I Volunteer As Tribute

“Hey, baby,” you call from the kitchen, voice warm and honey-rich over the low hum of music playing from the speaker on the shelf. Fleetwood Mac, because of course—it’s always Fleetwood Mac when she comes home. Your hands move methodically over the stove, stirring the thick, fragrant stew simmering in the pot, checking the rise on the naan in the oven, and tapping your foot absently to the beat.

You glance over at the entryway—at the little wooden shelf you built together one rainy Sunday last spring. Her keys clink as she slides them onto her hook, the one with the engraved brass tag you gave her on your second anniversary: “Home is wherever you are.” Yours is just beside it, marked with a tiny engraved spoon—a nod to your tendency to show love through food.

The door swings open with a creak.

And there she is.

Backlit by the dying sun, gold and rust pouring through the doorway behind her, hoodie sleeves shoved halfway up her forearms, curls slightly flattened from her travel hood, sweat damp at her temples, cheeks flushed from the heat of a long journey. She smells like airport soap and her favourite peppermint oil you make for her headaches. Her left hand—familiar, calloused—rests on the doorframe for a second longer than necessary, fingers brushing instinctively over the gold ring she still forgets to take off at TSA checkpoints. She’s staring at you like she might fall apart if she doesn’t hold you soon.

You barely have time to set the wooden spoon down before she crosses the room in three long strides and scoops you into her arms like she can’t trust the earth to keep spinning unless she feels you pressed against her chest.

Her fingers brush over your own wedding band, worn warm from constant wear. She never comments on the way you spin it when you’re anxious, but you know she notices.

“God, I missed you,” Rhea murmurs into your neck, voice rough with emotion and travel weariness. Her lips brush against your collarbone as she exhales, like she’s tasting your skin just to make sure this is real. “Mmmm. My wife and dinner—what could possibly be better?”

You grin, smug as hell. “The fact that it’s infused.”

Rhea pulls back slightly, eyes lighting up, jaw slackening with delight. Her lashes flutter as she scans your face for confirmation. “You didn’t.”

“I did.” You lean into her just a little, feeling the heat of her body chase off the chill of the storm beginning to tap against the windows. “Low dose. Just enough to smooth out the rough edges.”

Her tongue slides across her bottom lip, slow and deliberate, like she’s savoring the idea of the high before it hits. She steps forward, her gaze locked on yours, and she says, deadpan: “Marry me.”

You snort. “I did—three years ago.”

“Do it again,” she growls playfully, wrapping her arms around your waist and pulling you flush against her. “Right now. Kitchen ceremony. I’ll say the vows in my underwear.”

“You’re disgusting,” you say, laughing, breathless already from her closeness.

“And you love me.”

You tip your chin up, eyes bright. “Unfair.”

“True.”

She kisses you then—slow, sure, like she’s reclaiming sacred ground. Her hands slide down your back and cup your ass with unrepentant affection. “Mmm. Missed this,” she mutters, brushing her lips over your jaw, your cheek, your ear. “Missed you. Missed the way you feel when I’ve got my hands on you.”

You giggle, breath catching at the press of her palms. “We haven’t even eaten yet.”

She presses her forehead to yours, eyes heavy-lidded and adoring. “I’m starving, babe. For everything.”

Dinner is its own kind of worship.

The thunderstorm rumbles louder now, shaking the walls gently, a living percussion that echoes through the house. Rain hammers the roof in rhythmic bursts, while the kitchen glows soft and golden from the overhead pendant lights. Outside, the trees sway and bend, leaves slick and glossy in the stormlight, but inside it’s all warmth and comfort.

Rhea devours everything you put in front of her—mouthfuls of stew, torn pieces of garlic naan, creamy lassi in long, satisfied sips—alternating between low, appreciative moans and theatrical praise.

“If you ever leave me,” she says, licking mango yogurt from her spoon, “I will sue you for emotional damages.”

You burst into laughter, cheeks flushed from the weed and the warmth.

She grins, pleased with herself. “This naan deserves its own award show. Best supporting carbohydrate in a romantic drama.”

“You’re ridiculous,” you murmur, but your heart flutters all the same.

She keeps one hand on your thigh under the table, thumb tracing slow, possessive circles. There’s a kind of reverence in the way she touches you, even casually—like she’s always memorizing, always worshiping. You notice her eyes flick to the little notecard stuck to the fridge—a doodled heart around your initials, still there from last Valentine’s Day.

When she finishes her lassi, she leans in, tongue flicking out to lick a bit of cream from the corner of your mouth.

You narrow your eyes. “That was on purpose.”

“Obviously.” She tilts her head, watching you with a look that makes your skin prickle. “You been saving that for me?”

You arch an eyebrow. “What if I was?”

Her expression shifts. The teasing glint fades into something darker, hungrier. “Then I’d say we need dessert… and a plan for how I’m going to repay you for being the best woman on the planet.”

You roll your eyes, trying not to smile too wide, but your pulse jumps anyway.

When you rise to start clearing the plates, she follows.

“Let me help,” she says softly, already stacking dishes with more care than usual.

You carry the bowls to the sink. She trails behind, and then her hands are around your waist, her body pressing against your back, anchoring you in the moment.

“What happen to helping?,” you laugh as she starts kissing the back of your neck instead of lifting a single plate.

“I am helping you relax,” she murmurs, lips grazing your skin, nipping gently at your shoulder through the sleeve of your shirt. “You work too hard. Always thinking. Always creating.”

“I like feeding you.”

“I like being fed by you,” she purrs, voice vibrating against your spine. “But I love seeing you melt.”

Your breath catches.

Her hand dips beneath the hem of your shirt, palm spreading wide against your stomach. The THC’s settled into your muscles now, everything loosening, the warmth of the house and the press of her hand making the world feel hazy and safe.

“I can make you forget the stove exists, flower. You know that, don’t you?”

You hum in the back of your throat, tilting your head slightly toward her. “So cocky.”

“So right.” Her grip tightens—not rough, but grounding. Firm. Reassuring. Yours.

“You’re the worst,” you whisper.

“You married me.”

“You asked.”

“You said yes.”

You glance toward the wall behind the stove—at the tiny photo magnet of your wedding day stuck to the corner of the fridge. It’s a candid—both of you barefoot in the backyard, laughing so hard neither of your eyes are open. Her eyeliner is smudged, and your bouquet is already crooked, but your smiles are everything.

You whimper without meaning to, your whole body leaning back into hers. She grumbles that last part against your skin, her voice molten with feeling.

“Oh, you’re feeling it now, aren’t you?” she breathes against your cheek. “Dinner kicking in?”

You nod slowly. “Everything’s soft.”

Rhea groans low in her chest, like the sound of your voice is something she could bite into. “Get your pretty ass on the counter.”

“Rhea—”

“Up.”

Your knees wobble just from the command in her voice. The counter is cool beneath you as you slide onto it, robe slipping slightly, thighs parting without hesitation. She steps between them, her hands gentle but confident on your knees, her gaze drinking you in like you’re the first warmth after a long winter.

“You’re perfect like this,” she murmurs. “High and soft and waiting for me.”

You wrap your arms around her shoulders, your breath brushing against the shell of her ear.

“Then make me wait longer,” you whisper. “I like it when you’re patient.”

She groans again, head tilting toward yours, her hand sliding to the small of your back. “I waited four days without ‘I love you’ being the first thing I told you every morning… three nights in an empty bed and two god-awful flights.”

Her mouth finds yours again—this time deeper, messier, filled with longing and the weight of all the hours she couldn’t touch you.

She kisses you until you’re gasping, until your legs wrap tight around her waist and your fingers tangle in the fabric of her hoodie. Until the only thing that exists is the thunderstorm outside, and the soft hum of Stevie Nicks in the background, and the way her body folds perfectly into yours.

You whisper her name like a sacred thing, falling backward across the counter, trusting—knowing—she’ll catch you in every way that matters.

And she does.

—

Thanks for the request I love me a stoner Rhea story line. Hope you don’t mind but it’s just a short guy today🧡

Per usual likes, comments, reblogs and follows are always appreciated! Always great to hear from yall lovelies.

The air in Gotham always tasted metallic—blood, smoke, and the faint tang of rain that never quite washed the city clean. You'd grown used to it, used to the chaos and the bruises that came with your double life. But tonight was pushing your limits.

It had been a trap, plain and simple. The arms dealers you’d been tracking weren’t as careless as they seemed. Reinforcements had flooded in from every corner of the dockyard, forcing you into a brutal fight you weren’t ready for.

Now, you were stumbling through the shadows, one hand pressed to your side to staunch the bleeding. The alley blurred around you, and you cursed yourself for being so reckless. You should’ve called for backup—or at least told her where you’d be.

But you didn’t. You never told Alice about this part of your life.

She wasn’t the kind of person who cared for rules or morality; she'd probably laugh in your face if you ever tried to explain why you put on a mask and fought for justice. Still, keeping it from her wasn’t just about her reaction. It was about keeping her safe, about keeping your worlds from colliding.

Too late for that now.

The sound of footsteps cut through the fog in your mind. You turned, forcing yourself to stay upright as a familiar figure emerged from the darkness.

Alice.

She was as sharp and unpredictable as ever, her wide grin hinting at danger even as her eyes sparkled with curiosity. She twirled a knife between her fingers, her steps light and deliberate.

“Well, well,” she drawled, her voice lilting with amusement. “Look at you, stumbling around like a wounded little bird. What happened? Did the big, bad vigilante bite off more than they could chew?”

You didn’t respond, too focused on staying conscious. But she didn’t seem to mind. Alice circled you like a predator, tilting her head as she took in the blood dripping from your side.

“Oh, darling, you’re a mess,” she said, crouching in front of you. “But don’t worry, I’m feeling… generous tonight. Maybe I’ll help you. Or maybe I’ll just watch and see how long you can last before you keel over.”

Her tone was teasing, but there was something else in her eyes—something that gave you hope she might actually help.

And then your mask slipped.

You barely noticed it at first, too disoriented to realize the fabric had fallen away. But Alice noticed. Her playful smirk froze, and her knife clattered to the ground.

“...No,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Her hands reached out, trembling as she pulled the mask away completely. The sharp inhale she made was the only sound in the alley.

“Y/N?”

The name hung in the air like a dagger poised to strike. You tried to respond, to say something—anything—but the pain was too much. Your knees buckled, and you felt yourself collapsing.

Alice caught you before you hit the ground, her arms wrapping around you with surprising strength.

“Hey, no, no, no,” she said, her voice suddenly frantic. “Don’t you dare do this. Don’t you dare pass out on me.”

Her hands pressed against your wound, and you hissed in pain. She muttered a string of curses under her breath, her usual flippant tone replaced by something raw and desperate.

“My girlfriend’s a vigilante,” she said, half-laughing, half-sobbing. “Of course, you are. Of course. Gotham wouldn’t let me have anything normal, would it?”

You tried to smile, but it came out as more of a grimace. “Didn’t think… you’d approve,” you managed to whisper.

She glared at you, her blue eyes blazing. “Approve? Oh, darling, you clearly don’t understand how much I love chaos. But this?” She gestured at your wound. “This is not the fun kind of chaos. This is the kind that gets you killed. And I—”

Her voice broke, and she quickly looked away, as if the vulnerability was too much to bear.

Taking a deep breath, Alice adjusted her grip on you, pulling you closer. “We’re getting out of here,” she said firmly. “And when you’re patched up, we’re going to have a very long conversation about this little secret of yours.”

She slipped her arm under your knees and hoisted you up, cradling you against her chest. You tried to protest, but she shushed you with a sharp look.

“I don’t want to hear it,” she snapped, though her voice softened as she added, “I’ve got you.”

The world blurred as she carried you through the alley, her steps steady despite the chaos raging in her mind. You could feel her trembling slightly, her grip tightening as if she was afraid you’d disappear if she let go.

“Alice…” you murmured, your voice barely audible.

“Shh,” she said, her tone softer now. “You’re not allowed to die, got it? I didn’t go through all this trouble of falling for you just to have you leave me.”

You wanted to respond, to tell her you weren’t going anywhere, but the darkness was pulling you under.

The last thing you heard before you lost consciousness was her voice, shaky but determined.

Agatha Harkness wasn’t the sort of person to let her guard down easily. Centuries of living as a witch in a world that feared her kind had taught her better. But with Rio, she’d found something unexpected: trust, love, and a fleeting sense of peace. It was an odd pairing, people often said. Agatha, the immortal witch whose power thrummed in her veins like a constant heartbeat, and Rio, the enigmatic and eternally composed personification of Death. Yet, they worked. Or so it seemed.

Their son, Nicky, had been the unexpected joy of their lives. A child forged of magic and a bond deeper than life or death itself. He had Rio’s piercing gaze, dark and infinite as a starless night, and Agatha’s sharp wit, quick and cutting like the crack of a spell. From the moment he was born, Nicky was their everything, the glue that cemented their already unbreakable connection.

It was a quiet day when it happened. The kind of day that lulls you into a false sense of security. Agatha had been teaching Nicky to levitate small objects in the garden, while Rio watched from the porch, an amused smile playing on her lips. The sun was warm, the air filled with the scent of lavender and sage. Everything felt… right.

Nicky had tripped, a harmless stumble that should have been nothing more than a momentary scare. But in that instant, the threads of fate twisted cruelly. Agatha saw it happen as though in slow motion: the way Nicky fell, the sharp edge of the stone he struck his head on, the unnatural stillness that followed. She’d screamed his name, rushing to his side, her magic already surging to heal him. But it was too late.

Rio was already there, kneeling beside their son with an expression Agatha couldn’t bear to read. It was a look of resignation, of inevitability. The look of someone who had seen this countless times before and knew there was no stopping it. Agatha’s magic clashed against Rio’s presence, desperate and futile. She screamed at Rio, begged her to do something, to change it, to break the rules she had always claimed were unbreakable.

“I can’t,” Rio said, her voice soft but unyielding. “You know I can’t.”

The days that followed were a blur of grief and rage. Agatha’s once orderly home became a chaotic mess of overturned furniture and shattered glass. The air crackled with the remnants of her uncontrolled magic, and the garden withered under the weight of her despair. She couldn’t look at Rio without feeling a tidal wave of anger rise within her.

“You could have stopped it,” she spat one evening, her voice venomous. “You’re Death. You decide who lives and who dies. And you let our son die.”

Rio stood in the doorway, her usual calm demeanor marred by the faintest hint of sorrow. “It’s not that simple, Agatha. I don’t choose. I—”

“Don’t you dare give me your rules and your balance bullshit,” Agatha interrupted, her eyes blazing. “He was a child. Our child. You could have done something.”

“And what would you have me do?” Rio’s voice rose for the first time, sharp and cutting. “Defy the natural order? Tear apart the fabric of existence because you can’t accept that sometimes even we aren’t in control?”

Agatha’s laugh was bitter. “Spare me your cosmic wisdom. You’re Death, Rio. If anyone could’ve stopped it, it was you.”

They didn’t speak after that. Rio disappeared for days, leaving Agatha alone with her grief and her anger. She tried to bring Nicky back herself, pouring over ancient texts and forbidden spells, but every attempt ended in failure. The universe itself seemed to conspire against her, mocking her efforts at every turn.

When Rio finally returned, she found Agatha in the garden, kneeling beside the small gravestone that marked their son’s resting place. The witch looked up, her face hollow and weary.

“Why did you come back?” Agatha asked, her voice barely above a whisper. “Haven’t you done enough?”

Rio hesitated, then knelt beside her. “I never wanted this,” she said softly. “You think I don’t feel the weight of it? That I don’t wish things could be different? But I—”

“Stop,” Agatha interrupted, shaking her head. “Just… stop. I can’t hear it anymore.”

Silence fell between them, heavy and suffocating. For a moment, it seemed as though nothing could bridge the chasm that had formed between them. But then Rio reached out, her hand hesitating before resting gently on Agatha’s.

“I can’t change the past,” Rio said. “But I can help you find peace. Let me take you to him.”

Agatha looked up sharply. “To him?”

Rio nodded. “The spirit world. You’ve always had one foot in that realm because of your magic. If you’re willing, I can guide you there. But it’s a one-way journey, Agatha. You’d have to leave this life behind.”

Agatha’s breath hitched. The idea of abandoning everything she knew was terrifying, but the thought of seeing Nicky again—of holding him, of being with him—was more powerful than any fear. She reached for Rio’s hand, gripping it tightly. “Take me to him.”

The transition was unlike anything Agatha had ever experienced. Rio’s power enveloped her, a mixture of cold finality and strange comfort. The world blurred and shifted, and when Agatha opened her eyes, she was standing in a place that felt both foreign and familiar. The air shimmered with an otherworldly glow, and the landscape was a blend of vivid colors and ethereal forms. And then she saw him.

Nicky ran toward her, his laughter echoing like a melody. Agatha fell to her knees, arms outstretched as he barreled into her embrace. She held him tightly, tears streaming down her face as she murmured his name over and over.

Rio stood a few steps away, watching the reunion with a faint smile. When Agatha finally looked up, she whispered, “Thank you.”

“This is where you belong now,” Rio said. “With him. I’ll stay, too. If you’ll have me.”

Agatha nodded, pulling Rio into the embrace. For the first time since Nicky’s death, she felt whole. They weren’t bound by the rules of life and death anymore. Here, in this timeless, boundless realm, they could be a family again.

Melinda May wasn’t one for nostalgia. The past was a place she avoided revisiting—its weight far too heavy for her liking. But when Director Coulson assigned her to oversee a new mission briefing, she couldn’t suppress the flicker of emotion that broke through her usually steely demeanor.

The specialist called in to consult wasn’t just anyone.

It was you.

Her best friend from the S.H.I.E.L.D. Academy days. The one person who knew her before the “Cavalry,” before Bahrain, before the years of stoic silence and walls built too high for anyone to climb.

May stood near the head of the conference room, arms crossed, her gaze locked on the door. When you walked in, it felt like the years apart melted away, even if the faint lines at the corners of your eyes spoke of your own battles.

You scanned the room, stopping short when you saw her. A smile broke across your face—bright and familiar, just like she remembered.

“Agent May,” you greeted, your voice betraying a flicker of nervousness. You hadn’t seen her in over a decade.

“(Y/N),” May said, her tone unusually soft.

The room fell quiet as the two of you locked eyes. There was so much to say, but no words to fill the void years had left. Finally, you grinned, trying to lighten the mood.

“Still as intimidating as ever, I see.”

May’s lips twitched. “And you’re still as reckless.”

The old rhythm between you two came flooding back, and for a moment, the years and the pain didn’t matter. The rest of the room might as well have disappeared.

From across the room, Daisy nudged Mack with her elbow. “Okay, what is going on there?”

“What do you mean?” Mack asked, glancing at you and May. You were seated close together, heads tilted toward one another as you talked in hushed tones. It was the most animated anyone had seen May in months.

Daisy gestured wildly. “Look at them! The shared smiles, the intense eye contact. That’s not just a friend reunion. That’s chemistry.”

Mack snorted. “You’re reading too much into it.”

“Am I?” Daisy countered, crossing her arms. “They’re giving serious power couple vibes. Like, ‘grumpy mentor meets sunshine bestie’ kind of energy. I’m just saying—I’m here for it.”

Mack shook his head. “You’ve been watching too many rom-coms.”

Later that evening, you found May in the lounge, sitting with a cup of tea in hand. The dim lighting softened her sharp features, making her look less like the hardened warrior the world knew and more like the young woman you’d shared late-night study sessions with at the Academy.

“Couldn’t sleep?” you asked, taking a seat beside her.

“Never do,” she replied, her voice low.

You leaned back, letting the silence stretch. It was comfortable, just like it used to be. Words weren’t always necessary with May; she appreciated quiet company over hollow chatter.

“I missed you,” you said finally, breaking the stillness.

May’s gaze shifted to you, her expression unreadable. After a long pause, she admitted, “I missed you too.”

Your lips curved into a smile. “You could’ve reached out, you know. I’m not that hard to find.”

“I didn’t think you’d want to hear from me,” she said, her voice softer than you’d ever heard it.

You frowned. “Why wouldn’t I?”

She hesitated, then looked away. “A lot’s changed since the Academy.”

“Not everything,” you said gently. “You’re still my best friend, May. That’ll never change.”

Her shoulders relaxed, just a fraction, and she let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. For the first time in years, she felt something close to peace.

The next morning, Daisy cornered you in the gym. “Okay, spill it,” she demanded, planting her hands on her hips.

You blinked at her, mid-punch on the bag. “Spill what?”

“You and May,” Daisy said, grinning. “What’s the deal? Are you secretly dating? Have you been together since the Academy? Because if not, I’m officially shipping this.”

You laughed, a sound that startled even you. “Daisy, we’re just friends. Always have been.”

Daisy raised an eyebrow. “Sure, Jan. Tell that to literally everyone else who’s seen you two together.”

You shook your head, still smiling. “I think you’ve been spending too much time on fan forums.”

“Maybe,” Daisy admitted, “but mark my words: there’s something there.”

The briefing had gone smoothly, and the mission was executed with precision. You and May fell into an effortless rhythm, working together as though no time had passed since your last joint operation. Your movements were in sync, your strategies perfectly aligned. The rest of the team couldn’t help but notice.

“They’re like a well-oiled machine,” Mack said, watching as you and May coordinated an infiltration with little more than nods and hand signals.

“Told you,” Daisy whispered back. “Couple energy.”

By the time the mission was over, the team returned to the Quinjet in high spirits. You sat beside May in the corner, both of you quietly decompressing. The silence between you wasn’t heavy this time; it was companionable, filled with unspoken understanding.

As the Quinjet soared back toward the Playground, May turned to you. “So...are you staying this time?”

The question hung in the air, heavy with hope.

You smiled, your eyes warm. “If you’ll have me.”

May didn’t reply right away, but the faint curve of her lips said more than words ever could. For the first time in years, she allowed herself to hope.

From the cockpit, Daisy leaned over to Mack and whispered, “Called it.”

Mack sighed. “You’re impossible.”

A week later, the team gathered for a rare evening off. Daisy’s eyes sparkled with mischief as she watched you and May quietly chatting on the other side of the room. Finally, she couldn’t hold it in any longer.

“So, when’s the wedding?” she called out, grinning.

The room fell silent. You choked on your drink, and May shot Daisy a glare that could’ve frozen lava.

“Daisy,” May said in a warning tone.

“What?” Daisy said innocently. “I’m just saying, you two are perfect together. The world’s been waiting.”

You looked at May, a mixture of amusement and embarrassment on your face. “She’s relentless.”

May sighed. “You have no idea.”

As the others laughed and the conversation shifted, May leaned closer to you, her voice low enough that only you could hear. “Ignore her.”

“She might be onto something,” you teased, your eyes twinkling.

May gave you a look, but the corners of her mouth betrayed the faintest of smiles. For the first time in years, she felt something she thought she’d lost forever.