Hello! I’m Eloise – You can shorten the name to El, or Ellie, even E works – And this is my masterlist for my writing and music stuff.
It is tiny, but mighty💪
Anyhow, this’ll be separated into fandoms, writing prompts, and music… Emphasis on music.
Will be updated as I upload more :3
Marvel
Bucky Barnes:
Comfortable Nightmare - Husband!Bucky Barnes x Wife!Reader : Reader has a nightmare pertaining to her childhood/teenage years, and Bucky comforts her.
Memento Mori - Really Stark!Siblings(Tony, reader) but there’s like 5 lines with Bucky and reader in it so I say it counts : She’s sitting on Tony Stark's grave, talking to the wind and reminiscing.
Sherlock(BBC)
Sherlock:
Telling Mum - OC x Sherlock : Sherlock catches his colleague reading something she probably shouldn’t be reading at work and goes on telling mum.
Writing Prompts
Gibberish : You have a subtle superpower. You can understand any language known to man, written or spoken, even ancient ones, braille, and sign language. Your normal life as a successful archeologist suddenly takes a turn when you meet a girl who happens to speak another language than her own, but you cannot understand her at all.
Tax Evader : Everyone knows the Grim Reaper, the personification of Death. You are the supernatural personification of the other certainty in life: Taxes.
Music
Unrequited Love - Based on this fanfic of Bucky
Make Some Sense - This was originally a Christian song I made for my mum cuz of the way the chords are and how peaceful it sounds. But I made one where it’s just neutral, very angst(?) Cuz why not?
My Golden Hour - The sunset inspired me to make this song– I love Spring.
Dream A Little Dream of Me - Another one based on a Bucky Barnes fanfic... I don’t know, Bucky Barnes writers make a lot of really poetic-type work, I love them–
Maybe It Was A Mistake - This is a short little snippet I made, it apparently sounds bittersweet, according to one of my friends. I love it.
Best Kept - Wouldn’t you know, here’s another Bucky Barnes inspired song.
Anne Hathaway - I should prolly change the title tbh. But it’s Carol Ann Duffy inspired. Very lullaby, very nice. I think anyway. Cuz it has a lot of details in both melody and lyrics.
hyperfixation please stay with me long enough to complete the project. hyperfixation do not fade. hyperfixation finish what you started for the love of god
clark titty sucker kent who can never seem to sway his gaze from your boobs, much less when they're in front of his face.
like now, when you're on top, his appreciative eyes are cast down to your breasts; attentively watching the soft movements like he, himself, is stuck in a trance. with your slightly elevated position, the expanse of your bare torso aligns comfortably within his eyeline.
the gentle bouncing and grinding of you subsides when you feel clark's hands move from your waist, his grasp now sliding up your body until his palms cup the sides of either tit. he holds them carefully, considerately, and pushes them together slightly, perking them up just a little. his back leaves the rest of the sofa and he leans in and lowers just a smidgen to reach the temptation between his large hands.
his focus flickers up to you briefly, meeting your heavy adoring eyes and scrunched brows and that's when he notices a faint pleading within your expression. your hands on his shoulders trail up to his neck, one stays put on the back of it and the other grazes up into his hair — fingers skimming his scalp as an effort of keeping him there.
your chest protrudes outwards slightly when he wraps his lips around one of your nipples; an involuntary, instinctive response to the lewd act. he holds it between his lips for a moment, peppering it with slow, unrushed kisses. and when he opens his mouth to fit in more of you, his tongue swipes up the underside of your tit until it joins his lips around your nipple. engulfing a mouthful of your breast.
you give him a series of small nods, wordlessly showing your enthusiasm between those strained, airy gasps you reward him with. and before long, the urge to feel you move on his cock has completely vacated from his brain, the only thought now pertaining to the deep desire to have your nipple between his lips.
⎯ ☆ ⎯
last one I promise been neglecting my other babes😔
Summary: When Bucky enters the void, he expects his memories as The Winter Soldier to haunt him, or perhaps even death itself, instead, he finds himself face to face with you the night you broke up.
Warnings: SPOILERS for Thunderbolts*, strictly 18+, talk of death & suicidal ideation, mentions of Bucky’s trauma related to Hydra/The Winter Soldier, angst, canon typical violence, reenactment of a breakup, Bucky being a sad boi™️
Word count: 3.6k
A/N: so I saw Thunderbolts, can you tell I’m obsessed?? Banners by @vase-of-lilies
Masterlist | Ask me anything! | Library
Stepping into the dark, cavernous void of nothingness, Bucky’s heart thumps rapidly, almost painfully, against his ribcage.
It’s not that he’s afraid of dying, in fact, during his seventy years as a captive, there were many times he prayed for the dark depths of death to swallow him whole, a sweet relief from the torture. He observed helplessly as crucial parts of himself were assassinated every time he was strapped to that memory suppression machine until after decades he was a fraction of the man who fought against Nazis.
Bucky Barnes knows all too well there are worse fates than death.
So no, he’s not scared that entering this void will be the last breath he takes. Instead, he’s more frightened of what entering it will entail if it doesn’t end his life. What kind of purgatory awaits him on the other side.
But Bucky Barnes is also the type of person who would do anything to help a friend. So with a deep, steadying breath, he plants his foot in oblivion.
In the blink of an eye, Bucky’s in familiar surroundings, though the air feels thick and stale, like it hasn’t been disturbed in a while. It’s an environment that brings both a comforting nostalgia that makes him long for a happier time, but also a heavy guilt at the reminder of the events that transpired the last time he was here, believing he would never return.
Has he died? Is this what heaven looks like? The place that felt most like home to him?
Who is he kidding, if there is an afterlife, James Barnes most certainly will be sent straight to hell for all the lives he’s ended, even under mind control.
For the span of a breath nothing changes - no movement, no sounds. Everything is perfectly still, as if he were living in a photograph.
Bucky takes slow steps around the room, observing all the small details of the home that he once shared with the person he valued as being the embodiment of the word safety. It’s exactly as he remembers when he left three months ago, as if he’s been taken back in time, even though he knows deep down that he isn’t physically in this space.
Steve took the infinity stones back to their respective timelines - this can’t be a trick with the time stone.
He smooths his hand over the counter in the kitchen he finds himself in, in attempts to ground himself in this new reality. The cool feeling of the marble reminds him vividly of the many nights the two of you shared right here together.
There’s a sharp, clenching pang in his stomach as all the memories he had worked so hard to suppress, locked away in the deepest corners of his mind where they couldn’t continue to hurt him, come flooding back like a monsoon.
Regret, guilt, sorrow, but most of all love.
There were good ones that were filled with pure happiness, smiles and laughter, tenderness and vulnerability with the one person he knew wouldn’t judge his past, first ‘I love you’s’, so much devotion that Bucky could barely keep his hands off you, pleasure beyond what he even imagined was possible.
But also the terrible ones, the arguments, raised voices, cold shoulders, nights on the couch, the slow descent into not recognising each other anymore, all which lead to a messy separation which Bucky didn’t even want. He wanted to fight for you. He should have fought harder for you.
Then, as if someone had pressed play on a remote, a scene Bucky is intimately familiar with roars to life in front of him and he instantly knows where he is.
Or more precisely when he is.
The night it all ended.
His stomach drops through the floor.
Bucky observes in an out of body experience as his own body unlocks the front door to the apartment as quietly as possible and gently shuts it behind himself. It’s such a strange sensation seeing himself perform actions he can remember from a different perspective, recalling his motives for every action.
He was sure by the time he got home from Capitol Hill you’d be snuggled in bed. Bucky had been consistently working late nights with the rest of congress, busy since President Ross’ resignation and dealing with the international fallout of the US President waging war against Japan.
Memory Bucky gently places his suitcase and keys by the front door, not wanting to wake you, but it’s at that exact moment you trudge into the room, seemingly having heard him arrive home.
Bucky steps in front of you, close enough that he could reach out and touch you, but you look through him as though he doesn’t exist. He tries to remind himself that’s probably just how the void works, submerging you in your most painful memory, cursed to watch on without effect. At least that’s what he tells himself because the alternative would be too painful.
He hadn’t appreciated it in the moment, but you look so exhausted. Not just physically, but as if you’re tired of always having this same conversation with Bucky.
And you had.
“You’re late.”
Hearing your voice again, after so long and believing he wouldn’t have the privilege again feels like a gift, but your exasperated tone slashes at Bucky’s chest like a knife.
“You know we’ve been slammed.”
Fuck, of all the things he could have said, he had to go and say that, putting the blame back on your expectations rather than just taking accountability. He hadn’t even apologised.
Bucky notices for the first time you rolled your eyes at his comment, and he can’t say he blames you. He was such a dickhead, treating the light of his life like you didn’t matter, taking for granted that you’d always be there.
“I didn’t mean it! I’m a fucking idiot, okay? You are my everything and you deserve so much better than this.” The real Bucky yells to drown out whatever memory Bucky continues to remark. Your eyes are vacant of any recognition that you’ve absorbed his words, in fact, they lack any kind of affection at all considering you’re looking at someone you had at one time described as your soulmate.
That more than anything is what brings tears to Bucky's own eyes.
Before he gets another second to study your features he has sorely missed, Bucky feels a strong hand on his shoulder that spins him around. He comes face to face with his twin, taken aback that the memory form of himself can actually physically interact with him and deviate from the events of the night in question.
With super soldier reflexes Bucky usually benefits from, but is now being used against him, his twin lunges towards Bucky, a blank stare that he recognises as the dead look in the eyes he gets when he became The Winter Soldier.
Bucky barely has time to block the attack as his double closes both hands around his throat. This memory version of James Barnes is somehow much stronger than the real him, or perhaps it’s Bucky’s inability to harm a figure that looks identical to him that prevents from being able to fight back effectively against the corporeal manifestation of his subconscious.
You stand by emotionless as Bucky splatters and chokes, trying to punish away his clone to no avail and which only becomes more difficult with a lack of oxygen in his brain. He wants to die if this is the existence he’s forced to watch for eternity.
The last sound he remembers is his windpipe being crushed.
All of a sudden he’s back standing next to the front door, the scene serene and still as it had been when he first stepped into the void, as if nothing had happened. The tape rewound to the start.
But with a sore throat.
The kitchen is empty, other than the plates of a delicious meal you prepared covered in foil, going cold in Bucky’s absence. Nothing is out of place.
He hears the front door open but he doesn’t look to where he knows he’s entering the apartment. Instead it’s you he keeps an eye out for, emerging from the bedroom with an aggrieved expression. Before you can even say a word, Bucky’s rushing to you, voice pleasing as he speaks.
“I’m sorry I was such a dick. I’ve always loved you, you did nothing but love me and take my shit and you deserve so much better than anything I’ve ever been able to give you. If I could go back in time and change it, I would in a heartbeat!” His mind is working a thousand miles an hour, trying to communicate how sorry he was he let it get to this stage, the words he should have said this night if he had any ounce of sense that you were so close to your breaking point.
Was this what he needed to provide the void? Working to amends for his wrongdoings? But it’s actions that show your true intentions, not frivolous words.
With a tilt of your head you step up to him, breaking out of the memory. For a prolonged moment you look up at him, gaze soft and loving as he remembered from the countless glorious days you had together, that little smirk curving on your lips which makes him completely weak in the knees.
God, he could never hurt you, at least more than he already has, not physically. If you attack him as the memory version of him had, he wouldn’t lay a finger on you, he’d rather perish.
Just when he thinks you might kiss him rather than strike him, Bucky involuntarily leaning closer, you plunge your hand deep in his chest. He can feel your cold fingers feeling around the cavity before they close over his heart and pull it forcefully from his body.
Uncontrollable dizziness overcomes him and he must collapse to the floor for his perspective looking at you changes drastically, your feet coming into view. Red confetti like splotches drip on the hardwood between you, and he realises before everything goes black that you’ve literally squashed his heart to a pulp.
Bucky’s panting breath fills the room.
The memory has reset again, but he wastes no time in searching for an escape, even though it feels like an anvil has just been dropped on his chest. There was one way into this void, so there’s most likely only one way out. He just needs to find it.
He can’t sit by and watch this play out when he knows exactly how this night concludes. He simply refuses to be witness to that again. But something in his gut knows that he can’t interfere with the memory. The void, whether sentient or not he hasn’t worked out yet, wants him to relive this wretched, miserable memory in full.
He tries exiting through the front door when his clone comes home at the start of the memory, however, he slams head first into what feels like a brick wall constructed purely to keep him contained in this hell.
“You’re late.”
“You know we’ve been slammed.”
Rubbing his nose, Bucky continues his frantic search, his heart beating in his throat which still throbs from earlier. He has to get out of here. He hasn’t even reached the worst part of the memory and he already wants to rip his ears off to prevent him having to process the hurt in your voice.
“I can't help that they need us working overtime after what happened with Ross.”
He sounds so indifferent to having clearly hurt your feelings that Bucky would punch his own head in if he didn’t know that would result in a painful death and needing to replay this memory over again.
Perhaps this is the eternity he deserves after how he treated you.
“Do you know what it feels like to not be seen as a priority by the person who claims to love you?”
“I do love you.”
The doorway to the bedroom that you emerged from also leads to a solid barrier and in all his frustration Bucky slams a vibranium fist into it. It doesn't crack, but instead the force travels through his arm and up to his shoulder and he recoils from the piercing pain.
“Well I don’t feel loved by you.”
But nothing could be more painful than that.
The words still sting like a knife puncturing his heart even though Bucky knew this time around they were coming. They’re the words that replay in his mind every night before he goes to sleep. No defences he could ever prepare would be sufficient to save him from the torment that he had not only broken your heart, but he had disappointed you, and betrayed your trust when he promised he would never be the cause of your pain.
“You could have texted, just to let me know you’d be this late, that you’d miss dinner. But instead I’m just supposed to sit around waiting, always doing things on your time, wasting my own. I feel like I’m forever making allowances for you, but you never do the same for me. A relationship is meant to be give and take from both parties, compromising for each other, yet it feels like I’m the only one sacrificing anything for this relationship.”
“You know I hate texting.”
Bucky slides down the barrier and covers his ears with his hands as salty tears flow steadily from the corners of his eyes. Back in reality he could pretend this night didn’t happen, place blocks in his mind to stop himself recalling these events, delude himself into believing he hadn’t used weak excuses and a lack of effort when you were so close to being done with him completely.
Imagine that you were still his.
Time had helped him forget the exact words used to implode your relationship, but this front row seat reminds him not only how dumb his responses sounded, but brings back the heavy sadness in his chest it took him months to learn to live with and the raw emotion he can feel tightening his trachea, making it hard to breathe.
“Is that really all you have to say?”
“No of course not - it’s just been a long day, can’t we talk about this in the morning?”
Bucky knew in the moment instantly he had said the wrong thing, but it’s even more obvious watching on from the sidelines. You’ve got tears brimming in your eyes as you attempt not to completely break down in front of him and all he did was dismiss the very valid concerns you had about the relationship.
He felt like a fool back then. Now, it’s shame and despair which fight for dominance in the pit of his stomach.
The volume of voices gets louder and he can’t bear to listen to anymore. But he knows he can’t interfere if he doesn’t want the memory to restart.
If the purpose of the void is to make you no longer want to exist anymore, it has certainly achieved its objective with Bucky.
“No James, for once I want to do something in my timeframe, and I want to talk about this now.”
“Fine. It’s not like we haven’t had this conversation before. I work too much. You don’t get to see me. I thought you were going to be supportive of me being in congress? Knew I wanted to help the same American people I fought Nazis to protect and provide freedoms.”
With a sniffle, and exercising a great deal of restraint to not bash the back of his head repeatedly against the barrier, Bucky stands with a quivering lower lip. He needs to stop feeling sorry for himself when his own actions led him to this situation and find a way out of here.
If there is anything worse than reliving this memory, it would be watching it on replay till the end of time. But it’s easier said than done when he also has to contend with overcoming the most horrible memory in his arsenal.
“Don’t you dare say I haven’t been supportive Bucky, you don’t realise what I’ve sacrificed so you can continue to pursue your career and we can stay together. You speak like you don’t even want to be with me. If I’m that unsupportive then why are you still with me?”
The silence is deafening.
Bucky wipes tears from his cheeks and tries his best to tune out what he knows are the exact words that come from your mouth as he looks around for any trace of a trigger to allow him to leave this moment in time.
“That’s all I need to hear.”
“No, darling please. I love you. I’m just tired. It’s been a long day.”
“If you can’t come up with any reasons why you actually want to be with me Bucky, then I think we need to admit that this isn’t working. We aren’t working.”
Bucky sees movement out of the corner of his eye. Knowing there should be nothing over by the other side of the room to where past him and you are fighting, he takes large strides over only to find nothing out of the ordinary, not a single item out of place. No clues as to how to get out of here - it was probably just a result of his eyes being filled with tears.
His fists slam down against the hall table, rattling a small vase holding flowers Bucky doesn’t recall buying for you, which tips on its side and tumbles to the floor, breaking into shards with a resounding crash.
But it doesn’t reset the memory.
“Not working?”
“You heard me James.”
“No… this can’t be it. This can’t be the end. I love you. You love me.”
Just as he’s about to give up hope, wanting to crash his head against the mirror rather than be forced to experience the worst day of his life yet again, he notices someone rocking themselves in the fetal position within the mirror who doesn’t belong in this memory.
Bucky hastily turns back to the room where memory you and him are still arguing to confirm he’s not just seeing things, and to his utter delight this person, who looks like Bob from the back, only exists in the mirror dimension.
He first attempts with a pointer finger, and where the mirror should be, solid and firm, instead his digit disappears inside, rippling like the surface of water. His heart skips a beat.
This is the way out.
“This is one of those times where love isn’t enough.”
For just a split second Bucky looks back, to get one last glimpse of you in the flesh before he makes his exit, even if you are visibly distressed, and it confounds him to see not one but two of you in the scene. He barely has a second to shake the confusion from his mind for the next moment he’s stepping into the mirror and the memory instantly changes into a room that appears to be an attic that Yelena and Bob have already made it to.
He could have sworn there was an additional version of you in that memory, but how could there have been? The two of you were alone the night you broke up. Bucky quickly comes to the conclusion it must have been the mirror playing tricks on him.
Even if he doesn’t fully believe it.
* * *
Once his newfound friends help rescue Bob from the void, it’s the brightness of the real world that strikes him first.
Bucky hadn’t realised how dim and void of light the memory he stepped into had become. He supposed there was meaning behind that if he tried hard enough to think about it, but he didn’t want to contemplate it at all.
There was still a hole burning in his sternum from having to relive his most painful memory.
Bucky Barnes had committed some truly heinous crimes while under the influence of Hydra. But the difference this time was he had been in full control of his actions. Him failing you, breaking your heart and your trust, that was all him.
There was no one else to blame this time.
Everyone else appears relieved, the darkness dissipated and where it had been, rays of golden sunshine and the camaraderie of being around those who have survived something otherworldly together in its place.
But Bucky’s pain doesn’t feel alleviated, not in the slightest. You still consume his thoughts, and clearly plague his memories. After three months of pretending to be fine, this was a severe reminder that he has been walking around with a fragmented heart, shards of which make each beat agony, since the moment he left your apartment three months ago.
Bucky can’t believe he let a job come between him and the only person who has ever made him feel truly seen and loved, but especially one in which bureaucracy and corrupt politicians prevent him from actually effecting change that makes a difference to the lives of the most vulnerable.
If today has taught him anything, it’s that the people you surround yourself with are what makes the biggest difference in your life. You came into his life when all he wanted was to be alone, isolated in his own despair, but you showed him how beautiful and vibrant this existence can truly be, even with mental demons laying dormant in his shadows. Much like how his band of misfits can hopefully now show Bob.
You are the one who got away.
And he’ll have to live with those choices for the rest of his life.
bucky barnes + prone boning. 18+
fem!reader, mdni. 420 words. 'old man' mention bc im me and I can't not include it
watched thunderbolts yesterday, im still feeling lots so get a load of this
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the position he’s got you in is comfortable, quite lazy really: laid flat on your stomach, the side of your face resting on tightly crossed arms. the scrunched pillow sitting under your stomach acting as a prop of elevation for bucky, your slightly raised hips aiding the opening of you.
he cages over your back, arms bent beside yours, lips ghosting the shell of your ear from the closeness. his slow and laboured rhythmic breathing matches the pace of his leisure fucking — the focus of each thrust on depth and feel, rather than speed. every full wind of his hips produces the faintest of exhales from you both, your blissed sounds merging and muffling into the darkness of the room.
every time he rolls into you, you each move in fluid motion against the mattress, like you’re both synchronised waves. you bend your knees, ankles crossing and lifting as they hover above the cheeks of his ass. another point of elevation tightening your pussy’s hold on bucky.
he lustfully groans at the new feel, muttering indecipherably into the lobe of your ear. “can’t last,” he adds between a couple pumps, pressing a needy litter of kisses to where he just spoke — stubble grazing across the sensitive spots along the base of your neck.
his pace quickens ever so slightly, barely noticeable really. but it becomes apparent that he’s chasing the edge. his chest begins to brush briskly up and down the blades of your shoulders, skin skimming yours with the increased speed.
“you gon’ come with your old man, sweetheart?” he asks, the question practically rhetorical — no need for vocal response. voice low and tone thick as he whispers directly into your ear. “hm?” he nips at the lobe, holding it carefully between his teeth.
you nod, the motion rather haste. a measly whine accompanies the action and your eyes flutter closed. with his metal hand planted just in your view —his fingers only a short couple inches away— you reach for him. and when he spots your touch, he’s lifting a palm to place atop the back of your hand. vibranium fingers lacing into yours, lips hovering the patch of skin under your ear.
you clench around him intermittently, your breath hitching and growing all the more strained with every rock of his cock.
“you’re right there, aren’t you?” he muffles into your hair, his forehead resting on the side of your head — strength seeming to be lost in his neck. “I can feel it.”
summary: just what I think of each of these characters when it comes to pull out 🗣
— 𝒮teve ℛogers ;; He likes to think he’s good at it. And honestly? He is. Respectful, controlled, painfully self-aware. The second he feels himself getting close, he speeds up, grits his teeth, and pulls out right on time—usually on your stomach or chest. Gentleman. HOWEVER—deep, deep down? He does have a breeding kink. He just won’t admit it. The day you whisper “it’s okay, I’m on the pill”? He hesitates just long enough to ruin his perfect record.
Rating: 10/10. Practically flawless. Just a little too responsible.
— 𝒯ony 𝒮tark ;; This man cums like he’s paying rent. He could pull out. He knows how. Won’t. He’s like, “You knew the risk,” and just lets go. Finishes inside you with a smirk, kisses your temple like he didn’t just pump you full, and asks for another round like nothing happened.
Rating: 7/10. Could pull out. Ignores it. Still makes it hot.
— ℬucky ℬarnes ;; NO WAY this man is risking it, but for the sake of the game, let’s say he tries. He means to pull out. He really does. But the second you tighten around his cock when he’s close? Too late. He’s already twitching, already filling you up. Feels guilty after, mutters apologies, but ask him for another round and he forgets all about it.
Rating: 5/10. Tries. Fails. Feels bad. Does it again.
— 𝒯hor 𝒪dinson ;; Sweetheart himbo with the pull-out instincts of a golden retriever. You tell him “pull out,” and he’s like, “But why, beloved?” while thrusting deeper. His idea of affection is cumming in you until it’s leaking down your thighs and calling it “a gift from the gods.”
Rating: 0/10. He means well. That’s the problem.
— ℒoki ℒaufeyson ;; Oh, he can pull out. He just won’t—unless it’s to tease you. Otherwise? He stays buried until the very end, groaning in your ear about how good you feel while he fills you up. He wants to watch it drip out. It’s about power. Ownership. Ruin. You say “pull out”? He says “make me.”
Rating: 0/10. Wicked.
— 𝒫eter 𝒫arker ;; He’s studied the theory. He wants to pull out. He really does. But the second things start getting too good? He’s whimpering, cock twitching, finishing inside you before he even realizes it. Apologizes mid-orgasm and offers to run to the pharmacy still inside you.
Rating: 3/10. He tries. He panics. He fails.
— ℰrik 𝒦illmonger ;; Pull out? Babe, he hears you say it and smirks. Doesn’t even pretend to listen. Holds your hips down, grinds in deeper, and finishes inside like he means it. Tells you “You better take all that,” like it’s a challenge and a threat. Might pull out once—just to finish on your face and call it a reward. But most nights? He’s filling you up like it’s his personal mission.
Rating: -100/10. He’s doing it on purpose. You’re not walking right tomorrow.
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