I'll Write My Way Out

Lore| Hufflepuff |23 year old Libra that doesn't read the horoscope I Fanfic writer for (mostly) Marvel | A bit dyslexic a bit bilingual 🤷🏽‍♀️|Masterlist

[waitforthehurricanrose]

MASTERLIST

-> MARVEL<-

Margarita. (BuckyxrOC)

Hero (Pietro x Reader)

Scoot Over (Sam Wilson x reader)

Warmnth (T'Challa x reader)

INTO THE DARK (TChallaxreader) : 1 -- 2- - 3 -- 4 -- 5 -- 6-- 7 -- 8. completed

Bad day (LokixReader) : 1 -- 2

Lose my number (Bucky x reader) : 1 - 2- 3 -

-> HARRY POTTER <-

Lay me down (Draco x reader ) : 1 - 2

-> SUPERNATURAL <-

Last Midnight Part 1 Part 2 

[deedzreads]

when the author starts describing some fuck ass outfit that i’m supposedly wearing

[waitforthehurricanrose]

Currently re-reading the Penryn and The End Of Days trilogy

I’ve forgotten how good it was

I need fanart of the book please!

[aquaticmercy]

Kindred Spirits

Summary : Bucky starts courting you, a woman out of time.

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x regency era!reader (she/her) 

Warnings/tags : Fluff, angst, sex references, trauma, abusive families and a failed suicide attempt. Modern Bucky wearing his 40s uniform (yes this is a warning). Let me know if I missed anything!

Requested by : anon (based on this request)

Word count : 8.7k

Note : The reader has ice-based powers, though it is not the central point of the story. Loved doing this one. Enjoy!

1801

You refused his hand in marriage.

The German prince had cunning eyes and a smile that never reached them. His hands were cold when they kissed yours, and colder still when they pressed possessively against your back at your mother’s ball. He spoke of legacy, of bloodlines, of duty. 

He did not speak of love.

You would have been his fourth wife, since all three of his deceased spouses died of mysterious circumstances the second they turned 25.

Your father called your refusal foolish. 

“Romantic nonsense,” he spat, voice echoing through the corridors of your family estate. “You’ll disgrace our name!"

“I would rather disgrace our name than share a bed with that man!” you shouted, voice shaking.

He didn’t listen. The deal was done, the marriage contract was sealed.

You were a daughter, a pawn. A currency to be exchanged with an alliance to a man whose wealth exceeded his years and whose titles drowned out your voice.

Three weeks later, you were wrapped in velvet and pearls, not for a celebration, but for a transaction.

The ship waiting in the harbor was massive, carved in lacquered wood and gold trim. You stood on the gangway, surrounded by trunks of clothes you hadn’t packed yourself, escorted by men who never looked you in the eye.

Your father only came to see you off to make sure you didn’t run.

So you boarded because you had to. 

The salt of the seas burned your throat. The wind was harsh against your cheeks. But it was not as cold as the heart inside your chest.

You stared out at the black waves, imagining the life ahead: a silk-lined prison. A wedding where you’d be bartered like grain. A short life lived not for you, but for appearances, for alliances, for legacy.

Sometime during the voyage, you stopped eating.

Stopped speaking.

No one noticed.

On the fifth night, a storm clawed at the horizon, wind howling like wolves through the sails.

You crept to the upper deck in silence, barefoot, wind tearing your nightgown. 

You jumped when lightning cracked across the sky, waves when endless and hungry.

You climbed the rail.

You didn’t want to die—but you did not want to live like that. Not in a cage of diamonds. 

Not beneath a crown that came with shackles.

You closed your eyes and jumped.

The sea rose up to meet you, mouth wide and cold and deep. It swallowed your scream.

You plunged into darkness.

But in that near-death stillness, something inside you woke. Perhaps a dormant genetic code, 

The water did not crush you. The cold did not claim you.

Instead—your skin hardened. Your heart slowed. Your blood chilled and crystallized.

You did not die.

You froze.

And the sea, perhaps recognizing one of its own, held you close.

—

21st Century — North Atlantic Ocean

A S.W.O.R.D. submersible team had been combing the ocean floor, tracking a signal from a downed satellite when the sonar returned something strange.

A human body. 

But the body wasn’t drifting, nor decaying. It was... suspended. Floating upright in deep sea, arms at the sides, hair drifting like seaweed, face serene, eyes closed.

A woman.

You looked untouched by time.

You wore remnants of what must have once been a regency-era gown—lace torn and fluttering, corset seams unraveling like threads from a dream. And yet... you were glowing— a cold luminescence radiating from your skin.

The moment one of the divers reached out to touch you, the temperature around them plummeted.

They quickly realised your skin was the texture of ice, transforming as if to protect itself.

36 Hours Later — Classified S.W.O.R.D. Facility

Your eyelids fluttered open beneath sterile white lights. An unfamiliar ceiling hummed overhead. The air smelled of metal, antiseptic, and unfamiliarity. You heard a mechanical beeping in rhythm with your pulse. You flinched as you registered the restraints at your wrists, the needles in your veins, the murmured voices speaking in a clipped version of English that made your head ache.

A man in a lab coat leaned over you.

“Vitals stable. Genetic markers are being sent to level two— they were right— she’s not from this century.”

“Her cells are self-cooling,” another said. “Her entire system kept itself below freezing and still functioning. That’s incredible.”

You didn’t understand the words.

Suddenly, you yanked your arms, but they didn’t move. You tried to speak, but your throat burned from disuse. The ice was building beneath your skin—thin fissures of frost crawling up the bed’s frame. The walls started freezing.

“She’s awake!” Someone exclaimed.

“Sedate her,” another voice said urgently. 

“No—“ you managed to croak out, “wait—”

And then the door opened.

You heard boots on tile stomping in, “Alright,” you heard a voice say, “She doesn’t need a dozen needles in her, she needs someone to talk to. You all are dismissed.”

You turned your head.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, dark-haired and blue-eyed. He didn’t wear a white pristine coat. He wasn’t holding a clipboard.

“Sergeant Barnes,” a scientist said. “She—“

“Fury sent me in here to help,” he insisted, “you got a problem with that?”

Clearly, this Fury person meant something to these people because without a word, one by one, they filtered out.

Then he turned to look at you, and his eyebrows relaxed. 

He didn’t look at you like you were a specimen. He didn’t look at you like you were dangerous.

He looked at you like you were human.

And when he spoke, the words were familiar—not just the language, but the rhythm. The cadence.

“I take it the voyage didn’t go well, my lady?” He asked. 

Your lips parted.

“No,” you rasped. “It… did not.”

It was the first proper thing you had said since waking.

You watched him, unsure if he were a doctor or a soldier or something else entirely. He stepped closer, cautiously respectful. His voice was lowered, as though trying not to scare you.

“Do you remember where you were bound?”

You hesitated. “Germany. To be wed.”

He nodded solemnly. “I regret to inform you… the man you were to marry is most likely long dead.”

You blinked before letting out a small breath. “Good.”

He tilted his head curiously, barely.

He pulled a chair closer, sat beside the bed. You watched him curiously. His arm—his left one—gleamed faintly where his sleeve pushed up. It was metal.

“You’re not like them,” you said, your voice hoarse but starting to take root in this new reality.

“Neither are you,” he replied. “We… have that in common.”

—

It was later that you heard the conversation between two men outside.

Sam Wilson leaned against the corridor wall, arms crossed. “Didn’t know you could talk like that,” he chuckled.

“Jane Austen. I read lots of Austen.” Bucky shrugged, deadpan. “Helps me sleep. Pride & Prejudice is my favourite.”

Sam blinked. “You’re serious?”

“Dead serious,” Bucky can’t help the smile making its way up his lips. “Darcy’s got game.”

—

No one asked Bucky to be your guide—not officially. There was no mission briefing assigning him to you, no direct order passed down from above. 

There had only been talk about the strange woman they’d pulled from the icy waters. About how your clothes didn’t belong to this century. How the air around you turned sub-zero faintly when you were scared. How you talked in a cadence long buried by time, and how your fingers left frost behind when you touched the metal of the examination table.

To most, you were a curiosity. A threat, maybe.

But not to Bucky.

He saw you and saw himself. He knew what it was like to fall asleep in one world and wake up in another— to feel like a ghost in a place used to be home. You weren’t a puzzle to solve. You were someone who needed an anchor.

And so, without anyone asking, he became yours.

Perhaps, he could learn a thing or two with you, too.

He was the one who sat at your bedside when you opened your eyes after a long night of sedation, confused as you tried to make sense of the blinking lights and the white room on the second try.

He didn’t bombard you with questions or poke and prod at your strangeness. Instead, he just offered to talk about your newfound powers in the way few people knew he could be.

“You’re not alone,” he said when your eyes brimmed with tears and your breath fogged the windowpane. “I’m here to help.”

Then, the rain started pouring, and you flinched when lightning struck nearby.

You suddenly remembered the night you jumped, the night you should have died. 

“I suppose... a thunderstorm is fitting,” you sighed, more to yourself than to him.

Bucky didn’t really understand what you meant by it. “You’d have seen them where you’re from too, right?”

“I never liked them,” you whispered. “I always felt like the world was trying to shake itself apart.”

He was quiet for a long time, staring at the rain trailing down the glass and noticing they froze before they could hit the bottom.

“There’s something I should tell you,” he said finally.

You turned to him, sensing the shift in his tone. “What is it?”

He rubbed his hands together, then clasped them between his knees. “Do you know how much time has passed since you were last awake?”

You shook your head. “It surely can’t be more than a couple of days.”

Bucky swallowed hard. 

“It’s been almost two hundred years,” he said softly, giving you the rough estimate that the scientists had given him. “The world you knew… it’s gone.”

Your breath hitched.

You didn’t speak, you didn’t cry. You just looked away, eyes distant and unfocused.

“I—” Bucky’s voice broke. “I know what it feels like. When I came back, everything was different too.”

You blinked, your voice barely above a whisper. “Everyone I’ve ever known… ”

He reached for your hand. “I know. I’m sorry.”

Your fingers were like ice, but he didn’t pull away.

Strangely, you felt relieved. Confused and lost and utterly out of place on an earth that no longer cared for your existence, but relieved that your duties were off your chest.

— 

In those first few days, you clung to his presence like driftwood in the storm. And he let you.

One day, he showed up to the facility with a small leather-bound notebook in his hands, already dog-eared and full of scribbles.

“I thought this might help,” he said, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly.

Inside, you found words—modern words, strange ones, with little sketches beside them. Internet. Streaming. Selfie. Siri not a person, apparently).

There were doodles in the margins: a tiny coffee cup, a confused-looking cat, a stick figure with frost trailing from its fingers. You laughed softly.

“I don’t understand half of this,” you said, smiling up at him.

“Good,” he grinned, relaxing into the chair across from you. “Gives me something to teach you.”

That evening, you sat together, heads bent close, his metal fingers tracing pages while you repeated words slowly, carefully.

Sometimes you get frustrated. Sometimes you get lost in your thoughts. But he was always there—offering encouragement in the nicest ways.

You tilted your head that night, before he left. “You are Mr. Barnes, yes?”

He blinked, surprised by the formality. “Just Bucky,” he said. Then, hesitated, “Or... James, if you want.”

A smile broke across your face. “Then I shall call you James.”

He didn’t correct you. It had been a long time since someone had said his name like that—with so much… care.

Later, Sam caught the two of you curled up on the couch in the makeshift living room that S.W.O.R.D sat up until the end of your quarantine, blanket over your knees, your head resting lightly against Bucky’s shoulder as he guided your hand with the television remote.

“You let her call you James?” Sam asked when you were out of earshot, eyebrows raised and grinning like a cat who caught a canary. “You don’t even let me call you that.”

“She’s different,” Bucky muttered, trying not to look Sam in the eyes. 

“Mm-hmm. She got a little snowstorm going on in your chest, doesn’t she?”

Bucky didn’t answer.

He couldn’t deny it.

—

After your quarantine, they moved you into a S.W.O.R.D. safehouse tucked just outside of New York—a modest place wrapped in tall trees and silence, built years ago under Nick Fury’s “just in case” protocol. It was strange, modern, and boxy, but not unkind.

There was always sunlight through the wide glass windows, looking over the little porch out back with a creaking swing. At night, you could hear crickets. Not the same as what you remembered from home, but not so different either.

It wasn’t home. Not at first.

But it became home because of the people.

People came. People stayed.

People who understood what it was like to fall through time and land hard on the other side. People who understood what it was to be… associated… with people like you. 

Anomalies.

–

Sam Wilson offered to help you with control of your abilities.

He possessed no powers of his own, least of all the kind that bent elements or broke the laws of nature, but there was strength in him all the same—and you could tell he had other people under his wing before you. 

He taught you how to breathe through fear, how to move with intention rather than impulse. Meditation, mindfulness, combat techniques—strange words for a strange time, but he explained them well. 

The first time you attempted to channel your power, you’d shattered a glass from across the room. The air had grown brittle and sharp, frost curling across the floorboards, creeping up the walls. You had stumbled back, heart pounding like a war drum, 

But Sam didn’t look nearly as scared as you.

Instead, he crouched and offered you his hand.

“You’re not dangerous,” he said, like it was the simplest truth in the world. “You’re just scared.”

You so desperately wanted to believe him. “You’ve got people now,” Sam told you with a half-smile. “We’ll catch you if you fall… or freeze. You know.”

A laugh escaped you—small and surprised, but it was a laugh nonetheless.

—

James Rhodes—Rhodey, as he insisted you call him—took it upon himself to help you understand technology, a task he approached with the same methodical precision he might have used to dismantle a bomb or teach a cadet to fire a weapon. 

Or, as you thought of it: like a fencing lesson. 

Every concept was broken down into steps, often accompanied by elaborate metaphors that only occasionally made sense to you.

“Alright,” he said one afternoon, holding up a small cylindrical object as though it might explode. “This… is a smart speaker.”

You squinted at it, arms crossed. “It hums.”

“It plays music,” he clarified, setting it down on the table. “It also tells the weather, sets reminders, controls lights—”

“Is it a spirit of some kind?” you asked, cautiously circling the device as if it might scurry away.

Rhodey chuckled, “Think of it like… a servant trapped inside a music box.”

You stared at him. Then at the speaker. Then back at him.

“Is the servant… happy in there?”

He blinked once, lips parting, a frown tugging at his brow as he looked back at the speaker. “Uh… well….”

“Because if they aren't,” you added, lowering your voice to a whisper, “we ought to let them out.”

He stifled a laugh, shaking his head. “No one’s trapped, I promise. It’s just code. Algorithms. Not a person.”

You looked skeptical but nodded.

Despite the confusion (and your frequent questions about whether ‘the internet’ was a place one could visit in person), he never mocked your questions.

When he showed you how to use a touchscreen, he compared it to swordplay ("light pressure, not brute force”) and when you accidentally voice-commanded the television to play thirty consecutive hours of animal documentaries, he smiled and said, “At least it’s not reality TV.”

He taught you how to send a text, how to turn off notifications (“Think of it like telling a messenger to shut up”), and how to use video calls—though you still had a habit of bowing slightly when someone appeared on screen.

And over time, you began to see the magic in all of it—how these strange, blinking things helped people connect and communicate. It wasn’t so different, you realised, from the letters you used to write by candlelight.

—

Pepper Potts arrived in the safehouse one sunny afternoon, a tablet loaded with entire fashion catalogues under her arm.

“A lady deserves a wardrobe,” she declared, leaving no room for argument as her eyes swept over you with the precision of a royal seamstress. 

She even booked a private session for you in a boutique— it had more garments than you’d seen in a single place since your first Season in the marriage market. There were jeans, jumpsuits, structured jackets, loose flowing fabrics in delightful textures. 

“There are… trousers,” you gasped, scandalised.

Pepper’s eyes twinkled and nodded.

“But what of modesty?” you whispered, glancing around as if your mother might overhear and faint.

Pepper only laughed. “Modesty is overrated. Confidence is better. Wear whatever makes you feel good.”

She coaxed you into trying things on.

The first pair of jeans felt like armour—snug but not entirely pleasant, but Pepper showed you how to sit in them, how to move. You tried a blouse with sleeves that billowed like your old gowns, but tucked neatly into fitted pants that made you feel—oddly— stronger.

Over hours (and two cups of tea), she helped you find pieces that made you feel elegant and capable, that bridged the wide chasm between the world you knew and the one you’d woken into. You stood before the mirror at last in a coat over a dark knit dress, boots laced up to your calves, your hair swept back. 

You were still yourself. Just… more modern.

—

Darcy Lewis was the first to introduce you to the wonderful concept of takeout—and the miracle of microwave meals.

When she visited, she said she had experience with people that talked like old-timey-books. You didn't know what that meant. But when she mentioned a feast during dinnertime, you blinked, clutching the wooden spoon like a weapon. “But I… don’t have a cook.”

Darcy grinned. “Exactly. Welcome to the 21st century. We are the servants. But good news: our masters are frozen pizzas and pad thai.”

That evening, she ordered in an armful of plastic bags. She plopped herself onto your couch, and spread out three steaming boxes.

“Okay, this is Thai food,” she said, opening one to reveal a mess of noodles, sauce, and vegetables. “It’s spicy, though. Is that okay?”

You hesitated at first— eating from a box felt borderline barbaric—but the moment the flavors hit your tongue, you were hooked.

From there, Darcy took it upon herself to modernise your culinary education.

She taught you how to microwave leftovers—how to poke holes in plastic, how not to use metal, and the importance of watching the time. There was an unfortunate incident with a burrito and a small flame, but she only laughed, waving the smoke away like it was all part of the learning experience.

Darcy even taught you how to look up recipes online. You were fascinated by the endless scroll of options, though overwhelmed by the choices.

You decided fairly early on that she was very odd. She wore mismatched socks, swore like a sailor, and talked to her coffee mug as if it were a person. But you also knew she was wonderful.

—

Kamala Khan, bless her youthful soul, began visiting regularly—usually when she came to the city for her monthly check-in with Fury. She always made time for you, arriving in your safehouse with a tote bag full of snacks and enough enthusiasm to light the entire building.

“Hi! I brought samosas—and gummy worms. I’m not sure if you’ve had either of them.”

Her visits became something you looked forward to more than you would admit. 

Kamala appointed herself your official guide to “everything you’ve missed,” and took the job very seriously. Each visit became a pop culture adventure: one week it was superhero fan fiction ("No, you can’t be mad—it’s technically flattering!"), the next, karaoke. She introduced you to memes, slang, and social media with such child-like excitement, you found yourself nodding along even when you understood absolutely none of it.

“Wait,” Kamala said one afternoon, her head popping up from the couch cushions where she’d been scrolling on her phone. “Have you ever seen Frozen?”

You frowned, thinking she meant a state of being. “I have… been frozen, yes.”

“No, no,” Kamala laughed, clutching her heart. “The movie, Frozen!”

You were skeptical. Animation seemed childish, and your grasp on modern storytelling was tenuous at best. But Kamala was already putting the film up on the television.

The parallels were... uncanny. Uncomfortable. You stiffened when she fled her kingdom in fear, gasped when the ice spiraled up the mountainside.

“She’s like you,” she whispered.

“I think,” you said softly, voice a little cracked, “I would like to watch more of these… animated stories.”

“Oh my god,” Kamala beamed with joy. “We’re starting with Tangled next. You’re gonna love Pascal.”

—

At first, Bruce Banner frightened you.

Because he was, well, green.

You had seen monsters before. In your own time, they wore uniforms and crowns. They raised cities and called it conquest.

But Bruce was none of the sort. 

He began to explain things. He talked you through your check-ups introducing you to modern medicine. He explained each procedure before performing it, every vaccine and its purpose, every sterile tool and how it differed from the leeches and tinctures you remembered.

And when he had to touch your wrist to take your pulse, or draw a small vial of blood for testing, he always asked first. 

“You don’t have to worry,” he said once, catching your anxious glance at the tray of vials. “This isn’t a lab. You’re not an experiment. We just need to know you’re adjusting well.”

One day, while examining your hand—checking circulation after a brief, accidental frost—you asked quietly, “Does it ever scare you? Knowing what’s inside you?”

Bruce paused, then gave a faint smile. “Sometimes.”

You thought of your own power. Of ice creeping along your skin when your heart raced.

And in that moment, for the first time, that part of you felt understood.

—

But Bucky… Bucky was different.

He was your anchor in a world that often felt like ice underfoot.

He took you to the market (or mall, as he called it), hand resting lightly on your back as you marveled at the endless colors and unfamiliar packaging. He taught you how escalators worked (and caught you,when you gasped and stumbled backward in surprise).

He introduced you to vinyl records—your fingers trailing reverently over the grooved discs as he played Ella Fitzgerald for the first time.

Still, modern wonders caught you off-guard. You couldn’t get over the shampoo that smelled like cherries. “Why fruit?” you asked, nose scrunched, as he grinned, watching you step out of the bathroom in a sundress that Pepper  had helped you pick out. 

“Smells nice,” he said. “And because you like it.”

He brought you cotton blankets when the cold in your bones turned to frost at your fingertips. He gave you books to read from his collection. 

You once spent an afternoon at the museum together. That day, you found yourself staring at pieces of your own era behind glass. You saw a pair of gloves almost identical to the ones you once owned. A fan with delicate lace, yellowed at the edges. A portrait of someone you swore you’d met at a ball.

He stood beside you, close enough that the heat of his presence kept your fingers from frosting over the display.

Bucky never rushed you. Not once.

He explained things patiently—what traffic lights meant, why the city never slept, how to look both ways before crossing.

And when you passed a couple kissing in the park, their arms entwined, you slowed to a halt.

You watched, curiosity downing across your face like snowfall.

“Is that common now?” you asked softly. “To show such affection in public?”

“Yeah,” he said gently, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You tilted your head. “And no one’s punished… or disgraced? Even if they are not  married?”

He shook his head. “Not anymore.”

You let out an awed breath. “Amazing,” you whispered. Then, quieter, you asked him, “Do they choose their partners out of love?”

He was quiet for a moment, caught off-guard. “Mostly,” he said at last.

You smiled, the kind of smile you’d once only allowed yourself in candlelight, when no one was watching.

“Good,” you said.

—

Some nights, he stayed late.

Not out of duty, and not because he had nowhere else to be. But because sitting beside you on the porch, felt like peace.

You always made the tea too strong, still learning the balance of leaves and steeping time, but he drank it anyway. He never complained, only added a little more sugar when you weren’t looking.

The two of you would sit shoulder to shoulder, legs tucked under wool blankets, eyes tilted toward the stars. You told him stories about the constellations— how your governess used to teach them to you. Orion the Hunter. Cassiopeia the Queen.

He listened like every word mattered.

In turn, he spoke of his own time.

“I missed so many things,” he said one night, as though not to disturb the stars above. “So many people.”

You didn’t speak right away. Instead, you reached across the space between you and gently laid your hand over his metal one. It was cool to the touch, but comforting nonetheless.

“I know the feeling,” you said.

One evening, as the sky turned dusky lavender, you confessed a truth— something that you had not known how to address.

“I never learned how to braid my hair,” you said, almost shyly. “I used to have ladies for that. They’d do it every morning, sometimes with ribbons, sometimes with pearls.”

You smiled a little, wistfully. “And then… suddenly there were no ladies. And no pearls.”

Without a word, Bucky moved to sit behind you on the couch.

“I had a sister,” he said in clarification. “She’d ask me to do hers when our ma was too busy. Said I was better at it anyway.”

You felt him softly tugging as he began to part your hair.

You closed your eyes.

And there—woven between strands of hair—was care. 

When he finished, you turned to face him.

“You’re good at this,” you said with a smile, warm and bright and a little surprised.

He gave you a boyish grin. “Don’t tell Sam. He’ll never let me live it down.”

—

Sometimes, when everything became too much—when old ghosts stirred in the corners of his mind—Bucky stayed in the second bedroom of the safehouse.

Tonight was one of those nights.

The silence inside felt vast and hollow. This was the kind of silence that echoed too loudly against the walls and made your footsteps sound intrusive. You moved through the rooms, unsure whether you were haunting the house or it was haunting you.

Outside, the wind whispered through the trees, stirring the leaves like restless memories. You curled yourself in a blanket and sat near the wide front window, barefoot, legs tucked beneath you. The glass was cold, and the world beyond it was even colder. You stared out at the dark as if it might offer answers—or at least an escape, like you once looked into ice waters below.

That’s how Bucky found you.

Barefoot, shoulders drawn tight like a bowstring about to snap. Fingers clenching the edges of the throw blanket with white-knuckled intensity. Your eyes were distant, half-lit by moonlight.

He didn’t speak or ask what was wrong. He just walked across the room and lowered himself to the floor beside you. Close, but not crowding.

“I know that look,” he said softly, voice barely above whisper.

You didn’t answer. 

“You’re reliving something,” he said. 

He was right.

Still, you kept your mouth shut and eyes forward. You’d spent a lifetime burying pain beneath poise—behind the rigid etiquette of your era, the careful layers of composure. You weren’t going to fall apart now

“You know,” Bucky said after a pause, “when I first got my mind back… I didn’t talk much.”

Your eyes darted toward him, the smallest movement, but he caught it.

“Didn’t even know who I was for a long time. I knew my name, kinda. Remembered flashes of the war. Then… nothing. Just waking up with blood on my hands and no idea why. Over and over again.”

You swallowed hard, throat tightening.

“I lost everyone I knew. Steve was all that was left, and even he sometimes looked at me like I wasn’t really there.” He exhaled slowly. “I was… am… a man out of time. Just like you.”

You hesitated, then when you finally spoke—your voice was quiet, cracked like thin ice.

“Do you remember much about your family?” You whispered.

He nodded. “My ma made the best apple pie in the neighborhood. Burned it half the time, but we always ate it anyway. My little sister Becca used to chase me with a broom when I teased her. I thought fighting in the war was the right thing to do.”

There was a reverence to the way he spoke. Not just sorrow— but love, too. A kind of longing that felt impossible to lose to time.

“I guess,” he added gently, “I thought… maybe if I told you all this, it’d be a little easier for you to tell me what’s on your mind.”

Your breath hitched. You stared down at your hands, shaking now, clutched in your lap like you were holding yourself together by sheer force.

“I was supposed to marry a prince,” you finally admitted for the first time in this lifetime. The words felt like ash on your tongue. “My father arranged it. Said it was my duty.”

Bucky’s head lifted. His eyes, storm-grey and steady, found yours.

“I was… an alliance. I was a contract.”

The air dropped around you. The temperature fell gradually, frost lacing the corners of the windowsill, spiderwebbing outward. You didn’t notice at first, but Bucky did. His breath fogged, and the wooden floor beneath you shimmered with a thin, unnatural layer of ice.

“I tried to kill myself,” you choked out. “I jumped off the ship. Into the sea. I don’t remember what happened after that. Not until the lab. And then… I….”

Unable to finish your sentence, the frost spread. Crystals glinted on your lashes like delicate diamonds. The tears came fast, but froze to your cheeks before they could fall.

“I woke up in a world of glass towers and glowing screens. I don’t belong here, James. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do anymore.”

And just like that, you suddenly don't feel cold anymore, Bucky’s arms wrapping around you.

He tucked your head beneath his chin, his flesh hand moving in comforting circles across your back while his other arm drew you closer, anchoring you in the now.

You were stiff at first, and shocked by the contact.

But then, you melted into him like spring snow under the touch of sunlight. You pressed your face into his shoulder and let yourself fall apart.

“I might not be able to fix it,” Bucky muttered into your hair, “but maybe… I can help you find some kind of closure.”

You trembled in his hold, sobs quieting into soft, stuttered breaths. The ice on the floor started fading.

—

Bucky didn’t really tell you where you were going at first.

The journey was long and quiet. It was a landscape of  muted skies, the kind of journey that made the world feel smaller and older. You sat beside him in the jet, watching the clouds shift like time unraveling in reverse— it took your breath away. 

Flying… was something you never imagined man capable of doing. 

His hand never left the control panel, but his eyes darted to you often—as if checking to see whether you were ready. 

You weren’t. 

But he took you anyway, because he promised closure. 

You landed in a familiar garden. 

The gates were rusted through, half-bent and snarled with ivy. The once-grand house beyond them loomed like a ruin, its stone face cracked and worn by time, windows empty, roof bowed with decay. Weeds swallowed the gravel drive you remembered walking as a child. The trees you once climbed were bare-boned and brittle now, clawing up at a gray sky that didn’t care you had come home.

This was your family’s estate. 

You froze as you set foot on the grass.

“It’s still here,” you whispered.

“I did some digging,” Bucky said shyly, his hands tucked in the pockets of his coat. “Historical archives. Property records, y’know? Your family estate—what’s left of it—was absorbed into state land after the war. No heirs. No claims.”

“The line died,” you said, your voice hollow.

He looked at you gently. “Until now.”

You walked through what remained.

The drawing room where you once read Gulliver’s Travels by candlelight was open to the elements, the ceiling collapsed. A garden wall you’d hid behind during games with your cousins now lay scattered in mossy stone. The ballroom—your mother’s pride and joy—was nothing but fractured floorboards and a rusted chandelier dangling like a broken crown.

And still, you remembered.

You remembered the scent of lavender oil on your mother’s gloves. The clink of silverware at dinners where you’d been taught not to speak unless spoken to. The way your father's boots echoed through the hall when he came to find you.

You remembered his study, where he signed the letter that sealed your fate, sent by a servant who wouldn't meet your eyes.

He had no heirs… because you decided drowning was better than living a lie.

This… the ruin of your family home was your fault. Or at least your father would say so. 

You hated him.

But when Bucky led you to the far edge of the overgrown gardens—to the private family cemetery hidden beneath ancient trees—you cried anyway.

Your father’s name was etched into a crumbling headstone.

Your mother’s was beside it. Your siblings—two who died young and you never really knew—lined up in stone and sorrow.

And there, at the end of the row, was a space. An empty grave without a marker. 

Where you would have gone, had the sea taken you. Had they found your body. 

You dropped to your knees.

You didn’t make a sound at first. You just reached out and touched the cold stone of your father’s grave, as if expecting it to speak. To explain. To answer for what he’d done. To apologise.

But he didn’t.

Then the air around you shifted.

The ground beneath your hands iced over in a sudden bloom. Frost swept across the cemetery like a wind-chime hush. 

Bucky, once again, was beside you in an instant. He didn’t try to stop the frost this time. He just knelt in the snow-laced grass, and placed his hand over yours.

“You don’t have to forgive him,” he said softly. “You don’t even have to understand him.”

“I don’t,” you said. “I despise him.”

“I know.”

You were trembling, biting back a shameful confession. “But I’m… grieving…  him.”

“Grief’s a complicated thing,” Bucky said. “It’s okay not to know what to do with it.”

Your hands shook harder. The frost turned to thin crystals climbing the edges of the gravestones.

“I’m scared,” you said, your voice a whisper. “I don’t know how to live again. I don’t know who I am anymore.”

Bucky reached out and pulled you into him. Held you like you mattered. Like you weren’t alone.

“You’ve got a second chance.” he murmured. “And this time, your choices are yours.”

You let the words sink in.

You let the grief happen.

The snow began to fall gently, not quite forgiveness, but not quite anger, either.

You stayed there with Bucky for a long time—sitting between the broken past and the uncertain future.

And for the first time since you emerged from the sea, you felt the burden of your old life begin to melt.

Not gone. Not erased.

But finally, finally…

The beginning of closure.

—

Still, closure didn’t erase the past—but it gave you room to breathe.

The grief remained, as grief often does, but it no longer held you hostage. You smiled more. Spoke more freely.

Sam noticed first, naturally.

One afternoon, as you finished training with Sam, he leaned back on his bench. “You’ve been suspiciously… sunshine-y,” he pointed out with a grinning.

You blinked, caught off-guard. “I—pardon?”

“I think,” He leaned in conspiratorially. “You have a crush on good ol’ Sergeant Barnes.”

You flushed. “I most certainly—”

“Don’t worry,” he said, waving a hand as Bucky walked into the room behind you. “Your secret’s safe with me. But just so you know… he does that little smile thing every time you walk in.”

You turned, wide-eyed, just in time to catch Bucky pretending he hadn’t heard a word of it. He gave you a polite nod and stepped into the ring. 

Sam, meanwhile, grinned like a man who knew exactly what he’d done.

You and Bucky had grown closer. In ways neither of you had expected.

Not all at once, and not in a sweeping, cinematic rush. It was more like two vines reaching for the same patch of sunlight and finding each other along the way.

There were more nights spent talking until the stars faded. Mornings where he waited for you to wake before making tea—always too strong, still, but he’d grown fond of it. He stopped putting so much sugar in it.

He touched you more now, in the simplest, most respectful ways. He would place a hand to your back when guiding you through a crowd. His finger would touch yours when passing you a mug.

Then, one afternoon, Bucky asked, almost shyly, “Can I steal you for a little outing?”

“What for?”

“Uh,” he scratched the back of his neck. “Dress shopping.”

You assumed it was another lesson in modern fashion. Pepper had taken you more than once before—sleek black dresses, expensive fabrics, silhouettes you didn’t know what to do with. Truthfully. You preferred comfy joggers and graphic T-shirts. They were beautiful, yes, but something felt… missing. 

They made you feel like a guest in someone else’s body.

But this was different.

Bucky took you to a small, tucked-away shop in the historic district, full of antique mannequins and carefully preserved garments. Lace parasols, ribboned bonnets, corseted gowns—genuine pieces alongside wonderful recreations. When you entered the shop, the smell of old fabric and beeswax polish made your chest thump with a familiarity.

Bucky said something about regency era clothing to the shopkeeper. 

“You’ve come to the right place,” she smiled. 

Bucky gave a sheepish shrug and looked at you. “Figured you deserve to feel at home in your own clothes.”

Hours passed like moments as you tried on gowns—soft silks, delicate embroidery, flowing sleeves that fluttered with your every breath. 

One dress in particular made time stand still.

It was pale blue, the color of dawn before the world began to stir.

The sleeves floated when you moved, as delicate as fairy wings. The fabric shimmered just slightly when the light touched it. Your hair had been gathered at the nape of your neck.

You stepped out.

And Bucky… stopped breathing.

His lips were parted like he’d forgotten how to speak. “You look…” he tried, voice rough, “I—I mean, wow.”

You smiled and turned to the mirror.

And for the first time in what felt like centuries, you didn’t see a survivor or a subject or a woman out of place in time.

You saw her.

The girl you used to be.

The woman you could’ve become.

You stood a little taller.

And Bucky—who had seen you at your lowest, at your most broken—pulled out his wallet without a second thought and bought the dress. Then two more. He insisted.

You didn’t argue.

The skies opened the moment you stepped outside the shop, welcoming sudden rain of a summer storm.

Most people ran for cover. But not you. Not Bucky.

You held out your hands, laughing as the raindrops kissed your skin. Your hair clung to your cheeks in damp tendrils. The blue gown stuck to your legs, heavier now, but you didn’t care.

“You’ll ruin the gown,” Bucky warned, but he smiled— he had absolutely no real concern.

“I’ll survive,” you answered, laughing as you spun in a joy-drunk twirl. 

He didn’t argue.

By the time you reached his apartment, both of you were soaked to the bone and laughing, shoes squelched against the floor. He offered you shelter without hesitation.

After you towel off in the bathroom, you stepped back out in the gown. Still damp and stunning. You’d refused to change.

But you had a condition.

“If I must live in your world,” you said with a half-smile, tilting your chin toward him, “then you must give me a piece of yours in return.”

Bucky looked intrigued. “What do you mean?”

You snuck into his bedroom and opened his closet, rifling through until—aha! This must be it! 

You spotted a neatly kept garment bag, preserved in time. You held it up with a sparkle in your eye. “Wear something from your time. Just for me.”

He hesitated, but only for a moment.

A few minutes later, he stepped out of the bedroom…

And it was as if the past came to life.

He wore brown wool and polished boots. A matching belt snug at his waist, and his hair combed back in that classic, clean sweep you’d only ever seen in old black-and-white photographs of his time. 

Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes.

This time, you forgot how to breathe.

“James,” you whispered, like saying his name too loud might shatter reality.

He shifted on his feet, a little sheepish. “What?” he asked, fingers nervously twitching at his sides. “Too much?”

“No,” you whispered, lifting your hand to the front of his jacket, letting your fingertips brush the fabric carefully. “You look like every dream I buried. Like every poem I was never brave enough to write.”

His mouth parted, but he couldn’t seem to find the words. So instead, he reached up—gently, reverently—and tucked a damp curl behind your ear.

You leaned into the touch.

Then, without a word, Bucky moved to the record player in the corner of the room.

The soft click of the needle dropping was followed by a gentle crackle. And then, the smooth, honey-rich voice of Marvin Gaye filled the air.

He turned to you, held out his hand, and bowed playfully, “May I have this dance?”

You nodded, barely finding your voice. “You may.”

He pulled you into him gently, your hands finding their place with natural ease. One nestled into his, the other resting lightly on his shoulder. His hand settled at your waist before you began to move.

He guided you through the steps he'd once known in smoky dance halls and swing bars back in the '40s. There had been carefree laughter then, shared between soldiers who didn’t know if they’d live to dance again.

“You’re light on your feet,” he mentioned, smiling.

“You’re not bad yourself,” you teased. “But this—” You shifted, guiding his steps into a slower, more regal rhythm. “This is how we danced in my time.”

He followed your lead, eyes wide with amusement as he attempted your elegant glide, stumbling once or twice as you adjusted his posture.

He laughed when you corrected him, and you giggled as he attempted a dramatic dip, catching you with a hand at your back like a perfect gentleman. 

And then… the movements started slowing down.

You leaned in, resting your cheek against his chest. His arms found itself wrapping around you like he was made to fit there— like the space between you had never really existed. You both barely moved at all.

It was peaceful.

And then… Bucky saw… snowflakes?

Not outside on the windowsill, falling from the clouds. But inside.

Tiny, crystalline flecks of frost drifted around you both, floating like suspended stars. 

He held his breath.

He knew your powers only manifested when your emotions grew too intense, past the point of control.

What emotion could you have possibly… oh. 

He leaned down, brushing his lips near your temple. “Hey,” he whispered.

You turned your face slightly toward his.

“What if…” he said carefully, “What if I courted you?”

Oh?

You lifted your head to look at him fully, almost breathless. “You mean like… properly?”

“Well,” he laughed nervously, “maybe not with calling cards… unless you want those,” he said with a small smile.

You blinked once, then twice— and cleared your throat. “Only if we do not require a chaperone.”

His eyes twinkled. “No chaperones,” he promised. “Just me and you.”

You nodded, leaning into him again. “Then… yes. Court me, James.”

His arms tightened around you just a little. 

—

Bucky Barnes, when he courted you, was the picture of old-world charm. He walked you to dinners with your hands entwined over his arm, like escorting you was not a favour or a duty, but a privilege. He opened every door, pulled out every chair, helped you step carefully down curbs like you were walking off the edge of a ballroom floor.

He offered you his coat when the wind bit through your shawl. 

He never rushed or assumed. He was always waiting for your invitation.

But the tension was there.

The slow-burning warmth that grew brighter with each day. He watched you like a man finally seeing daylight after years in darkness—not ravenous, but grateful. And you… you had never been looked at like that before.

Not as a daughter traded for alliance.

Not as a noblewoman trained to smile and curtsy before disappearing.

But as a person.

One warm evening, after dinner at a quiet rooftop place that looked over the city skyline—he’d called it “the best damn view in Brooklyn,” but you suspected he meant you—he walked you back to your safehouse

Your heels clicked softly beside his boots as you spoke about poetry and modern music, the strangeness of this era and the wonder in it.

When you reached your door, you turned to him with a soft smile. 

“Come in?” you asked. You had seen the woman offer this to the man in some of the movies Kamala showed you.

His throat bobbed when he swallowed. He nodded, following you into the softly lit apartment. Everything smelled like flowers and books and your favorite candle.

“This might be a bit forward,” he said nervously, “but… can I— may I kiss you?”

You tilted your head just slightly, letting your eyes drop to his mouth while your heart thundered behind your ribs.

“Yes,” you said, with all the courage of someone who'd been quiet too long and was done hiding.

And when he did kiss you— god.

It wasn’t shy.

His lips were home, tasting faintly of whiskey and cinnamon, and his hand came up to cradle your jaw, as if he could shelter you from everything that had ever hurt you.

You kissed him back like his mouth was the answer to every question your heart had ever dared whisper.

And when you finally pulled away—just enough to breathe—he blinked at you, stunned, his blue eyes dark with wonder.

“Jesus,” he breathed. “You’re… you’re a great kisser.”

You laughed, breathless and a little flushed, tucking a curl behind your ear. “I’ve had… some experience.”

He tilted his head, brows lifting with genuine surprise. “Have you?”

Your smile faltered in horror for a second. 

You took a step back, “Would… would you still want me? Knowing I’m not… untouched?”

His eyes widened instantly. “Hey,” he said, stepping forward, catching your hands. “Of course I still want you. God, yes. I just—” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I wasn’t aware, that’s all. A lady like you…”

“James,” you cut him off softly, “I might look like a lady, but I assure you—I’ve found ways to get satisfaction without the proper crowd knowing.”

His lips parted slightly. 

Huh.

He wasn’t expecting that.

“That so?” he asked, rough around the edges.

“Indeed,” you replied, eyes glittering.

He took one step closer.

“Would you… consider letting me be one of those ways?”

You arched eyebrows. “If you ask nicely.”

His hands slipped to your waist, his grin bright like the photos from the 40s. “Darlin’, I can be very polite.”

And then you kissed him again.

Harder this time, your fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt, tugging him closer until there was no space left between you.

Bucky responded in kind.

He returned in open-mouthed kisses. I want you. I trust you. I choose you.

You didn’t make it far.

Only to the couch—stumbling in the haze of want —before he was over you. His hands were greedy, unfastening your gown like he was peeling away the centuries. And you let him. Happily. 

Your fingers slid beneath his shirt, finding heat and muscle and the silver lines of scars he never hid from you.

His hands moved with care, not caution. His mouth followed, kissing trails down your neck, pausing to savour every gasp, every groan.

But when you whispered “Yes,”—when you moaned his name into the hollow of his throat—his restraint vanished.

“Tell me what you like,” he demanded, his tongue hot against your collarbone, nipping and biting all the same.

You could barely form words. “Everything you’re doing,” you gasped.

That earned you a wicked smile. “Yeah?” he whispered.

And then he made it his mission to ruin you— in the sweetest, most thorough way imaginable. He wanted to make sure no gentleman would ever compare.

You came apart slowly, then all at once– your powers responding to the intensity of your heat. Before you knew it, Frost painted the ceiling in delicate patterns and snowflakes spiraled lazily through the air like falling stars.

Bucky groaned against your neck, still buried deep inside you, his breath ragged. “Fuck,” he muttered, a dazed kind of wonder in his voice, looking at how much of your powers manifested in the living room. “That good, huh?”

You laughed—almost giddy. “The best I’ve ever had.”

His grin widened, and he would’ve been pure sin if not for the adorable wonder in his eyes. “Yeah?”

You nodded, cheeks flushed. "And I would know.”

He lifted his head, raising a teasing brow. “Anyone I should be worried about?”

You chuckled through the haze of afterglow. “Well… there was a stable boy. When I was young and stupid.”

Bucky groaned, jokingly exasperated as he flopped beside you, one arm thrown dramatically across his eyes. “Of course there was a stable boy. There’s always a stable boy.”

“And one of my guards,” you added with faux innocence, resting your head on his chest. “After my father arranged the engagement. He was kind.”

He looked down at you, eyes sparkling. “You were scandalous.”

“Perhaps.” You giggled, bare skin shamelessly pressed to bare skin, “But you… you’re the only one I’ve ever loved, James.”

That stopped everything.

He couldn’t quite believe it.

“What?” he said, voice quiet.

You leaned in, lips brushing his. “I love you,” you repeated, carefully, tilting your head against his skin. “Is that okay, James?”

He looked at you like the war had never happened. Like time had never stolen decades from him. Like he’d been waiting across a hundred lifetimes just to hear that.

And then he smiled.

“I love you, too,” he said and pulled you close, one hand threading gently into your hair as he kissed you again.

Outside, in the middle of June, snow began to fall across New York.

Not heavy— a light, gentle dusting—like powdered sugar on gingerbread rooftops and blossoms.

Street lamps caught it in golden halos. Children ran to their windows. Dogs barked. People stared in confusion.

And in a hotel a few blocks away, Sam Wilson blinked at the frost collecting on his windowsill and smiled. 

“She must be with Bucky.”

—end.

General Bucky taglist:

@hotlinepanda @snflwr-vol6 @ruexj283 @2honeybees @read-just-cant

 @shanksstrawhat @mystictf @globetrotter28 @thebuckybarnesvault@average-vibe

@winchestert101 @mystictf @globetrotter28 @shanksstrawhat @scariusaquarius

@reckless007 @hextech-bros @daydreamgoddess14 @96jnie @pono-pura-vida

@buckyslove1917 @notsostrangerthing @flow33didontsmoke @qvynrand @blackbirdwitch22

@torntaltos @seventeen-x @ren-ni @iilsenewman @slayerofthevampire

@hiphip-horray @jbbucketlist @melotyy @ethereal-witch24 @samfunko

@lilteef @hi172826 @pklol @average-vibe @shanksstrawhat

@shower-me-with-roses @athenabarnes @scarwidow @thriving-n-jiving @dilfsaresohot

@helloxgoodbi @undf-stuff @sapphirebarnes @hzdhrtss @softhornymess

@samfunko @wh1sp @anonymousreader4d7 @mathcat345 @escapefromrealitylol

@imjusthere1161 @sleepysongbirdsings @fuckybarnes @yn-stories-are-my-life

@cjand10 @nerdreader @am-3-thyst

@goldengubs @maryevm @helen-2003 @maryssong23

@yesshewrites1 @thewiselionessss @sangsterizada

[waitforthehurricanrose]

This is ??? So good??? Ive already re read it three times it’s amazing

[batmans-archnemesis]

i’m tired of the smut bring back thor’s poptart addiction and clint being in the vents all the time

[justsomerandomfanfic]

Beauty And The Beast - Chapter 6 - Loki Odinson X Female Reader

Title: The West Wing

Loki Odinson X Female Reader

Additional Characters: Natasha, Clint, Mrs. Potts, and Alpine (Mentioned)

Beauty And The Beast Retelling Fanfic

Chap 1 | Chap 2 | Chap 3 | Chap 4 | Chap 5 | You Are Here | Chap 7 | Chap 8 | Chap 9 | Chap 10 | Chap 11 | Chap 12 | Chap 13 | Chap 14 | Chap 15 | Chap 16 END |

WC: 1,280

Warnings: Imprisonment, rude Loki, italics, banter, nicknames, yelling, wolves, fighting, mentions of injuries, slight angst, and fluff?

Natasha raised an eyebrow, her expression clearly displaying worry as she crossed her arms. “If his Highness finds out you violated his orders and fed her, he will blame me!” Her voice was sharp, exasperation dripping from every word.

Clint, leaning against the doorway, gave her a playful smirk. “Yes, I will make sure of it,” He responded cockily, almost as if daring her to fight back.

“Oh, I’m planning my sweet, sweet revenge,” Natasha muttered under her breath, rolling her eyes, though a faint smile tugged at the corners of her lips before she focused back on the conversation. “But did you see her stand up to him?” Natasha added, her voice dropping to a whisper, and ensuring you were far enough behind to not overhear.

Clint rose a candle into the air, “I am telling you, this woman is the one.”

You, however, were too distracted to even hear their little whispers, your eyes wandering around the halls as you trailed further behind, admiring the strange, yet elegant decor. Rather lost in thought.

“They must fall in love if we are to be human again,” Mrs. Potts whispered with urgency, glancing at Clint and Natasha. “And how can they fall in love if she stays locked away in her room?”

Confused by their kindness, you quickened your steps to catch up, furrowing your brow. “I don't understand why you're all being so kind to me,” You said, your voice soft but filled with curiosity. “Surely, you're as trapped here as I am. Don’t you ever want to escape?”

Mrs. Potts’ face softened with a mixture of warmth and sadness. She glanced at you, then ahead, her voice gentle but firm. “His Highness is not as terrible as he appears. Somewhere deep in his soul, there's a fellow who’s just waiting to be set free of his burdens and just wants to be happy. To be understood.”

As they led you to the kitchen, the smell of rich, savory food filled the air. Before you knew it, you were seated in front of a meal fit for royalty: turkey smothered in thick gravy, a mountain of mashed potatoes, and a sparkling goblet of ginger beer. You dug into the feast, overwhelmed but grateful, savoring each bite, though the weight of your situation still lingered.

Soon after, Clint and Natasha excused themselves, leaving you with Mrs. Potts, who kindly offered to walk you back to your room. As you strolled through the winding halls, you hesitated, your curiosity bubbling to the surface. “Clint mentioned something about the west wing…” You asked, clasping your hands nervously, hoping to learn more.

Mrs. Potts paused briefly, then waved her spout dismissively. “Never mind about that. Off to bed with you, my girl,” She instructed with a firm yet gentle tone, ushering you toward the door to your new room.

“Good night,” You said, though your mind was far from resting.

“Nighty-night. Straight to bed,” Mrs. Potts echoed softly, giving you a nod before disappearing around the corner with a gentle hop.

The moment she was gone, you felt your pulse quicken with a surge of rebellious energy. This was your chance. Heart pounding, you quietly crept down the staircase, turning toward the west wing. Each step seemed to echo in the eerie silence, but your curiosity propelled you forward.

Entering the forbidden wing, the darkness seemed to swallow you whole, the air thick with mystery. Your eyes adjusted, and you gasped at the sight of the broken furniture, torn tapestries, and shattered chandeliers scattered across the room. It was a place of forgotten beauty, left to decay in its loneliness.

Your fingers grazed one of the broken portraits on the wall, curiosity overwhelming you as you lifted the torn canvas flap. A royal family was revealed beneath the damage - two regal parents with their two sons. The father, dressed in golden robes with an eyepatch, had a commanding presence, while the mother, with her gentle smile, stood tall and serene. But it was the sons who captured your attention. The blonde one, with his bright blue eyes, seemed to emanate strength, while the dark-haired son, with his mischievous green eyes, drew you in. Those eyes held something deeper - something alluring, maybe even dangerous.

A flicker of red caught your eye, pulling your focus from the painting. You turned slowly, eyes widening at the sight of the beautiful red rose floating delicately inside its glass case. Its soft glow lit up the dark room, enchanting you with its impossible beauty.

You stepped toward it, your hands trembling slightly as you reached for the glass cover. The air around you felt charged, like you were touching something sacred, something forbidden. The moment your fingers brushed the glass, a voice boomed from behind, freezing you in place.

“What are you doing here!?” The Beast’s thunderous roar echoed through the room, and you spun around to see him storming toward you, his eyes wide with panic and fury. You stumbled back, heart racing, as he rushed to the rose, his massive frame blocking your view. “What did you do to it?” He demanded, his voice a dangerous growl. His claws gripped the glass case, covering the rose protectively, as if he feared it might vanish.

“N- Nothing!” You stammered, taking a shaky step back, your voice barely steady as you tried to explain. “I didn’t touch it.”

His breath came heavy, his anger barely contained. “Do you realize what you could have done?” He snapped, his gaze piercing through you. “You could have doomed us all! Get out of here! Go!” His voice reached a fever pitch, sending you stumbling toward the door in a panic.

Without another word, you fled, your footsteps echoing in the empty corridors as you burst through the main double doors and into the icy, unforgiving night.

Outside, the snowfall came down hard, biting into your skin. Desperation took hold as you raced toward Alpine, who was waiting nervously by the barn. With a quick, frantic movement, you mounted the horse, urging her forward into the thick forest. Snow whipped across your face, obscuring your vision as you rode, the trees blurring together in the storm.

A low, menacing howl cut through the night air, sending chills down your spine. For a moment, you thought it was the Beast, but no… It sounded like a wolf. Alpine reared back, spooked, and in one swift motion, you were thrown from the saddle. You hit the ground hard, gasping as the breath was knocked from your lungs. You scrambled to your feet, looking around frantically. Shadows shifted in the darkness - the wolves were closing in.

Your heart pounded in your chest as you searched for something, anything, to defend yourself with, but the wolves were too close. Their black forms stalked forward, their eyes glowing in the dim light. One of them pounced, and just as you braced yourself, the Beast lunged from out of the shadows, tackling the wolf to the ground.

The fight was brutal; savage. The Beast tore through the pack with raw strength, tossing wolves aside as they lunged at him. Finally, the last of the wolves retreated, their howls fading into the distance as they disappeared into the woods.

The Beast collapsed into the snow, his breath ragged, his body trembling from the effort. You hesitated for a moment, then cautiously approached him, kneeling beside his hulking form. His fur was matted with blood and snow. He was hurt…

Gently, you helped him onto Alpine, his weight nearly overwhelming, but were able to guide the horse back to the castle; the cold biting at your skin with every step.

~~~

@meganlpie @lokixryss @violethaze @johnmurphys-sass @greep215 @giona45-5 @wolfsmom1 @vioplay19

Let me know if you want to be added to the taglist!

~~~

Main Masterlist | Marvel Masterlist

[waitforthehurricanrose]

Hero

Pairing: Pietro Maximoff x Reader

Words: 2k + oops.

Warnings: none. Reader is kinda ruthless. Though I like that lol 

A/U: I based myself on this prompt by @lazy-writing-prompts .Reader is a smart scientist that got kidnapped by HYDRA. He’s meant to save her but things don’t go as planned. Hope you enjoy and leave feedback.

–

The pounding in your head grew gradually stronger, so much that in seconds it was hard not to ignore them and you reluctantly opened your eyes. You tried to move your hands, forgetting for a moment that they were tied up to arms of the chair.

A drop of sweat fell down your forehead, much to your dismay, you were still on the same place you had been brought on days ago when HYDRA had captured you.

“You’re up,” said the the grey-haired man, he looked to be in his sixties, or seventies. He had told you his name but you were drugged when he did so you couldn’t recall it now. “How’s the head?”

“Pounding.”

“It’s normal, I believe,” he said turning back to read information on a laptop.

You huffed, “Glad to hear you sound so sure,” you said, “when is this going to be over?”

“Not soon, I’m afraid,” he said looking back at you while writing down information on a notebook, “Your vitals look good, consistent. Strong enough to resist the injection,” he said looking down, “the injection, on the other hand,  it’s not as stable yet.”

“Can’t get it right just yet, huh?” You smirked, “Good.”

“I could use the the help,” he gave a weak smile, “It just need some tweaks, very minor things.”

“Not a chance asshole,” you said losing the smirk. That man was mental. Not only did he voluntarily work for HYDRA, but he had given out the idea to get you kidnapped, he had heard about your great scientific qualities and thought that you would be a perfect candidate to get the “power-enhancing” injection.

His theory was that instead of giving powers like they did to Captain America, he would enhance those qualities that already existed. A good runner would be super-fast, a bodybuilding guy would have the strength of the Hulk, and a smart person could become so much more intelligent than any other genius known to men. That’s where you came in.

The first try, with the bodybuilding guy, failed big time. The man’s body distorted to enormous size, painfully, until the man’s bones couldn’t take it and he died. The madman couldn’t understand why that happened. He modified it multiple times to the same result. No matter how much he tried he wasn’t capable of getting right. Then, he thought of it. If he managed to enhanced someone’s intelligence they might be able to figure it out. So he got that gifted girl he taught back in University and got her to help. When she refused to, he kidnapped her. And decided to modify the quantities of the injection to make sure that when given to her, she would live long enough to figure out the actual right proportions for someone to survive the injection. So far, all of his tests didn’t make it more than a minute and a half before dying, and in that time they were in too much pain to speak.

“You understand that you will be injected eventually, right?” he said, angrier this time, “You are not going anywhere.”

You rolled your eyes, “‘Freighting guy’ doesn’t suit you, so don’t threaten me. You have more of a ‘pathetic madman’ vibe going on.” You spat with a fake smile.

“Fine, suit yourself,” he said, grabbing a needle, “If you’re not going to cooperate it’s lights out for you. Again.” he took long steps towards you, positioning the needle on your bruised underarm.

That’s when an explosion-like sound rang out, one of the windows was broken down, pieces of glass and  wood were splattered around the room. Yet you couldn’t see anyone. You and the doctor looked around, but it seemed like you two were alone. Until you felt a breeze and the man was flown back crashing against  the table where his computer, notepads, and whatnot laid.

“What the hell…?”  You muttered, just as a man stopped opposite you. Tall, slender, white hair, handsome, with his hand in his hips.

Keep reading

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Lay Me Down - part 1

Pairing: Draco x PoC reader

Words: 1498

Warnings: none

A/U:  1. First I thought of putting a “_” instead of a specific house. In the end my Hufflepuff pride took over. #sorrynotsorry. 

2. I was listening to “In the Lonely Hour” by Sam Smith and thought of this. Not sure why I’m writing a Christmas story in February, but here it is. Enjoy.

3. Cola de mono is the best!

                            “I know you’ll understand us. Love, mom.”

“Believe me, I love you, but not in that way.”

This was the tenth time you had read both letters. You were better than self-pity yet you couldn’t help but to re-read them almost every day. Who could blame you, right? If one receives a letter that her muggle parents are going on a cruise for Christmas and New Year’s and a day later receives another one from her boyfriend telling her that he no longer wants to be their boyfriend they would be feeling a bit down too.

Since you were  a new transfer you didn’t know a lot of people, and those who you got along with were away with their families. Now, you were alone for Christmas break. You thought of going home but you would be just as alone there, at least here someone else would cook for you.

With a huff, you made both pieces of paper into a messy ball and threw them on the wastebasket, giving them one last look you decided to head down to enjoy the feast. Through the windows you could see the snow fell down rapidly covering the trees and grass. The Great Hall was completely decorated with Christmas theme. Before heading to the table, you grabbed your instant camera and took a picture of the beautiful view.

“Whatever is that thing you have there?” Asked someone from behind you. You looked back and your eyes met big blue eyes. They stared at you expectantly, waiting for a reply. It was the entitled slytherin, Draco Malfoy.

You looked back at your camera for a few seconds, grabbing the photo that had just printed and shaking it lightly. “It’s a camera. It takes pictures,” you said, showing him the picture you had just taken.

“Why would you bring such thing here? Ours are much better than those muggle things. Those don’t even move,” He said. You rolled your eyes, not interested in hearing him talk trash about muggles. You were raised as one. Your parents, friends, everyone you knew were muggles. For the longest time, you thought you were one. That was why you were pretty attached to your “muggle” things.

“I brought it here cause I wanted to, you don’t have to look at it,” you said rolling your eyes. “Now, my Christmas sucks already I’m not making it worse by hearing to your ‘muggle-hate crap’ so goodbye, Draco.”

“Whatever mudblood,” he snarled. You flipped him off on your way to your table. You didn’t look back to see his reaction, though you were tempted. Would he be offended? Would it mean anything to him, or it was another muggle thing? You resisted temptation and went over to the Hufflepuff table.

Once there you looked around, Gryffindor had around five students, they were all talking happily while eating Christmas cake, the situation was similar over at the Ravenclaw table. Draco sat alone in the long slytherin table. Although yours was completely covered with Christmas garments, on it there were only a few turkey sandwiches, crumpets and cake. The small quantity given by the fact that you were the only Hufflepuff that stayed back.

An hour later, you were filled with turkey, cake, and whatnot. So you decided to head back to your dorm. You stayed back curled up in the sofa next to the chimney, trying to keep warm. With your headphones connected  to the phone, you listened to Sam Smith with your eyes closed, lowly singing along to his songs and losing track to time.  You opened your eyes and looked down at the phone displaying Sam Smith’s face. The short interaction with Draco about muggle cameras coming back. That’s when you remembered the letter and things one of your friends back home sent you. A small silver bottle, it said “eau de parfum” on the outside but the letter she wrote explained it did not contain a perfume at all. You laughed to yourself, she would never change.

You thought about it. You couldn’t do it, could you? It was completely forbidden. Though, if you would ever break the rules, now would be the perfect time. Most people were gone, and your phone indicated it was late at night. After considering it for a while you decided to just go with it and do it. You headed quickly upstairs to retrieve the bottle and your yellow scarf with your phone still on you hand.

—

You ran through the halls, looking back every so often to make sure no one had caught you. It was almost three a.m so you doubted anyone would be up, but in this place, you could never be too cautious. Soon enough you found the kitchen. There, with what little light you had from your phone you started to search for all the ingredients. You placed a glass jar on the table and bent down to look for herbs.

A hand grabbed your arm and you froze, afraid to look up. Another hand took one of the earphone away from your ear and you mentally cursed yourself. How could you been so careless? Leaving your earphones on was such a dumb move. Slowly you looked up, hoping it would be Dumbledore the one to catch you instead of Snape. It was neither. Instead, the blond slytherin boy stood next to you. “What are you doing here?”

“You ask that to me, muggle?” he asked offended, “I’m not the one sneaking into the kitchen at this hour.”

“My name is Y/N, not ‘mudblood’ or ‘muggle’ or anything of the sort. Why I’m here it’s none of your business. Why were you following me?”

“I saw you running down the hallway, thought something might have happened since you were going in direction of the Great Hall. Obviously you weren’t going there. You were thieving.”

“Whatever, Draco. You caught me, now either go tell Dumbledore, McGonagall, whoever. Or let me finish what I started.”

“You’re much rude than I would expect from a ‘kind’ Hufflepuff.”

“And you’re just as annoying as I would expect from a Slytherin,” you said. You knew that if he hadn’t told anyone yet, he would be wanting something in exchange to keep quiet.

Draco rolled his eyes and looked at the silver bottle in your hand, “What’s that?”

“Nothing.”

“C’mon, Y/N, I’m not telling.”

“You’re not?”

“As long as you tell me your plan.”

You huffed, “There it is, typical slytherin.”

He laughed, “So?”

“It’s vodka,” You replied, he didn’t seem to understand that, “alcohol, Draco. It’s alcohol.”

“And what are you planning to do with that?”

“Drink it,” You said, at this point it didn’t seem like he would tell anyone, so you just continued to search for the rest of the ingredients. “And since it’s Christmas I don’t want to drink it just like that. I want cola de mono,” you explained, placing the milk, sugar, and the silver bottle on the table next to the jar.

“Cola de mono?” He asked his interest peaking.

“Monkey’s tail,” You translated, “It’s a typical christmas drink where I’m from,” You said looking for the rest of the things required to make the drink, but as much as you looked, you couldn’t find them, “Since I can’t go home, I’ll bring part of it here.”

“Muggles and their weird customs. It sounds rather appaling to drink something with such name.”

“Well, you don’t have to drink it,” You said, sighing, “but if you do want to try it, help me find the cinnamon and vanilla. I just don’t see them, and I need them”

He looked at you for a while, not sure if he wanted to help you. He said to himself he didn’t even want to be there, that he should go back to the slytherin common room. Yet, there he stood. Opposite you, not moving to leave. With a short huff, he decided to ignore his brain and help you. It didn’t take him much time to find what you needed. They were in the top shelves, too far up for you to see.

“Here you go, cinnamon and vanilla,” he said handing them to you. “If you were taller you would have see them long ago.”

You grabbed the bottles and started to make the recipe, “Well thankfully you’re here,” you said while you stirred the milk, water, and vodka. You froze for a few seconds when you realized what you had said, feeling how your cheeks warm up. You didn’t see his reaction, you just stared at the jar and continued to stir with force. You added the coffee, cinnamon and vanilla and continued to stir.

“Done,” you said, taking the jar in your hands, “It has to be at least a liter, maybe more. Get glasses,” you were about to put the jar back down, when you heard people coming. Draco and you looked at each other in alarm, “Oh no.”

Part 2

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Last Midnight - Part Two

-> Part 1 <-

Words: 1389

Warnings: None

Rating: Pg-13

A/N: Third part, no warnings. Enjoy. (I would love feedback!)

Part two

—

Chapter two: The bunker

“Charlie Perkins, thirty-two years-old. Married and working as a clock making, he went to work and never came back. When Claire Perkins - the wife, called to ask if her husband was still there she found out he never arrived. Police found him dead a couple of days ago.” Said Dean with his eyes straight on the road. 

After finding the bunker there weren’t much leads on how to end Abaddon and the hit a wall once more. Because of this, Dean convince them to go on hunt and after a bit of back and forth, Sam and Cara agreed. They had been driving an hour now to Forest Hill.

“It could have been an accident.”

“It could, but it’s the third one this month,” he smiled, “and they all were missing their heart.”

“So, werewolf,” deducted Cara, “a simple werewolf? We can call another hunter to take care of it, Dean. Abaddon it’s out there while we hunt a damn wolf!”

“Cara’s right, Dean,” added Sam, “Let’s call Garth and let him take over.”

“I’m driving so I’m in charge. We’ve been hitting our heads against books for days and nothing,” he said losing his smile, “we’ll take the case. Sam and I will go to the morgue. You Cara, go investigate everything about the case. And that’s final, damn it.” he sentenced. Sam and Cara didn’t reply, they knew he wouldn’t change his mind.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

After two hours of reading she found nothing and wondered why Dean would send her to research such dumb information. Why work a case when they had bigger issues to address? She left the book  aside and closed her eyes to rest for a second. Before she could fell asleep the sound of the chair opposite her woke her up. A tall blonde man was sitting with a smile on his face.

“Can I help you?”

“Yes, you can Cara,” the man said, “where is sam?”

“Who are you?”

“Oh, how rude of me, I’m Lucifer nice to meet you,” Cara froze while she watched him, hoping he would laugh or show somehow he was joking. He didn’t.

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Last Midnight - Part One

Word count:  671

Warnings: none A/N: I thought of this at around 2:00 am in the morning and decided to write it, becuase, why not? Anyways, enjoy. 

Chapter 1: The story behind the girl.

Cara Hall is a twenty-three years-old girl. She was born from hunter parents, which got into the business after a brother of hers - who she never met, died because of supernatural circumstances. Her parents lost the fight against some demons when she was only five. Bobby decided to look after her. She grew up next to the Winchester brothers, and through the years they became inseparable. They looked at her like a little sister, and to Bobby, the three of them where his children.

Cara entered the hunting business at around sixteen. She was  skillful, fast on her feet, and good fighter. Though her cleverness was shadowed by her temperament and lack of patience. Just as Dean, she would rather act than sit to read a book. At nineteen, she had an encounter with a demon that did not end well, leaving her in  a hospital bed for a week. And the Winchester brothers promising her foster father to never let her hunt on her own again. Although Cara was reluctant, she finally agreed and her bond with Sam and Dean only grew.

–

A few years back

“Where were you?” he yelled as they got in. Bobby’s face red with anger, fearing the worst. Her eagerness to help Sam plus her imsulsivity where a bad mix and h knew it.

“Everything’s fine, Bobby,” She tried to explain, but Dean showed up behind Bobby, just as pissed.

“Everything’s fine? You sent a text saying ‘Be right back’ and then don’t show up for a whole day!” yelled the blond, “What have you done?”

“Everything is fine,” she reassured, “I got Death to give Sam his humanity back,” she smiled adding, “not just his soul, but also a wall. He’ll get his soul back and any memory of hell  will be separated.”

Dean ran a hand through his face, frustraded. He should have known she would pull something like this, “You made a deal with Death? Who in their right mind would do something like that?”

“Says the one that sold his sold to some random demon,” she huffed, “let’s focus on the good thing: we can help Sam.”

“Everything has a cost,” said the older man, “I cannot even thing what Death might have asked. What did you have do, Cara?”

She took a breath, pushing down all the actions from the previous day, “I just had to be him for a day. Wear his ring, reap souls. Oh, and Tessa said hi, Dean. She’s cute,” she said to distract them, she  din’t feel like going into details.

“That’s it?” Boby asked and she nodded, “And this wall will hold, right?”

She nodded once more, “It’s not permanent, but the least he tries to remember, the longer it will last.”

“So damn impulsive, Cara,” said Dean, but the anger had already vanished from his face, “thanks, kiddo.”

She didn’t need to be thanked, they were her brothers, “Well, not get ready because Death will arrive.” she said. Bobby headed to another room. He went too, but before he could leave, she held his wrist. “Dean, wait… there is something else,” she said expecting him to speak. When he didn’t, she  continued. “When I made the deal, I tried. Dean, he didn’t want to… I had to choose.”

“English, Cara. I don’t understand.”

She looked away, afraid to look him in the eye, “When I asked Death to bring back Sam I asked for Adam as well. But Death, he only agreed to one. Bringing a soul was already hard enough he would be able and wouldn’t risk going into the cage for two souls,” she said, “He made me choose: Sam or Adam, and well.. you know how that went.”

Dean let out a big breath and held her by the shoulders, “I might go to hell - again, but if I had to choose the story would be the same,” a small smile appear on his lips, “Let’s go get Sam back.”

—-

Part two here

That’s it for now, hope you like it! :D

[waitforthehurricanrose]

Lose My Number - Parte tres

Prompt:  Reader is assigned with a group of agents to be trained by Captain and Bucky, whom she used to date a few years back when the relationship ended when she ghosted him. Also inspired by “Lose My Number” by James Blunt.

Words: 1597

A/N: Hi! Sorry for the long wait, but my personal life has been kicking my ass. Between University and work I’ve got no time left. Things are still busy no, I’ve just been drowing in anxiety as of lately, so I decided to take a break from it all and write you guys this. I hope you guys enjoy it (and leave feedback if you can. That it’s always lovely to read! <3 )

Parte dos  - Series masterlist

Twenty minutes. That’s all Y/N’s excitement of knowing she passed her comparative law final lasted. Twenty minutes. She was about to show Adam her test when the super soldiers showed up and started talking about the training they had coming. With that, her excitement evaporated as she pushed the paper inside her backpack and turned to look at Steve and Bucky.

“You talked things with him?” asked her friend while looking at the soldiers.

“Nope, first time seeing him since last session,” She said looking straight ahead too. Not wanting to get into a fight like last time.

“Today we’ll be sparring,”  Steve’s voice rang out, “we’ll do it in pairs.”

Adam and her looked at each other, fistbumping, they had sparred before together. They worked together well and knew this session would not be as grilling as others.  

Steve proceeded to grab a folder, “You guys by now have grown accustomed  to the way your partner fights,” he said before opening the folder, “that’s why we will be pairing you guys this time around.”

Groans were heard throughout the room as Steve read names at loud. “Adam and Jack,” he said and her friend went to join the other guy, “Y/N and Brock,” slowly she walked towards Brock’s usual spot, but couldn’t find him, she walked a bit more as everyone else paired up, yet  her partner was nowhere to be found.

“Everyone ready?” asked the Captain, she was about to raise her hand when he continued, “I’ll be observing everyone’s work, if someone does not have a partner, Bucky here will work with you,” she felt herself deflating. Of course of everyone in that class, she would be the one left without a partner, and of course the person she would have to spar against would be Bucky freaking Barnes. 

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Lose My Number - Parte Dos

Prompt: Reader is assigned with a group of agents to be trained by Captain and Bucky, whom she used to date a few years back when the relationship ended when she ghosted him. Also inspired by “Lose My Number” by James Blunt.

Pairing:

Bucky Barnes x Reader.

Words: 991

A/U: New story coming at you! Thought of it while listening to James Blunt, so yeah. Hopefully you’ll like it! (if you do, don’t hesitate to leave a comment. Feedback is lovely and warms writer’s souls.) Anyways, enjoy!

Parte Uno - Lose My Number Series Masterlist  - Parte Tres

Another day, another final. Y/N’s eyes closed on it’s own accord while she walked towards the Avengers building. She had stayed up until three am studying last night, and now her body was paying the price. Slowly, she made her way into the training room, cup of coffee on hand. They had been told beforehand that this week’s class would be theoretical, so at least that was on her favor. Her body would not stand a physical training that week.

“You look like crap,” stated Adam.

“I feel like it,” she said,  handing over her cup so he could have a sip as well. The cold weather wasn’t much help either. All she felt like doing was crawling back to bed and not getting up until summer came back.

“Cheer up, finals will be over before you know it.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she sighed.

Thirty minutes had passed since the class had started, Y/N thought she might be able to give physical a try, because so far the class was torture. Both Bucky and Steve had been talking nonstop about teamwork and her sleep deprived just could not keep up. Adam had even nudged her a few times when he noticed her eyes closing for too long.

“So, you must keep in mind the it is okay to disagree with your teammates. Just as long as you respect each other and focus on the mission given to you.” Captain spoke and Y/N eyelids closed once more. Just like times before, Adam was there to get her to open her eyes, gently nudging her arm. This time around though, the soldier noticed this.

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[waitforthehurricanrose]

Lose My Number - Part Uno

Prompt: Reader is assigned with a group of agents to be trained by Captain and Bucky, whom she used to date a few years back when the relationship ended when she ghosted him. Also inspired by “Lose My Number” by James Blunt. 

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader.

Words: 720.

A/U: New story coming at you! Thought of it while listening to James Blunt, so yeah. Hopefully you’ll like it! (if you do, don’t hesitate to leave a comment. Feedback is lovely and feeds writer’s souls.) Anyways, enjoy!

Lose My Number Series Masterlist - Parte Dos

Y/N’s teacher might not be able to shut up. Like, she thinks it might be a condition. Sure, his classes are fun and interesting, not to mention important. But she’s got things to do, like getting to her training session in the Avengers tower to become an agent. Obviously, that was not a fact she could divulge with anyone, so she had to wait until her teacher had enough and run towards the tower.

She decided to use her last twenty dollars and hail a cab. That way she wouldn’t be as late.

Ten minutes later, she was hurrying down hallways in the direction she had been informed by the guards. She found the training room quite easily and all of the other hopeful agents were sitting down or leading on walls, waiting. Training hadn’t begun yet and she sighed in relief, no one wants to be late on their first day.

She put her hands on her knees, trying to catch her breath, a tall slender man with black hair, olive skin, and deep brown eyes headed her way, bottle of water on hand, “You seem to need this,” he offered.

She accepted the bottle gladly and took a long sip, “I did, thank you.”

“I’m Aaron, by the way.”

“Y/N.”

“Did you ran here, Y/N?”

“Almost, my teacher wouldn’t end the class.”

He smiled, “Studying and training to be an agent. You’re a brave one, aren’t you?”

She laughed, if only. She had applied ages ago, and happened to get accepted in the training program her last year of University. “Didn’t have much of a choice, but here I am.”

“Well, I gotta say I’m glad to be over with that,” he said, “What are you majoring in?”

“Political studies,” she said, “what about you?”

“I went to nursing school, it might come in handy if we pass this training,” he said, “Hopefully the trainers aren’t that bad, though I’m sure they’ll kick our butts, the ought to do that.”

“I heard it was going to be Captain America himself that would train us,” she said, “that’s a little intimidating, isn't’ it?”

The chatter around the room was interrupted by Steve Rogers’ voice ringing out as he got in, “I’m sorry by the delay, guys, but let’s not waste time. Everyone pair up so we can start,” he ordered.

Y/N placed the watter bottle in a nearby table, and looked at Aaron who was already smiling at her, “wanna pair up, nurse?” she asked smiling.

“Sure do, senior,” he said.

She laughed and went to stand next to him ready to listen to Steve’s lesson.

“This is a five weak course, we will do a field exercise, but most of the time will be here. This course is physically demanding, so you have to be ready for that. No doing anything that will hurt you or overexert you. Understood?”

“You heard that, senior? No more running from class to here,” he said nudging her.

She smiled, “unlikely, since I’m about to enter finals. My teacher is a necessary evil if I want to pass.”

Aaron raised his eyebrows, “ouch.”

She snorted, “yeah, I know.” She said as she stretched body as Steve had indicated them few minutes earlier, “at least, he doesn’t seem to be that bad,” she said indicating the Captain.

“Granted we have just started,” he said, “and I have no idea how long the sessions will last,” he stretched as well.

“Hey, be more optimistic, I think is going great so far,” she said. Just then, the door opened and in  walked a man, brown hair, blue eyes, metal arm. Just as he positioned himself next to Steve Rogers, and excused himself for being late.  Y/N’s smile vanished from her face, being replaced by a frown instead, “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Aaron looked back and forth from Bucky Barnes to Y/N, estranged at the change in mood her new friend had had, “You know him?”

Their conversation caught the attention of the trainers, and soon enough, Bucky’s expression matched Y/N’s. He furrowed his eyebrows, looking surprised and angry at the same time, “Y/N, is that you?” asked the soldier, “What the hell are you doing here?”

She groaned, this would be a long course. 

—-

Thoughts?

–

permanent tag list: @iamwarrenspeace @lucihaspie

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Scoot Over

Sam Wilson x PoCReader

This is a submission to @avengersandlovers headcanon contest for Sam Wilson Sunday.

Headcanon: Sam pretends not to be interested in “cheesy” telenovelas but in reality he’s into them.

Words: 257. (Tags after “read more”)

- - - 

Sam always rolled his eyes when each day the clock struck three and nothing, or no one, was able to move you from the sofa. He would pace in and out of the room, asking questions while pretending not to be interested.

You knew better though, not even the language barrier could keep him from getting stuck with the current telenovela, much like everyone else.

“Are we going to the supermarket or what?” He asked leaning by the door, “we’re out of milk.”

You batted a hand dismissively, not listening, “Sure, right after ’Amanda’ ends.”

“You’re still watching that thing? It’s such-”

“Shh!” you silenced your boyfriend, “be quiet, Amanda found out his father did not kill himself, he was murdered!”

Almost unconsciously, Sam walked over until he was standing next to you, “Wait, what? When did that happen?”

“Like a minute ago Leo-” you looked up at your boyfriend to find his eyes glued to the TV, like yours were a few minutes ago. “Wait, what happened with ‘That show is so cheesy!’ And that everything is overacted?”

Sam looked back at you, he opened and closed his mouth, unable to give a proper answer. Obviously caught, a sheepish smirk appeared in his face. “Oh, whatever! Scoot over and tell me what she said!”

You moved with a chuckle. He put his hand across your shoulder pulling you closer. After your laughter subsided, you translated the telenovela for him. “Her brother-in-law did it? I knew it!” Sam kissed your right temple while he continued to listen.

- - -

Hoped you guys liked it! :)

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Warmth

T’Challa x PoC Reader

This is a submission to @avengersandlovers​ headcanon contest. Since it’s the last  T’Challa Tuesday, I decided to try and quickly write this!

Headcanon: T’Challa goes out of his way to make you feel better when you’re sick.

Words: 367 I’m sorry it’s over 300!  I made it as short as I could! I swear! (it originally had 700+)  

 (Tags after “read more”)

- - -

“Head to the fireplace”

The note on your nightstand read. You didn’t know what it was about but went nonetheless. After being in bed for so long, you ached for a breath of fresh air. You were a strong agent yet a damn winter cold had gotten you stuck in bed. You hated every moment of it.

Once there, you found pillows and blankets surrounding the fireplace, it looked like a nook for two. You covered yourself with blankets and sat down.

Minutes later, T’Challa joined you wearing simple black shirt and grey sweatpants. He placed in front of you a wooden tray and sat down next to you. It had two glasses of juice and two plates covered by a lid.

“I’ve seen how much you’ve hated being sick, so I hoped this would cheer you up,” he said before revealing a fancy looking plate. It was white, round, and it contained your favorite winter dish.

“Is that…?”

“Freshly made cazuela,” He gave you a nervous smile. You looked at the hot plate and your stomach rumbled with joy. “I’ve never done it before, so I do not know if it tastes correctly.”

You took a spoonful and felt like melting at the taste, it was delicious and it remined you of home. “It’s perfect! How did you even know how to make it?”

“I took your laptop and skyped with your aunt. She guided me.”

Your mouth fell agape, “My aunt? But she does not speak a word of English. How did you manage?”

“It took a while but we made it work, right?” He said looking at you for confirmation. You nodded rapidly, your mouth too full to speak.

“T’Challa, I cannot believe you would go through all that trouble for me.”

“You weren’t feeling good and I wanted to make you happy.”

“I’m definitely happy now! No one has ever done anything like this for me before!” you said, eyes tearing up. “If I wasn’t sick I would kiss you!”

He laughed hugging you, “I’m glad it made you feel better.”

You took the cazuela on your lap and resting your head in T’Challa’s shoulder, “and I’m glad I have you around, T.”

- - -

Hope you liked it!

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[waitforthehurricanrose]

Lay Me Down - Part 2 ( +extra)

-> Part 1 <-

Pairing: Dracoxreader

Words: 1341

Warnings: none

A/U:  So, this is set on Christmas, but since today it’s Valentine’s day, I thought “what the hell?” and posted anyway. 

I added an extra part in the end. It’s short so I thought I would post them together instead of putting it in a different post. Anyways, enjoy!

..

“We need to get out of here,” he said, moving past you, “there’s an exit this way,” he said. You grabbed the jar and followed him.

You ran until you were far away from the kitchen, you were outside now, hiding among the trees. With your one of hands you cleaned a bench and sat down to take a breath. It wasn’t snowing anymore, but it was still cold, you were glad you hadn’t forgotten your yellow scarf.

Draco cleaned the other side and sat next to you. He looked at you and laughed, “honestly, we were about to get caught, and your first reaction it’s to grab the monkey thing?”

You laughed too, “Well I did not go through all that trouble for nothing,” you said, “wait a minute. Where are the glasses?” you asked;he had forgotten them, “C’mon Draco! Not even straws?”

“Y/N, we were about to get caught, sorry I decided to get us out instead of looking for glasses.”

You huffed, “Fine, I guess we’ll drink directly from the jar,” You said, he scrunched his nose.

“That is gross.”

“Suit yourself. I made cola de mono and I’m drinking it,” You said taking a sip from the jar. “Ahh tastes like home.” you said feeling the warmth of the alcohol in your stomach.

You took a few more sips and looked at Draco that kept observing you, “Oh, bloody hell, let me try,” He said extending his hands. You let out a hearty laugh before handing it to him.

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[waitforthehurricanrose]

| Margarita - One Shot |

Summary: Bucky goes to get a coffee, this simple action sparks deep and old memories from his past. - One Shot.

Pairing: Bucky x Reader (OC)

Words: 2096

A/U: I have to plan four lessons, study for two tests, and instead of doing any of that, I wrote this idea that I had. It’s my first attempt at angst. I don’t know how good it turned out, but I do hope you like it and leave feedback if possible!

Today.

It’s the first day of winter, but the weather had been lowering for weeks now. For Bucky, it felt like every year, the winters were colder and lasted longer. That it’s why he decided to take a detour on his way to the Avengers tower and get a cup coffee.

Something about the barista caught his eyes. Her tall, slender, frame, brown skin and chocolate hair tied up on a bun called for a memory he couldn’t quite reach. A memory of the old days; when his hair was shorter, and the days warmer. He pushed his thoughts aside and gave her his order.

“The first cup of coffee on the first day of winter,” the girl smiled, Bucky’s eyes darted to hers, and beyond, the memories enfolding. him, transporting him to her

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