At Hero's Bay

The Source

𝐂𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐫𝐟𝐮𝐥 𝐁𝐨𝐱𝐞𝐬 𝐌𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐎𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝙽𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛 𝟾, 𝟸𝟶𝟷𝟹 · 𝟾:𝟷𝟽 𝙰𝙼

𓄹 𝐘/𝐍 𓄼

Amisians never use sorcery, and for good reason.

The results, especially for the reckless and beginners, can be unpredictable—far too good or far too terrible—often leading to catastrophes. One tiny rain cloud could become a violent hurricane in seconds. Y/N has seen similar incidents before—hell, she's had her own fair share of orchestrating them.

Although she did have some skill for such mystic talents, they were not as perfected as her own natural abilities—it was more of a hobby than a necessity in war. That being said, she should have reminded herself not to go too overboard with the enchantments in her liquor last night, as she never truly knew how much weakening the concoction did to her liver. But then again, she was determined not to fall short and beat Steve in their drinking game.

Gods, can that guy drink.

She could hardly remember what happened last night within the live Avengers Tower or who had even won the game. After a few moments of pondering, Y/N had stopped thinking altogether once the splitting headache finally caught up with her. She blinks rapidly after being met with an intense punch of light directly to the eyes, and in an attempt to shield herself from the blinding assault, her hand frantically wanders to pull over the thick duvet bunched between her legs over her head.

Using what strength she had left in her aching forearms, she slowly pushed herself up with a long groan, deciding to gauge her own surroundings. Once the beam of sunlight cascades to her lap, Y/N finds herself in her own guest room of the Avengers Tower and luckily not on the floor of Tony's bar. Despite everything being in place and barely touched, everything looked tilted to the side and slightly distorted, and from such a sight, Y/N became nauseous. Nope, Y/N thinks as she was unable to withhold the weight of her own head.

Expecting to fall back on the plush pillows upon her mattress, Y/N winces when she collides into something much firmer. The impact has Y/N writhing, feeling every ripple of pain ricochet throughout her already aching head, but it does spur her to roll over and find out what in the hell she—oh. Oh no.

"S-Steve?" Steve? It was Steve!?

Why, oh why, couldn't she just have woken up in the middle of the floor by Tony's bar instead?

Consciousness slams into Y/N's psyche much harder than the headache, and for a moment, she felt even more alive since her times in war. When his warm breath fanned against her lashes, Y/N yanks her head away and snaps her body upright to see his entire body sprawled out across the right side of the bed, with one of his legs dangling off the edge. Y/N chokes back a panicked squeak when she attempts to slither away from under the covers, only to be trapped with an arm resting on her hip. It was Steve's arm—of course, it was, Y/N thinks begrudgingly while she makes a hasty escape.

Once Y/N is able to stand and steady herself against one of the canopy bed's columns, she acts against her better interests to push some portion of the duvet aside that covered Steve. An immense sigh of relief escaped her once she found he still had clothes on—thank goodness—she'd rather not imagine how crushed her dignity would've been if he wasn't. The first and last two buttons of his shirt were undone, the sleeves and their cuffs had barely been clinging onto his thickset of arms, and one of them had been rolled down completely. But otherwise, he was disheveled and not denuded.