[kiwisbell]

Whiskey Sour [joel miller] -> series masterlist

Reuniting with your estranged father while you finish college in Austin has unintended consequences. His best friend, for one.

my masterlist!

status: complete

word count: ~54k

rating: 18+ (mdni)

tags and warnings: dbf!joel being extremely criminally attractive, big ol' age gap (40s/early 20s), unprotected piv (do not follow the leader), creampie, multiple sex positions, multiple orgasms, oral sex (m and f receiving), dry humping, spitting, biting, joel miller is a MUNCH, very appropriate use of a showerhead, consensual somnophilia, yoga, heavy emphasis on payphones, daddy issues, family reunions, angst, dead mom, grief and mourning, father/daughter relationship, bartending, reader is a woman in STEM (author is not), being a student in university deserves a warning probably, attempted drugging (roofies), college boys suck, possessive sex, possessive joel, protective joel, obligatory warning for joel's salt-and-pepper hair, masturbation, wet dreams, no outbreak AU, hurt/comfort, healing, no sarah or ellie, stargazing, face-sitting, pining/yearning, happy ending

read on ao3!

chapters:

chapter one: old fashioned

chapter two: manhattan

chapter three: painkiller

chapter four: between the sheets

chapter five: lemon drop

chapter six: dark 'n' stormy

chapter seven [epilogue]: ancient mariner

extras:

moodboard by @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin

thank you all for being so loving, supportive, and horny xoxo

[morallyinept-deactivated2024071]

Five Days - A Joel Miller Series (Complete)

Summary: Joel Miller comes back into your life unexpectedly after a gap of thirty years, and stirs up all kinds of memories and longing. Now, as you're stationed on an outpost for five days alone with the man you stupidly let go of all those years ago, you have a chance to confront him about your past life together and all the things you wished you’d said and done.

But Joel’s different now, and you know you need to tread carefully. Joel Miller is not the same man you once knew in another life.

A slow burn romance set in the post apocalyptic world, approx. twenty or so years after the initial Cordyceps outbreak.

Pairing: Post-Outbreak Joel Miller x MatureF!Reader (No name or physical description of reader. However reader is of a similar age range as Joel; in her late forties/early fifties. Joel is slightly older at 56.)

Mostly told from reader's POV, but you get Joel’s thoughts occasionally too. I've also introduced some of my own original characters along the way. 

Word Count: 40k approx. Each chapter varies in length as this is a multi-chapter novella.

Scoville Smut Rating:🌶️🌶️🌶 “You tell me I'm doing well, and then, you try to kill me.” 

Check out my Scoville Smut Ratings here.

Eventual Smut - Sloooow burn romance. Joel being his grumpy ass self. Hot smut eventually occurs. Unprotected PIV (wrap up, folks!) fingering/oral sex, both giving and receiving/love making/mild dirty talk. All the good stuff.

Triggers - Feelings of angst, unrequited love. Depression/trauma. Mentions of death/violence/suicide attempts (failed)/pining/longing. Use of guns. Attacks by infected. Mentions of blood/injury/gore/wounds. Descriptions of panic attacks.

NSFW. MINORS DNI! OVER 18’s ONLY. YOU ARE SOLELY RESPONSIBLE FOR WHAT YOU READ. ☝🏻Don’t come at me; you’ve been plenty warned. 

Author’s Note: I hope you enjoy reading this lil’ angsty/romance story of mine with our favourite contractor, Joel Miller. 

SERIES COMPLETE

Enjoy! 🖤

Ch 1 - The Four Horsemen Of The Apocalypse

Ch 2 - Lucky Charms

Ch 3 - The Goose To His Maverick

Ch 4 - Hello Fate? Are You There?

Ch 5 - Loser

Ch 6 - Day One: Passing Time

Ch 7 - Day One/Two: Endure And Survive

Ch 8 - Day Three: Thunder

Ch 9 - Day Three: Punching Glitter

Ch 10 - Day Four: Old Habits

Ch 11 - Day Five: Look For The Light

Ch 12 - When We Were Young

MAIN MASTERLIST

Bound - A Five Days Christmas Drabble 🎄

[capswritinq]

Fall Into You – Ted Lasso x Reader Fanfic

Pairing: Ted Lasso x Reader

Word Count: 2.5k

About: Richmond’s social media manager falls for Ted…quite literally

Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort

AO3 Link

A/N: This is my first time writing in a while and my first Ted fic! You know I didn’t really wanna make this a whole damsel-in-distress situation but I have been feeling pretty crumby lately so sometimes playing into tropes is just familiar and comforting…anyway I’m American so I already apologize for my inaccuracies regarding Britain and British people but nonetheless please enjoy.

Being the social media manager for AFC Richmond felt like a dream job most days. But with the addition of Coach Lasso, your job felt as crazy as if the sky raining frogs lately.

There was so much more attention and activity happening on the player’s and the official Richmond account, that you felt like managing it all was a two person job. Or heck, leave it to the robots to feed through it all.

But one thing was for certain, and that was that you were not going to disappoint. If it meant skipping breaks and staying later, then so be it.

One particular night, you were staying late trying to catch up on emails, but as the sun went down and the emails kept piling on, you knew you had to leave your office for a bit and come back to it. Your brain was feeling fuzzy and your stomach growling was also not helping you focus.

So you decided to take a trip to the locker room, located a bit of a way from your office. Standing up out of your chair, you tried to ignore the light headedness you felt as you sprung to your toes.

You made it down the hall leading to the locker room, before you had to stop yourself for a moment, as the world starting spinning and your view became whiter and whiter.

About to head out for the day himself, Ted almost runs into you.

Keep reading

[illiterateaffairs]

Distractions Masterlist {Jamie Tartt x F!Reader}

playlist | mood board | reader’s instagram

0. the exit (prologue)

I. london calling 

II. alone at midnight

III. you’re kinda cute 

scene between: stay like this forever

IV. catching feelings

scene between: let’s just play pretend

V. a slight malfunction

VI. nightcall

VII. crawling back to you

VIII. open wound

i like you drabble

[pellucid-constellations]

My Everyday

Pairing: College Athlete!Bucky x Reader

Summary: Bucky Barnes was aggressive, annoying, and—worst of all—a hockey player. Not your type. At all. But, unfortunately, your roommate. 

Word count: 5.5k

Warnings: Minor injury, idiots in love <3, some angst, pining

a/n: My first fic in a century!! Thank you so much for reading if you’re still here. Depending on how this does I hope I’ll have motivation to write more! College athlete Bucky never fails to get me inspired :)

Masterlist

~~

“What’s this punks name again?” 

The breath you let out was long and excruciating. “I am not repeating myself.” 

“C’mon, y/n,” Bucky whined, knocking his head back on the couch. He watched you bustle around the kitchen from his inverted vantage point. “How the hell am I supposed to swoop in and save the day if I don’t even know the kid’s name?” 

“Okay, well, first of all—” the fridge door clicked shut with a swift motion of your hips “—he’s not a ‘kid’. I’m pretty sure he’s a few months older than you.” 

“Semantics.” 

“And second of all,” you stressed, pointing a butter knife in his direction. “There will be no ‘swooping in’. I’m going to have a nice date and you are going to go hang out with your puck rabbits or whatever they're called. There will be no thinking about me and no swooping in my vicinity.” 

Bucky rolled his eyes, kicking up from the couch and rounding the kitchen counter to pick at your sandwich. You knocked his hand away several times, but you both knew it was futile. In the months you’d been living with the hockey player—who was far too big for the small, shoebox of an apartment you leased—you’d learned that food was non-negotiable for Bucky Barnes. 

There were many other things you’d learned about him as well. He sang in the shower, but only when he thought you weren’t home. He had an annoying penchant for using your $30 lotion—again, when he thought you weren’t home. And he loved to throw his massive, smelly gear just about anywhere it would land right when he got home from every practice. 

He didn’t really care if you were home for that last one. 

Bucky was the last person you thought you would be rooming with when you posted that ad last summer. A small, quaint room previously occupied by your now engaged (and traitorous) best friend, you assumed someone like-minded to yourself would have taken you up on your offer. The price point wasn’t egregious and the building was relatively close to campus. 

But weeks ticked by, and you started getting desperate. Your landlord wasn’t a nice lady, something you were positive she took pride in, and she decided that a rent increase was the perfect way to ring in the new school year. You were on the verge of destitution, and as it so happened, the only other person as desperate as you was the starting center for your college’s hockey team. 

You hardly got along. It had taken weeks for your eye to stop twitching every time he tumbled through the front door at three in the morning, and even longer for you not to feel an infuriating aggravation at his random, nighttime smoothies. You supposed he probably felt the same about your cleanliness rules and your incessant reminders about trash days. Because Bucky was in charge of bringing the trash down those long, apartment steps. Not you. 

But you’d be lying if you said things hadn’t gotten easier as of late. Conversation flowed more smoothly, things that made you seethe before were only mildly annoying, and Bucky was being… considerate? You weren’t quite sure what to call the random cups of coffee he brought home on occasion. Or his sudden urge to warm up your car when he had a morning class before yours. 

There was also the case of that party last weekend. A frat party with far too many drunk men and not enough common sense, you had had the urge to leave the second you got there. But Wanda had dragged you along for the sole purpose of driving her home after she got hammered, so you were essentially stuck. 

It was fine at first. Hot and crowded and loud, but fine. You kept a general eye on Wanda and scrolled aimlessly on your phone in the armchair you claimed. And then it wasn’t fine, because a man twice your size was encroaching on your space and unrelenting. 

“What kinda girl comes to a party and doesn’t even wanna talk to anyone?” 

“You want to come up to my room and watch a movie or something?” 

“Hey, I’m talking to you, bitch.” 

You weren’t even aware that Bucky had been at that party. It wasn’t surprising—the line between fraternities and sports was blurred at your college—but the space he took up as he intercepted the man in front of you was.

~~

“There a problem here?” Bucky posed, crossing his arms over his chest, his presence looming above your seated position. His weight shifted to his toes.

The man didn’t miss a beat. “Yeah, you. Move.” 

“Wanna fucking tell me what to do again?” 

“Fuck you, man.” 

A harsh shove to Bucky’s chest was all it took for a right hook to echo in the living room of the frat house. There was chaos. Grunts and screams from the drunk people surrounding the unnecessary fight created a cacophony of unpleasant sounds that seemed to get the attention of someone in charge. The man—Brian, you had now learned based on screams—was pulled back from Bucky and getting chewed out by some president or manager of something. 

And Bucky was seething, chest rising and falling laboriously as he wiped at the new bruise forming on his face.

Fights were not uncommon. But this one had been about you. For you.

“Bucky?” you asked when the crowd calmed and Brian was no longer in the room. 

You watched his back release its tight coil. He turned. “Are you okay?” 

The words were almost lost in the noise of the crowd, but he was close enough that they created a tactile vibration across your skin. His pupils were dilated and he looked so disheveled it would have been charming if there wasn’t also a cut forming on his brow. 

“Y/n.” 

It took you a moment to realize that you hadn’t answered him. Your response fell out of you as if you’d been shoved. “I’m—I’m fine.” 

He grunted, but it was more of a puff of air. “The fuck was that guy?” 

“I don’t know,” you replied, realizing by the way you swayed that you had stood up at some point. “He just—” 

“We’re going home.” 

“What? I can’t, I’m here with Wanda. I’m driving her, Bucky, I can’t just leave.” 

He grabbed your wrist, the grip achingly soft compared to the blows he was landing minutes before. “She left with that British guy she’s been on and off with. Asked me to tell you.” 

That explained his random appearance. Your brows pinched as you took in the information, eyes cast down to the angry red marks marring Bucky’s knuckles. He’d been in fights before. So many fights. On the ice. 

This was different. 

“I haven’t been drinking—I can drive myself home. You don’t have to leave,” you shouted over the music now bumping in the room. 

He didn’t respond, not verbally. He pulled you to his front instead, leading you through the impossible crowd until cool night air began melting into your skin. His silence was strange. Bucky’s favorite activity was talking your ear off until you told him to shut up, but right now… nothing. Even his earlier words had been clipped. 

You felt responsible for easing the tension in the air as Bucky continued to guide you to your car. You hadn’t told him where you parked, but he seemed to know the exact location anyways.

“You really don’t have to leave with me,” you mumbled. “It wasn’t a big deal or anything.” 

“It was a big deal.” 

~~

The drive home had been silent. The walk to the door had been as well. Bucky spent a few minutes appraising you in the overhead light of the living room when you got inside, but after that there was nothing. He went to his room and you went to yours. 

There was no discussion about it the morning after, either. Bucky apparently wanted to pretend nothing ever happened, so you respected that. Even now, you ignored the fading cuts on his hands as he shoveled food into his mouth.

Bucky’s next words were muffled by a mouthful of bread. “Well where’s this dude taking you at least?”

“Ice skating.”

The cough and sudden exasperation was very expected out of the man next to you, Bucky’s next words hardly containing syllables. “Huh?” 

“We’re going ice skating,” you reiterated. You picked up your lunch and headed for the living room, ignoring the slightly heaviness in your chest. “It’s winter and ice skating is festive. The rink on campus has decorations.” 

“Without me? Y/n, you’re gonna let some guy who probably doesn’t even know how to skate—” 

“Bucky—” you attempted to interrupt. 

“—drag you around the rink like a rag doll?” he continued, holding his hand up to mute your incoming speech. “I’ve asked you to come by the rink, like, a ton of times. You’ve never shown any interest.” 

You rolled your eyes and shot him a cross look as he picked your feet up from where they rested on the couch and dropped them into his lap. He went on with his rant for a little while longer, knocking his head back against cushions and accusing you of being a bad roommate. You had a few rebuttals of your own, but there was a reason you had never accompanied him to the rink. 

A good reason. 

You didn’t date athletes. 

It was true that simply going to visit Bucky at a practice, or letting him be the one to drag you around the ice like a rag doll, wouldn’t mean you were in a relationship by any means. But it would be an extra step. And if you were being honest with yourself, it would only take a few of those extra steps for the irritation you felt towards Bucky to melt into something else. 

And you didn’t date athletes. 

You did not. 

You didn’t have the time, nor the patience, to put up with the cheating, the anger issues, or the crazy schedules. And there wasn’t a single athlete you’d met at your sport-centered university that was willing to compromise on any of those subjects. Especially the cheating. You’d learned that the hard way after dating a lacrosse player for approximately one month before receiving the dreaded DM from a girl you had never met. 

The man hadn’t even given you the courtesy of pretending he didn’t know what she was talking about. He just admitted to his wrong-doing and shrugged. Shrugged. 

So athletes were not exactly in your good graces when it came to dating. 

“Are you even listening to me?” Bucky cut through your thoughts, patting your shin in impatience. 

You blinked and reoriented yourself, focusing on the hairs that fanned across Bucky’s face. “Of course I am,” you lied. “But my answer is still the same. I’m going on my date and you are not going on my date.” 

He groaned, apparently giving up as he cradled your legs closer to him to lean over and grab the remote from the coffee table. He flipped the channel to ESPN—typical—and you ate your sandwich, silently cursing him. He had a TV in his room. 

“When is it?” he suddenly asked, breaking the silence that had knitted itself into a comfortable blanket over the room. 

“Tonight,” you answered plainly. 

The arms atop your legs tensed. 

~~

The dichotomy of the man sitting beside you was impressive. On one hand, he was so full of himself that he had missed almost all of your conversation starters due to being so transfixed by his reflection in the rink’s glass. He had yet to ask you a single question about yourself and had insisted that the four other girls skating tonight were in love with him. 

On the other hand, he was, quite possibly, the most uninteresting person you had ever met. You were usually very quick to laugh, but every word out of his mouth was almost painful. He wouldn’t stop talking about his ex-girlfriend, gave you one word answers about anything other than baseball, and was honestly really terribly at ice skating. You were no pro either, but you found yourself on your back every time he tried holding your hand.

The tumble five minutes ago had you seeking out the penalty box on the side of the rink. You needed a break, you had told him, hoping he would continue on making a fool of himself and give you a moment alone. But he followed you instead, and was now sitting beside you, talking about baseball.

You supposed that was better than making you fall while talking about baseball.

“I bet we could do that,” he remarked, pointing out onto the ice and catching your attention. A couple who clearly had more experience than you was twirling each other around. “We definitely could. I pick up good speed.” You cringed. “I really don’t think we should try, Sean. My tailbone is already pretty bruised.” 

“Oh, c’mon! I won’t try the throwing part, just the twisty stuff.” 

“We are literally on rental skates. You will kill me,” you deadpanned. You were tired at this point and seriously questioning why you thought ice skating was a good first date idea. 

Well, there actually was an answer for that. But you were not going to think about the hockey player that popped into your head when Sean asked you on a date in the dining hall last week. 

Definitely not. 

“I’m not going to let my date think I’m boring,” Sean groaned, yanking you up from your seat. 

You gave a few tugs and words of resistance but they were ultimately useless. You figured it would be just as useless to tell the guy you already thought he was boring. He probably wouldn’t even hear you. 

On unsteady skates, Sean guided you to a mostly cleared corner of the rink and gripped your forearms. He squinted as he surveyed the area, the corner of his mouth turning up in a way that made your stomach roll. This entire date had been a bad idea.

“Maybe we should just watch them do it,” you tried, words wavering. 

“No!” he grinned. “No, we got this. It’s gonna look so cool.” 

And then you were spinning. You’d never been spun against your will before, but it sucked. Your skates kept getting stuck in the divots in the ice and the grip on your forearms was close to bruising. You were starting to get dizzy and Sean showed no signs of caring. God, he really was dragging you around the rink like a rag doll. Bucky was going to get a kick out of this.

“Okay, ready?” Sean called, an unwarranted jubilation in his tone. 

“What?” you yelled. 

He didn’t answer you. Instead, he let go, and you went flying in another direction without a clear path. It only lasted a moment, but the sound of your head smacking onto the ice signified the end of that movement. You landed on your arm next, and then your back. Again. 

This time felt different though. Your head was spinning and there were muted pinpricks trailing up to your wrist. The ache there was dulled compared to the biting iciness in your back, but as soon as you tried leaning on it to get up, it became sharp.

“Oh shit!” came Sean’s laughter-filled gasp. “My bad. I really didn’t mean to let go.” 

You blinked a few times to clear the blurriness from your vision but it proved unhelpful. “I think… I think my arm’s broken.” 

“Wait, seriously?” he asked, wobbling down to a seat beside you. 

“Yeah, it’s—”

“Everything okay over here?” a voice interrupted. You tried blinking again to take in the man that towered over the two of you, but the lights overhead washed him out. 

You recognized him…maybe? You felt like you were going to throw up. 

Sean answered for you. “Yeah, man, we’re fine. She just fell.” 

“Y/n, are you okay?” the man asked, ignoring your date completely.

“Do I know you?” you slurred.

You thought you heard a curse. “What made you think throwing her around was a good idea?” 

“Dude, it wasn’t even that fast. Or my fault. She just couldn’t keep her feet under her.” 

“Well, dude, maybe you should go home.” 

Sean scoffed. “Right, and who’s going to take this one home?” 

Your head was starting to hurt with all of the back and forth. The man that just joined, the taller one, kneeled down beside you. His blonde hair cast a harsh glare that had you squinting again. 

“You want me to call Bucky?” he asked.

Bucky? How would he know Bucky? Blonde hair began morphing into a man in your memory, and you reached for the material of his shirt, looping it between your fingers.

“Steve Rogers?” you mumbled. 

The man, now identified as Steve, sighed. “I’m calling him. Go home, Sean. Her roommate is coming to get her.” 

There was more discussion, something about Steve having the authority to kick him out and Sean not understanding what all of the fuss was about. Steve warned him about something and Sean scoffed as if the situation was beneath him. And then he left. 

Steve was then in your line of sight again, brows pinched together and a bright orange vest covering his shoulders. His hands hovered in front of you as if you’d break if he touched you and you almost found it funny. Steve was a huge guy with a lot of authority on Bucky’s team, but right now he looked like a scared animal. 

“Why are you dressed like a construction worker?” you asked. 

A small smile graced his face. “I’m working at the rink today. Everyone on the team has to take shifts during the holidays.” 

“Hmm,” you hummed. “I think my arm is broken.” 

“I know. I’m pretty sure you have a concussion too. Let’s get you off the ice, yeah?” 

You tried to nod, but that hurt too much so you let Steve assist you in shakily standing up. He guided you to the seats by the rental skate counter with a soft but sure hand on your back, asking some guy named Antonio for an ice pack. Everything around you felt like a fever dream. 

Gentle touches rolled the sleeve of your sweater back to reveal a swollen wrist that Steve immediately covered with an ice pack. 

He cursed again. “Well he’s gonna be pissed.” 

“Who?” Your head swayed with the question. 

Steve looked up to meet your gaze, lips parting to answer, when he was replaced by a different face. Your brain was having trouble keeping up with everything, obviously, because Bucky was in front of you now. He was kneeling between your legs with his hands on your face and you had no idea where Steve went. 

“What the fuck?” you blurted out. 

“Hey, y/n.” Bucky spoke your name low and soothing, his fingers moving to your eyes where he pried them open one at a time and looked for something you couldn’t see. His next words were directed over his shoulder. “Maybe a concussion. Tell me what happened again?” 

“Sean Marcus was being an ass. Flung her all over the place,” Steve replied. 

“Why are you here?” you interjected, trying to focus on one thing at a time. “I told you not to come on my date.” 

Bucky moved his assessment to your arm next, shifting the ice pack. “Never really agreed to those terms.” 

He turned back to Steve after that, having another discussion that you barely understood. Bucky absentmindedly fiddled with the material of your jeans as he spoke, and you put all of your energy into not face planting on the ground. This past week had truly been a series of terrible events with terrible men. 

After some amount of time elapsed, you were walking to the parking lot with a jacket thrown over your shoulders and Bucky continuously jutting a hand out each time you took a step. He was very well versed in concussions, apparently. 

“Okay, in you go, killer,” Bucky prompted, opening the passenger door. 

You eyed the front seat, scrunching your face up. “My arm hurts.” 

The man in front of you seemed to soften, his shoulders dropping on a long exhale. “I know, sweetheart. But we gotta go to the hospital to fix that. I’ll make sure it doesn’t hurt anymore.”

“I should just call Wanda. Or Nat. You don’t have to be the one to take me.” 

“I can take you just fine.”

“Why do you want to you? Aren’t you busy?” 

Another long sigh, this one accompanied by hands on your shoulders, fingers at the base of your neck. “Get in the car.”

His eyes were boring into yours, searching for something, or maybe already finding it there. You still had your arm cradled to your chest and you titled your head to the side as you observed him. There was something else to his gaze that you couldn’t quite describe. It reminded you of his expression after he came home from a rough game. Angry. Discontent. 

“You’re being weird,” you commented, breaking the silence you had created. 

“You broke your arm and smacked your head on the ice,” he simply replied, as if the statement was an explanation. 

“Yeah, but—” 

“And then that douchebag did nothing about it,” Bucky interrupted. “So please, y/n, get in the car so I can help you before I find him and kick his ass. Because you know I’m not above fighting people.” 

You blinked, and then slid into the front seat. 

The drive was quiet. You’d never been in Bucky’s car before, but the spinning in your head didn’t give you much space to inspect it too closely. You caught hockey gear in the back, a keycard to the rink dangling off the rearview mirror, and a small collection of hair ties in one of the cupholders. One caught your attention.

“Hey, this one’s mine.” You picked up the purple band and rolled it between your fingers. “Thief.” 

Bucky snatched it back. “Mine now.” 

He made a sharp turn that had you sucking air between your teeth and repositioning your arm. Bucky sent you a quick, achingly apologetic look. 

“Sorry, almost there.” A long beat of silence and then a mumbled, “I should keep your hair tie. You won’t be able to do your hair alone with a broken arm anyway.” 

~~

Your wrist was fractured, not broken. You also only had a minor concussion. This was all great news to you, especially since they told you after administering a hefty amount pain reliever. To Bucky, this was apparently terrible, life-altering news. 

After practically body slamming into the front door of your apartment, he chucked his wallet and keys down on the kitchen counter and began grumbling to himself as he opened and closed kitchen cabinets. You watched from a distance, half amused, half concerned for the rusting hinges. He finally found what he was looking for—a cup—and continued to mutter to himself as he filled it with gatorade. 

“Are you… okay?” you asked tentatively. 

Bucky ripped the freezer open and manhandled three to four ice cubes. “I’m fine. You are not.” 

“I’m okay now,” you assured. Bucky stalked over to you anyways, pressing the sports drink into your hand that was not wrapped in a cast.

You looked down at the glass and sent him a baffled look. He nodded at it and raised his brows, a silent demand for you to drink. 

“Okay. And why do I need to drink gatorade?” Your words were slow. 

“You were just on the ice and haven’t had any water for at least three hours.” 

“Bucky,” you began. “I was ice skating recreationally for about thirty minutes. I don’t need to replenish my electrolytes.” 

“Will you just… will you just drink the damn drink?” he groaned, gesturing to it with a firm hand. “Jesus, I can’t take care of you when you go and get yourself hurt by idiots. So just let me do what I know I can do, alright?” 

“You don’t have to take care of me.” You were beginning to raise your voice, matching some of the frustration in the room. 

Bucky threw his hands in the air, tugging at his roots on the way down. He moved further into the kitchen and leaned against the counter with stiff, rod-like arms propping him up. And then he sighed, long and profound as if this was the hardest conversation he’d had all year. His head hung heavy between stiff shoulders and you felt the environment shift. 

You almost wanted to intervene on his thoughts again, to make some comment about the dishes in the dishwasher or pretend you were going to go take a nap. But he had something to say, something you needed to hear, and so you stayed. You blinked and clenched your fist in the uncomfortable silence, but you stayed. 

“Y/n, I want to take care of you,” Bucky breathed out, words still directed toward the floor, almost too low to make out. “I’ve been tryna get you to see that for weeks now, but you’ve either got no clue or you want absolutely nothing to do with me.” 

You stopped blinking, stopped fidgeting, stopped breathing altogether. You watched as Bucky drummed his fingers against the counter and still refused to look up. You swallowed hard because you weren’t clueless, but also because you wanted everything to do with Bucky Barnes. 

And nothing at the same time. 

“Bucky…” you began, with a tone of surprise you weren’t sure was believable.

“Don’t do it yet,” he stopped you. “Don’t…don’t tell me no yet. I’m still pissed as hell that you got hurt and you shouldn’t be alone with a concussion. I don’t need you avoiding me when you can’t even drive a car.” 

“You’re being presumptuous.” 

He snapped his head up, his eyes rushing back and forth between your own. The drumming on the counter ceased, instead replaced by balled up fists turning white under days old cuts and fading bruises. He didn’t say anything. You searched the empty air for a reply. 

“I wouldn’t avoid you. I don’t know if I could avoid you—not anymore. You’re sort of a big part of my life now.” A good start, you thought. Not a real answer, but not a rejection. 

Bucky bit the inside of his cheek and eyed the drink still perspiring in your hand. You set it down at his observance, moving closer to his slumped posture in the kitchen. 

But Bucky stood up straight at your movement, becoming guarded, stiff. “I shouldn’t have said anything. Bad timing, just forget it. You should try and get some sleep.” 

“I don’t want to forget it,” you softly spoke, shaking your head.

He clenched his jaw. “And I don’t want to hear that you don’t feel the same way about me that I feel about you. Not right now. I feel like I’m going insane, watching you go out on dates and having my best friend tell me that my girl—that’s not really my girl—is all banged up on the ice because of some asshole.” 

You opened your mouth to speak, but Bucky kept going, now pacing in the kitchen. “I mean, y/n, you’re my everyday. I wake up and you’re making coffee. You text me in class to ask what I need at the grocery store and then I call you after practice to make sure you got back to the apartment. I think about you so god damn much and I can’t believe there was a time in my life that I didn’t get to end my day in a home that has you. And you’re just my roommate. You want nothing to do with athletes, I get it—” he added, catching your eye in the middle of his rant, “—but, shit, I haven’t even looked at another girl since… well it doesn’t even matter.”

“Tell me,” you whispered. There were a million other things you could’ve said, a million explanations that would have made sense. But the two soft words stopped Bucky from tracking holes in the ground. They shoved him from his shallow breaths and made him look at you. 

And, god, did he look at you. You must have been worse for wear. A hospital visit mixed with one too many tumbles onto solid ice probably had your hair in disarray and your face pressed with exhaustion, but his gaze was revering. Candy-coated red with soft blues melting below brows that fluxed with the movement of his lips; Bucky was beautiful, and he was looking at you as if you matched.

His tone confirmed as much, light and saccharin as he said, “That dumb movie a few weeks ago, the one about the superheroes. Your friends wouldn’t watch it with you so you made me. You were so excited even though it was awful and you were out like a light within the first hour. You rolled over onto me and I wasn’t gonna wake you up so I sorta just held you.” 

He paused, trailing his eyes up to the light fixtures. “At the risk of sounding pathetic, it felt like I had you, you know? Like we were going through all our usual motions, but after I annoyed the hell out of you and you told me off, you were mine. I can’t… I can’t really picture that with another girl.” 

There were very few times you had considered yourself speechless. But with Bucky Barnes standing in front of you, red-faced and vulnerable and still wearing the stupid hospital nametag they made him put on in the waiting room, you had no words. There was none of the arrogance you usually associated with him, no short-temper or pestering taunts. It was just Bucky, and he was pouring his heart onto the kitchen floor. For you. 

“You get why you can’t tell me no just yet?” he asked, trying to get something out of you. Anything. “You can break my heart, but let me just make sure you’re okay first. And I can’t beat the shit out of Sean if we aren’t on speaking terms.” 

The laugh that left you was one of disbelief, but the breathiness and accompanying tears fit the heaviness of the room. Your glossy eyes met Bucky’s and something flashed on his face, but it was soon out of your line of sight because you were kissing him. You were kissing him hard and your bodies were too close for the cast between you but it didn’t matter. 

He didn’t respond at first, hand hovering at your back. But then he did and the cold linoleum of the kitchen floor was gone from your bare feet. He sat you on the counter, so gently, as if you were glass, and you let your hand brush against the cracks and divots of your home. The one that Bucky came back to every night to see you. 

The one that had housed so many nights of confusion and longing and denial.

The one that had Bucky kissing the life out of you on the kitchen counter. 

He pulled away first, forehead pressed to yours. “Didn’t think I’d ever get to do that.” 

“You can do it again.” 

“Oh, I will, baby.” 

Laughter met in the air between you—sweet, short, intertwined. There was so much you wanted to tell him, so many instances like the one he shared before where you were left questioning boundaries and feelings and lines. But, you figured, there would be so many opportunities to tell him. So much time together. 

“I texted Wanda that night,” you shared, interrupting the kisses he was pressing to your cheek. “After I woke up and you had taken me back to my room.” 

He smiled against your skin. “What’d you say?” 

“I told her I was an idiot—that I was falling for the enemy.” 

Bucky ran a soft hand along the back of your head, a smirk lighting up his face. He was slotted between your legs and kept his other hand firmly pressed onto the kitchen counter, caging you in, making sure your arm didn’t hit the cabinets. 

“And is that true?” 

“I don’t know,” you hummed, connecting your foreheads once again, wanting to stay impossibly close. “Try to cure my broken bone with gatorade again and we’ll see.”

[wkemeup]

Gorgeous

summary: Steve Rogers is really pretty and it's hard to think straight when you look at his face; Based on the song Gorgeous by Taylor Swift (request by @bent-not-br0kenn and anon) pairing: steve x reader word count: 4k warnings: steve is one fine man 😏 a/n: this was written for the wonderfully amazing @msmarvelwrites's Taylor Swift lyric inspired writing challenge ! hope you enjoy my surprising attempt at fluffy cheesy steve goodness 💕Congrats on 2k!!!

Ocean blue eyes looking in mine I feel like I might sink and drown and die

Steve Rogers stands at the head of the conference room with the smudge of dry erase marker on his hand and a bullet point list of names on the whiteboard behind him. You know he must be talking about something important because he’s got one hand on his hip, the other holding up his weight against the table. His features are stern, his brows forming a low line as he speaks, but you can't hear a word of it.

No— you're too focused on the way his hair lifts away from his face, combed back and reminiscent of his youth in the Army. Formal and dated, but it’s light and airy and begging to be messied through the tips of his fingers. It’s darker than when you first met him, a shade away from the perfect blonde painted on posters at the Smithsonian, of the Captain America in the wartime movies. His cheekbones are high, with a jawline sharp enough to cut glass and his lips— lips so full and pink, you watch every shape they take with each word he speaks.

But it's his eyes that take you under. Ocean blue so effortless in their current, they draw you in with the belly of an undertow and you know without hesitation you would drown gladly if he would just look at you a moment longer. Allow you the privilege of water to your lungs.

Steve Rogers is just simply... gorgeous.

He straightens his back, his lips pressing into a short pout and he’s no longer speaking, you realize. His brows narrow, his gaze fixating on you and his lips move again. They take the shape of your name and you’re so lost on the way his mouth curves around your syllables you don’t realize how quiet the room has become.

Steve shifts then, a smile pressing on his cheeks; the right corner of his lips curve ever so slightly higher than the other as he lets his chin fall to his chest. He shakes his head, shoulders bouncing subtly. He's the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. The sunlight from the open window casts in and touches over his skin, illuminating him in an ethereal glow as if he wasn’t already built of the heavens themselves. He starts to laugh to himself and you bite on the edge of your lip to keep yourself from mirroring his grin.

“You still with us, Y/n?” Steve’s voice breaks through and it’s like whiplash as you’re suddenly jolted from your trance.

You spring up in your chair, brushing a hand over your hair to push down the loose ends that had sprung up in your daydreaming slouch. Your heart beats terribly as you look around the room to find the other agents watching you with a curious look in their eyes. Only Sam Wilson wears a devious smirk and he manages a wink at you before you can kick his shin under the table. He grunts, leaning down to massage the muscle and narrows his eyes at you in warning. You bare your teeth.

Then, embarrassed, you turn back to Steve. “Sorry. I’m here.”

Steve doesn’t take any offense as he simply waves you off and returns to the debrief as if nothing had happened at all. The marker squeaks as he rights another name on the list, circling it three times until the color begins to fade to a subtle grey. It’s not the first set of words you’ve exchanged with Steve, but it still feels like you've just taken a dive out of the quinjet. It feels that way any time he so much as acknowledges your existence.

Most of the agents you know straighten their spine when he walks by. They put more weight on the machine or run a little faster around the track. They’re eager to impress him, to appeal to the well decorated war hero and earn their rank in his presence. They idolize Captain America, may even be a little afraid of him.

But it’s the man behind the shield that scares you the most.

It’s the way he smiles to himself when he doesn’t think anyone is watching, how he sometimes hides it behind the wall of his coffee mug but the lines by his eyes still give him away. It’s how he jogs a little to catch the door before it can close, just so he can hold it open for you as you walk by. It’s because he’s an impossible man built of unparalleled strength and power and he still blushes when Natasha teases him, still draws in his little notebook on the bench down by the lake, still has the same compassion and selflessness he carried in his youth.

It’s not Captain America you see when you look at him. It’s Steve Rogers.

You only realize you stopped paying attention again when the room starts to clear out and you look across the table to find Sam’s lips pursed together in a knowing look. You nearly kick his shin again before he jumps up away from your reach and quickly skirts out of the room.

“Here’s the highlights,” Steve chuckles, sliding a folder down the table to you.

You reach out and catch it before it can slide off the end. You open the folder and quickly browse through the bullet notes Steve must have written for himself. The most you can gather while you’re not distracted by the near cursive delicacy of Steve’s handwriting is that there’s a new arms dealer taking root near Philadelphia.

“Don’t worry too much about it,” Steve adds as he finishes gathering the rest of the reports. “I’ll fill you in if Fury ends up putting you on assignment. I know you’re usually more of the search and rescue type than stakeouts and organized crime, so I doubt you’ll end up with the case anyway. Fury just thought we should make everyone aware if we have a new Kingpin on our hands.”

You nod, your lips parted just slightly. You didn’t know Steve had any idea what you did within SHIELD, let alone your area of specialty. Sure, you were Natasha’s primary point of contact when she dug up the information that eventually led him to find Bucky Barnes in Bucharest, but you don’t expect he knew that.

“Thanks, Captain Rogers,” you say, the waver in your voice giving way to the nerves shaking under his gaze.

“Hey, come on. It’s Steve.” That charismatic charm returns to his face as a smile etches up into his cheeks. It’s genuine and a little shy and made entirely of the scrawny kid in Brooklyn that your heart starts to beat tenfold.

“Thanks... Steve,” you try again and at the sound of his name in your voice, he manages to smile a little wider.

The room falls silent around you and for a moment, you find yourself drifting into the shades of blue in his eyes, unable to form another word as long as you’re lost in the waters. Rising and flowing. Pulled by the current and drifting out to sea. Steve doesn’t make an effort to turn away and you nearly forget to breathe entirely, water filling your lungs, when you hear a short knock on the door.

In the doorway, a woman stands wearing a visitor pass around her neck, the tag hanging near her waist where taunt skin peaks through the top of her jeans. She’s stunning – the kind of beautiful one only sees airbrushed in magazines, but there she is, under harsh florescent conference room lighting, and she looks like she was born of Olympus.

“Ready, Steve?” she calls sweetly and your heart drops through the floor.

He gives her a short nod as he crosses the room to her, drawn to her as if his body moves of its own accord. Her hand touches his forearm; perfectly manicured as her fingertips press into the muscle and they grin at one another as if you weren’t there at all. You try not to let your heart fracture, but you could feel the edges begin to crumble.

“Hey,” Steve says, grabbing your attention. He grins, laughing so sweetly is starts to mends the fractures in your heart. “Don’t get too lost in that head of yours, alright? I’ll see you around. Have a good night, Y/n.”

He says it so sincerely that you can’t help but smile, even with this impossibly beautiful woman on his arm.

“You too, Capt— Steve.”

The woman tugs eagerly on his arm and he gives you a final wave before they disappear from the room. When the silence takes over again, there’s a near buzzing in your ears. Mocking you. Taunting you.

Steve Rogers is a daytime fantasy – a man you know you have no unearthly chance with. So, you settle to admire him from your distance where it’s safe and protected and your heart can’t be broken. At least not any more than it already had. You try not to allow yourself to want more.

But still— it creeps in.

***

You don’t know why you bother going to Carter’s show. You can barely hear yourself think over the thump of the loudspeakers and the base resonates deep into your chest; an unsettling vibration in time with the electronic beats from Carter’s turn table.

You glance up at him from your position at the bar and he doesn’t so much as glance in your direction. He’s too busy catering to the group of women at the center of the dance floor. You have half a mind to be jealous before you remind yourself that it’s not Carter’s attention you really care for anyway.

Carter was the DJ at the party Tony had thrown for a very reluctant Bruce Banner the previous week. You met him at the bar during his break and he offered to buy your next round, not realizing how plainly you’d been staring at Steve Rogers from across the crowd for most of the night. Carter was nice enough and you were still pining over an Adonis way too out of your league to so much as notice your existence, so you halfheartedly agreed when he asked you to come see his set.

As you adjust your stance against the bar, wincing at the tug of the sticky club floor against your shoes, you find yourself regretting your decision to come. You signal the bartender for another whiskey on ice as you set the empty glass on the counter. There’s more than just a slight buzz in your head and you’re thankful that even SHEILD Agents get a day off every once in a while.

Another hour goes by and Carter is far too enamored with the woman shouting up song requests from the dance floor, so you set some cash on the bar and leave. It makes you question why you even bothered with him, but then an image of Steve crosses your mind and you remember. You can't get that man out of your head and it’s starting to feel borderline pathetic.

The wind hits you worse than a brick wall and it takes a moment to adjust your eyes to the darkness. The club had colorful strobe lights and neon signs hanging on the walls so it’s almost jarring to be surrounded by the quiet comfort of brick walls and a starless night. When the door closes behind you, you can still hear the vague thump of the music through the cracks. You rub at your temples.

It takes a few steps towards the subway before you realize how many drinks the bartender had replaced before you found the nerve to leave. Your ankles wobble a little on your heels and you quickly grab onto the banister at the end of a brownstone's stoop. Your vision starts to double, swaying in circles, and you clench your eyes tight enough to see the stars missing from the sky.

“Y/n?” a voice calls from across the road. “Is that you?”

You look up, but the figure it too far away. All you can see is a vague outline of a man as he quickly jogs across the street, holding up a hand to an oncoming car to block his path. You chuckle to yourself. What little patience he must have to demand a moving vehicle to break for him.

When he approaches, his hands quickly easing you upright and holding you steady, the air nearly leaves your lungs entirely.

Steve Rogers has his hands cupped on the sides of your face; his brows furrowed in concentration as his eyes roam over your exposed skin. His lower lip is tugged between his teeth, full and pink, as he slowly returns to your gaze. There’s concern in his eyes, you realize – a beautiful drop of caution amongst the rippling tide of blue.

“M’okay,” you tell him and you wince at how slurred your voice comes out.

He sighs, relief pressing a smile to his lips. There’s a slight indent from where his teeth had been. “Having a good night, huh?”

You think about lying to him—perhaps, telling him about Carter and the promise of his early rise to fame. You think about pretending like Carter was interested in you for more than a quick distraction at Bruce’s party and that he hadn’t forgotten that he invited you to his show tonight. You wonder if maybe Steve will care at all.

Maybe he won’t. Maybe, you should tell him that it’s been miserable and all you want is a cone of ice cream piled high enough that it would be statistically impossible to eat the whole thing before it melts all over your hand. Maybe, you should tell him that you want him to come with you, that you think about him all the damn time, that he’s so unfairly pretty that you can barely think when he’s around. Maybe—

“Y/n?” Steve chuckles, tapping you sweetly on your forehead. “You’re zoning out again.”

You groan, throwing your arms in the air dramatically. “It’s not my fault. You're just—you're just so—”

Steve raises an eyebrow, amused. “Yeah?”

You start to pace, a little off balanced, but Steve is never too far away and you can sense him watching your every step, ready to catch you if you start to fall. The alcohol has long made its way to your head and you can feel the warmth of it burning in your skin. It’s comforting and freeing and a momentary thought crosses your mind to stop talking but you push it aside.

“You’re just— so gorgeous!” you practically shout. “I can-- I can barely say anything to your face because—look at your face, Steve! You’re gorgeous!”

He starts to laugh. His arms fold over his chest as his head falls and you realize then that he thinks you’re teasing him, that you are not so impossibly serious you can feel the intensity of it down in your bones. He presses himself off from the wall he’d been leaning against and reaches for you.

“Alright doll,” Steve grins. “Let's get you home.”

You jump out from his grasp and he gives you a strange look. You pout your lips, feeling mildly childish but he wasn’t listening to you.

“You’re infuriating, you know that?” you quip and Steve can’t help the smile that won’t seem to leave his cheeks. It starts to ache.

“Me?” he challenges teasingly. “Why?”

“Because you did this to me, Steve,” you reply sternly through your drunken haze. “You made me feel this way.”

Steve pauses. “What way?”

“This way!” you tell him though you offer no further explanation.

Steve doesn’t seem to understand, but he gives you a short nod as if he does and he starts to guide you towards the taxi you hadn’t noticed he’d flagged down. The weight of your body starts to feel too heavy for your bones and you sink into the back seat with ease. Steve climbs in behind you and instructs the driver as he carefully adjusts your seatbelt for you.

The alcohol lulls you easily to sleep. You barely register the shoulder you lean upon or the hand gently brushing the hair from your eyes. It blends into the distance along with the blur of bright city lights as you drive home.

***

You feel the pulse of a blinding headache before you even dare to open your eyes. You groan, turning over on your bed, covering your eyes with your forearm to block the stream of sunlight in from your windows.

When you finally allow yourself to face the light, you’re surprised to find a glass of water and a bottle of aspirin on your nightstand stable. You don’t recall having the energy to put it there the night before and—well, you don’t recall much of anything after you fell asleep in the cab next to Steve.

Wait.

Steve.

“Shitshitshit--” You quickly throw the blankets off the side of the bed, only to find you’re dressed in a pair of sleep shorts and an oversized t-shirt. The breeze of the AC unit hits your exposed skin and goosebumps begin to prickle on your thigh. You groan, a heat of embarrassment burning through your chest as you stumble into the hallway.

As if on cue, you find Steve standing in the kitchen pouring his coffee. He smiles as he sees you emerge from your bedroom and he raises the cup for you, setting it on the counter. Reluctantly, you follow the intoxicating smell until your hands are wrapped around the base of the mug and you offer him a short nod.

“How are you feeling this morning?” he grins, taking a sip from his own mug as he leans against the counter.

“Humiliated,” you grumble. You miss the way Steve’s smile falters slightly, his brows narrowing in concern. “I’m so sorry, Steve. I don’t even know what to say.”

“Nothing,” he says quickly. “It was nothing. I just got you home is all. You were pretty entertaining before that. Wanda was the one who got you to bed, helped you change... if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Oh,” you reply, though it doesn’t seem to lessen the weight on your chest. You sigh. “I imagine your girlfriend wasn’t too happy about you having to deal my drunken mess last night.”

“Girlfriend?” Steve raises an eyebrow.

You shrug. “Yeah, the uh... Aphrodite incarnate from the debrief last week...”

Steve laughs, a wash of relief on his face though you still feel tight as stone. He sets his mug on the counter. “Lainy’s not my girlfriend. She works for the VA. She was helping me with a speech the mayor roped me into giving on for Veteran’s Day. She’s just a friend... trust me.”

Steve shifts in his position, his smile softening as he looks at you. You can’t help but feel examined under his gaze and you're certain you look absolutely terrible. You don’t have to look in a mirror to know your cheeks are imprinted with the pillow case folds, your hair is uncombed and disheveled, and there’s dark circles under your eyes. Not exactly the picture of beauty, and still—Steve won't stop looking at you.

“There’s been someone else, anyway,” he says simply and you try not to let it show when your heart clenches.

“Oh, that’s um... that’s nice.” It’s halfhearted and barely believable, but you say the words anyway because you know it’s the right thing to do. You know there was never a chance in this world that Steve Rogers – carved from the marble of the Gods – would so much as look in your direction. You know this. Still, it hurts.

“Yeah,” Steve sighs dreamily. “She’s incredible. I can’t stop smiling when she’s in the room and it’s becoming a real pain for me, you know. It’s like everyone can see how enamored I am except her, but I wasn’t sure how to talk to her before. I didn’t know if I was crossing a line or making assumptions or abusing my rank, but I think I’ve got an idea of how she feels now. I think she likes me, too, so maybe it’s worth a shot, right?”

You nod through the sharp clench of your jaw. It burns terribly and you can’t even bring yourself to look at him. Instead, your gaze fixates on the countertop, counting the lines and scratches in the surface.

“I mean,” Steve pauses, “she’s— she’s just so—gorgeous.”

Your eyes snap up to Steve’s and he’s grinning impossibly wide, but all you can feel is the drop in your stomach. You barely notice how the lines form so sweetly by his eyes, light brightening through the ocean blue waves, sun reflecting on the water’s crest. You don’t see how adoringly he watches for your reaction, his growing anticipation as he bites on the edge of his lip, still unable to ease his smile for even a minute.

“Are you making fun of me?” you ask slowly, nervously, but he shakes his head.

“Quite the opposite actually.” Steve reaches for your hand and you watch, stunned, as your fingers effortlessly mold into his, like liquid to one another, perfectly made. He sighs, almost as if the feeling itself is made of relief in his body. “I like you, Y/n. I really like you. And I’d- I'd like to take you out. On a date. If you’d- uh- if you’d let me.”

You blink, certain you must still be asleep.

“Please say something before you get lost in your head again,” Steve begs and you can hear the nerves in his voice. He's still smiling at you, but there’s a hesitation there, an anticipation. The lines on his forehead are more pronounced. His gaze flickers quickly between your eyes and to your intertwined hands. He’s actually... nervous.

“Y-yeah. Okay.” It’s all you can say. Your heads spinning too quickly for anything else and you know it had much more to do with Steve’s hand wrapped in yours than the wicked hangover you’re currently nursing.

“Great!” He leans in and quicker than you have a moment to process, presses a chaste kiss to your cheek. It's warm and soft and lighter than air, but it lingers. It takes the breath from your lungs and you barely notice as he lets go of your hand. “Eight tonight, okay? I’ve got a place in mind. Best Rocky Road ice cream you’ve ever had, I swear it on my life.”

You laugh, nodding along. You’d happily sit on the couch in the living room with him if he asked. You’d follow him to the ends of the Earth. Still—all you can do is nod helplessly. Your cheeks start to ache and you realize it’s from how long you’d been smiling. You touch your fingertips to the worn muscle and Steve watches with such pride on his face, it catches you by surprise.

“Eight,” you confirm and it makes Steve’s eye light up.

Somehow, he’s more beautiful this way. Nervous and sweet and adoring.

And still— gorgeous.

---

Thank you so much for reading! ❤️ If you enjoyed this fic, please consider supporting me at my ko-fi account ✨

[skellyagogo]

Thor- Without Her

They’d come so far from saving his people from Hela, from fighting Thanos and the loss of Loki over the Tesseract. Loki sacrificed himself, goaded Thanos to kill him instead of her because Loki knew Thor could get over the loss of him, but never her. Loki knew better than any that the loss of Y/n would have driven his brother to the brink of insanity and beyond. Even as much as Loki despised Thor sometimes, that wasn’t something he would have ever wished upon his brother even on his worst of days.

Thor and Y/n’s strange trip through space, fighting against each other and the Hulk on Sakaar. Then there was Earth and warning everyone over the incoming battle with Thanos. Even in all of that he held her tight and close afraid to let her go. He never let her leave his side without a kiss or a playful smile in case anything would have happened to either of them. Then at least they’d have the memory of that kiss, laugh or smile. His people had been settled near Tonsberg establishing New Asgard and safe or so he believed. Thor finally thought he could breathe if only for a moment and enjoy a normal life with Y/n but then there was War and the Snap.

Thor could barely see her on the battlefield in Wakanda after they’d landed with Rocket and Groot, but he could hear her fierce war cry. Sometimes it even made his blood go cold hearing it, especially coming from such a Migardian. She was taller than most, but nowhere near his stature, a quality, he found attractive. Y/n was the furthest thing from a waif, she could handle her own, but then Thanos snapped his fingers and he watched her tearfully fading away.

She covered her stomach in a wide panic, she cried out for Thor, something she’d never done in a battle before. He was too late, she faded before he could get near her. Nothing but a pile of ash on the cold hard ground where she stood. His love was gone, faded away into nothingness. They all grieved and mourned their friends and loved ones, but what hit him the worst was how easily all his hope had disappeared.

Thor was wracked with guilt and regret. Thoughts filled his waking mind, all the could haves, the should haves, and the would have been. He grew to despise himself over not staying by her side.  Never once had they drifted more than a few yards apart from each other in a fight, but that battle was different. She has herded away from him on purpose he was sure of it. Why didn’t he find her sooner, keep her close, fight back to back like every other time?  Why did he stubbornly thing he could end it all on his own?  Why did he have to be so prideful?

Keep reading

[alloftheimagines]

jim hopper | hold on

MASTERLIST | TAG LIST | KO-FI

words: 1.6k

warnings: 18+

ON-PAGE DEATH. blood. violence by demodog. set at the end of s2 where reader dies in place of bob. grief. poor, poor hopper and his poor, poor curse. lots and lots of angst. not a happy ending lads.

prompts: "I pull you in to fell your heartbeat can you hear me screaming please don't leave me" Eddie Munson or Hopper please

Desperate, raw fear like you’ve never known before pumps through you as you run through the corridors of Hawkins Lab, a Demodog following not far behind. You pray Hopper, Joyce, and Bob already got out, pray that if nothing else, you’ve drawn the attention from them and they have a shot at escape. At least then it will be worth it. Your death will mean something. You were split up from them on the way down, not by any choice of your own. But Joyce was desperate to get Will out, and you when you saw one of the monsters round the corner behind you, you froze for a moment. By the time you could move, Owens was yelling at you to hide in a closet and Hopper and Joyce were gone. 

Doctor Owens still talks in your earpiece now, screaming at you to go faster, but you’ve been running up flights of stairs and through a thousand different corridors to avoid the Demodogs, and you don’t know how much longer your lungs can manage. Sharing Hopper’s cigarettes probably hasn’t helped any, but… god, you wouldn’t change a thing about what you shared with him. You hope he knows that if he gets out and you don’t. There are so many things you wanted to tell him. You might not even get a goodbye. 

“Next left, Y/N. You’re almost at the doors!” 

So you sprint faster, your legs burning as you catch the murky shadow whipping around the corner behind you. And Owens is right: the doors appear in front of you. The doors, and Hopper. He’s screaming your name as you finally get closer, but the snarls behind you are louder. As you open your mouth to tell him to go on without you, a gaping maw plunges into your shoulder and you’re knocked to the floor. The smell of tangy, metallic blood fills your nostrils as sharp, burning pain moves through you. It’s devouring you, and no amount of wrestling and writhing and kicking throws the Demodog off the scent of your blood. Hopper calls your name again before a melee of gunshots ricochets through the entrance of the lab. The Demodog stumbles away just slightly, and your vision blurs as Hopper’s face comes into view. 

“Don’t you dare. Stay with me, sweetheart, you hear?” He lifts you with ease, his soft chest pressing into your side as you gasp for breath. All you can taste is blood, and a part of you knows without having to look at the injury that this is it. You feel wide open like a patient on an operation table. 

Hopper sprints just fast enough to get out before the doors lock. Fresh air hits your sweat-slick face, making you shiver. The movement only brings you more pain. 

“I’ve got you,” Hopper says over and over, a new force in his voice, like he’s angry with you. You want to ask why, but your mouth can’t form the words, so you stare up at the night sky instead. Pick a star and focus on it, because his face is too out of focus and everything hurts, and oh god, you want it to be over — but you don’t. You don’t want to die tonight. You want to stay with Hop forever.

“I’m not… I’m not ready, Hop,” you rasp out. 

Hopper looks down at you, confusion flickering in his shiny eyes. “Not ready for what, baby?”

But you’re too scared to say it aloud, and too weak even if you wanted to. You’re aware now of the burbling in your throat. Aware of the coldness spreading through you in place of the pain. It’s happening, whether you’re ready or not. 

You don’t know where you are when the juddering movements stop; when Hopper stills and lowers you to the ground. You're busy trying to suck enough air into your lungs.

With you propped on his knees, he brushes matted, bloody hair from your cheeks, his own face pale and eclipsing the full moon. “Listen to me.” He’s breathless. He can’t carry you any further and he knows it. “Listen. Are you listening?”

You do the best you can: a faint nod. 

“Good girl. You have to stay with me a little while longer. We’ll get you to the hospital. We’ll get you help. You’re going to be okay. Just hold on for me, okay? Don’t go now. Not yet.” His voice is thick with tears and turns to a whisper as he says: “Don’t give up on me yet.” The kiss he presses to your forehead is both rough and soft: stubble and silk. A plea and a prayer.

“How bad is it, Hop?” You have to know if it’s as bad as it feels. Worse. 

“It’s not bad, baby. It’s fine.” But you notice his hands are covered in your blood, and so are his scrubs, and he looks down your body like it’s a grenade.

“For a war veteran and a cop, you’re a damn shitty liar,” you rasp out. 

A mangled noise halfway between a laugh and a sob falls from his throat. “You just have to wait. Just stay while we wait, okay? An ambulance is coming. Bob called the ambulance.”

You haven’t even seen Bob. You’ve seen nothing but black, velvet sky and him. Hopper. “And Joyce?”

“Joyce got out with Will. Everyone’s okay.”

Everyone but you. Your lids droop at the comfort, and you let yourself take a full breath; perhaps your last. “Kay.”

“Hey.” Hopper’s voice is firm again, demanding. The chief of police rather than the man you make love to. “Look at me. Look at me, baby.”

You try, but everything is so distant now. You can barely make out his features, your vision too dark, too blurred. Like you’re looking at an old photograph that's been sat in the sun too long. 

“That’s it. That’s my girl,” Hopper whispers, rocking slightly. 

“Hop…” It’s hard to talk, like coppery cotton fills your mouth. Still, you have to say it. It’s your last chance. “I love you.”

“Tell me that when you’re not bleeding out on me. Tell me later,” he says. But you shake your head, and dread contorts his features. Finally, a tear falls onto his cheek. “Please,” he begs through wobbling lips and gritted teeth. “Please. Not now. Not like this. I need you.” And then, yelling out into the night, “Where’s the damn ambulance?”

If anybody replies, you don’t hear them. Your body seems to deflate in his lap as your breaths become more laboured. You want to reach for him, wipe away his tears, but you don’t feel anything. Like you’ve already left your body. 

“I’m scared,” you whimper. A truth you’ve never admitted before today. But he always knew that your bravery was always a pretence. You think sometimes so was his.

He doesn’t bother to pretend now, his shoulders wracking with sobs as he clutches you tighter. He presses his forehead to yours and you breathe him in, grateful for the proximity. Cigarettes and sweat. The smell helps you forget what comes next. 

“Nothing to be scared of, sweetheart,” he promises. You know he’s only saying it for your benefit. He’s giving up, too. “I love you. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Not…” You can’t breathe. Can’t see. “Your…” You’re sinking, holding onto Hopper’s warmth for dear life, but it isn’t enough. “Fault.”

“Please,” he whispers, defeat colouring every bit of it. “Please. I love you. I love you so much.” He pulls you closer still, brushing your hair from your face. You blink, forcing a watery smile. It was all you needed to hear. 

"Hop..."

***

Your shudders stop after you exhale his name. Your breaths with them. You die looking at him, his nickname still on your tongue, eyes still filled with tears, and Hopper feels like his world has been snatched away. He wants to scream, yell, sob, punch, fight, but he can’t bring himself to move at all. So he just holds you, mumbling your name, telling you he loves you, begging you to come back. 

You don’t. The sirens start shrieking in the distance. “Too late,” he breathes. “Too damn fucking late!” he bellows into the night. 

“Jim…” Bob whispers, sympathy dripping from his tone. Hopper looks up at him with a pleading gaze as though he might bring you back. But he only shakes his head, lost for words. Joyce stands with Will, tears streaking her face. And there is nothing Hopper can do. Nothing. 

He whimpers as he looks back down at your lifeless body, thinking about the curse, about Sara, about everything he saw in Vietnam. He did this. He should have gone back for you. He had to choose between a boy and the woman he loves, and he couldn’t. Shouldn’t. One minute you were there, and the next, he couldn’t see you. You weren’t following him. 

He knows if you had been, you’d all be dead now. You bought them time. He thinks you knew that too, damn martyr you are. 

Gently, he closes your eyes, knowing it’s the last time he’ll ever see them open. He doesn’t understand how you can be gone. You were supposed to watch Halloween movies with El tonight. You were supposed to be here.

He kisses your cold forehead, lingering as the ambulance pulls up a mile down from the lab, the place he had to stop because you were losing too much blood too fast and he couldn’t run with you any longer. Now, you look like you’re sleeping, and it makes it slightly easier in that particular second. It won’t later, when the grief hits. When it all sinks in. 

You left him, and Hopper… he’s just empty.

[nev3rfound]

just in time : s.r

returning the stones isn’t steve’s only mission whilst he’s gone; he has one final mission of his own - to find his long lost lover, you, before it’s too late (2.5k)

(anything in bold/italics are flashbacks/memories!)

masterlist / permanent taglist

(everything on my blog is my own writing. if it is shared on another page or website without being credited, it has not been approved to be shared by me. all rights reserved.)

Panting heavily, you bend down, resting your hands on your thighs as you feel a burn course through them whilst Bucky laughs at you.

“Did you seriously run here?” Bucky asks, Steve now facing you too, surprised to see you.

Holding a finger up, you take one final deep breath before composing yourself. “Of course,” You breathe out. “I didn’t wanna miss the start of it, had to get here on time.” You smile, practically beam to Steve who shyly smiles back.

“I mean you’re fifteen minutes late, doll.” Bucky comments, ignoring Steve’s weak punch to his arm. “Sorry.”

“You haven’t missed a thing, Y/n.” Steve assures you as he steps forward, holding his arm out as his jacket swarms his upper body.

Despite the mud coating the hem of your skirt that hides various bruises and a sheen of sweat lining your forehead, Steve still adores you completely, no matter how often you’re late for things.

“I’d be honoured.” You giggle, looping your arm with Steve’s as the three of you make your way into the dance hall. 

Standing on the podium, Steve can feel his grip tightening on the case as Bruce, Sam and Bucky watch him closely.

“Ready Cap?” Bruce calls out as Steve’s suit changes to white and red, contrasting the previous dark tones. “Alright, we’ll meet you back here.” He adds, and Steve nods.

It’s the moment he’s anticipated for too long, ever since he woke up from the ice.

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[wkemeup]

In Every Lifetime

summary: When Bucky’s first love from the 1940′s is found alive in cyro, he begins to question whether you’d turn from him in fear or disgust. 

pairing: bucky x reader

word count: 5k

warnings: angsty angst (with a happy ending), bucky’s sad internal dialogue, 

Bucky had half a mind to wonder whether his heart might truly escape his chest. It pounded infernally against his rib cage; violently shaking against the bones until they splintered and cracked, he was certain he might look down at the SHIELD emblem on his sweatshirt to find blood soaking through the fabric. Or perhaps the bones of his sternum piercing through his skin. Hell, he might have left his heart on the tile a few paces behind him – throbbing on the ground, exposed to the elements.

He hadn’t so much as taken a breath since he caught word of what Stark uncovered in the Atlantic. It was only meant to be an exploratory mission; a simple means of honoring his father’s legacy by scanning the ocean depths in search of a history Howard had idolized in his time. Simple, apparently, to a billionaire with nothing but time on his well-manicured hands.   

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[pellucid-constellations]

Quiet is the Life

Pairing: Nomad!Steve Rogers x Reader

Summary: Steve didn’t mean to fall in love with you—not when his life had become a high-speed chase, him against the law. But he did, and you brought a comfort he never thought he’d know. In return, he brought danger. You didn’t seem to mind. 

Word count: 4.2k

Warnings: Angst, injury, sexual themes, fluff with nomad!steve

a/n: I had an intense need to write some Steve so here we are. I loved writing this and I appreciate feedback so so much!! ♡

You can follow my library blog @pellucid-library​ for fic update notifications 🤍

Masterlist

The air on the quinjet was heavy. There was a statement to be made, and the two parties aboard were waiting for their captain to finally utter the words. 

Well, maybe he wasn’t a captain anymore. Not legally. 

But to Natasha and Sam, Steve was their captain, and captains were the ones to make hard and fast decisions. 

This wasn’t a hard decision for Steve. Seeing you—holding you in his arms for the first time in weeks—was the easiest choice he could possibly make. You were Steve’s peace in all of this mess. You blinked up at him when he arrived at your door, battered and bruised, and all he felt was warmth. You ran him a bath in the tub he didn’t have the heart to tell you he barely fit in, and the scents from your soaps would be something he held onto for weeks afterward. 

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[softlyspector-deactivated202408]

Expectations

Summary: Bucky is overprotective of the reader, who is pregnant with his baby. 

Pairing:  Bucky X Pregnant!Reader

Word Count: 2237

Warnings: worried Bucky

A/N: This was based on this drabble and this ask. It was too cute not to write and I’m totally open to doing another part to this if people have ideas.

When Bucky comes home one Saturday morning, back from his usual run with Steve, he expects everything to be normal.  

Normal used to mean slow radio music, pancakes and bacon, strong coffee, Y/N’s laughter, and happiness. Now, with a baby on the way, and a difficult pregnancy at that, it means quiet reading, lowly sung lullabies, soft blankets, and bed rest.

But when he opens the door he doesn’t find normalcy, he finds heart-stopping anxiety.

“Y/N!” His voice cracks, heart beating against his ribs, panic punching him in the gut, nausea clawing at his throat. After everything he’s seen, everything he’s been through, the room before him is scariest thing he’s ever looked upon. “What do you think you’re doing? Get down from there!”

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[peaperson]

Only complaint with this movie: no one ever pets a cat

[batman-catwoman1]

[lovelykhaleesiii]

me

[earl-of-221b]

This movie makes you feel like Batman really is the only right answer to the absolute horror town that is Gotham City, like the Thomas Wayne Renewal project completely failed because that money never went to the people who needed it most, it never went into infrastructure or city projects or orphanages, it went into the pockets of the corrupt after he died. I really dislike takes which go ‘why doesn’t Bruce wayne really help the city by pouring money into donations and city projects’ – the source material deals with that – Batman doesn’t just fight crime, he fights corruption, the thing that has Gotham so deep in its grips the police can’t be trusted and all the politicians are in the pocket of the mob. When the law enforcement and government is so corrupt, no amount of generous donations will ever see the light of day. Bruce Wayne really could not have done anything with money alone because Gotham is so completely twisted by powerful, morally bankrupt people. There’s a reason Batman works only with Gordon. There’s a reason Gordon trusts Batman to that degree – he literally cannot trust another cop, he knows there are mob links in the force, he will not talk to Batman candidly with a co-worker in the room. Now with that first step taken, Bruce Wayne can absolutely come in and supplement what Batman is doing with philanthropy, but the whole story hinges on the fact that without a drastic fucking shock to the system nothing about Gotham could ever change. 

[imposterogers]

big fan of how the riddler handled rejection. oh the vigilante that you’ve been obsessed w/worshipped enough to start a criminal career as a serial killer doesn’t like you? step 1: sing until he leaves. step 2: wail like a 18th century maiden who just found out her beloved won’t be returning from sea

[claireunoia]

BEFORE YOU GO ➪ PETER PARKER

⊱✿⊰ synopsis : peter decides it’s best to leave you and your son kyle on your own after a long time of thinking due to his own fears that consumed him ♡︎.

⊱✿⊰ pairings : andrew!peter x single mom!reader

⊱✿⊰ word count : 2.9k

⊱✿⊰ warnings : ANGST, absolutely so much angst pls grab tissues, language, major talks of death & character’s death, some fluffy moments that you’ll see in some flashbacks, crying, tears lots and lots of tears, talks of pregnancy, abandonment, peter being really damaged, let know if i missed one

❥ ─ author’s letter to you : ok guys first off wow. i literally put my all in this so i’d really hope u guys will enjoy. but nevertheless i really loved writing this piece dearly and can’t wait to see what u all think and to see all of your feedback! i love y’all so much. ++ special tag @celestialholland

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๑ ⋆˚₊⋆────ʚ˚ɞ────⋆˚₊⋆ ๑

➙ BEING alone and raising a child all on your own was something no one in the world would be able to tell you how to do or explain. From giving birth, to working like a dog so you’ll be able to give your beautiful, wonderful baby boy whatever he wanted and needed was something you thought you’d never thought you could go through with. That dooming night where your crying figure sat on your bathroom toilet with the blue life changing test in your shaking hands, stayed on your mind til the present days.

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