#steve roges

[holylulusworld]

Torn in two (3)

Summary: It should’ve been the happiest day of your life.

Pairing: Mobster!Steve Rogers x fem!Reader, Mobster!Bucky Barnes x fem!Reader (platonic for now)

Warnings: heavy angst, Steve being the worst, cheating, lies, deception, sadness, arranged marriage, unrequited love, hurt & comfort, love-struck Bucky, a hint of possessive Bucky, virgin reader (mentioned)

Catch up here: Torn in two (2)

Bucky kept his word. He made sure that Steve and his men were searching for you on the other side of town. For now, you’re safe at his place. You don’t know for how long.

You cannot hide from your father or Steve for the rest of your life. One way or another, you must face them.

“You should eat something, doll,” Bucky points at the plate he placed in front of you. “Are the clothes okay? I don’t have lady’s stuff around.”

“The shirt and sweatpants are much better than the wedding dress,” you sniff. “Did you know that I never wanted to wear that dress? His mother forced me to follow tradition and wear the nightmare she dared to call a wedding dress.”

“Still, you looked beautiful in it,” Bucky swoons hard when you steal a fry from the plate. “You’d rock a potato sack.”

“You only try to be nice.” You slowly chew the fry. “What do I do now? Steve knows that I heard every word. I cannot go back and pretend he doesn't want to get rid of me. Steve hates me. The man I loved for so long hates me, and my heart cannot take it.”

“We will think about a solution tomorrow. You need to eat and get some sleep.” He sternly says. I know today was a lot to stomach, but there will be better times, too. Don’t give up on your dreams and hopes.”

“All my dreams involved Steve, but since he said all those hurtful things, it feels like I fell out of love within the blink of an eye.” You sniffle and look at Bucky. “What if I never loved him? What if I only believed he was the right guy? What if I missed out on falling for the right person because I hung my heart on Steve?”

Bucky looks surprised, but there’s something else in his eyes. Hope, maybe?

“I don’t know the answer to any of your questions, but I have food.” He gives you a soft smile. “Come on, doll. Dig in and have some of the best fries in Brooklyn.”

He dips his head, staring at you because you still don’t eat.

“Where did you get fries at two am? You were gone for, like, ten minutes?” You grab a few fries and stuff them into your mouth. “Fuck, they are good. I haven’t eaten good stuff in weeks to look radiant and pretty for that asshat.”

Bucky chuckles. Even though you’re talking about his friend. “Steve is a fool, doll. He was always like that. The golden boy getting all the nice things and never valuing their worth.”

“He got things the easy way. Steve never had to work for anything. Women, money, his good looks,” you curse your husband. “One day, he should face the consequences of his doings.”

“If you ask me, he felt it tonight,” Bucky laughs, remembering the panic in Steve’s voice. The last thing your husband needs is for your father to find out that someone hurt you. He must protect you. “Eat up and get some sleep. Tomorrow everything will look better.”

“No, it won’t,” you sniffle and wipe your eyes, “but thank you for saying it. I know you mean well. We both know this world and how it works too well. I’m stuck, and there’s no way out. Steve and my father won’t leave me alone. Escaping my duty was never an option.”

“Well then, we will find a way out. Together,” Bucky sternly states. He looks your way, giving you a cracked smile. “I sacrificed more than enough for Steve. I was always loyal. But loyalty has limits, doll. If he wants me to bring you back to him, I’ll refuse.”

You nod, but don’t believe a single word. Two men you trusted with your life have already betrayed you in the worst way possible. There’s no trust left in you. Not even for Bucky.

Bucky watches you sleep on his bed. He doesn’t want to be a creep, but Alpine was making a fuss. She wanted him to let her into the bedroom to join you on the bed.

He shakes his head, watching Alpine curl in your side. “You really like her, huh?” Bucky sighs deeply. “I know how you feel.” He whispers. “I don’t know how to make it real, Alpine…”

You flutter your eyes open, feeling a weight next to you. Two strong arms are wrapped tightly around your body, holding you safely.

Bucky is unaware that you woke. He only wanted to make you feel safe after you cried in your sleep. It wasn’t his plan to fall asleep, his arms still wrapped around your body.

“Bucky,” his name is only a whisper on your lips. You sigh and close your eyes, enjoying the last peaceful moments before you must face Steve and your father.

[avengerscompound]

Chris Evans as Steve Rogers Captain America: The First Avenger

[delulu-hours]

It's gonna be okay [1]

Paring: Bucky Barnes x Latina!reader

Summary: You and Bucky cross paths through some turn of events, but he keeps you hidden instead of killing you off like he was assigned. There was something about you that he couldn't bring himself to end, so he took you somewhere you would be safe. Slowly, you learn more about each other and rely on one another before realizing it. All you know is that everything will be okay.

Warning: Talk about Bucky's past and trauma.

A/n: It is going to start during the Captain America Winter Soldier and going through until The Falcon and The Winter Soldier. You guys can best bet that there will be some fluff as I want to have a happy ending for my baby. He's been through so much and he needs it.

You should have known better.

A small groan left your lips as you held your side. The warm blood oozed out as the sound of shooting echoed. You have one bullet left in your semi-automatic pistol. Your heartbeat drummed within your ears as you rested your head on the car door. You pressed yourself back further into the car as you scanned the sides of you. You didn't know how you got dragged into this. One second, you were at home; the next thing you knew, SHIELD agents were storming into your apartment. Guns aimed at you, and you knew something was very wrong. 

And now you were getting shot at as you ran away from them. Unprepared for it all. You close your eyes, taking a deep breath before you move your feet under you. If you could do it, you could exit if you dashed around this building. You had been around this block before, so there would be an alleyway where you could take a fire escape stairs up. You placed your gun in your pants waist before you took off. Keeping your head low and hand over your wound as you ran, you didn't stop for anything. It was your life on the line, and you're sure hell aren't risking it. The bullets flew past you, and you managed to avoid them as you turned the corner. Yelling reached your ears, and you raced up the fire escape. The adrenaline rushed through your veins, and the blood kept seeping out. You did lose your footing here and there due to the blood loss, but you kept pushing forward. That was until you were on the roof and safe.

Or so you thought. 

You were body-slammed into the ground. A groan left your lips as the wind was knocked out of you. You tried to blink the black and gray dots that invaded your vision as you gasped for air. Your lungs begged for it as the weight on your chest prevented you from taking enough air in. You felt the pain from the gunshot wound plus the pain from being knocked down onto your back. When your vision cleared, you looked at the assailants on top of you. The man's hands wrapped around your neck, and your hands automatically grabbed his wrist. You looked him in the eye as you tried to fight him off. His long black hair fell into his face, but you could see his icy blue eyes. Void of any emotions, he stared at you blankly. His fingers tightened around your neck, and you felt it— the cool sensation as you took in his metal arm.

This was it. 

This was how you were going to die. Your grip loosened around his wrist as you felt all the will to fight back slip away. Your gasping became shorter as you tried to take your last breaths, hands falling to the side where his legs around you were. The sky was clear as you looked past your attacker. The sun shone up high, yet the heat wasn't bad. Your vision soon began to lose focus.

This was it.

Before everything went black and you slipped away, those icy blue eyes of your assailant were the last thing you saw. One last breath and everything went black. 

It was over.

No more looking over your shoulder.

No more living in fear.

You were free.

Safe in the darkness of death.

★★★★★

A creaking noise caused you to open your eyes, confused. You had thought you died, but here you were, lying in some run-down-looking room. A small light lit the entire room as you slowly pushed yourself up. Pain shot through your left side as you placed a hand over it. Your eyes were on the person sitting in front of the bed, very close to the wall. You took him in and knew it was your assailant. The mask he wore covered half his face, and his icy blue eyes watched. It was as if they were taking in your every movement. The light reflected on the mental arm he had on his left side as arms rested in his lap. "Who are you?" Your voice cracked, and you felt the tenderness in your throat. You didn't even realize how raw it felt until you swallowed. He didn't respond as he got up and left, leaving you alone. You looked at your side and lifted your blood-stained shirt as you took in the wraps around your torso. It was safe to say this man was the one who stitched you up. The dull, aching pain from your side itched a bit. Then you felt it. Eyes watching you as you snapped your head up and locked your gaze on him. He took four strides and stood close to the foot of the bed. He had a cup of water in his hands as he held it out for you. You started it, weighing your options. A defeated sigh left your lips as you took it. You didn't need to question his intentions at this point; after all, you wouldn't be able to escape him. This man overpowered you in many ways that you knew you didn't stand a chance. You brought the cup to your lips and drank the water, hoping that if he poisoned you, it would kill you quickly.

As the cool liquid coated your throat, you couldn't help but let out a stifled moan. It felt amazing and soothed the rawness. You drank it all and placed the cup in your lap once you were done. "Thank you." Your voice sounded better than before. The man didn't acknowledge you, only taking the cup and leaving you alone. You watched him until he was out of view before your eyes drifted around the room. It was abandoned; you could tell by how quiet it had been and how the walls lacked their vibrancy. The bed squeezed at any slight movement, and the wooden floors let out a small groan. You still hadn't understood why you were alone. Playing with your hands, you closed your eyes. "Might as well count my blessings." You had felt tired, and you know it was from earlier events. After a few minutes, you lay back down and get as comfortable as possible. 

It didn't look like you would be leaving anytime soon, so you figured you'd try to enjoy whatever time you had left. A small sigh left your lips. You hadn't ever imagined being placed in this situation.

Scratch that.

You had, but with trying to run away from your past, you thought you'd never had to. 

"Huir de tus problemas es una carrera que nunca ganarás. (Running away from your problems is a race you'll never win)"

The voice echoed in your ears. 

"Por mucho que lo intentes no podrás huir de ti mismo. (No matter how hard you try, you can't run away from yourself)" 

You closed your eyes again, pushing the voices back and falling asleep. You didn't want to overthink or recall your past. You just wanted to live a normal life.

★★★★★

A couple of weeks have passed. You hadn't bothered looking for a way out, even when your mystery assailant left you alone for hours. You are sitting on the old, worn-out couch with a book and a blanket over your lap. As you flipped to the next page of Fahrenheit 451, you didn't bother glancing up when you heard the door open. By the soft steps, you knew who it was. "Welcome back." You paused at the end of the paragraph, looking at the man who stared at you. He had a neutral look as he placed some bags down. You took in that he had stopped covering his face with his mask, allowing you to see more of his face. You didn't let yourself be bothered by his unresponsive attitude, as he barely even spoke to you. Sometimes, he would speak in languages you didn't understand. Other times, he would say a few words in English or Spanish. But most of the time, he just watched you, and it felt like most of the time he was studying you. Trying to understand you.

You never really knew why, but you slowly noticed that he seemed less guarded around you. The icy blue eyes seemed less cold and more curious and interested. You didn't feel like you had to be careful around him, as if you were walking on broken glass. He walked over to you, and you noticed the first aid kit in his hands as you marked your spot in the book before placing it down. He sat next to you, and you pulled your shirt up, exposing the wound that had been healing reasonably well. He went to work, cleaning and rewrapping it as you watched him. His fingers worked gently as he focused on the task. The strands of his hair got in his face, and you couldn't help it as you moved it behind his ear. He froze at the contact, and you quickly pulled back, mumbling sorry in Spanish. He glanced up at you, and you held his gaze. You felt the way your heart picked up its pace and the way your breath got caught in your throat. You had to admit to yourself that he was attractive. Something about those blue eyes contrasted nicely with his dark brown hair, which drew you in. The more you kept looking at him, the more you felt a pull. You cleared your throat and looked away, mind racing with thoughts as you felt him finish up what he was doing. You bit your cheek as you waited until he was done. When he began to put the things away, you quickly got up— pulling the blanket with you as you rushed to the room and closed the door behind you. 

You rested your back on the door as you slid down it. Your head falls forward as you let out a deep breath. One that you hadn't realized you were holding. You gave yourself time to calm down before you pushed yourself up and crawled into bed. You pulled the blanket over you as you closed your eyes and tried to lull yourself to sleep. You didn't want to think about it. You were scared to come to terms with the attraction you were feeling for the man because that meant if you were feeling something for him, it would hurt you. 

"Los sentimientos te debilitan. Ellos te maten. (Feelings make you weak They get you killed)"

Your father's voice rang in your head. His training burned into your mind as he forced you to learn that those emotions got your brother killed. It is what made your mother die. Her love for you killed her, as she didn't survive childbirth. 

"En el momento en que te permitas amar y cuidar es el momento en que morirás. (The moment you allow yourself to love and care is the moment you will die)"

★★★★★

Two and half months passed, and you were amazed he was still keeping you alive. There would be days when he would return, and something felt off about him. It was as if he felt colder and less friendly, but he never once harmed you. "What's your name?" You finally dared to ask. The curiosity to learn more about him has finally gotten the better side of you. 

"Name?" He tilted his head to the side a bit. You placed the book down and looked at him, shifting your body so you could face him. He had been sitting on the other end of the couch, his hand playing with the knife as he had watched you. "Winter Soldier." The man had heard others call him that, so he assumed that was what you meant; however, he was confused when you shook your head. "Prisoner 56898." He tried again.

"Oh, corazón, (sweetheart)" You felt a wave of sadness wash over you. "Those aren't names." You said softly, understanding why it seemed like this man watched you with interest half this time. He had been treated as a prisoner to the point that he didn't know his name. He just gave you a confused look but nodded. You smiled at him, trying to push away the sadness as you grabbed his hand. "How about this," You gently rubbed your thumb on the back of his hand. "I'll refer to you as corazón, if you're fine with that." He looked down at your hands over his before looking back up at you and gave you a slight nod. "Perfecto. (perfect)" You said softly as you moved your hand back. The moment he felt the loss of contact with you, he was quick to grab a hold of your hand in his. The action caught you off guard, along with the strength he put behind it, as you fell into him a bit. The knife fell to the ground with a small thud. You used your free hand to catch yourself as it was over his chest, and your face was inches from his. Your breath hitched as you looked at him to see him staring at you. His eyes scanned your face, and you could see the internal conflict in those beautiful icy blue eyes. The conflict that felt like the same one you were having before all the signals telling you to move seemed to fade, and you moved in slowly. He didn't move, not even when your lips touched his delicately. You didn't want to force anything upon him, so you pulled back a bit, trying to see his reaction. His icy blue eyes burned into you, and you felt his hand move to your neck as he pulled you back into his. When he felt his lips connect with yours, your eyes fluttered close as he kissed you. There was so much need in the kiss. You pulled yourself closer to him, moving your hands up his chest. You could feel his metal hand hovered over your back, almost scared to touch you with it. You pulled back from the kiss and placed your forehead on his. "It's okay." You whispered, letting him know that you trust him. That you knew he wasn't going to hurt you. "Estará bien. (it's gonna okay)" You could see the slight fear in his eyes before he gently placed his hand on your waist. You didn't move, wanting him to see it was okay. 

You gave him a soft kiss on his cheek before you hugged him. His arms slowly wrapped around his torso as he was gentle with you. His face was buried into your neck, and you could feel his stubble that was growing tickle the skin of your neck. You guys stayed like that for a bit, only moving to adjust yourselves to get comfortable in the hug. He didn't bother moving away, even when you began to run your fingers through his hair. Your heart was beating loudly in your chest; if he heard it, he didn't say anything about it. And just like that, with his warm embrace, you felt yourself slowly relax and drift off into sleep.

[anika-ann]

A Conjuring - S.R.

Type: one-shot, medieval/fantasy, angst with a sweet ending

Pairining: King!Steve Rogers x reader      Word count: 9100

Summary: Steve Rogers is a kind, just ruler in the true service of his kingdom; the King of the People, they call him. But heavy is the sense of duty and heavy is the crown.

And yet, none is heavier than his heart without you by his side; none is louder than the screaming silence of your absence, turning him into barely half the man he is meant to be.

Warnings: angsty angst, mentions of blood, injuries and death (childbed), grieving for a spouse, less than healthy coping mechanisms, mention of growing up without a parent, vague medieval setting... and did I mentioned angst-- but a happy ending

A/N:  inspired by Karliene's song A Conjuring - highly recommended and came recommended to me by lovely @stellar-solar-flare who is absolutely blamed for my muse latching onto this song; lyrics are through the text in verses, any poetry is my own; divider by @firefly-graphics

The first sunrays of a new dawn are warm on his cheeks, the breeze of the brisk, foggy morning, wrapping him kindly in its arms as he enters the space hidden among the castle walls.

The dew is soaking his boots with every slow step he takes, the cold biting softly into his toes, but he cares little for it; it is his sense of smell and sight which are tuned in the most, the small private gardens welcoming him with aching familiarity. Like a garden of Eden; a peaceful solace breathing of love.

It rained last night. The heady scent of wet soil and roses fills his head and closes up his throat, but he continues walking, much like every single morning without fail.

Steve loves the garden; and he knows that so do you. It isn’t rich in many types of exotic precious flowers; in fact, many would call it simple. A few trees, one of which Steve had planted himself; a few soft-coloured flowerbeds; the pink roses climbing up the artistic constructions you had asked the smith to make. A few blooming bushes.

It’s the roses you brought to life yourself and cared for them with your own hands; with soft hands of the queen, letting dirt under your nails, skin scraped by thorns and bleeding to give birth to beauty, just like the hands of a commoner would.

The Queen of the People, they call you.

The King of the People is what they call Steve; and you both carry that title with pride.

Steve’s mother, the late queen, was the first one of that moniker, having learned how to treat wounded so she could follow her husband to the war camp and lend a helping hand to those in pain, to nurse them back to health.

In the time of peace, with the same care, you and Steve learned to grow and nurture flowers, the way you nurture your kingdom.

The time of wars seem eons away now, even as Steve himself wielded his sword alongside his men in its very battles; life has turned much quieter since then. Steve is glad for it. While fighting for the kingdom brought him sense of pride and brotherhood, he has been longing for sense of life instead. For love.

And he’s been blessed enough to have found it.

As he approaches the roses weaving up the metal construction, he breathes in deeply, his senses drowning in the overwhelming scent; a wistful smile forms on his lips, the memory of the smile you graced him with upon your first meeting wrapping around his heart.

He wrote a letter to your brother.

After King Howard’s death, the word was that the kingdom of Starkenburg had changed, progressive both in technology and social structing. The tales of King Anthony’s sister – a princess of wit quick enough to advise the king himself – intrigued Steve; and upon seeing your portrait, something in his very soul seemed to shift. Whoever the artist was, they had captured you admirably vividly; Steve almost felt as if you were looking straight into his soul and smiled.

He wrote to your brother of his intentions, but he wrote to you as well, to ask your opinion before he’d arrive to your home and attempt to court you. He had had a sense that excessive amount of gold sent with the letter would not impress you; he sent a single pair of earrings he had had commissioned instead, a well-loved book of poetry, and a vial of precious rose oil from his latest travels to the allied kingdom of the East.

And he had been right to do so.

In your response, while thanking for the jewellery, you seemed genuinely appreciative of the gifts of more personal nature, sending a book of fables in return.

You had exchanged two more letters before he made the journey, waiting only upon your request not to intrude on your brother’s wedding festivities; but as soon as Steve could arrive, he brought another three vials of rose oil among other riches to honour the royal family with.

Walking down the steps of the courtyard to greet him, your polite smile widened upon seeing his gift, a vivid spark – reminding him of your portrait so much – appearing in your eye as he brushed his lips over your knuckles, the scent of the very oil he had gifted you filling his head.

“A mind’s a maze, my wiseness sees me through… important truths lie beyond what eyes can see,” you whispered and Steve’s heart thundered in his ribcage upon recognizing those words – perhaps out of place, but all the more familiar. A little test, it seemed, you set upon him; and the spark in your eye might have been the mischief your brother was known for, but was all the more mesmerizing on you.

Warmth spread through Steve’s veins as he stood back to his full height, even as there was faint weakness in his knees already.

“‘tis through my heart I may appreciate true beauty,” he continued the poem softly, your smile turning most sincere in an instant, “’tis through your heart you reveal yourself to me… but I must say, Your Highness, you are an exquisite a sight for my eyes all the same.”

You accepted the compliment graciously, as well as the gifts – but more importantly, you accepted his courtship, warmly so.

Whatever longing Steve had felt in his chest for many years now, wearing your face since the moment he had set his eyes on your portrait, it was this very first encounter that ignited something beautiful and fierce in his heart.

And then, with every glance, word or touch exchanged, no matter how innocent, he found the fire kindled gently until it consumed him whole, the late afternoon sunrays following your steps in the royal garden having nothing on the genuine warmth of your smile, little shy, little cheeky, or the shine of your beauty.

Enchanted; that was what you made him with your presence and absence all the more. The scent of your skin with the notes of the roses haunted his dreams, day and night, and made him long and crave for more.

The day you agreed to the marriage, Steve realised he was at true peace for the first time in his life.

And the memory of that joyful day, too, was linked to the sweet scent of white roses, decorating the wedding feast.

I drew your shape in crystal shapes every single night I weaved a dream of fire for you under stormy skies In every life I've loved you so The only home I've ever known The magic part of me

The scent fills his nostrils now too. It wraps all around him with every breath as he instinctively moves closer, not worried he might step on and crush a single blossom. After all, he knows the garden like the back of his hand and could navigate it blind; he prefers it that way, in fact. With eyes closed, he can see you, your tender fingers caressing the petals, the fruit of your love and care. It is no wonder the garden used to bloom so wild upon your touch; Steve knows its effect, the way it awakes life in one’s veins, the way it fills his lungs with light and makes the very essence of him hum with the sense of rightness.

With well-practiced ease, he follows the way your fingers would run over the blossoms blindly; dew dampens his fingers, cold, but the rose itself feels almost warm, as if it holds your very soul. And soft. So beautifully soft it makes Steve’s ribcage ache with the next generous breath he takes.

He remembers the softness and the warmth of your body too well.

The line of your jaw he caressed before finally cradling your face, before leaning to kiss your lips on your wedding day, to commit your features to memory beyond what eyes could see; he thought of his fingertips like the extension of his heart that allowed him to appreciate your beauty properly. The exquisite happiness humming in his chest that day settled in your expression as well, in that vivid sparkle in your eyes, fluttering shut when his lips finally met yours after long weeks of dreaming of it.

The moment he did kiss you was written into his mind as revelation; for all the poetry he had ever read, for all the longing, for all the mad swirls of feelings and sensation haunting his days and nights ever since he had the fortune to meet you, it all made sense then; even the past bloodshed and pain. It all made sense for it had all led right into the blessed moment.

“My husband… my king,” you whispered to his lips breathlessly, your smile tasting like sunshine against his own and he could not but respond in kind before kissing you once more:

“My wife… my beautiful queen.”

And your lips were just as soft the night he took you to his bed for the first time; and if kissing you was revelation, to be able to touch your body and hold you close was what he imagined ascension felt like. The welcoming heat of your skin was a taste of heaven as he carefully stripped your chemise, breath wavering under his burning gaze, the silver of shyness soothed by his mouth exploring every exposed inch of you.

“Steve-“

You had been so careful to address him properly when in company he thought he could die right there, hearing the breathless sound of his name, a shuddering plea. He remembers the way your own touch turned him into a man possessed, your careful but burning fingertips appreciatively mapping out his body. He took you with a tremble in his very core and with an overwhelming sense of being right where the two of you were supposed to be. He loved on you for half the night, the air full of heady scent of your lovemaking and rose oil oozing off your thoroughly warmed-up skin.

“I love you more than the stars could ever know,” he whispered into your hair that night, as you laid on his chest, thoroughly exhausted, but with a serene smile on your face. As if you heard him, you pressed to him closer, and with your proximity, you brought love and peace into his soul.

Time changed none of it. The softness of your body against his, every night, so beautifully alive and warm under his greedy tender hands, the sensation never failing to fill his head and roar in his veins with need to claim, to mark, to love; always. Body as soft and warm as your belly was when you placed his hand over it one day, tears pearling in your eyes, telling him you were with a child before you even spoke a single word.

That day, Steve kneeled in front of you, pressing his forehead against your belly, and thanked the gods for all the blessings he received; and he thanked you all the same, silent words spilling from his lips before he looked up at you, your fingers having carded through his hair in appreciation of his joy and gratitude. With sudden burst of emotion, he jumped to his feet and picked up and spun and spun and spun with you, your joined laughter filling your chambers and probably raising quite a few questioning eyebrows Steve could not care less for at any moment, let alone at a moment like that.

The entirety of his world had been blessed; and he thanked the gods and you alike for it diligently every single day.

The day after he’d found out, he planted a tree, as common people said a father-to-be should; and he did so without care for whether his child – your child – would be a son or a daughter. He’d love and raise the child with tender care and dedication either way, the same way he would care for the symbol of his love for a new life planted.

You, in turn, planted roses into the very same garden, taking care of them ever since, come sunshine or rain, a new life growing under your hands as well as under your heart.

Steve never had the heart to scold you when you kneeled in the dirt, with barely any strength remaining to stand up with how you belly had grown; instead, he observed you with a smile, kissing your temple and helping you stand on the rare days when he didn’t feel like simply scooping you up in his arms and carrying you to your chambers to rest properly, like the Queen and a future mother should.

It never failed to make for a gentle laugh when moments later, cleaned up and in bed, he’d find you falling asleep as soon as your head laid down on the pillow. 

He’d kiss your forehead, brushing your untidy hair from your face with a smile, and went to kiss your belly, before covering you properly and thanking for all his blessing once more.

Will I always find you Neath every moon Singing from the cold gloom My spells for you Are you just a conjuring Or my dream come true For my heart was calling calling, calling for you

Are you just a conjuring Or can I keep you?

Steve loves the garden and so do you; you love it still. He knows. He knows it with agonizing certainty because even now, this is where he feels you. This is where your warmth lingers, years after your passing. This is where he hears you whisper his name, in the rustle of leaves, feels your gentle touch in the breeze caressing his face, carding through his hair like your hands used to, especially on days when the weight of the crown became too heavy. This is where he feels your lips on his ear, whispering of your love, the softness of your kiss on his forehead, on his own lips when they brush the petals.

Here, he can hear you the clearest, tender; his chest tightens every time, a sharp memory of your screams behind the closed doors and the calming words of his friends that the cries he only knew from battlefields and sick tents, torn from your lungs, were but a part of the process of giving birth.

When the new voice cut the air and your screams turned into sobs and the softest murmur, no one could hold him back anymore, rules of propriety be damned; throwing the doors open, his eyes filled with tears upon the sight of the little miracle crying in your arms – your baby, your son. A little prince letting the world know there he was at last, loudly so; until you held him close enough for his cries to ease into sniffles and content hums.

That day too, Steve kneeled before you; by your bed, a few tears of undiluted joy rolled down his face as he welcomed James Samuel Anthony into his world and promised to love him for the rest of his days. To you, he thanked like he thanked to the gods, kissed your hands, your sternum, your lips. He could not imagine what pain you had endured, not even with the screams having echoed through the castle; but your smile and your tears, so warm on your soft skin, told him enough of how worthy of the struggle the result was.

“I love both of you, so much. You must never forget,” you whispered in a hoarse voice, tears rolling down your cheeks as you didn’t seem to know where to look – at your son, at Steve and back and forth, smiling through your tears.

Steve should have known then. He should have known the gods themselves had touched your soul and perhaps told you in their riddles what was to come to force you say those words. Perhaps they had told you what was to follow the most joyful night of Steve’s life; what the moments just before the dawn would bring.

But Steve was blind and deaf to it; all his senses and his heart alike caught in the precious moment, a cherished memory in making. The sensation of being touched by the divine in the most beautiful blessings of all; seeing you cradle the child to your chest, damp hair stuck to your forehead, skin glistening with sweat, eyes glazed over with tears and exhaustion… an intimate voice whispering to your child like you had been to your bump since the day it had become visible: you are so, so loved, our sweet child, our little starlight. Humming a lullaby until you could not keep your own eyes open, passing the child to Steve for a longer while.

The child never returned to the arms of his mother, never felt her warmth or loving touch ever again.

And neither did Steve.

All he was given was a new memory, made out of the worst nightmares he had never dared to speak of out loud even as they had been haunting him from time to time: your motionless, cold body, cleaned of the blood but terrifying all the same.

Steve had seen men bleed out on the battlefield before, enough terror for a lifetime; but to have that happen to you, at the threshold of the happiest day of your life, broke his very spirit. For the second time in the course of mere hours in which his world had been turned upside down as easily as if someone had turned an hourglass, he fell to his knees by your bed; your deathbed. Forehead pressed to your icy hand, his heart comprehended something the rest of his body could not yet. Unlike when he had welcomed the new life, he did not shed a single tear upon saying goodbye to yours. His sobs were dry, even as his chest was heaving so violently his whole frame shook, a part of him still praying so your hand would move, fingers card through his hair to comfort him, his grip on you growing harder by the moment despite the numbing weakness in his muscles.

You didn’t move. You had left the earthly realm long moments ago, ripped suddenly and violently from the centre of Steve’s whole world, creating an unrepairable tear in his soul.

He loved; he still does. Both the life given and the life taken that night. But the scar of having half of his heart torn out never healed. It never would; he did not think he’d want it too. He kept his wound wide and open so the love could pour out, for your memory, for his son. Your son. The only living thing left of you.

Your son and your roses.

He had your ashes dispersed into the soil under the roses, to nurture them like you had been in life; and he has your thoughts, shared only in whispers of your bed chamber, and he has all your love nurture your child.

He takes care of, raises and loves his son for you and himself alike; he keeps the roses alive with the most tender and careful care for you only. To keep your love and spirit alive and present.

You loved the garden and you still do; Steve knows.

Here, in the garden, he can feel you the best. Hear you in the wind, feel you in the warmth of the sun and blossoms alike, wrapped in your scent and the ghost of your touch, soft and clawing deep into the gaping wound in his ribcage all at once.

Here, his memories of the most joyful moments with you feel vivid. The dew sings your whispers of affection and the rain carries your tears spilled for the grief of leaving your son and your husband all too soon.

I know your face in fractured time, and I know our kiss A thousand lives, our love remains, pulling me back in Through all the dark, I've searched for light And found you waiting every night But are you even real?

The garden is where he feels you most tangible; but your spirit hovers around him at all times.

Sometimes the memories creep at him gently; a colour you liked catching his eye out of instinct, your words echoing in his head, your favourite book still lying on the table in your shared room. Sometimes they slam into him with violence that knocks air out of his lungs, having been filled with the sweet scent of roses; a royal celebration with a dance overflowing with emptiness without you in his arms, without you following his steps with elegance, utter faith in his lead, your wide sparkling eyes full of affection and fond memory of your first dance shared. His bed, a wailing void, swallowing him every night. And of course, the soft and so beautifully violent reminder of your absence, ever-present in the face of your son, in his questions about mama.

Steve talks about you. James cannot quite understand yet, he’s too young, his heart too pure and his mind too full of magic this world offers; but his little hand on Steve’s damp cheek when he fails to keep his tears at bay, his son’s worry about his father being sad, breaks his heart and mends it all the same. Steve answers James’s questions; he speaks of you out of turn too. Your son knows your face from your portraits, ones painted by artists, ones drawn by Steve himself, and knows all about your and Steve’s love for him. They prayed for you together. He knows your garden and the significance of the roses and he looks at them with the strangest affectionate expression in his soft, carefree features.

James has your smile, your eyes, and your wit.

In the grey of Steve’s days, he is his light. James and the garden, where he can feel you and the echo of your love.

Steve’s hand slips from the blossoms, the missing weight setting the flowers in motion, sending a small shower of droplets down his hand, on his face, nature’s blessing bleeding into his burning tears, his eyes fluttering open, the pink and rich green and grey of the stone swimming in his tear-filled vision. His lips are unsteady, trembling under the crushing weight of your absence; and yet, your voice is so clear in his mind as if you stood right next to him.

Don’t cry, my love, whispers the breeze, a warm breath as if tickling his ear. I miss you too.

“There is no day I do not miss you,” he whispers back soundlessly, blinking away his tears as a ghost of your touch caresses down his spine, “my wife, my precious, my heart.”

I know, love. I know. I wish I could take your pain away.

He grants himself another deep breath, all that used to be you – including the kindness and worry you probably did have for him even in afterlife – washing over him.

The sudden ruckus by the gates startles him, his heart skipping a beat; the bubble of his own world he still gets to share with you bursts as the rustle of cloth and quick little steps instantly followed by a sniffle push through the veils of solace the garden offers.

The only person who can be forgiven to do so bursts into the garden, red blotches on his damp cheeks, eyes finding Steve with relief and bottomless trust Steve will never fail to appreciate even as it squeezes his heart in a vice.

He’s crouching on instinct before the scene is even complete, James’s governess’ rushed steps and her scolding surprisingly far away.

Little James lands in Steve’s arms and clutches him with an awful vigour for a three-year-old, his choked cry of fa-eh muffled by the fabric of Steve’s attire.

“James-" he whispers gently, arms coming around him like thousands times before, one hand laid over the back of his head as he rises to his feet, encouraged by the grip of the little fingers on him tightening.

“James--! Your Majesty, I am-“

Steve shakes his head at the poor woman, an understanding smile on his lips before he turns his attention back to the toddler in his arms, careful to keep his voice soft despite the flash of fear in his chest – his son truly was getting stronger and faster by the day, able to run away quick and get into all sorts of trouble.

James Buchannan Bucky Barnes, his namesake, would always say Steve’s son was the payback from the gods. Steve does not disagree and swallows his pride and worry at that very fact every time little James is up to something Steve is sure he himself could have never come up with at his age. Bucky would probably argue about that and Steve might believe him, because Bucky knows him as well if not better than Steve knows himself; that was why Bucky is the only person who has not nagged him about a new queen, has not pushed him about a motherly figure needed in James’s life.

For now, and perhaps for ever, it is enough for Steve to know about his own mother and you.

His mother had the patience of the gods and their strictness all the same; Steve believes you would have been the same and he tries his best to live up to such standard of parenthood.

“Jamie, little starlight, what is wrong?" he inquires, the child wiggling in his arms to hold on tighter, face still hidden in Steve’s chest.

“Miss momma. Bad sweep.”

The unrepairable crack in Steve’s heart gapes open, his lips pressed tight as he runs his hand down James’s back, barely holding back a sigh. He knows the feeling all too well, even if in his world, your absence, however painful, translates differently.

“Did you not sleep well? Had bad dreams?”

James nods in confirmation, repeating his words. “Miss momma.”

“I see,” Steve hums, breathing in deeply, pondering. It is not the first time this has happened; Steve knows he’s partly to blame and guilt pangs in his gut, the familiar dilemma of honouring your memory and loving you, keeping you in your son’s memory, and reminding the child of your glaring absence in the process setting heavy in his ribcage. “I sleep badly too, when I miss her.”

Which is every night.

James pushes away from Steves chest a fraction, looking up at his face with tear-filled eyes and a pout that feels like a whiplash to Steve’s soul; he’s your mirror image painted with sincerity and innocence, his whole generous heart on display.

“Ya? Ugwy dweams?”

“Yes,” Steve says gently, even as his voice cracks with emotion. “That is why I come here every morning.”

James’s expression turns serious – and way too intelligent for a boy his age, Steve thinks, even as his heart flutters at his son’s words.

“Tawk to momma. Is why I wun heew.”

“Oh. Do you… want to say something to your mum too?” Again, James nods; and again, Steve’s ribcage constricts, the burn of tears in his eyes as familiar as the gentle warmth kindled in his veins. “I see. But first – you must not run away from Lady Brigitte like that, alright? She would be upset and get worried. Me too.”

Little James nods quickly, his pupils growing bigger.

“Sowy…. Sowy Wady Bwigitt.”

“Your Highness,” she smiles benevolently at the child, nodding at Steve, already stepping back, understanding her services are not needed at the moment, “Your Majesty.”

“Thank you, Brigitte.”

With one last brief smile, she is gone; not too far for she might be needed soon, but far enough to grant privacy to the grieving family.

It is not the first time Steve explains what he is doing here to his son; that is how James knows in the first place to come here. It is, however, the first time the child has run here and Steve is not blind to the importance of the moment, his heartbeat rushing past his ears, his touch a little shaky with nerves as his son observes him with curious, sad eyes.

“Tawk now?”

“Yes, little starlight, talk now,” Steve assures his son with a smile with a heartbroken edge, crouching again by the bunch of flowers. “You don’t have to, but what I do, is that I stroke the roses first. Carefully. And then I tell her what I need to say.”

He licks his lips, a lump in his throat growing, voice cracking as he continues.

“And I tell her how much I love her and miss her.”

James nods, a single step from his father’s embrace, petting one of the blossoms with his fingertips with clumsiness but undeniable care, sending a few droplets falling.

“Miss you, momma. Wove you.”

Something digs its claws into Steve’s heart and lungs and yanks violently, tears springing from his eyes at the sincerity of James’s words, all the more touching as they are slurred through his wobbly lips. Steve smiles encouragingly when little James seeks his approval. He’s crying too; fat tears are rolling down his cheeks, but as he continues to caress the flower, the corners of his lips turned up tensely.

“She say she wove too.”

Steve clears his throat, swallowing the pitiful sound born there – profoundly proud and happy as only James could make him.

“Yes, she does that. She loved--- she loves you very much, little starlight. More than anything in this whole wide world.”

“Wike you wove me. Wike she wove you.”

“Yes, exactly that, son,” Steve says, breathing in shakily, slightly startled when James’s fingers slip to the stem.

Steve is too slow, his hand unable to catch James’s before blood pearls on the child’s index finger, a surprised yelp of pain torn from the his lips.

Steve opens his mouth, words of comfort ready as much as the comfort of his embrace; but to his awe, James frowns and moves back to the blossom, murmuring he loves you still.

Steve is not sure whether his chest is too heavy from bursting with pride, affection or grief.

Finally, his son smiles, abandoning the flower and showing off his little injury.

“Not cwy. Stwong wike dad,” he declares, arms rising in an universal gesture. “Up?”

Without a word of protest, Steve lifts him to his arms, suddenly acutely aware of the morning truly being rather brisk when he feels James’s cold hands on his neck and curses himself for not having thought of that.

“Of course you are. Let’s say bye to mum and go get some tea and breakfast, yes? If you want, I can tell you all about the most beautiful queen there ever was.”

James obediently whispers g’dbye, nuzzling into Steve’s neck, allowing him to shield James’s small body from the cold as he heads out of the garden, one last glance and a silent goodbye to his sanctuary and your spirit that seems to reside there.

Neither of them notices that the one flower little James has touched begins to wilt.

When morning comes Will you fade away Like all my dreams I never, ever want to wake This love we've made Is like a spell upon my soul I'm bound to you for now and evermore

Between playing with and trying his best to teach his son, between holding court and training with his brothers in arms and friends, Steve’s mind is occupied; too full to ponder and to feel.

The weight of the morning experience comes crushing him at night.

It had rained in the evening, but then the wind blew apart the clouds, moonlight streaming into Steve’s bedroom – his and yours – light and shadows playing wicked games on the walls. You are on Steve’s mind, memories haunting him with intensity he cannot remember since before James was taking his first steps and Steve wished you were there to witness it and celebrate it.

He hears your voice, a ghost of your touch stirring him awake every time he feels sleep might finally take him into its merciful arms; drifting between consciousness and dreamland, he sees things. He could swear the moonlight keeps taking your form by the window, taunting him to follow; but whenever he does, feet all but dragging from the lack of a shuteye, the mirage disperses, only to materialize in the armchair where you used to read to Jamie before he was even born, then in the bed where Steve held you for far too few nights, loved on you for too short of a time, the aroma of rose oil hovering in the air, an untouchable torment and bliss to his senses.

He ends up dozing off in the chair by the fireplace, shivering, and waking up too soon to the first crimson and fiery orange of a new dawn.

Dressing up, he refuses to take a look in the mirror to see the shell of the King of the People he must resemble. He knows it without looking; the red-rimmed glassy eyes, the dark circles under them, the pale skin, the numb lips he is not sure will be able to speak a single word today, let alone lead and inspire.

Should anyone come at him with a sword in the next few hours, he’d be dead before he could swing his own just once; and yet, he attaches the sword to his waist as a part of his attire, the weight comfortingly familiar. Today might be a battle where no sharp blade could help him win, but he had spent years with his trusted weapon. It was how he approached your court too; a man of riches and conquered lands, a soldier and a king, but also a simple man longing for love.

The castle is still and silent safe for the guards on duty, abandoning their proper stance only to pay him respect by shallow bows; the garden, as per usual, awaits him in its peaceful solitude.

The dew was still falling abundantly, Steve’s hair damp and sticking to his forehead by the time he walks through the gates, the first sunrays shining through the leaves of James’s tree, blinding Steve for just a moment, enough for him to have to shield his eyes before they adjust, drawn towards his destination.

He freezes mid-step so sharply it hurts; air is knocked from his lungs and it hurts more.

It was back at Harrigörn where an army skilled more any other they had encountered before massacred many of Steve’s own; where too many good men laid down their life for their kingdom, for their king. It was back at Harrigörn where Steve’s own blood soaked the lands, a lucky strike delivered after a significant part of his armour had been knocked off, exposing his left side, an opening his enemy eagerly took and pushed his sword right through under Steve’s ribcage the very moment Steve hesitated. That day, Bucky, striking the man and dragging Steve to safety, might have as well ripped Steve from the fingers of the gods themselves who were about to guide him into afterlife.

As a reminder, Steve has been carrying a nasty scar that sometimes aches still; and a piercingly sharp memory of blood on his tongue and brutal, numbing pain whose echo interrupted more than one of his nights.

He truly remembers the moment with shocking clarity; the way all the sensation came crashing down on him, stunning him motionless and speechless, mouth open, no sound coming out.

His body remembers.

He stands stunned just the same right now, a guttural no falling from his lips, pulse rushing past his ears; metallic taste of blood and tears and panic on his tongue.

Your smile flashes in front of his eyes and he can’t breathe; his stomach swings so violently he retches, his first coherent thought being a desperate prayer to all gods above to wake him up from the nightmare unfolded in front of his tired eyes.

He stands there stunned for a moment lasting an eternity.

And then he’s finally moving, frantic breaths fogging the cold air, dew soaking his boots and biting into his toes and he does not care; he does not even notice, a string of raspy no no no falling from his lips, desperation colouring his grey world black around the edges.

The roses.

Your roses.

Your precious roses, your flowery children, your memory: dead.

Every single one.

Dry and wilted and rotten, seemingly all three at once, the dew caught on them but a mocking, like a salve numbing pain on a dead body; beyond any salvation.

All of it gone, not a single blossom left. Just an image of utter devastation.

It strikes him harder and sharper than any sword, weighting his body down to the ground faster than armour made of lead.

He falls to his knees, hands landing in the soil, fingers digging in as if it could speak and tell him how to fix that – to tell him what and how and why has this happened in the first place, when he had studied and learned about how to enrich the soil and protect the flowers from disease, just how, over a single night, over the course of a few hours, could life be ripped away so suddenly and violently, a life that was blooming so fully and beautifully only a day ago-

A life ripped out just like yours.

A life that’s been a memory and a monument to yours.

The pain that rips through his chest has him digging his fingers deeper, his head falling between his shoulders with a cry that might not even be human, more akin to one of a dying animal.

He can’t let out more; he can’t let anything in. His chest feels too tight, air too heavy to breathe in, burning in his lungs as much as shame and self-loathing burns in his veins.

He failed. He failed to keep your memory alive, he failed you, a terrible letdown and it was just flowers, one would say, but they were not. The flowers are not the only thing gone.

Your spirit, usually so present, seems to have evaporated, having bled out from the sanctuary as if it had been tied to the roses; as if it has been keeping the roses alive or vice versa.

He has lost you, for the second time; that is the feeling tearing his heart apart.

The garden usually filled with memories of you screams with emptiness; the breeze bushing his damp hair is cold and dull and harsh despite barely being there. The warmth of your affection; gone.

He swallows the scream clawing its way up his tight throat, a violent shudder cutting through his spine, his eyes squeezing shut.

He hears the light steps but he cannot make himself to react, to open his eyes, to move; he does not recognize them even as there is a grief-struck part of his mind he tends to keep locked that tells him that he does.

It’s not little James; it’s not Bucky nor Bucky’s wife. It’s not James’s governess either; and no one else has been permitted to enter here unless Steve would have had to leave the castle for days and a gardener had to be appointed.

If a stranger came to slash his throat, the numbness in Steve’s fingers whispered of him not caring at the moment; if anything, Steve might call it an unjustified mercy to him.

The steps stop behind him, the hand softly laid on his shoulder making for a burning sensation in his nose, tears prickling in his red-rimmed eyes.

“It’s not your fault,” the ghost of your voice reaches him, the scent of rose oil enveloping him, a lovechild of a sob and chuckle of relief exploding from his lips.

Gods, you were still here. Still, despite it all, he could feel you, more tangible than ever, hear you even, the clearest in the past three years.

“I am so---- so--rry I couldn’t-“ he chokes out, but the phantom touch seems to grow firmer, reassurance he does not deserve.

“It was never your fault, Steve,” the breeze whispers kindly, and yet, his breath hitches as thousands of icy shards stab his broken heart.

It might as well be his conscience speaking, and it does not relent.

“I know of the guilt you carry and you need to let it go. It was never your fault.”

It was never your fault that the child born out of our love, the life you had given seed to, took me away.

At those words, the very guilt consumes him more than ever, burning like midnight oil and ice. Of course he had thought that; it was one of the nightmares haunting his nights. If he had only… he loves little James with all his heart, and it’s such blasphemous thought he asks penance for and loves his child all the more in the days that follow, but if Steve had only never—would you have lived? Or would have the gods ripped his happiness from his hands still and gave him no solace at all?

“You’ve given me a son. I love you and always will.”

The echo of your voice shakes with emotion and another sob is torn from Steve’s lips, shaking his whole frame, his hand instinctively moving to his shoulder where the warm memory of your touch lingers.

Will I always find you Neath every moon Singing from the cold gloom My spells for you Are you just a conjuring Or my dream come true For my heart was calling calling, calling for you

His heart stops in his chest when the tips of his fingers, still covered in dirt from where he has dug them into the soil, meet skin instead of the fabric of his own coat.

He turns so fast he lands on his backside, his head spinning with the unexpectedly fast movement; and his heart stands still for one moment longer, his throat suddenly dry unlike his cheeks.

Gods, he can see you.

Beautiful and ethereal, the sun shining from behind you and yet overshadowed by your presence.

Steve’s lost his mind for certain; another of his sleepless nights finally having pushed him into the realm of insanity.

But by gods he’d trade it all if he could look at the smile, no matter how sad, adorning your lips for jus a minute longer.

You are in all white; a nightdress Steve knows like the back of his hand, an attire he held you in during your nights together or stripped it with tenderness or vigour. The very nightdress you wore the night you left this world. 

You crouch by him, the scent of rose oil filling his nostrils so intense a pitiful whine is born in his chest, even as his eyes adjust and he notices your hair ruffled rather messily, streaks of dirt on your skin, on your dress; you are barefoot.

You are the most gorgeous, divine mirage.

“It’s not your fault the roses died. You took care of them with as much precision as love, every single day. I know. I watched you.”

Steve only gulps, all coherent thought leaving him, his hands shaking; he must not touch you. He has never seen a mirage of you so vivid – he cannot afford to lose it, to have you dissipate into thin air if he tries to hold on too tight.

“It is my fault… the price to pay.”

Steve does not understand. Not your words, not the blessed image his mind has conjured, not even the wild swirl of suffocating joy and heartbreak upon seeing you; he only understands the terror of realisation that his own memory, until now, did not seem to do you justice. He has been forgetting your face despite the amount of time he has been spending looking at your portraits and reminiscing; he has almost forgot what your voice sounds like, a soothing caress to his soul.

But conjuring of you is kind and patient; it smiles warmly, tears gathering in its eyes Steve longs to kiss away.

“I was visiting town when she approached me, a blind fortune teller, a harmless youngling, beautiful beyond what my own eyes has ever seen… she told me she was bringing an important message from the gods,” you say, “but she told me she could only unveil it to me and no other living soul. Asked me to follow her.”

Steve’s breath hitches in fear; a fear that makes no sense. A story that has likely never happened and his broken mind had just dreamed up, and yet; the image of his wife, his precious heart, following a woman she had never encountered before without the trusted guards, shakes him. The Queen of the People they call you; visiting the commoners was no strange nor exceptional occurrence, but Steve would have never let you walk alone. Beloved as you are and were by most, there is always evil lurking and looking to hurt the crown; but you know as much. You always knew.

 And Steve knows that because beauty has not been the only quality of yours he loved and loves; it is your wit too. For all your kindness, you are no fool and do not trust without evidence.

A spark – a heart-wrenchingly vivid spark of affection – flashes in your eye as you continue, as if you can hear his thoughts.

“I would have never followed her had it not been for her next words and her gentle touch. As innocent as she appeared despite the air of something divine, there was no telling who could be hiding in her hut, to whom she wished to lured me to under false pretences.”

“What did she say?” Steve hears himself rasp, in the very back of his mind well-aware he is entertaining a conversation with the result of his own fatigued mind.

The tears pearling in your eyes fall over, making Steve’s hand twitch with the need to gently wipe them away.

“The paths laid down by gods are full of twists and turns… to know them all I would surely have turned mad,” you recite softly and Steve has to force himself to keep his eyes open as your voice washes over him, like the times you whispered this very first poem of the booklet he had sent you along with his first letter in the sweet darkness of your shared bedroom, like he whispered them to you back. He can’t. If he closes his eyes, you might disappear again. “Fate in the stars written by lighting dust of souls… if I’d known how, I would have rather read.”

Steve, having been mouthing the words along unwittingly, feels his lips moving almost soundlessly as he finishes:

“But I am but a man, I’m blood and heart and faith; Walking the one path that I believe to be true. I follow the path to which my heart’s been calling… for I have faith t’will lead me back to you.”

“Yes,” you nod, warmth blooming around Steve’s heart despite it all. This is a kind memory, he decides. Whatever has brought you here, whatever has killed the roses, your image has been sent here to sooth him. It might hurt all the more later; but for now, he finds himself almost, almost at peace. “So I did follow her. She told me that in quarter of a moon, I will find myself with a child. And I did. She told me to plant the roses… and so I did.”

You take a wavering breath and Steve finds himself doing the same; you face twists in grief before you continue.

“She told me to nurture them and cherish them like the child itself, and so I did – because once my son was born, I would not have but short moments to hold him.”

With a wince, the outrage rushing through Steve has him straightening his spine, his hand instinctively moving to his sword. To protect his wife, to eliminate the person who dared to make such threat to his beloved.

But there is nothing to fight; it is all but the past that might have never even happened except for your painful passing. And yet, Steve’s mind is whirling, memories falling into place, of your thoughtful expression upon returning for the town one day, the abundance of tears upon your announcement you were with a child, your solid feeling it would be a boy, your words, spoken quietly but with conviction and finality Steve has wondered so many times about: “I love both of you, so much. You must never forget.”

“My love-“

“And I did,” you cut off his raspy voice. “And she told me that should my ashes nurture the roses, I would come back, once they’d meet the blood and tears of my love… and the blood of my blood.”

Steve watches, stunned, as you move to kneel next to him, the ghost of the warmth of your skin radiating and calling out for him, a temptation to catch the mirage and condemn it to disperse in this air smelling of freshly cut roses.

The image of little James, scratching his finger on the thorn yesterday, staining one of the pink blossoms with his blood is the last thing Steve thinks of – before your hand, much colder now, goosebumps having risen on your arms, settles tenderly on his cheek, damp with tears he cannot recall having cried.

It strikes him like a lightning, rushing through his soul, stunning him motionless.

You were touching him.

He felt your cold skin against his, your warm affection, your smile a thousand suns and your voice just as unsteady as his heart and as real as the dirt under his fingernails or the wet ground under him as you whisper, voice cracking with emotion:

“And I did.”

A single beat of his heart; and his hand is rising with a violent tremble, hesitating for just a moment before he dares to cover the back of your hand on his cheek.

You are still there.

Undeniably and completely true.

“Oh gods-“

He chokes on a sob so potent his whole ribcage vibrates, painfully so, but he does not care.

He is already moving.

He springs from the ground, dropping your hand only to throw his arms around your form and pull you against him, inhaling into his already tight chest when your solid warm body meets his, one arm around your waist, the other around your shoulder, gripping your nape, tangling in your hair and gripping with violent force just so if anyone tried to pull you away he’d never let them, because you-

You’re still here.

You press your face against his neck, the tip of your nose making him shudder not because it’s cold, but because it feels as cold as it used to on a brisk morning like this one when you’d press yourself to him and smile into the skin of his throat when he’d faux-chastise you for not dressing warm enough and thus forcing him to give you his own coat.

--which is something he will absolutely do in just a second or two of hundred once it settles that your tears soaking into his skin are real and his own tears are seeping into your hair as he buries his face there and inhales, the scent of wet soil and rose-oil so intense and overwhelmingly familiar with years of grief and blissful memories he feels his muscles give out, sending both your you toppling over into the tall wet grass, the complete opposite of keeping you warm as he should but you don’t seem to care and he cannot think, let alone move.

Your name is falling form his lips, over and over, a prayer, a plea, a thank you, ragged breaths held just to keep still, to remember this moment for the rest of his days.

You are here.

You are here, somehow alive, right in his arms.

And you are saying his name, over and over, sweet endearment and apologies for not telling him, for being scared, for perhaps being foolish, for all the grief your absence has condemned him to and Steve just laughs.

He laughs so hard he is crying and he is not sure which came first, but he rolls over with you to protect you from the cold ground at last, your weight the most soothing thing he could ever conjure, perhaps safe for your blinding smile broken on its edges or your I love you, or your hands cradling his face for a long silent moment before your lips descend to his, sending tremble through his body, his heart, his very soul.

“My husband… my king.”

“My wife… my beautiful queen, my precious, my heart,” he whispers in return, choking on the last word, because his heart truly has just returned, beating its way out of his chest, brought by the woman the stars themselves had conspired to lead him to, only to steal her and then give her back. The stars, the gods, the fairies, it does not matter as long as you’d get to stay.

And again, your wit, your impeccable ability to read him like the very book of poetry he had given you years ago, have you caress his face with your fingertips, one of his hands leaving your nape to keep your other hand warm, and whisper to him:

“And she told me I’d get to kiss my husband again… and to hold my son, after only watching him grow in the loving hands of the kindest man there ever was and I shall have the chance to do it all for a very, very long time.”

Steve brushes the unruly hair from your face and kisses you softly – all but a meagre reminder of the overwhelming love humming in his very being. He sits up, wrapping you around him, legs around his waist, arms around his shoulders, and stands up, rising full of life and strength as if he has not lied awake all night; he lifts you both, carrying you from the garden, to ensure you could do exactly as you said.

“You will, my love. You will.”

Of that – he vows to himself and to the gods above with gravity of the word of the king, a warrior, a father and a husband – I will make sure.

He will. For the rest of his days, he will.

Are you just a conjuring …or can I keep you?

S.R. masterlist  // Complete masterlist 

There we go... I suppose that due to the magical elements here, this can be read as the fic for this year's Walpurgis Night. May yours mbe a good one, may you May be sweet 🌸

Thank you for reading 💕 thoughts, rants, yells and reblogs are always welcomed 🥰

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Mission Control 12

Warnings: non/dubcon, violence, stalking, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Captain Hydra

Summary: a man marches into your life on a mission

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

You don’t know when he stopped, you’re just happy it’s over. For now. You know better than to think it won’t happen again. 

His shadow moves around, vague and ominous. You lay where he left you. The mattress feels thin beneath you, your body sunk from the force of his appetites. Your body aches as his assault scars you more than skin deep. Bitemarks and bruises pulses as your insides knot and tug in ceaseless horror. 

You don’t look at him. You can’t. You listen to him shift around; it sounds more as if the house shifts around him. He leaves the bedroom and you roll onto your side with a rattling effort. You whine and tuck your hand between your thighs, raw from his incessant pounding. 

It’s like something in him broke. There was no control in what he did. No restraint or relent. He is more than inhuman, he is monstrous. 

When he returns, a grunt crackles from him. He comes to the bed and it dips with his weight. He grabs your shoulder and forces you onto your back. You brace yourself for more. 

His cowl is gone. His brows arch and the scar down the side of his face pales with the strain. He raises his hand and you wince. He tilts his head then shakes it as he shows you a handful of the silver packets. You blink in confusion.  

You take a breath and try to speak. Your throat is brittle and dry. You clear it and push a hoarse whisper, “not hungry.” 

He tuts and drops the packets, keeping one in his hand. He points to the label. Day 2 – Dinner. It’s still sealed. He tosses it and takes another, once more tapping the slanted lettering. You think you know what he’s saying. 

You hug yourself and swallow, trying to wet your tongue. “I wasn’t hungry. Stomach hurt.” 

He looks down and sifts through the packages. He turns them over and his forehead wrinkles. He gathers them all and carries them away. 

You stare after him as he stomps out of the room. You uncross your arms and press your hands to the bed. You sit up and look down at the remnants of the nightgown. You free your arms and bring your knees up to hug them. You whimper at the friction between your legs. 

He comes back. His hair is greasy and some has a red tint at the tips. You don’t want to think of what that is. His neck shows a layer of filth and his clothes are stained and dusty. You look down and find much of it smeared on your skin. 

He marches over to you. You cower and he stops at the edge of the bed. He raises his hand slowly, as if to coax you. You stare as he holds it open to you. Your insides throb and you take his hand, not wanting to provoke another episode. 

He leads you from the bed and takes you through the front room into the bathroom. He puts you by the sink and turns away. You shiver, trying to shield your naked body with only your arms. He bends over the tub and rinses it out then puts the stopper in place. 

He faces you and works at unstrapping his body armor. You stare at him, legs trembling, and move to lean on the sink to keep from keeling over. He watches you with a dimple in his forehead. 

He undresses, piece by piece, until he’s naked. You stay as you are until he grabs you. He drags you to the tub with him. You step in at his insistence and he angles you around. He lowers himself first then brings you down over him. The water laps between your feet as it fills the porcelain. 

You can’t relax, even as the heat soothes your tortured muscles. With him so close, you can’t ever let your guard down again.  

He brings his hand up your thigh and around your hip. He tickles your stomach and spreads his hand over one side of your chest. You shiver and steel yourself. He toys with you, not unkindly, and you brace the sides of the tub. 

As the water reaches the brim, he sits you up with him to shut it off. He reclines again, hooking his other arm around your middle. You like this softness less than his rough return. You can handle the cruelty, you expect it, but these moments confound you. It’s like a game you can’t win. 

Silence steams with the water. You don’t move. You can’t. You have to do something. Say something. But what? 

“I’m sorry,” you eke out. You’re not sure why you say that, but you are sorry. That moment flashes in your head, when you tried to use his name. That seemed to set him off. “Thank you for the food and the wood. I’m sorry I didn’t eat it all.” 

He growls but doesn’t say anything. He shifts and nuzzles the top of your head, his hot breath pluming over your scalp. The rigidity slowly seeps from him, thought that underlying stiffness remains. 

“I tried to keep it clean. I didn’t know... what else to do. I... I don’t know why I’m talking. I’ll-- I’ll stop,” you exhale and stare at the corroding mouth of the faucet. 

He drags his hand up from your chest and cups your chin. You twitch and his thumb stretches up to toy with your lower lip. Your grimace and let him poke around. He huffs in frustration then with two fingers, moves both your lips. He traces his touch down to your throat. 

“You want me to talk?” You ask. 

He pushes his nose firmly against your crown. You take that as affirmation. What do you talk about? You glance around and search for anything. You’ve been so bored and yet you can’t think of much. 

“My... my grandma had a tub like this,” you utter awkwardly. “It was her favourite place. She would read in there for hours. Funny, she... she wasn’t much of a kid person so we usually just did our own thing.” You ramble as your voice cracks, “and... we broke her favourite clock. It had a glass cover over it... I... just a silly memory.” 

He hums and caresses your cheek. You gulp again and hold back a quiver. If you can keep him calm for just a little, then you’ll find something to talk about. You just need to think about anything but the here and now. 

[callalillywrites]

I Smell Snow

Written for @stuckybingo. A2 - Snow.

Stucky Masterlist | Stucky Bingo | Main Masterlist

Relationship: Steve Rogers x Bucky Barnes x F!Reader

Word Count: 1208

Summary: You've always had a special ability to sniff out snow. It's what drags you out of bed between your best friends at an early hour. You really do love the first snow of the season as it's the most magical of times.

Warnings: pre-relationship; established best friends; fluff; Bucky and Steve always need more sleep

A/N: This was purely inspired by Lorelei Gilmore in the first season of Gilmore Girls, episode 8. Just one of my favorite scenes from the series.

I do not give permission to have my works copied, translated, reposted, or fed into an AI machine.

*****

"Mm, I smell snow," you whispered in the quiet of your shared bedroom. The scent in the air had been the very thing to coax you from sleep, too. It'd been the reason you quickly but carefully crawled out from between your two best friends and tiptoed over to the large windows. A glance beyond the tinted glass had your smile growing. In the same soft voice, you added, "Tonight. It's going to snow tonight."

Another deep inhale further confirmed your suspicions.

You really couldn't help the soft squeal that slipped past your lips.

Afraid you might've disturbed your sleeping friends, you dared a glance over your shoulder. To your surprise and relief, they remained sleeping. With their enhanced hearing, you'd always been careful with how loud you got around them. At least, you tried to anyway. It wasn't something you could always control, but you definitely tried.

Especially times like this.

They'd both been through it with their last mission.

Sleep hadn't been easy for Steve or Bucky. This was probably the first night in a week where they'd both finally found some rest.

You wouldn't jeopardize that.

Too jazzed to return to bed, you quietly slipped toward your closet and plucked your robe. Without the heat of the two super soldiers, the coolness of the room settled over you in quick fashion. Before you slid the door shut, you also picked out some fuzzy socks for your feet. All you needed was something to do while letting them continue to rest.

Checking the clock, you saw the hour wasn't so early that an early morning breakfast would be crazy.

The idea of a big buffet-style breakfast actually sounded good to you. One, it would give you the chance to use up some of your older foodstuffs. Two, it was sure to help fill up both super soldier after finally getting their much-needed rest. Three, you needed the excuse to stay up and inhale that delectable scent that promised your favorite precipitation. And last but never least, it was an excuse to pamper your best friends in a way they'd accept without protest.

Well, maybe not without protest.

You could well imagine Steve and/or Bucky saying, "You didn't need to do this for us, doll."

The smile on your lips widened even as you shook your head. It'd be so easy to brush that aside, too, and you would if they did. Because you wanted to do this for them. You wanted to take care of them as they took care of so many others. Took care of you. It was the least you could.

The answer to why was simple, too.

You loved them.

Taking care to miss the creaky board near your your bedroom door, you moved into your small but efficient kitchenette. You quickly flicked on the overhead lights but dimmed them so they wouldn't disturb Steve and Bucky. It was moments like this that you appreciated some of the upgrades you'd made to your condo with their help.

With practiced steps and movements, you grabbed everything from your cabinets and fridge that you'd need for the breakfast you planned. The soft-close cabinet doors worked again in your favor as you mentally checked everything off your list.

Softly humming, you set to work with your ingredients taking over one of your precious few counters. Chopping, beating, stirring, and heating, each of them soothing in their own ways. Warmth soon had you shedding your robe, hanging it on the peg where you also hung your apron.

You were setting out the giant plate of sausages next to the others when you realized you weren't alone.

Glancing towards your bedroom doorway, you spied Steve and Bucky, sleep-tousled but wide-eyed. Your earlier smile came back full force. You motioned them toward the two stools you had tucked under your counter overhang.

"What got you up so early, doll?" Bucky asked, accepting the cup of coffee you handed him.

Steve also accepted one. "We didn't kick you out of your bed, did we?"

You shook your head even as your smile grew. Watching them sip at their coffees, you worked not to preen when they both groaned appreciatively. It hadn't been too hard to learn how they took their coffees, insisting on giving them perfect cups each time. Only when they set their cups down and focus on you did you answer Bucky's question.

"I smelled snow."

Amusement filled their eyes and tipped their lips upward at the corners.

"Of course, you did," Steve murmured, his amusement growing. "When will we be seeing it, you think?"

Just as before, you took another inhale. It wouldn't hurt to confirm your suspicions after all, having cracked a window while cooking. You hummed your own appreciation as you noted the subtle scent lingering beneath the heavenly aromas of the food you'd prepared.

"Definitely tonight," you said after another deep inhale. Oh, you'd never get over how great the smell of the first snow of the season was. Everything's magical. Everything's so pretty.

"It's not the only thing magical or pretty," Bucky said, bringing you out of your thoughts. Heat suffused your cheeks while his eyes remained on you, his smile widening as he continued to sip at his coffee. "Isn't that right, punk?"

Steve nodded, not even trying to hide his grin behind his coffee cup. No, he kept it at his side as he studied you with a look you'd seen plenty of times but could never quite define.

"You two shouldn't tease me," you chided, your earlier smile shifting into a soft pout. "It's not nice."

"Oh, we'd never tease you, doll," Steve said, pushing to his feet and coming around the counter. His arms wrapped around your middle and tugged you back into his warm, solid chest. "We're just thankful we have you in our lives. Your love of snow and all."

He pressed a quick kiss to your cheek, then disengaged to return to his seat.

Before you could think to protest his absence, Bucky had taken Steve's previous position. "He's right. We'll have to make the most of this first snow tonight. Anything special you wanna do?"

You shook your head.

"Well then, you won't mind if we come up a few surprises for you."

It wasn't a question as Bucky, too, pressed a kiss to your opposite cheek. He lingered another moment before he finally let you go and returned to his seat next to Steve.

You soon handed them plates after you finished up the final bit of cooking to complete your breakfast feast. They loaded them down with a little bit of everything, then went back for seconds. Few words really passed in those early hours, but then, they didn't need to as you three ate together.

While they cleaned up your kitchenette, you settled on your sofa where you could watch the early morning rays starting to color the skyline. The window remained cracked open so you could take another inhale now and then.

Sipping on your second cup of coffee, you knew the day would be a good one.

The first snow of the season has never let you down before.

Who knows? Maybe it'll be the start of something new.

[stellar-solar-flare]

For Centuries | Chapter 20/x: The Reckoning

Explicit | 18+ only | Medieval Romantasy AU | Emperor!Steve Rogers x Stark!Princess!Reader

As the only daughter of King Howard Stark of Richford, you have always known that you are expected to eventually enter into a political marriage. When King Howard attempts to save his kingdom by marrying you off to the conqueror of half the world, you accept the responsibility bestowed on you. But as you arrive at the court of Emperor Steven the Righteous to be wedded and crowned the Empress of the Centurial Empire, your husband-to-be is not what you expected.

Reader is the daughter of Howard Stark and his second wife, who is not named or described. This is a 'From Political Marriage to Love Marriage' story, featuring lots of romantasy elements, court politics, and protective, righteous Emperor Steve Rogers. The 'Touch her and I'll kill you.' vibes are strong with this one. The slowest of burns.

Read Chapter 20: The Reckoning (AO3)

First chapter of this story. (AO3)

In the darkness you fall, and in the darkness you dream.

You dream of a wolf, its fur as white as the frozen tundra that surrounds it, running under the sharp crescent of the moon, chasing a white elk.

You dream of the sharp sound of steel meeting steel, of the Smith locked in a furious battle with a hooded figure you aren’t able to focus your eyes on, a fire bordering on insanity burning in his eyes.

You dream of a sky full of ravens, soaring, soaring, soaring until their dark wings caress the stars.

You dream of yourself, your crown shining on your head in the red light, stronger, mightier, as you walk into a burning building. The fire flees in front of your step: a herd of deer flees in front of a wolf pack; the servants bow in front of the empress; the blasphemers tremble in front of the god they thought long dead. The flames grow from the ground into empty air like an arch of vines, surrounding you, shielding you, welcoming you home.

You dream of a darkness, as black as a raven’s wings, embracing you with the warmth of a loving mother’s arms. A voice dances in your ears, cold like empty graves, so cold it burns, echoing in the darkness, whispering with the all-consuming dark of a moonless night:

Magic this mighty does not come without a price, does not come without a price, does not come without a price…

For fire and frost are not so easily allied.

AUTHOR AO3| AUTHOR TUMBLR MASTERLIST

[dirtyvulture]

The Maid - Part 5

Socialite!Wanda Maximoff x Beefy!Rich!Reader*

Maid!Natasha Romanoff x Beefy!Rich!Reader*

18+ only, read at your own risk

Word count: 3923

Summary: You are married to a wealthy socialite, but your newly hired housemaid doesn’t approve of the marriage.

AN: This took longer than expected, but it's the moment you've all been waiting for...

Read part 4 here.

*Reader has a penis, no pronouns used.

Natasha hasn’t left her apartment in two days. Her phone is on max volume, awaiting any calls or messages from you, but she hasn’t heard from you since she ran out of your home after shooting your wife. She played the local news 24/7 on her ancient television whose image blacked out every time the upstairs neighbors jostled her apartment. They reported a shooting in your neighborhood and showed a clip of flashing police cars and an ambulance fanned out on your street, with the victim hospitalized, but no further updates.

The anticipation was killing her. 

She had called Clint to tell him you knew about her background, despite what he had promised, and he offered to move her out of the city–state, even–immediately. But Natasha couldn’t do that to you. Perhaps she was a little naive to expect you to reach out to her after what she had done, but she believed you would keep your word.

Now, she has to get ready for a shift at Steve’s house, and she’s terrified to go back to your neighborhood. Clint had told her to cancel all her shifts there, but she refused, thinking it looked too suspicious. Plus, she was hoping to catch a glimpse of you while she was in the area. With anxiety knotting her stomach, she packs her car and drives to your neighborhood.

She doesn’t know why she didn’t expect to see your house still standing, as if the police would burn down a crime scene after their investigation. While the exterior looks perfectly normal, something feels off about it. Natasha wonders if you’re home, but she won’t dare knock on your door now.

Steve comes out of his house just as she squeezes her Nissan between a Mercedes and BMW. The street is surprisingly full of cars.

“Hey, Natasha!” Steve calls as he jogs down the sidewalk. “I’m so sorry, I forgot to text you to cancel. You can go home now if you want, and we’ll pay you for the trouble of coming over though–”

“Cancel?” Natasha asks, stepping onto the street. “Is everything okay?”

“Peggy’s hosting a little gathering right now, so there’s a lot of people in the house,” Steve says. “It’s been so chaotic around here the past few days–”

“Why? Did something happen?” She and Clint had agreed it was safer for her to play dumb, to reinforce the idea that she had been far away from your home the night of the shooting.

“Um.” Steve moves closer to her, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Did you hear about what happened at Y/N and Wanda’s house two days ago?”

“No.” Natasha tries to put on her best expression of confusion.  

“There was a shooting,” Steve says, and Natasha feigns a gasp of shock. “Wanda got shot, and she’s in the hospital now, but in a coma. No one’s seen Y/N since it happened either, and obviously there was only one person who could’ve shot Wanda…”

“No!” Natasha says, more out of disbelief that you’re taking the fall for her. 

“The whole neighborhood is shaken up,” Steve says. “Why don’t you come inside? A lot of the neighbors are here. We have food, and it might make you feel better to not have to process all this information alone.”

Against her better judgement, Natasha follows Steve into his house. It’s not nearly as big or grand as yours, but it feels more like a home. Steve proudly displays pictures of his family on the walls, and his children’s toys and belongings are often scattered everywhere. Natasha had met them only once as they were usually at school when she was there, but James was a mini image of his father, and Sarah was an adorable little girl. Steve’s wife Peggy was also extremely kind to her (unlike yours was), and Natasha genuinely enjoyed having the Rogers family as her client. 

There are only adults present currently, with most of them sitting on the lawn in the backyard, shaded by a canopy. Peggy is in the kitchen, slicing into a gigantic watermelon. 

“Hi, Mrs. Carter. Do you need any help?” Natasha asks out of instinct.

“Oh, hi, Natasha! I thought Steve was going to tell you to stay at home,” Peggy says. “Not that we don’t enjoy having you here–”

“I forgot,” Steve says, walking in behind Natasha. “Too much stuff going on–”

“Well, since you’re already here, help yourself to some food, Natasha. And you can join everyone out back.”

“Thank you.” Some of the people here are also Natasha’s clients, and the last thing she wants to do is share a meal with them, but she forces herself to stay. This is her chance to gather more info on you and Wanda.

Natasha grabs a paper plate and lightly loads it up with fruit and some appetizers she can’t name, then steps out into the yard. While the Rogers don’t have a pool like you do, they make up for it with a half basketball court and a little playground that even Natasha finds herself jealous of. 

“Is that Natasha? Having some fun on her day off?” someone calls out.

“Well, I came here to work, but apparently I wasn’t needed today,” she responds.

“Come sit with us, dear!” The loud voice of Agatha Harkness booms out. While she wasn’t a client of Natasha’s, she knows to keep a wide berth. It feels like she’s entered the lion’s den as she takes a seat next to Agatha, joining the circle of the neighborhood’s elite gossipers. “We were just talking about you.”

“You were?” Natasha feels her cheeks heat up.

“Of course! You do housework for most of the families here, so you must have a front-row seat to all the juicy drama, right?” Agatha says.

“I try to mind my own business.”

“Yes, but if something happens in front of you, won’t look away, right?” Dottie Jones, your next-door neighbor, asks. Natasha spares herself from answering by shoving a whole apple slice into her mouth.

“You heard what happened to Wanda?” Agatha asks. “Oh, poor thing. We tried visiting her in the hospital yesterday, but we were turned away. Apparently, Y/N won’t let any visitors in, but conveniently no one’s seen Y/N since the incident, that piece of shit.”

“Wanda should’ve gotten a divorce before it came down to this,” Dottie says. “I can’t believe she might lose her life to that bastard.” She wipes her eyes for dramatic effect, but Natasha sees no tears on her face.

“I heard it was a money issue,” Monica Rambeau chimes in. “Apparently, Y/N’s company is on the verge of bankruptcy, and Wanda wasn’t too keen on loaning her trust fund money to a failing business.”

“It’s just so fucked up,” Agatha sighs. “If your business is failing, that’s your fault and you need to take responsibility for it. Trying to kill your own wife to get her money is just so wrong on every level.”

It hurts Natasha to hear these women speak so poorly of you. She would defend your honor, but she also doesn’t want to give herself away.

“Did the police come talk to you ladies yet?” Dottie asks. “They came this morning to my house and asked a few questions. I told them I’d heard yelling a lot recently–mostly from Y/N. And what Wanda’s told us about not feeling safe or cared for in her marriage anymore.”

“But you didn’t hear the gunshot?” Monica says. Dottie shakes her head.

“I thought it was a trash can falling over or something.”

“Vision’s the one who made the call,” Agatha says. Natasha almost chokes on a cheese cube. “And it’s a good thing he did, otherwise they might not have been able to get to Wanda on time–”

“He’s always looking out for her,” Monica agrees. “He’s a good man. Wanda should’ve left Y/N for him already, then this would’ve never needed to happen.”

“When she pulls through–not if, when–I hope she sues the fuck out of Y/N,” Agatha says.

“I hope Y/N gets life in prison,” Dottie adds. “That bastard deserves to rot for eternity.”

Natasha stares down at her plate, wanting to cry and scream at the same time. She hates how these women talk about you, but she hates herself even more for not standing up for you. 

***********************************************************************

Natasha finally manages to escape their clutches and goes home, feeling much worse than she had when she left this morning. While she worked for half of them, she had never seen this side of them before. Clearly, Wanda had influenced them beyond reason: you were none of the awful things they said about you. It also made Natasha extremely uneasy to see how many people were on Wanda’s side when they didn’t know any part of the truth.

She trudges up to the third floor of her building because her elevator is broken again and nearly collapses when she sees you standing by her front door.

“Y/N?”

“Hi.” You look like you haven’t showered in two days, and your eyes are strained like you hadn’t slept since you last saw her. Your cheek is still a little swollen where Wanda hit you several times. “Sorry to catch you like this. I would’ve called ahead, but I didn’t want to leave any digital traces.”

Natasha doesn’t even bother to ask how you know where she lives, but she quickly goes over to unlock her door and usher you inside. She wishes she had spent more time cleaning her own place, she thinks, as she eyes the dirty dishes piled up on the counter, the unopened mail on the floor, the kitchen table loaded with used Tupperware.

“Are you okay?” Natasha asks. “I just got back from Steve’s house. He was hosting the neighborhood ladies, and they said no one’s seen you since–”

“I know. I just got released from jail,” you say, running a hand through your hair. “My lawyer posted bail, so I can’t go far, but I knew I couldn’t go back to the house. I’m sorry to bother you here.”

“No, no, it’s okay.” Natasha wishes she could say how happy she is to see you again. “Make yourself at home. Sorry it’s not the cleanest at the moment–when you spend all day cleaning, it’s hard to do it for myself–”

“Don’t worry about it,” you say, “Do you mind if I use your shower? It’s been two days since I washed up, I know I look like crap.”

Natasha wants to say you still look good as ever, but holds her tongue. “Please, go ahead. I can go down to the laundry room and wash up your clothes while you’re showering too.”

“I don’t want to burden you–”

“You protected me that night and you had no reason to,” Natasha says. “You could never be a burden to me.” She makes eye contact with you and feels her knees go weak when you smile at her. 

“Thank you.” You look away first. “I’m sorry Wanda was always so awful to you and that I never stood up for you. You were always so respectful to her and me, even when neither of us really deserved it.”

“You deserved it,” Natasha says, finding her courage. “You deserve better than her.”

You don’t respond, only nodding and walking to the bathroom.

***********************************************************************

You’re not entirely sure why the first place you went after being freed from jail was Natasha’s. Your lawyer, Murdock, had offered to book you a hotel, but you could’ve done that yourself and to be honest, you were afraid to be alone. It was an extremely vulnerable time for you. You were being charged with aggravated assault that could easily be upped to attempted murder depending on the investigation and Wanda’s condition. Murdock had played the self-defense card, which was an easy sell because of your injuries, but you knew not to celebrate too early.

When news got around of what you had done, you weren’t so sure how many would take your side. It would be dangerous to underestimate what Wanda might’ve said about you behind your back. But Natasha knew the truth. She was responsible for part of it, but you didn’t blame her at all. You knew you could trust her. Maybe that was because you haven’t slept in two days or had a proper meal, but you felt safe with Natasha. More than you ever had with your own wife. Even knowing what she had done in her home country that forced her to flee and take on a new identity. 

It was Wanda’s idea to run a background check on Natasha. You had protested at first, but she was adamant about needing to know every detail about the woman who would be spending all her time in your home. She made a good point, but the second you met Natasha, you knew you didn’t have to worry about her stealing or vandalizing, and to be quite frank, Wanda never cared about those things either. She just wanted the information so she could blackmail Natasha if she ever acted out, but neither of you were prepared for what the investigator came back with, and you were even more shocked when Wanda still agreed to employ her.

“She won’t kill us. It’ll be too obvious who did it,” Wanda says.

“I feel like being dead is enough of a problem on its own,” you counter. 

“If we hire her, with this information–” Wanda clutches at the thick folder the investigator had compiled “–she’ll have to do whatever we tell her. She’ll never argue back, she’ll never refuse, because if she does…” She flips the folder open to the page of a decade-younger Natasha, slightly blurred from the movement of running away from the crime scene. “Everyone will know what she did back in Russia.”

Your stomach twists at the way your wife is viewing the situation. She has no qualms allowing a convicted murderer to clean her home, simply because she could threaten her into doing whatever she wanted. You want to spare Natasha from this fate, but you know there’s no changing Wanda’s mind. 

Besides, if you never had the guts to kill her, maybe Natasha did.

You shower until the hot water runs out, and wrap yourself only in a towel to step out. Natasha is off washing your clothes as promised, but you’re shocked to find her waiting not only with your clothes neatly folded and clean, but also a bag of takeout on the table.

“I thought you’d be hungry too, so I went and picked something up. I would’ve cooked, but the fridge is a little empty right now–”

You cross the room in four large strides and scoop her up in a hug. You barely restrain yourself from kissing her too, but she doesn’t shy away from your hug, pressing her face against your chest and squeezing you back tightly.

“Thank you,” you whisper to her.

“Anything for you.”

You change into your fresh clothes quickly and sit down with Natasha on the couch to eat. The silence is not uncomfortable as you shovel food into your mouth, while Natasha’s appetite seems more reserved than you. She lets you eat all the leftovers and you feel like a bear before hibernation, tiredness hitting you full force as you sink back into the cushions.

“Let me clean up and then I’ll let you sleep,” you hear Natasha say, and she pats your arm as she gets up but you grab her hand to stop her from walking away.

“Thank you,” you say, knowing you sound like a broken record, but you’ve never meant the words more in your life. “You know you saved my life, right?”

Natasha looks away and shakes her head. “I almost killed your wife.”

“Exactly.” You tug on her arm and she loses her balance and falls into your lap. For the first time ever, her body is pressed against yours, her cheap vanilla perfume swirling around your head. Natasha puts her hand on your chest, as if she’s going to push away from you, but she doesn’t, trailing one hand up the back of your neck and cupping your head. You know it’s totally wrong to want her like this, to even have her touching you like this, but as far as you were concerned you weren’t married to Wanda anymore.

“Natasha,” you whisper so faintly you’re not sure if she heard you, “I think I’m in love with you.”

“Wanda doesn’t deserve you,” she says. “But I deserve you.”

The proclamation is enough for you. You tilt your head back and part your lips slightly, inviting Natasha to kiss you. She takes full advantage, slamming her mouth into yours, threading her fingers into your hair to hold you there. The touch of her lips is electrifying, with more passion than any of the kisses you’d shared with your actual wife. Your arms wrap around her back; it just feels so right to have her weight in your arms, her body pressed against yours. You never want to lose this woman; you never want to go back to Wanda again.

Natasha surprises you by grinding down in your lap. You moan when her thigh brushes over your bulge. You’re instantly light-headed by the way blood rushes to your groin and your hands slide down to her butt, squeezing until she groans into your mouth. 

She suddenly pulls away, panting, a rosy glow to her cheeks. “Y/N, you’re still married,” she says.

“We’re separated,” you tease, but you know she’s right. What you’re doing with Natasha right now makes you no better than Wanda. Your hands drop from her body to the couch in a sign of submission. “But…yeah. Things are complicated right now.”

“I think we should wait,” Natasha continues, and she sounds as pained as you feel about not being properly together. “I don’t want to rush into this, especially with everything going on.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” you admit. You feel yourself deflate in your pants. “Besides, I should probably get tested first. If Wanda gave me anything…I don’t want to give it to you.”

Natasha’s cheeks flame red when she realizes what you’re talking about. “That’s fair. We won’t do anything until you’re tested and all this is settled.”

“Yes,” you agree, even though it’ll take all your willpower to keep your hands to yourself. Natasha stands up and you join her, reaching for her hand again and spinning her around to face you. You can’t help yourself from bending over to kiss her, because you already miss her lips on yours. “You’re so beautiful,” you whisper, brushing your thumb over the curve of her cheek. “I could never stop thinking about you when you weren’t at my house.”

Natasha hums as she wraps her arms around your waist to hug you. “I walked in on you and Wanda doing it once,” she admits. “And ever since, I thought about your body and your cock every time I touched myself.” You practically shiver at the thought of Natasha using you in her fantasies. You can’t wait for her to show you exactly how she wants you. 

“Well, I can’t wait to make it a reality,” you respond, pushing your hips forward so Natasha can feel your growing bulge against her stomach. She brushes her fingers over the outline in your pants.

“I can’t wait until you’re properly mine.”

***********************************************************************

It feels wrong returning to your neighborhood the first time since the incident. But you didn’t plan on staying long, just grabbing some clothes and a few things from the home. Your lawyer had said to be quick and quiet–not that you weren’t allowed to go home, just that it wasn’t the best look to the public. You picked the middle of the day, hoping your neighbors would be out or working so you wouldn’t have to face any of them, but your luck was never great.

“Y/N?”

Your shoulders tense, but quickly drop in relief when you see Steve jogging across the street. “Hi, Steve.”

“Are you okay?” is the first thing he asks, and you’re touched by his kindness. If any of your neighbors had seen you here, they would’ve run you over with their car before speaking two words to you.

“Can you talk inside?” you ask, not taking any chances with anyone eavesdropping.

“Sure.”

You usher him through the front door and lock it. The house feels dirty and wrong, despite its clean appearance. Who knows how many pairs of police boots had walked through it, the amount of chemicals used to clean Wanda’s blood off the floor. But you don’t have a chance to think about that now.

“I’m so sorry about Wanda, Y/N,” Steve says. “If there’s anything Peggy and I can do–”

“Don’t. She doesn’t need anything from anyone,” you interrupt. Steve looks shocked at your words. “She was cheating on me. With a lot of people from this neighborhood.”

He’s silent for a moment as if having some kind of internal struggle. “Wanda tried to sleep with me, shortly after you guys moved in,” he finally reveals. “I should’ve told you, and I’ve been kicking myself ever since because I didn’t.”

“Why didn’t you?” You won’t tell him you were there, spying on them through the closet like a voyeur in your own home. 

“Wanda said she’d tell Peggy we had slept together. And all the other women in the neighborhood,” he says, sounding strained. “Peggy wouldn’t believe her, but I wasn’t so convinced the other women wouldn’t. Wanda has a lot of influence here. You’ve seen how they hang onto every word like it’s gospel.”

“I know.”

“And there’s something else I wanted to tell you,” Steve continues. “I knew about the gun.”

“The gun?”

“Wanda asked me if I knew where she could buy a gun,” Steve says. “I referred her to my friend Bucky, who runs an armory, and he sold her a revolver. It was done legally of course, and we’re all adults here, so I didn’t think much of it. It’s her right to have a gun if she wants.”

“Yes, it is,” you state, although you’re not sure why Steve is telling you all this. 

“The weird part is that Wanda specifically asked Bucky to sell her blanks instead of bullets,” Steve says. “He tried telling her that guns aren’t toys, and if it was for protection she needed live bullets. No noisy, flashy blanks were going to protect her from anything.”

You start to laugh. Steve was right; blanks wouldn’t protect anyone, but they would put on a good show. And your wife was all about the theatrics. But you knew her better than anyone, and if she was going to go as far as to fake a shooting, you would make sure she regretted it. 

“She said she wouldn’t buy the gun unless she got her blanks, so Bucky caved,” Steve says. “She could’ve gotten bullets from another source, but it was just so odd. We figured she might’ve just wanted the gun for show, you know? But she could’ve gotten a fake for much cheaper–”

“Steve,” you finally interrupt his rambling. “I knew about the gun.”

“Oh, you did?” Relief breaks out on his face. “That’s great–”

“And I noticed the gun had blanks in it. So I switched them with real bullets.”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

AN: The plot continues to thicken...Did this answer any questions or create more? 🤔

Please like, reblog, and comment! Follow for more content. 🥰

[justiceiswater]

Their power dynamic is so sexy! he takes just as much as she does. she yanks and pulls and drags at him. he asks what she wants and then she takes it!

Blackbird: 15

TW: smut

“Did he hurt you Honey?”

“Not physically,” you mutter from where your face is buried into his shoulder. Bucky and Sam have tied Brock’s hands behind his back and there’s a gag in his mouth. You move away from Steve and march over to Brock before you punch him in the face, “That is for starting my home on fire.” You kick him in the balls, “that’s for kidnapping, touching and threatening me.” Bucky and Sam both winced when you kicked Brock.

“Feel better Birdie?” Steve asks sounding amused.

“Not really. And I’m freezing.”

“Here,” he peels off his jacket and wraps you in it. You stare up at him,

“Kiss me.” You whisper and he gives you a little half smile before pressing his lips to yours. You hear a muffled yell from Brock but all you really care about is Steve.

“My pretty bird,” he whispers his forehead resting against yours.

“Can we get my stuff so we can go?”

“Yea,” Steve follows you out to the living room and you grab your pants and pull them on. Your work shoes, bra and underwear are tucked under one arm and work shoes are put on. “What happened to your shirt?”

“He ruined it.”

“Can you tell me what happened?”

“Can I at home? I don’t want to be here anymore.”

“At home,” he repeats softly before turning to face the kitchen. “Boys you know what to do. I’m taking my girl home.” He takes your hand and leads you out the house and down the street to where he’d left his car. You climb in and when he joins you you reach for his hand again. You need to touch him, to ground you, to remind you that you’re safe. It’s not until you’re driving that you notice the commotion.

“What is going on?”

“I’m destroying Hydra.”

“What?”

“They protected him, they allowed him to take you. So I’m burning them to the ground.” You stare at him, the power of this man is intoxicating.

“This is because of me?”

“I told you I’d protect you and I didn’t.”

“You saved me.”

“You saved yourself.” His grip on the steering wheel tightens you give the hand you have a gentle squeeze.

“You gave me the earrings.” You remind him softly as he pulls up to his home. There are several people in the garage, ones you don’t know and you tense slightly.

“They’re all mine. We’re on high alert until we’ve wiped Hydra out.” He climbs out of the car and when one of the guys goes to open your door Steve snarls at him and the other man backs off. Steve opens your door and curls a protective arm around you as you walk to the elevator. Once the doors close you turn in his grasp and drag his lips down to yours. He kisses you until the doors open then gently guides you out of the elevator.

You need him, you need to feel his hands on you to wipe the feeling of Brock’s off. He leads you to his bedroom and you pull his lips to yours again but Steve stops you.

“Honey, I need to know what happened.”

“I need you Steve. I need him off of me.” You murmur, “he made me dance for him. He touched me with his gross hands and made me kiss him. I need to forget what it felt like. Please Steve.”

“I have an idea, come with me.” He locks the bedroom door then leads you into the bathroom where he turns on the shower. When you don’t move Steve takes your extra things from your hands and takes off your shoes. He then pulls you into the shower fully dressed, the water is warm and you lean into him as you stand under the water.

“Whenever you’re ready we can throw the wet clothes into the tub.” He says into your hair, you hate feeling like you need him but you do.

“Thank you.”

“Nothing you need to thank me for.” He assures you and you feel him press a kiss to the top of your head.

“What are you going to do to him?”

“Let’s not talk about it.”

“Okay.” You agree then you hook your thumbs into your underwear and slide it down your legs. You throw them over the top of the shower where they land with a wet plop. Steve chuckles then pulls off his jacket and throws it too over the shower wall. Off comes his shirt and your bra and his pants and boxer briefs. You tip your head back, wordlessly asking for him to kiss you. He doesn’t disappoint pressing his mouth to yours, his hand goes to that spot on the back of your head where it connects to your neck, and he holds you close to him. You whine softly in the back of your throat and he stoops down just enough to get his hands under your butt. He sweeps you up off your feet, one of your legs on either side of his body. His cock brushes your core and you gasp,

“Please Steve.” You beg reaching between you as best you can to line him up with you.

“Are you sure Honey?”

“I will go find Bucky.” You threaten and he growls lowly before sinking into you.

“Mine. You’re. Mine. I’m. Yours.” He growls punctuating each thrust into you.

“Yes, Steve.” You gasp, “please yes.”

“Tell me what you want.” He demands slowing his thrusts and pressing your back to the cooler shower wall.

“You.”

“Not Bucky?” He taunts, practically stilling inside you.

“No, Steve please.” You whimper trying to move your hips but he has you pinned too tightly between him and the wall.

“Please what?”

“Fucking move Steve!” You beg before pulling his mouth to yours. He starts to move again and you moan into his mouth. He pulls away, staring down at you he gives you a soft smile.

“Cum for me Honey. Come on I know you’re close.” You snap then, coming undone around him. You cling to Steve’s shoulders as he chases his own release, which he does with a low groan. He kisses you again, softly as he pulls out, “I’m gonna set you down okay? So we can clean up and get some food.”

“Not steak.” You mutter before you can stop yourself.

“No Honey, not steak.”

Tag list:

@andahugaroundtheneck @connie326 @also-fangirlinsweden @lumar014 @loving-life-my-way @pagina16ps @emdying @dumblani @valsworldofcreativity @blackwidownat2814 @sky0401 @dontbescaredtosingalong @fanatic434 @abschaffer2

[ramen8008]

Tony Stark and Steve Rogers are two sides of the same coin.

I repeat TONY STARK AND STEVE ROGERS ARE TWO SIDES OF THE SAME COIN

TONY STARK AND STEVE ROGE-

[captainsparklefingers]

It's always interesting when an old hyperfixation reemerges and hits you like a truck and drags you back into it, especially when the other currently active fixations don't go away but sort of just get shuffled around.

Like. I'm still working on Unhappy Families, and I've started to feel the flow coming back (not for 1947, unfortunately, THAT chapter still refuses to cooperate)...but suddenly the Sonic movie comes out and beats me with the 'youve liked this since you were 11 and now youre gonna feel things again whether you want to or not' hammer. And the flow is now split between the thing I want to/should work on...and a stupid dumb au idea that I shouldn't do anything with but can't stop thinking about.

So, to get it out of my system, let me tell y'all about my Maria Robotnik lives au, where a tragic lab accident does what it does in comics instead of in real life (aka: so now you have superpowers and a dash of Captain America-esque 'man outta time' vibes).

Lemme go ahead and shove this under a cut and get this out of my head for now. It's 1230 in the morning, my cat is draped all over me like a fuzzy heated weighted blanket, I can't sleep, my brain is going weird places, let's roll with it.

Spoilers for the Sonic movies (particularly the 3rd one).

OKAY SO.

We don't see what actually killed Maria in the movie. I mean, yes, it's the explosion of chaos energy caused by an errant shot, but the specific thing that kills her isn't shown. Could be a blow to the head or traumatic internal injuries, nothing good, but nothing as direct and obvious as a shot to the back like in the games.

And many a fictional individual has been 'blessed' with superpowers following a lab accident or exposure to radiation/mysterious energies/etc. I think you can see where I'm going with this. I mean this is a world with alien hedgehogs, teleportation rings, chaos emeralds, I think one can be allowed a little wiggle room in the name of an au here.

SO. Boom. Explosion. Maria appears dead, her family is devastated and the seeds of revenge are planted,Gerald is carted off, Shadow is put into cryo, all that.

Maria's body is taken by GUN (presumably alongside those of anyone else who died), probably put in a morgue somewhere...aaand that's where she wakes up, screaming, unleashing a wave of Chaos energy that shorts out all electronics in the area, and promptly passes out again.

So. GUN is now in possession of a preteen girl who should be dead, WAS apparently dead, who was exposed to something they were studying and couldn't understand/found too dangerous to mess with, who now appears to have strange abilities that both have kept her alive, given her superpowers, and also seem to (at the moment) be physically taxing to the point of not being able to maintain consciousness for long periods of time.

SO LET'S STICK THE UNSTABLE SUPERPOWERED GIRL INTO CRYO TOO, because that seems to be the standard MO at GUN for these sorts of things at the time. Walters, having been the one who made the call to put Shadow under, is given clearance here as well, as somebody who knew Maria before everything went horribly wrong. And maybe he feels guilty and responsible that this girl is going through this, because of the organization he works for, because he wasn't able to stop those men from pointing weapons at children with intent to fire. So, he lets her out every so often, giving her a chance to physically stabilize, to get an idea of what's been done and what she can do, and to let her know that she hasn't been forgotten.

(of course nobody tells her grandfather about this because why would they, this is all classified and he's a dangerous criminal element now.)

Maybe her memories of what happened are fuzzy. Years in and out of cryosleep following a comic book esque tragic origin story might do that to you. Maybe she's not fully aware of how long it's been, or the fact that she doesn't appear to be aging normally (is it the cryo sleep or the superpowers? Idk. Ask Steve Rogers, it was both with him ¯⁠\⁠_⁠(⁠ツ⁠)⁠_⁠/⁠¯).

Anyway. Records slip through the cracks, particularly after information about Robotnik is purged by the government post first Sonic movie. And with her being more physically stable and having ways to channel this energy now (let's continue the family theme of science and robots here and make her a bit of a technomancer with machine buddies and robots she communicates with and channels power through, or something along those lines), her scheduled return to cryo sleep gets put off, and put off...

So we have a girl out of time literal computer wizard who's body can only handle so much of the energy it has going through it at once before exhausting her (it's not the same as having a terminal illness, obviously, but it'd be at least something to call back to the game character a bit), who's got patches in her memories, has (to her knowledge) lost her family and doesn't have anyone, who's whole existence is a bit of a cover-up to hide a civilian casualty...

Aaaaaand that's all I have right now. I'm trying to figure out what the best way to get her out of GUN would be while also not having her and Shadow cross paths/know about the other for a good long time (because I enjoy the angst of thinking your closest friend is long dead or gone and having to live on). I'm sure I'll figure out something, there was enough chaos caused by the events of the third movie that I could see her using it as a chance to break herself out.

I dunno. Maybe she ends up with Agent Stone for a bit since they've both lost somebody important. That could be fun. I'm sure there'd be some sort of dramatic reunion or something eventually, but that's all I have for now.

It really isn't much, and I don't want to take away from the impact her death had on Shadow or the importance of it to the story, but at the same time, I'm sort of enamored with this idea of this tween from the 70s who does computer magic and has exhaustion and pain who's trying to find a place in a world that literally forgot her and buried her 50 years ago.

(and maybe I want Stone to have a friend, too, after everything.)

(and maybe some dramatic meetings and reunions too, someday.)

[lorem-ipsum-2099]

SPOILERS FOR SYMBIOTE SPIDERMAN 2099: ISSUE #1

I will be discussing my thoughts and opinions about the recently released Issue of Symbiote Spiderman 2099 which will include MAJOR SPOILERS.

You have been warned.

Tbh I don’t have much to say at the moment since everything is only getting started lollll

This is all my own opinion 🦈

Not what I expected yet left me pleasantly surprised. Tbh, I had expected the symbiote issue to pick up after Dark Genesis and got whiplash when we were taken all the way back to Issue #43 of the original run.

I was never a huge fan of the flooding plot so I’m glad it wasn’t focused too much upon in this issue, fingers crossed for the rest of the series!

Now, the art. Mixed feelings. It seems that there may have been some miscommunication between the art and story teams because who tf is this blue eyed, non-cunty, straight haired Miguel????? (Like aren’t comic Miguel’s eyes always red and even if they weren’t his eyes were green pre-spidering??) Also they didn’t draw his talons right. Where are his high waisted pants >:(

HOWEVER

Roge Antonio absolutely rocked every panel with the symbiotes (which makes sense considering his work with Carnage)! The action scenes with the Venom were wonderfully fluid and creative and I’m especially excited for what Miguel’s fighting style will look like with his new symbiote.

Oh yeah, Miguel is also hosting a new unnamed symbiote??? The setup for that seems like fun and I’m excited to see what they do with the next issue.

Now, Kron…

I’m actually really hoping we get some more characterization of Kron in this series, we delve too deep in this issue but I am surprisingly intrigued by Kron where I wasn’t so much in the past. David seems to be showing a more sympathetic side to Kron and I’m looking forward to see if that is expanded on further.

In summary: pretty solid first issue! The beginning was a little awkward due to the flood plot but once that was done the story picked up. I’m definitely gonna reread the last couple of issues of Miguel’s 90’s run to make sure I don’t miss anything ;). Let’s hope Peter David doesn’t pull a Steve Orlando.

Excited for more, fingers crossed for some existentialist Miggy content :)

[delulu-hours]

Marvel Masterlist

James 'Bucky' Barnes

It's gonna be okay [1] [2] [3]

You and Bucky cross paths through some turn of events, but he keeps you hidden instead of killing you off like he was assigned. There was something about you that he couldn't bring himself to end, so he took you somewhere you would be safe. Slowly, you learn more about each other and rely on one another before realizing it. All you know is that everything will be okay.

Loki Laufeyson

Where's My Love

You were Loki's rock. His love, but that was until now. Now he's alone, hoping for this all to be a lie.

[kandisheek]

FIC REC WEEK 9 – AUs

Cold Space, Warm Welcome by Annie D (scaramouche)

Pairing: Steve/Tony Rating: T Words: 15,572 Tags: Sci-Fi, Misunderstandings, Pining Steve

Summary: Tony’s spent a couple of years flying around the galaxy in his best friend Rhodey’s spaceship the Iron Advance, doing what could perhaps be counted as ‘hero’ work. Among their allies is Steve Rogers, captain of his own crew, with whom Tony has a… potentially friendly relationship. When Steve’s ship is irreparably damaged, Rhodey takes him and his whole crew onto the Iron Advance to recover. Tony’s not at all nervous about this, because so what if this is the first time Steve will see him without the Iron Man armor?

Reasons why I love it: Steve is so whipped for Tony, oh my god. I adore their dynamic here, and it's so much fun to see all of Steve's fumbling attempts to make his interest known from Tony's point of view, who is utterly oblivious. And the setting itself is fantastic, it really paints a picture of what their lives in space are like. I love this fic to bits, and I bet you will too!

The Scars of Your Love by blue_jack

Pairing: Steve/Tony Rating: M Words: 5,462 Tags: Scars, Angst with a Happy Ending, Breaking Up and Making Up

Summary: On the day Peggy moved out, Steve stood naked in front of the mirror and looked at all the ragged lines running over his body. He felt like someone had taken a knife to him, slicing every inch open, and he didn’t understand how there wasn’t any blood. He traced one particularly thick scar on his stomach, gritting his teeth against the pain, the memory of the first time he’d brought Peggy over to meet his family and all the teasing that had accompanied it burning through his mind. He couldn’t imagine her marks ever disappearing, and in that moment, he didn’t want them to, didn’t want to ever expose himself to that much hurt again. Once in a lifetime was enough.

Reasons why I love it: Having heartbreak leave actual, physical scars on your body is such a kickass concept. Emotional pain is so real it often feels like it should leave scars, and Steve sure hasn't been spared during his lifetime. I really like how the whole later conflict with Tony is set up because of Steve's relationship with Peggy. It feels very true to Steve's character that he acts the way he does. And oh my god, poor Tony. I love this one, please go and check it out!

Missing and Ravished by SailorChibi

Pairing: Steve/Tony Rating: E Words: 8,760 Tags: Serial Killer Steve, Officer Tony, Gore

Summary: Officer Tony Stark really did not mean to fall in love with a serial killer.

Reasons why I love it: This might sound weird, but if canon Steve ever became a serial killer, I imagine that it would be exactly like this. I love the whole premise of the fic, of Tony being torn between his duty, his morales and his emotions, and the moment it all comes crashing down is immensely satisfying. I love everything about this fic, so I hope you give it a shot!

Steve Rogers' Life Is Not A Romance Movie (He Wouldn't Get The References, Anyway) by someonelsesheart

Pairing: Steve/Tony, Pepper/Natasha Rating: T Words: 7,909 Tags: High School AU, Humor, Enemies to Lovers

Summary: Steve hasn't always had this ridiculous crush on Tony Stark. (Or, the one where Steve is his polite old self and doesn't really hate Tony Stark (unfortunately), Tony is a child progidy and apparently a cab driver now, too, and high school is still high school, even when you are the son of a billionaire.)

Reasons why I love it: Steve the spitfire makes an appearance! They're both such dorks in this, and the way they stand up for each other in front of bullies legitimately makes my heart melt. Also, Pepper and Natasha are queens, and I adore them with my whole heart. Definitely check this one out, it's adorable!

Stellar Love Affairs by AvengersNewB, BladeoftheNebula

Pairing: Steve/Tony Rating: E Words: 5,407 Tags: A/B/O (Omega Tony, Alpha Steve), Mating Cycles, Space AU

Summary: Captain Steve Rogers gets assigned to command the starship Avenger. Everything is going as expected until he sets eyes on Tony Stark, who happens to be the first omega Steve's ever met.

Reasons why I love it: A Star Trek fusion, A/B/O, fuck or die fic written by two of my favorite people in this fandom? It's like this fic was written for me! I love everything about it, from the worldbuilding to the smut to them getting their heads out of their asses and finally communicating. It's fantastic, and I highly recommend you check it out for yourself!

[reigningqueenofwords]

Super Awkward Question

Pairing: Steve x Reader, Bucky x daughter!Reader

Part 18 of Looking for the Captain

Bucky stared at his best friend in shock. “You would?” He asked, unsure how he felt about it. Part of him hurt, hearing that his best friend would choose you. However, part of him felt that spoke volumes. The two men had always chosen each other, and this was the first time either of you would choose someone else. Of course Bucky knew that he would choose you, you were his daughter!

He nodded. “I told her I wouldn’t walk away from the woman that makes me incredibly happy.” He told him honestly, moving to start breakfast. He hoped that told Bucky that you weren’t some fling, that you truly meant a lot to him.

Swallowing, Bucky moved to head outside. “If you’re going to be bitchy, we can sit in silence.” You told him, sitting in one of the chairs as you sipped your coffee, eyes on Goliath. 

“I’ll do my best to hold back my bitchiness.” He half joked in return. 

You let out a half chuckle at that. “Maybe when this is all over you need a vacation. You’re so damn wound up, and I’m getting the shit end of it.” You noted. “I’m not saying none of it is me and Steve, but I have a feeling most of your frustration is the whole ‘in danger’ situation, and since you can’t deal with it…you take it out on us.” 

Sitting, he had to admit you were probably right. “I’m sorry.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I’ll try harder to wrap my head around you two being together and I’ll try to keep my comments to a minimum.” It was the least he could do. “Please tell me one thing, though?” 

“What?” You raised an eyebrow as you looked at him. What could he possibly want to know?

“Please tell me you at least used a condom. I know I’m older than most people, but I’m not ready to be a grandfather. Let me get used to one thing at a time.” It was awkward, but could you really blame him?

Blushing, you looked away. “It’s not like we had any available.” You muttered. 

He ran a hand over his face. “I’ll be right back.” He got up. “I’ll make a run to the store.” 

“ You’re going to buy us condoms?” Was that what he was saying? 

“And a Plan B. I can blend in a bit better than Stevie can.” He noted. 

“Oh. True.” You nodded. “Thank you.” You told him. “Maybe grab a board game, too? We can all play it after dinner.” It felt like a safe option to you. And would give him something else to look for other than safe sex options for you and Steve.

“Sure, and we will never speak of this again.” He pointed at you, making you chuckle. 

“Deal.” You easily agreed.

Steve looked over from the stove as Bucky came in and grabbed his jacket. “Heading back to the tower? I didn’t hear yelling, so that was a plus.” He mused. Although, he wasn’t out there that long, either. 

Sighing, he pulled on his jacket. “No, heading to the store.” He said awkwardly. “Getting her a Plan B, you two some condoms, and a board game. You want anything?” He asked, not looking at Steve. 

“...You don’t have to get us condoms. I don’t think either of us will want to have sex while you’re here.” His focus was on the pancake in the frying pan. “And how about we eat, and then I’ll make a list?” 

“Can you make the list now? Kinda wanna go for a drive and clear my head. Gonna take your car.”

Steve nodded. “Sure, watch the pancake?” He held out the spatula. 

“Hello?” Nat answered the phone, confused. 

“It’s me.” 

She was silent for a moment. “I know. Caller ID.” She pointed out. “What do you need? Stark said you were going to stay with Rogers and Y/N/N. Odd move, by the way.” 

He sighed, eyeing the selection of alcohol. “I have my reasons.” He told her. “But it’s probably a good thing I did.” He quickly explained what happened, and the very awkward conversation with you that led to him standing in the store.

“Well, I am proud of you for not going off at the whole needing to get her Plan B thing.” She said truthfully. “Had you told me that would be a situation, I would have thought you’d gone off. Threatened Rogers and scolded her.”

“Thanks.” That was something at least. “Now I’m standing in the store, grocery list in hand, not knowing what the hell to think.” Hence him calling her to begin with. She was an excellent voice of reason.

“If she wasn’t your daughter, how would you feel about him having someone he cares so much about?” She wondered. “Is it no one is good enough for him, either?” Part of her truly felt that to Bucky, no one was good enough for you or Steve. 

He paused. “I-” He snapped his mouth shut as he thought for a moment. “I’d be happy for him. All that punk has ever wanted was a pretty dame to go home to.” He groaned, knowing Nat likely had a smirk on her face. 

She kept her tone neutral, not letting him hear her smile. “I think he’s found that, and it’s not going to end well if you keep trying to push them apart. I have a feeling all that will do is push your daughter, and your best friend, away.” 

“Stevie already told me if I try to make him choose…he’d choose her.” He sighed. 

“Maybe instead of trying to be her dad for now, just try to be her friend. I think that would be the safest bet. Treat her like you’d treat me.” 

Bucky couldn’t help but laugh at that. “You two are a lot alike.” He admitted. “Both stubborn and mouthy.” He teased. 

You and Steve shared a shower after breakfast, and then while you washed the dishes, he sat at the table to sketch. He was sketching you, smiling softly to himself as you hummed along to the music that you had playing. He didn’t recognize the song, but he enjoyed it because you did. 

Just as you dried your hands, you heard the front door. Looking over, you raised an eyebrow at the amount of bags that Bucky brought in. “How much did you buy?” You asked, leaning against the counter, clearly amused. 

“Well, I got what you needed, a couple board games, a couple movies, what Stevie put on his list…and stuff to camp in the backyard.” 

“Why do you want to camp in the backyard? I get the couch isn’t the most comfortable, but it would probably be better than outside.” You noted, confused. 

He shrugged. “This way I can still help keep you safe, but I’ll be giving you your space.” He told you as he started to take things out of the bags. “And I got an air mattress, so even if I decide I don’t want to sleep outside, I can blow this up in the living room.” Hopefully you could see this as him trying. 

“Awe, you didn’t get Steve his own sleeping bag so you guys can make s'mores around a fire outback and have a sleepover like your kids again?” You teased him. “Tell scary stories and do whatever boys do when camping?” Honestly, the thought of either of them being little boys was such an odd thought. Logically, you knew at one point they had been, but picturing it was hard. Especially Bucky. 

Bucky laughed. “I don’t think that punk went camping before he got the serum. He was too sick.” He told you truthfully. “He was too busy getting into fights with guys twice his size.” 

“And you were too busy getting me out of those fights.” Steve pointed out with a chuckle, not looking up from his sketchpad. “Probably helped keep me alive long enough to even get the serum.” 

You looked at Steve. “You were that sick? Or do you mean that you’d end up running into the wrong person?” 

“Both.” Him and Bucky said at the same time. 

“Jesus.” You muttered, moving to help put things away. Seeing the Plan B, you grabbed the box and went to get a cup of water to take it. Pausing, you looked at them. “Suuuuper awkward question.” 

“What’s that?” 

“He’s super. Like, all of him. Will this even work?” You held up the box. “Like, I know how this works. It’s supposed to stop me from ovulating. Cool. But just this month. Will his swimmers have extra time to live? An average man’s sperm lives 5 days. What about his?” Would his sperm have super lifetimes? Or were they more similar to the average man’s? 

That made Steve stop sketching and look up. “I have no idea.” He admitted. 

“Uh, me, either.” Bucky hadn’t thought much into it before. “Would Banner know?” 

Steve shrugged. “We can call and ask him. There’s a landline here so our cellphones aren’t tracked. I’ll go call him real quick.” He set his things aside and went to the living room to do just that. 

“You were right.” 

“About?” You asked. 

“That was a super awkward question.” 

[clintbartonruinedmylife]

Steve: All right, we'll meet here in one hour. Sync your watches.

Clint: Mine doesn't do that.

Bucky: I don't wear a watch.

Natasha: Time is a construct.

Steve: *breathes in heavily*