“That would be for the Grandmaster to decide.”

”Then you need to go back and demand him to stop it.”

General Topaz lifts an eyebrow at your command.

“You want me to demand him to stop it,” she repeats. “He takes no orders from me. Only counsel.”

“Then counsel him to cease the fighting or there will be no treaty.”

General Topaz’s polite demeanor fades, her eyes narrowing at the Ambassador as she speaks rapidly in a foreign tongue. Whatever it is, you know she’s not pleased, the Ambassador nodding as he replies back in the same tongue, stopping the conversation to sigh, giving you his full attention.

Before he can speak, you look up to find a man standing there, placing his hand on the Ambassador’s shoulder.

”Ambassador De Wren, what a surprise running into you.”

The Ambassador looks up, pushing back his chair at the sight of Sergeant Bucky Barnes, shaking his hand as the two men greet each other.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Sergeant Barnes continues. “I heard some commotion and I wasn’t sure if I needed to assist.”

“A spirited conversation,” General Topaz interjects with an embarrassed laugh. “The sparkling water, it makes my tongue loose.”

”And you, advisor?” Sergeant Barnes asks, looking right at you. “You’ve been very popular in the political circuit. You’ve done well for yourself, all things considered.”

“Considered as what?” You ask.

“The Intergalactic Diplomacy Division is a fledging government branch and yet, you sit here with General Topaz herself. Outstanding work for someone who started out as a local journalist. Thor must be happy.”

You refuse to correct him, knowing that he is aware that you and Thor are not together. Paloma greets him, breaking your irritation for a small moment to slide in a small jab.

“Fury must be happy to find a new surveillance director, I’m sure. Seeing as you were up for the job, I’m sure it must be a relief to know that you’re being utilized for other positions.”

Becky’s smile fades as you take a sip of your champagne, Paloma nudging you under the table with her foot.

“I’ll let you all attend to your meeting. Good to see you all.”

When he leaves, you follow, seeing him look toward the right as you spy Fandral sitting with his back to you. The simple reminder that you’re being watched only sours the mood, leaving General Topaz to continue to the subject at hand.

“Let me get back to you on the Grandmaster’s agreement on ceasing the fighting. We can continue this at another time.”

Before you can stand, Paloma smiles brightly as a camera somewhere snaps.

“It has been a pleasure, Ambassador De Wren and General Topaz,” you bid in a farewell, a full smile on display. “I look forward to our next meeting.”

When you stand, Paloma follows suit, Fandral, Volstagg and Hogun standing up nearly in unison as you walk out, feeling them following behind you.

“I want them gone, Paloma,” you instruct through bared teeth, smiling for the cameras snapping once you open the door.

“This is dangerous,” Paloma smiles back, waving to the photographers. “Once they find out what’s happening, the treaty is off the table.”

“Then it’s off the table,” you answer. “The IDD won’t have blood on their hands.”

“I’m not worried about that,” Paloma says, leaning close to you as the car door is opened, looking back at the three men behind you as they whisper to each other. “I’m worried about you.”

⚡️

Scrolling carefully, you stop at a picture of a woman, smiling cautiously while out in the field, her S.H.I.E.L.D. badge on display as she stands with Nick Fury, celebrating a win over a takedown of communications that were in the hands of HYDRA.

S.H.I.E.L.D. Surveillance Director Goes Missing

Clicking another article, you find a picture of her again, a grainy photo of her at a grocery store.

Saved By Captain America, Former Surveillance Director Gives Up Job for True Love

Narrowing your eyes, you remember the whispers, the gossip of how quickly she had disappeared after rising in the ranks to be Fury’s right hand. There had even been talk to have her join the IDD to help with their translations and training.

Fury Still Looking For Top Spot Of Surveillance at S.H.I.E.L.D. - Still Mum On If Former Director Will Ever Return

She stays on your mind on nights like this, thinking back to when Thor had threatened you. Largely, it’s been out of mind, out of sight but seeing Sergeant Barnes sent you right back down the rabbit hole to find out what happened to her. S.H.I.E.L.D. had been rocked by illegal drugs dealt and sold within the ranks, Steve Rogers himself going after the suspects. While she had not been named as a suspect, the rumor had been that the rampant illegal suppressants and drugs had happened right under her nose. Fury had disputed this, fiercely until the rumors had stopped and she had been seen with Steve, renouncing her role as surveillance director and giving no interviews.

For the usual Omegas, it seemed like a romance novel come to life - the hardworking Omega falling for a strong Alpha who could take care of her. The parallels had seemed too good to be true, at least when you looked at yourself and Thor.

At least you knew the truth - Thor wanted you to fall in line and you were never that sort.

At the knock of the door, you close your laptop, padding to the door to open it to find Volstagg. He seems apologetic, finally looking you in the eyes before he speaks.

“I come with good news,” Volstagg says in a whisper. “Grandmaster is apparently going to cease all fighting. Not just in the arenas.”

“What?” You ask, Volstagg tapping his finger to his lips.

“They want the treaty,” he says.

Exhaling softly, you feel like you can finally breathe.

“That’s great news,” you finally say. “Thank you Volstagg. You made my night.”

“Get some rest. I’m sure tomorrow they’ll announce it and you’ll get to travel to Hala to see it in action.”

Nodding sleepily, you give him another smile of thanks, closing the door.

Hala. A name you’ve heard before but barely, mostly by political commentators.

You’ll research tomorrow, you tell yourself, climbing into bed and falling asleep.

#thor x you #thor x female reader #thor x reader #alpha! thor #dark alpha! thor #fragile au #dark a/b/o #alpha/omega

48 notes · View notes

anika-ann · 5 months ago

Text

Back and Forth - Epilogue pt.1

Epilogue 1/2 - Always Forward

Type: series; agent!reader, inhuman!reader

Pairing: Steve Rogers x reader Word Count: 8700

Chapter summary: In which you're settling into a new normal... and something beautiful might be blossoming between you and Steve, even as your past experience is holding you back.

Series masterlist

Warnings: mention of dampened senses and vomitting, mentions of unhealthy relationship with pain, mention of PTSD and flashbacks, mentions of bruises and bleeding (brief and no-graphic), Steve being a menace, allusions to messed-up self-image and self-worth, language✨ Please, let me know any time if you think I missed any!

A/N: ALWAYS MIND THE WARNINGS; dividers by @firefly-graphics 💕; moodboard is for the vibes and does not necessarily reflect reader’s appearance

A/N2: hello it's me, bringing this story back from the void. If you follow on AO3, you have seen this posted... in October. My dummy self forgot to post it here. Enjoy and let know if you did? 😇

You were not counting your days of recovery. You weren’t.

You fully understood healing was a process, even if sped up by Steve’s accelerated healing ability still gracing your body and stitching up your cells in the speed of considerably delayed light.

The determination to not count days was most certainly not at all connected to the fact that every day of your enhanced healing meant keeping a stolen miracle from its rightful owner and as a consequence, keeping a hero with capital H from ordinary people, keeping him from saving lives due to his own slowed recovery. However, the delay was not on you only – it had been a mutual decision to which you had come to together.

Healing simply took time; you got that. On a rational level, you understood it all perfectly.

Thus, you weren’t counting days.

You were counting hours instead. And there were too many to your liking.

You wished you had felt better when the switch finally happened, after your tissue had completely healed and you had started physical therapy, but it was not that simple. You did feel better in a way, of course, but you exchanged one little hell for another.

As much as you had tried to prepare for the moment, even talking to Steve about how much of a shock it had been for him to wake up after the first switch, no amount of readiness made you truly ready and it wasn’t just the fear of the Kree artifact possibly having another surprise in stock for you.

It wasn’t just the healing factor either; it was the senses.

You hadn’t had a single doubt you’d feel relieved and grateful later on – and you did now – but suddenly losing the beyond-perfect vision and hearing might have as well render you completely blind and deaf. Even after days, you caught yourself squinting, listening to music that appeared to always play too low even when on max, eating food with enough spice to send Clint – Clint, of all people – running away with tears, because to you it tasted completely bland otherwise. You physically had to stop yourself from spraying yourself with perfume once more because you didn’t seem to smell it at all.

Steve was no better. He was good at rolling with the punches and he did have an experience with suddenly gaining enhanced senses already; but he did admit, with reluctance, that he had thrown up directly after the switch, the assault on his senses too overwhelming; mumbling something about a hangover and Asgardian liquor. Not that you heard him at the time; because you had practically turned deaf.

Yay Kree! said no one, ever.

There were positives too, however; even with dampened senses, the moment you were able to project for the first time again, you were taken by relief so intense you felt tears sting in your eyes, your chest so tight and yet so light you could fly. You were far from a perfect person, from a perfect Inhuman; but god, had you never been happier to be yourself than at that moment.

Steve reached the peak of his recovery not two days after, his range of motion and strength returning as if he had never been injured at all.

And by some karmic blessing, the switch did have one miraculous effect defying one of the most fundamental law of physics; the conservation of energy.

The pain ceased to exist.

Steve swore to you while looking – squinting still, really, the lights too bright for his enhanced sight – directly into your eyes that there was not a single trace of his spectral wound in his chest. It didn’t hurt. And the pain didn’t transfer to you either. It was just… gone.

You didn’t investigate why, even as you could feel the wheels in Steve’s head turning, his neurons once again firing like mad as he considered using the Leviathan for switches more often, wanting to try if together, you could rid you of the pain completely whenever your Spectre suffered an injury. You didn’t want to know if that was an option; because it was not an option for you, the risks you had listed earlier remaining.

Nevertheless, you were grateful that this one and only time you’d used the artifact, Steve was free of the consequences of your abilities.

And you were beyond grateful that exchanging powers back did not catapult you back into times where you and Steve fought all too often.

In fact, it was the exact opposite.

You did begin to build the foundation Steve had talked about. An invite for a run, for a workout, for a lunch. Sitting next to each other when watching a movie with other Avengers or during the AI movie nights. Lingering when running into each other, exchanging at least a few sincere words or mere small talk. A literal walk in a park, a little hike upstate, a coffee with no expectations beyond a good, safe time with someone whose company you enjoyed very much.

When you granted yourself the permission to let go, you gravitated towards each other, every time, the alluring warmth of his, figurative and literal, always pulling you in, tingles in your belly reaching into your chest and untying the knots of anxiety and doubt and setting you free of their barbaric cage.

You did take it slow. There were no labels, no pressure – at least not from Steve’s side – no deadlines. No official dates, no purely romantic displays of affection.

You did work on building that trust and you were fully aware it was mostly for your own benefit. Even as Steve was clearly putting a lot of effort into making it seem like he didn’t mind, you added the guilt over making him wait and complicating things to the nice pile you had managed to gather all by yourself; but that was not on Steve. Steve was… incredible.

With all this, the feeling you had always felt humming in your chest and which you had been so desperate to fight just to remain a little safer, grew louder. You had always trusted Steve; the trust was now turning steel-solid with every precious minute in his presence.

It was you whom you still didn’t quite trust.

But when you allowed yourself to let go just a tiny bit, to feel Steve’s sincerity in just about anything, when you consciously pushed at least some of your fears to the backburner, you were falling for Steve fast. And hard.

Steve Rogers was a man as close to perfection as you thought it possible. There were almost too many things to admire and appreciate about him. His bravery, sincerity an all-in approach when it came to feeling, were but a few of them.

One of the ways which conveyed his kindness and dare to say affection, was his touch.

There were few fundamental facts about touching and being touched by Steve.

The first one was that before your unfortunate Hydra incident, you two had never touched outside of strictly work-related reasons; and even those, at least to your knowledge, had been very limited. One, Steve fixed some of your moves or stance in training, or assisted you if it was completely necessary. Two, Steve carried you when you inevitably passed out during a mission; being high-up in his arms, pressed to his front as he had easily carried you bridal style, was a memory which you recalled with surprising sharpness and yet maddening haziness that prevented you from fully benefiting from those moments.

The second fact was that even if the touch was limited to work-related occasions, there was a hierarchy in it: you had never initiated the physical contact. You wouldn’t for a while, in the course of work or outside of it.

Third, when it did come to physical contact outside of work, there was something incredibly fragile and beautiful about Steve and touch.

It wasn’t like you had never had another person touch you outside of work before, obviously. That wasn’t it. You had done plenty of gymnastics training, ballet lessons, work-out, martial arts, sparring – all these included a lot of correction by your trainers. You had once had friends too, you had hugged; and god knew Daisy could give, at least by your estimate, among the warmest hugs on Earth and in Space.

When it came to a different kind of touch, when it came to sex, you sure had your fair share of experience of being touched. In fact, there had been a period of your life that included a very high number of sexual encounters, which naturally tended to involve a lot of touching; so much that you’d confidently say the rule at the time was quantity over quality. The habit was objectification over affection. The reality was heated desire to fuck and be fucked over intimacy.

And that was exactly where the overwhelming contrast lied: there was something empoweringly and disarmingly intimate about Steve’s touch, even outside of romance.

It had started back at the Hydra cell, with him tenderly cradling your head, fingertips lingering on your thigh after he had finished taking care of your wound; the very study in intimate, warm touch, that lingered in your mind fondly despite the dreadful circumstance.

And from there, the physical contact came surprisingly easy and frequent to you two.

A tentative brush of a hand on your arm, an offered elbow if the situation called for it, a half-sided hug. Many if not all of these touches were nothing but friendly in their nature, no different from those Steve would give to Natasha or Bucky or Sam – and yet they whispered of tender intimacy. And they lit you on fire; and while on occasion that fire was burning you from inside out, driving you to the point of madness, most of the time, it was a fire that felt gentle and safe.

And while touching seemed easy as it was with Steve, at least where he initiated it, you felt there were two defining moments where the remaining barriers between you cracked with deafening and soothing noise.

One of them was the first true touch you had initiated since being in a hospital bed after the Hydra mess. It was back when you had found Stevefalling apart, a flashback catching him unexpectedly when the fireworks for his own birthday had gone off – or that much had been your guess at the time.

The memory haunted you with heartache and fondness at once; his ass in those nicely fitting slacks planted on the floor in an abandoned remote Tower corridor, back pressed against the wall, fingers in his hair gripping and making sure his palms were covering his ears.

You had approached him slowly that evening – tentative for multiple reasons – making as heavy steps as you could so he could feel you coming. You seated your ass – in a blue summer dress reaching above your knees – next to him, close, but not touching at first. Then, when you could tell he registered your presence – somehow slightly more relaxed and more strung up at once – you scooted over, just resting your bare shoulder against his, your heart having leapt to your throat at the contact.

And that was it. You just sat there next to him, silently asking Friday for not letting anyone else into this section of the Tower for the moment.

You sat there, breathing, feeling the warmth radiating off Steve’s bicep and in return you let him feel yours, until the grip on his hair loosened; until part of his weight rested against your shoulder and his hands fell slack on the floor. Only then you spoke to him quietly, laying your hand next to his, a tentative offer he accepted after a while. Moments, long, quiet but not torturous ticked by; and after, he rasped a thank you, rising to his feet, using the hold on your hand to help you up, a shy smile – a little, broken thing –painted his lips before he returned to the party, probably feeling as hungover from the experience as you did.

The second of the breaking points was your embarrassing breakdown at the animal shelter; that day, Steve’s arms enveloped you fully and firmly against his chest for the first time, a protective embrace trying to shield you from the hurt that was echoing from within you, coaxing you to release that pain as if he could take it and add its weight to his world-wielding shoulders. And in a way, he did.

Accepting the offer of today’s sparring session felt like breaking the third seal.

Steve had corrected your stance or grip or technique before; but sparring with any of the Avengers had been of a short supply, one that started to fill up after the Hydra incident. Yet, sparring with Steve seemed to apply to other Avengers, Bucky most of all, because they were equal in strength and enhanced reflexes.

As with just about anything, Steve gave you the chance to back out, to say no; but you recognized the very offer as one of the olive branches which he seemed to extent more and more frequently. He had arranged your training sessions with other Avengers – or at least nudged them to suggest it, you were nearly sure of it – seeing them as opportunities to bond with your teammates; but so far he had avoided inviting you himself. Not to work out but to actually spar with him.

There was something exhilarating about saying yes, terrifying and tempting at once, a cocktail you found yourself drinking bottoms-up more and more frequently when it came to opening up as well. Especially when it came to Steven Grant Rogers.

And while the first few advances during the session were reluctant, you gradually eased into it.

To ease into sparring with Steve was a thrill, a hum of adrenalin and fun in your very bones. You found yourself panting; you found yourself grinning, Steve’s praise fuelling your nearly successful attempts at taking him down.

The physical effort in trying to take down a supersoldier, even as you knew he wouldn’t purposely hurt you, was not the only reason why your heart was beating so fast; the sight of him grinning, sparkles in his eyes, arms in particular bulging since he had to keep his fists up, all that certainly played a role too.

The air in the gym was charged with something playful; and it crackled of something else too, something electric you wouldn’t dare to give a name to, but you’d gladly let it tickle your skin even if the act whispered of danger that had nothing to do with the size of Steve’s shoulders and body in general, nor his strength. Nor the scent of peak masculine that seemed to wrap around you in welcomed but suffocating manner.

Another of the exciting things – things that made your blood rush fast and heat settle in your belly deeper and hotter than you’d be willing to admit under the threat of death – was Steve’s incredibly varied style of fighting.

To someone who didn’t know better, it would seem that the fight would have had a clear choreography. To someone who would take one single look at Steve and then you, it would seem the fight was about to be about two very different forces of nature. Strength and size on Steve’s side; agility, flexibility and technique on yours. You had seen an advanced mock battle like that before, back when you were only with SHIELD – with Mack and Bobbi. These two were the embodiment of these two apparent opposites, even as they sampled from another. And Mack, the mountain of muscle he was, certainly was far from a slow hunk; but the sheer amount of his muscles did render him less agile than Bobbi.

But that could not be less true where your opponent was concerned – and the main difference between Mack and Steve, much like the reason for it, was clear as day.

Steve Rogers had not been a hunk when he had begun to learn how to fight. When he had begun, he was forced to learn how to use his smaller body with enough wit to try and beat someone almost twice his size.

He still remembered that; and seeing it in action was tantalizing and damn well distracting at times, leading your thoughts astray, down the sinful path of how well he might be able to control and execute his moves in a very different setting. Yet, a little fraction of your mind, one that wasn’t actively participating in guiding you to dodge Steve’s hits and kicks nor was busy with calming your hormones, admired that – and recognized moves from at least eight different martial arts Steve was effortlessly weaving into his advances and defence alike. And he was doing so with an exhilarated smile on his face.

It rang true to his words back in that Hydra base; he did enjoy hand-to-hand even before the serum, but only once he had learned that there were ways to outwit the enemy, a little like David had with Goliath. Except Steve was a bit of both right now and it made him not an easy opponent to beat.

You enjoyed it a little more than you’d be willing to admit, but you suspected Steve knew.

By the look he gave you when you flipped away from his kick aimed to your ribs last second, a look that made something deep within your core tremble with thrilling heat, you also suspected Steve liked it.

He teased you; he pretended to aim punch one way, only to change it last moment to keep you on your toes. He avoided your attacks, sometimes with ease, sometimes barely, because he was not the only one who had learned how to confuse their enemy to gain advantage. Still, sometimes punches and kicks landed – and you’d be bruised tomorrow even as Steve was obviously pulling his punches as not to cause fatal internal bleeding on you.

The thing was, you did no care for bruises; because more often than not, before the pain registered, it was a very different feeling that flickered to life at the point of contact and spread through your veins like a wildfire.

You had a fair amount of experience with sparring, sparring with attractive colleagues too; but never in your life you had found a hold on your fist, a forearm aligned to a forearm, a hold on your ankle, a touch to a thigh so damn intoxicating.

And intoxicating was the right word; because it was messing with your head in both welcomed and unwelcomed ways and it landed you in a trap; your heart and then your body, firmly in Steve’s hold.

You knew exactly how you found yourself in the headlock, but that was no help to you, especially since your first thought, despite the adrenalin coursing through your veins, was that Steve’s front pressed to your back was very warm, very firm and very much appreciated.

You had known you were in trouble a second before Steve’s arm closed around you. But it was too late. He already had you in his grip; and your mind had already steered into gutter, even if for a moment.

Focus.

While you could tell Steve was trying his damnest not to hurt you, his hold on you was unrelenting, not leaving an inch of space for movement besides you possibly tapping out. Which you would do about as soon as the hell would freeze over.

But there were others way of getting out and you would not give up without trying.

Judging by the firm resistance Steve put against your attempts to escape – and good god, how did he just walk around with biceps and forearms this size – he wasn’t completely shying away from his enhancement.

So neither should you.

Closing your eyes a moment, you allowed yourself, albeit with a pang of guilt, another precious moment of feeling Steve’s body enveloping you; then, another moment of indulging in the sight provided by your mind’s eye, of Steve’s large body curled around yours.

And then snapped your eyes open to that very image, your spectre materializing behind him.

There was no time to waste; Steve would soon recognize the change in tension of your actual body. And yet. You couldn’t help but simply feel for another beat of your heart. The heat of his body curled around your back as well as him nearly touching your front now, his t-shirt straining around his broad shoulders and his absurdly narrow waist that called for you to wrap your legs around it.

But you had no right to do that; and admiring his physique and indulging in his presence was not why your spectre was behind him.

Standing on your tiptoes, noticing the slight wince in his posture as he had indeed registered a change in your physical body, even if he clearly hadn’t identified its cause yet, you leaned as close to his left ear as you could, and whispered:

“On your left.”

Visibly startled, he snapped his head to the source of the sudden noise.

You’d swear you heard Bucky laugh at the other end of the gym – but you didn’t let it distract you beyond a ghost of a smile on your lips.

This was your moment; as soon as you felt was the slightest loosening of Steve’s hold, you seized the opportunity, snapping back. And for all Steve’s fast reflexes, he was not quick enough to stop you from escaping the previously perfect headlock when his first instinct was to grab after the new attacker – your spectre – his fingers only brushing air by the time he did so.

He was not quick enough to react to straighten his posture either, to catch you or his wits before you were curling under his empty arms and sweeping his legs from under him, and causing him to land with his back on the mat with a surprised huff and a thud so powerful it nearly shook the floor under your feet.

You knew he let you win when you managed to climb on top of him and pin him down; but it still felt pretty good to outwit him a little. And to straddle him, holding down his hands which he could with no doubt laughable ease free from your ordinary human grasp.

He huffed a chuckle as he let his head hit the mat, before his gaze found yours again.

“You’re playing dirty.”

For but a second, a tiny but loud voice in your head snapped at you to apologize this instant for cheating, to respond appropriately to your superior berating you; but he wasn’t. There was no malice in Steve’s voice. If anything, he seemed amused, lacing his words with the smallest hint of admiration and praise.

Who knew Captain America himself would approve of sneakiness?

You. You did. These days, you knew. But seeing, hearing and feeling was believing; and all your senses registered that it was all kinds of fine and it inflated your chest with a feeling unknown, of which you were beginning to believe equalled what people usually felt when coming home.

It was a feeling pumping up courage straight into your veins.

One corner of your lips lifted in a smirk mirroring Steve’s, even as your chest was rising and falling rapidly after the exertion needed to get him on his back. “Using what I have. What’s your excuse for holding back, Captain?”

He was holding back; despite the fun and valuable lectures you were gaining, you could see as much and feel it every time he landed a hit. Sure, the aim of sparring was not to beat each other senseless; but he was holding back a little too much. He seemed to be enjoying himself too; but he could do a lot better.

“What I have,” he retorted, a serious note lacing his voice, causing you to sober up a fraction. “It’s dangerous not to. You know it is, better than anyone. You felt it.”

You had felt and were feeling all sorts of things indeed; and you understood his point. But as your mind wandered several directions, some less decent than others, it occurred to you just how, professionally speaking, rare your chance to spar with Steve was.

“Well, one might argue about the opposite being true. The numbers of enhanced people and Inhumans keep rising. And if our biggest escapade yet told us anything, it’s that the serum will always be a hot issue,” you reasoned and despite your rather compromising position, you could tell Steve was genuinely considering your words. “It’s a matter of time before I run into someone with enhanced strength and reflexes in the field… they might not have your level of skills, but still. We’re wasting an opportunity for me to learn how to fight them better.”

The shift in atmosphere following your words was almost palpable, filling your lungs with regret; Steve gulped, all humour bleeding off from his face, dark thoughts gathering like clouds over the sunshine that had been in his smile.

It was obvious he saw your point; you just weren’t sure why you had made it, when it meant disrupting the previously perfect flow and playful atmosphere. A moodkiller, were you? You had been having such a good time earlier.

Then again, that was hardly a surprise, was it? Good times didn’t last; not for you. Sooner or later, you’d taint them with your presence, with your past, your lack of finesse and skill or doomsday mindset. Always.

Your felt your body turning rigid, cold despite the sweat running down your back, ribcage tightening, your gaze growing absent as you retreated into the maze of your mind and memories, every step taken backwards leading you deeper and deeper between the walls that knew no escape-

-and the tender touch to your hand pulled you right back, Steve’s face coming back to focus. It was but a brush on your forearm; on a hand you didn’t remember taking off Steve’s forearm.

While you were still on top of him, he was on top of the situation; and while you should be having a firm grip on him, your opponent, you had someone you trusted with your life gently holding you, if by nothing else but his fingertips barely caressing your skin. There was no doom on his face, no scolding, no insult, no mocking; just intent and focus written in his surprisingly softened features.

“I just don’t want to hurt you.”

The words came out quiet, yet you felt their power shake something within you, releasing the suffocating tension in your chest, something in the air shifting towards a wholly new direction.

You didn’t think Bucky and Sam were in the gym anymore; the large room was filled with nothing but faint sounds of your and Steve’s breathing, the space expanding and shrinking at once, a whole world concentrated in the sincerity of Steve’s blue eyes.

If the third seal of touching Steve had broken by accepting the sparring session, the fourth was being broken when you allowed yourself to feel the tenderness of his rough fingertips on your skin and the firmness and stability of his body under yours.

“You won’t,” you whispered back, your faith in those words steady as the foundation of Earth. So steady you mentally propped your hand on it and rose to bravery, reaching a decision that somehow felt like losing the ground under your feet and enjoying doing so. “I trust you, Steve.”

“With your life?” he questioned softly, gaze roaming your face, trapping you in a world of its own.

Distantly and vividly at once, you recalled the conversation you had led in the med bay almost a month back, a shiver running down your spine. And it was not at all unpleasant.

Knowing in your core that the decision you had reached was the right one, you released a shaky breath, throat tight with both anxiety and overwhelming relief.

“That too.”

Then, a beat of silence. You were fully aware of what you were saying; what you were hinting had.

And you knew that Steve, brilliant, brilliant Steve, was too, because even with his ability to appear stoic – ability you could proudly say you had penetrated more than once – his expression changed. A subtle shift in his features; a drastic one.

Transforming with something you were suddenly terrified to read.

For ten frantic beats of your heart, you observed him with dreadful anticipation, before the weight of your own words became too much, panic attempting to seize you as you fought with vigour not to show the crucial realization that had dawned on you.

You just made a mistake.

You had misread the situation, you had misread it all.

You basically told Steve you were ready for a shift in your relationship; but it was too late.

Steve wasn’t interested anymore, even if there was something in his eyes that appeared so damn soft after your admission and you’d swear you had seen a glimmer of want in those widened pupils during the sparring session. But you were wrong.

He had been content with the blooming friendship, the spark needed for romance already gone, rationality overtaking whatever feelings had possessed him earlier, the realization you were too much work, too much to handle and not enough of anything else overweighting his previous courage to try with you.

You had missed your shot; and you just exposed yourself to judgement.

Before the emptiness of losing something you had never actually had could swarm your body completely with pain you wished was only spectral, a loud thud from the other part of the gym – making you realize you were very much not alone – froze the sensation in its progress.

On autopilot, you climbed off Steve swiftly, offering him your hand even as the idea of you lifting the hunk of muscle Steve was was laughable at best.

You did not feel like laughing.

You cleared your throat, forcing a nonchalant smile, nonchalant tone, nonchalant everything.

“Two out of three?” you offered, thanking all gods you ever heard of that Steve accepted your hand with the same amount of nonchalance, his hand warm and firm around yours.

You tried to smile despite feeling like projecting your spectre to damn Australia just so you didn’t have to deal with the brutal confession you had so irresponsibly and stupidly gave out.

And yet. There was something shockingly warm in Steve’s expression as he nodded, giving you hope you hadn’t messed up as cardinally as you thought, his gaze a little absent as if he was just as lost in his own mind as you wanted to retreat into yours and never leave.

Not wanting to give into hope nor the despair, you did what you always had; you shoved the incident and possible consequences deep within where they couldn’t hurt you momentarily, desperately latching onto the workout itself. You tried to tell yourself you should cherish the blessing of spending time with Steve, even if it might be the last time before you’d go back into the shouting matches and two strangers living and working in close quarters mode.

“Sure. Have at it, Spectre.”

He made a little gesture with his hand and he raised his arms for defence, determination that somehow appeared to reach beyond besting you in combat appearing on his face and making your heart tremble with everything but fear.

“I will. But no holding back. Not that much, at least.”

The brief smile passing Steve’s lips felt somewhat meaningful, a warning sending your heart into frenzy; but whenever had it not.

“Don’t worry, Spectre. I won’t.”

If there was one thing Steve could do really well – among many others, because of course he did – it was delivering on his promises.

He was not holding back; or at least he was holding back on holding back, and the results were immediate.

His smile grew wider, his energy practically sparking, his movements faster and considerably more challenging than before. He allowed himself to let go; and he leaned fully into you doing the same, the stakes rising, as much as the fun. And tension.

A very palpable tension you couldn’t deny, air heavy and delicious in your lungs, your heart once again racing from more than the insanely intense workout.

Steve went – almost – all in. And damn, was that a challenge, like a steep hill to climb; quite a literal one, since Steve was a mountain of muscle.

What a sight.

A cheeky smile when you tried to trick him with projecting again; his grip a little firmer, growing even more difficult to escape it when you weren’t sure you wanted to; not when he spared a playful remark, his breath brushing your skin and sending shivers down your back. Huffs of laughter when you squinted at him after every unsuccessful attempt to get him on his back.

His attacks were much more successful; and it wasn’t just the speed and the strength.

It was the stamina.

Which was a thought that sent your mind to the gutter more than once, but you could not let it. Not even when he got you on his back with an embarrassingly loud thud on the mattress.

He had tired you out; that was what had had you done. So much that you remained lying flat on your back for several seconds, blinking and catching your breath.

Steve’s panting form appeared in your field of vision, his cheekiness and thrill of a friendly and surprisingly challenging fight erased and quickly replaced by concern.

“Did I hurt you? Are you okay?”

It was sweet. Almost.

You huffed, unable to hold back the stink eye when the concern disappeared from his features, replaced by mischief.

“What do you think? … I’m fine. Completely fine.”

As he offered you a hand, one corner of his lips quirked up in painfully contagious amusement.

“Then stop napping. Come on.”

And you did.

By the third time he bested you, you felt like you were supposed to take that nap; because hadn’t it been for him, you might have sprained something, if not broken.

If there was one thing you were better at than Steve, even if it still was an annoyingly close call, it was gymnastics. You moved a little faster, was able to stretch a bit further, flip over to avoid hits more effectively.

Until you didn’t.

With your movements growing sluggish, the power behind your punches less explosive, your jumps reaching lower, you missed a step; you failed to put enough strength into your take-off. Like a lightning, the realization hit you mid-flip that the landing would not be pleasant, let alone graceful – and your body had no chance to react properly in time, not with how slow your motions had turned.

Squeezing your eyes shut, muscles strung for the impact you braced yourself for, you swore to yourself you would not cry out in pain, clenching your jaw for a good measure.

And then you were landing in something solid and warm and safe and the world was tumbling and spinning until it stood still except for the two sets of frantic heartbeats and laboured breaths, everything coming back to focus.

The everything being Steve securely holding you to his chest as you sat your ass on the ground, your legs bend over his outstretched thighs.

Snapping your eyes open, you met his worried blues roaming as he was already taking count of your possible injuries – which were zero thanks to his save. Ears ringing from the unexpected tumble, warm proximity and the intensity of Steve’s gaze, it flashed through your mind that had Steve ever decided to quit his job, he would probably make good money as a top spotter in gymnastic due to his reflexes and quick thinking like that.

And you’d love to return to professional gymnastics if he had, because landing in his arms did things to your heart that might not be healthy, but were certainly entirely pleasant, every single of your senses sinking into him. The heat radiating off his skin, the musk mixed with his cologne, the taste of his breath on your lips, his beauty still so startling from up close, and finally his voice, husky with worry.

“Are you alright?”

Very much so, you wanted to reply, lost in the deep sea of blue with sweet green speckles; lost until you realized he was asking because you might have nearly broken your neck with the awkward flip.

You cleared your throat, trying to blink away the haze.

“Uhm, yeah, yeah, I’m fine. Thanks to you,” you mumbled, licking your lips as your gaze flickered to Steve’s mouth, the heat surrounding your body suddenly unbearable with the improper thoughts it awoken.

He had caught you because he was your superior. He was responsible for you and he was your friend and he cared, and he would feel awful if you got hurt, because he had been the one to suggest the sparring. It would be completely unprofessional and low of you to use the position it had landed you in as an excuse to taste those lips for real-

You shifted in his embrace, a clear signal you wanted him to release you – even if you didn’t – his hold on you instantly easing, causing you to release the breath that caught in your chest when he had so sincerely asked you if you weren’t hurt.

He smiled at you as he let you to climb to your feet first, joining you swiftly once you weren’t in his way.

“Are you sure you’re-”

“I’m fine, Steve. Really… “ you reassured him, even as you felt your stance being a little shaky from exertion. “And thank you. Really.”

“Happy to help. Should we take a break?”

You looked at him incredulously, trying and failing to asses if he was being serious or teasing you; the way one corner of his lips quirked in a smile did not help your assessing process.

But for once, you were done. Any further sparring would probably ended up in you truly hurting yourself.

Not to mention it wouldn’t be fair.

“Steve if you haven’t caught me, I’d be on my back, probably with something broken. I think it’s safe to say this counts like the third point for you… and even if it didn’t, you’d get me on the ground within a minute. This,” you gestured vaguely on the mat where you had been sitting, in his arms, across his lap, FOCUS, “just proves I stand no chance anymore. You won. Fair and square. Congrats. And thanks for not letting me win just because.”

“Just because?” he questioned, the other corner of his lips turning higher too, his eyes sparkling with something that made your stomach flutter.

Just because I like you? his smile seemed to say, but that might be your fatigue and slight dehydration putting ideas in your head and it was not what you meant. Entirely. You weren’t that confident.

You cleared your throat as you reached for your water bottle. “Just because you’re a gentleman.”

You took a generous sip, eyeing Steve as he shrugged.

“I try. But I wouldn’t-“ You raised your eyebrow at him, making him chuckle self-deprecatingly. “Okay, that’s fair.”

You smiled too. “I’d say. Now, I made a fatal mistake – I didn’t agree on the wager before losing. So, what’s it gonna be, winner?”

Your own question, the admission of losing, took you by surprise; it felt so much lighter than you’d expect. Looking back at how you and Steve interacted in the past few weeks, it shouldn’t have. But it did.

Had this happened two months ago, you’d try to bury yourself six feet under for the humiliation alone. But a lot had changed since then; and you might still be learning, but you were trying your best to see things without actively assuming everyone thought low of you just because you weren’t perfect.

And right now, the thing was that Steve would not mock you for losing against him. He would not throw it to your face that you had asked him not to hold back and he wouldn’t automatically assume you had done so because you were being cocky and that led to him beating you; if anything, the look on Steve’s face whispered of respect. He might have won, but he had seemed almost impressed every time he got a point on you, as if he admired you for holding your own against him for so long. Whenever he had offered you a hand to get up, firm and gentle at once, a combination that you read in his actions in him more and more often, it wasn’t a superior offering a hand to a weak member of his team; as absurd as it sounded, it was almost as if an equal was offering a hand to an equal.

As if a friend was genuinely offering help to their friend.

And with something in his gaze speaking louder than words, the line of friendship was blurring with each passing moment.

But friends or not, you owed him; and unlike what you’d be two months ago, you weren’t afraid of being at his mercy. In fact, there were scenarios flowing in your mind where the idea of being at his mercy appeared more than appealing.

But this was not the time; as far as you knew, it might never be the time.

You shook off the thought for your own wellbeing and as not to be a downer, again.

“Come on, Steve. You’ve earned it. What’s the pay up? Publicly stepping up during training and declaring you’re a better fighter which everyone already knows, or wearing a ridiculous costume to a meeting?” you suggested, chuckling nervously under his intent gaze, not sure what to make of it. Had you been wrong and had he planned some diabolical task? Surely, he wouldn’t… right? “Or buying you coffee for a month, doing your laundry, vacuum cleaning and cleaning up, being stuck on rewriting mission logs duty-”

“Have dinner with me.”

You almost dropped your bottle at the soft offer, your heart skipping a startled and unfairly excited beat. His voice was so quiet and tender you were half-convinced you had suffered a blow to the head which you couldn’t remember and you were now hallucinating.

Except Steve continued, a little more firmly and steadily as he took a reluctant step closer, his gaze never leaving your face.

“Have dinner with me,” he repeated. “Not because I won, I don’t care for that. I’d never use that or anything else to force you, I hope you know that. But… have dinner with me… as a date. If you still want to.” He licked his lips, the motion drawing your gaze like a magnet, almost distracting you from how nervous his smile appeared all of sudden. “Earlier… you said you trusted me. Did I misread it?”

Of course.

Of course he had understood immediately and of course that his determination, one that had seemed to encompass more than met the eye, had been about more than winning. Now you knew what; and not for a second you’d think he was trying to force you into anything, had been plotting ever since you had told him not to hold back. You knew in your very core this was not something Steve did, because he had been so wonderfully patient and kind and maybe a little bit flirty and every single touch seemed to carry meaning and you had grown closer, you had learned things about him that kept revealing him as even more of a beautiful person that you had ever imagined, but if there was any doubt that all, it was that perhaps with his out-of-charts reading skills, you had forced him to act when you had suggested you might be ready for more.

You didn’t really believe Steve could be pushed into something he didn’t want to do, but the worm of insecurity was nestled deep. What if… what if?

“You’re not wrong, Steve. You’re… an attentive reader. I just…” You shook your head, an unsure smile playing on your lips, causing him to frown, an expression you were quick to avoid by casting your gaze downwards. “You don’t have to… you know, just because I said that, you don’t have to-“

His sneakers entered your field of vision, causing you to gulp, your eyes briefly flickering up; before you could escape the weight of his gaze again, his index finger slid under your chin and pushed up in a gentle touch that had you shiver, butterflies swarming your belly as you lost yourself in the blue of his eyes like many times before.

His damn touch; so soft and meaningful, barely there and yet leaving a brand you’d proudly wear any day-

“No, doll, I really do have to, because if I read it right and if you’re ready to try… I’m not letting this chance slip through my fingers. I think you are beautiful, brilliant, incredibly driven and strong. You make me laugh, you make me question everything I know, you keep me on my toes and I enjoy every single minute of getting to know you, of being with you, in any capacity, and… I’d like it to continue, preferably over a dinner,” he said, a little innocently teasing smile in the corner of his plush lips as if his thumb wasn’t mere inches from your mouth, as if his fingertips hadn’t brushed along your jaw while he had been talking, almost subconscious movement it seemed, as if your heart wasn’t beating its way out of your chest because he had easily weaved a year worth of compliments into asking you out on a date, as if something within you wasn’t trembling and he hadn’t laid something beautiful and terrifying and delightful at your fingertips, as if he wasn’t at your fingertips, the most breathtaking mirage that made your lips tingle with the need to meet his.

At your stunned silence, a shadow of self-doubt masked as the lightest chuckle, his hand dropped from your face. Much to your regret.

“It… it doesn’t have to be a dinner, it can definitely be different kind of meal. Or… not a meal, it can be something different, maybe a museum or a picnic in a park or… anything you’d like, I’d just… I’d like it to be something where I get to treat you right.”

Your urge to kiss him senseless and your body’s need to melt where you stood grew exponentially with every word, something acutely warm and suffocating and overwhelmingly good blooming in your chest, the nerves now lacing Steve’s voice only fuelling the sensation; because it seemed even Steve Rogers could be in a situation where he needed to gather a little courage and was willing to show it to you, because he trusted you and shared with you.

There was no saying no to this, especially since he was still standing so damn close to you, looking at you like he had meant every damn word he said, as if that truly was how he saw you despite everything.

“Well… uhm, I’d really love that,” you choked out, his smile making its return with brightness, causing you to feel giddiness you didn’t know you could feel, your lips curling up in a smile before you could stop it. “But it hardly seems fair, does it?”

Steve’s eyebrows rose a bit, his expression telling you he understood you were only teasing him now. A little. The majority of you was just you trying to distract him while you processed the fact he seemed taken by you for some reason – the reasons he had listed to make his case – and just asked you out and you had basically already said yes and he was still so close and tall that you could just stand on your tiptoes and-

“Hm, what does?”

What had you been talking about? Oh.

“Well, I lost the match… and this makes me feel like a winner.”

The flicker of something tender was brief, but it was certainly there before a brilliant grin took over, his hand enveloping yours, thumb brushing over your inner wrist just above your sparring glove. The simple touch sent an outrageously intense electrifying feeling up through your body. You weren’t sure you could survive a date with Steve, but damn would you try; for all the touches you had exchanged before, this one was charged with something deliciously new and expectant, the air in the room almost crackling as Steve took your other wrist into a gentle hold as well.

“I don’t see the issue with that… and since I am the winner, I make the rules. So… that’s a yes, right?” he asked once more for confirmation, the thinnest thread of uncertainty among the delight making your body act before your brain caught up.

You simply couldn’t resist. Well-aware the room was already empty, feeling like million bucks despite losing – and truly, losing had never felt and would never again feel so good – you quickly stood on your tiptoes, using Steve’s hip as a support, and pressed a feather-light kiss to his cheek, retreating just as fast.

You didn’t miss the fact his gaze flickered down to your lips as you stepped back and unwittingly escaped his hold, your lips still burning from the brief touch to his skin.

“It’s a yes,” you assured him, voice a little shaky from the adrenalin coursing your veins. You couldn’t believe you just kissed him; on a cheek, yes, and it should not affect you like you were a blushing girl in a kindergarten, but the warmth in Steve’s eyes and the new hint of pink to his cheeks told you perhaps you were not alone in your giddiness and nerves. It felt empowering and silly all at once; and sweet and beautiful. Almost as beautiful as Steve’s smile shining with the power of thousands suns after receiving the simplest of affections. “Let me know when and where.”

“I will. …stretch with me?”

For the second time, you couldn’t quite help your reaction; but this time, your brain was much faster than it should have, the – given the environment innocent – suggestion somehow connecting with planning the date in your mind in the most inappropriate manner.

You sputtered, glad for not having taken another sip of water just yet, and burst out laughing despite there being nothing laughable about Steve helping you stretch or helping you stretch.

The tips of Steve’s ears turned bright red with fascinating speed, his face a hilarious image of pure horror.

“Oh no, I did not mean-“

“Sure you didn’t, Steve,” you choked out between laughter, his embarrassment turning into exasperation at your childishness. And you’d believe it if the laughter wasn’t already glimmering in his eyes. “Sorry, sorry, yeah. Sure, let’s… stretch.”

“Great, let’s-”

“I could use a partner for stretching, haven’t had one for a while,” you hummed nonchalantly, a smirk threatening to break as something exhilarating flashed in Steve’s irises at your – given the environment innocent – confession. Whether his pupils dilated from surprise or something dangerously resembling desire, you weren’t sure – but it made you want to giggle and laugh and cry, your cheeks beginning to hurt as well as the rest of your body.

Your grin only widened when Steve opened his mouth without a sound coming out, before resigning to reaching for his own bottle, using it as a pointer.

“…I didn’t mean that. You know that I didn’t--- of course, you do,” he stumbled over his words a bit, sighing when he could see your amusement only growing, shaking his head with a lopsided and slightly incredulous smile. “You’re trouble… I think I like it.”

He only thinks? He isn’t sure? echoed in your head, but you didn’t let the flicker of insecurity get to you. Not now. Not after this lovely incident that shot up your confidence all the way to the high ceiling of the gym.

“Maybe I should cause trouble more often then, Captain.”

Identifying the spark in Steve’s eyes as want, you smiled to yourself, not quite sure what to do with yourself, but knowing this must have been what being happy and in love felt like.

“Yeah. Maybe you should.”

Second part of epilogue

Series masterlist // S.R. masterlist

Thank you for your patience and for reading 💕

The second part of the fluffy epilogue should come soon enough, since it's already written (...it's how I found out this one hasn't been posted 🥲)

May the endless January begone, welcome February - may it be kind to you 💕