It might be just that *good*, but am I the only one that’s realized that Chris Evans’ ‘Lightyear’ is just the Disney remake of ‘Castaway’, with Tom Hanks? They’re both Lost ‘MIA’, for years. Their only means of keeping sanity is talking to themselves and a specific inanimate object. Which becomes a character all on its own.
This was only 55 years ago. You can understand a lot of what’s wrong with the US if you realize that the average age of our elected senators is about 63. “Good old days” is a dogwhistle.
Our current Supreme Court might’ve ruled against the Lovings.
[Image ID: excerpts from the article linked above, reading:
“The couple is given a choice: flee or go to jail. After they were arrested, the Lovings were sentenced to a year in prison. Then, a judge offered them a choice: banishment from the state or prison. They chose to leave Virginia at the time, but after several years, the Lovings asked the American Civil Liberties Union to take their case.Bernard Cohen and Philip Hirschkop, two young ACLU lawyers at the time, did.”
and “On June 12, 1967, the U.S. Supreme Court justices ruled in the Lovings' favor. The unanimous decision upheld that distinctions drawn based on race were not constitutional. The court's decision made it clear that Virginia's anti-miscegenation law violated the Equal Protection Clause of the 14th Amendment.” /end ID]
This was only 55 years ago. You can understand a lot of what’s wrong with the US if you realize that the average age of our elected senators is about 63.
Hiya, sweet friends! Here's a masterlist for all the amazing stories that have been written for our extravaganza! Thank you again to everyone who has joined in on the fun! It's been fucking awesome, y'all rock! ❤️
We'll be sure to update this after the event closes on Saturday as well. If you don't see your story on the list by the end of the weekend, please message me to let me know and I will add it 🙏🏻
Also, please be sure to heed the warnings for each individual work. Enjoy!
It Fit Too Right by @buckets-and-trees (Steve Rogers x f!Reader)
Cum Together - Lloyd by @jamneuromain (Lloyd Hansen x f!Reader)
Home Sweet Home by @dc418writes (Ari Levinson x f!Reader)
Vacation by @thezombieprostitute (Jake Jensen x f!Reader x Sam Wilson)
Behind The Red Curtains by @ktficworld (Steve Rogers x f!Reader)
Giving Me a Thrill by @krirebr (Johnny Storm x f!Reader)
Just one kiss by @buckys-wintersoldier (Lloyd Hansen x f!Reader)
Your Soft Doll by @biteofcherry (Steve Rogers x f!Reader)
Hidden Agendas by @labella420 (Ari Levinson x f!Reader x Lloyd Hansen)
Stay 'til Sunrise by @buckymorelikefuckme (Steve Rogers x f!Reader)
No Promises (2) by @ronearoundblindly (Lloyd Hansen x f!Reader)
The Lion's Den by @eulalielatibule (Ari Levinson x f!Reader)
Midnight Magnetism by labella420 (Andy Barber x f!Reader)
Bad Day by thezombieprostitute (James Mace x f!Reader)
The First Time by @bluemoon-fever (Ari Levinson x f!Reader)
Wait Until We Get Home by @bigtreefest (Jake Jensen x f!Reader)
Cum Together - Ari by jamneuromain (Ari Levinson x f!Reader)
Security Jammies by @stargazingfangirl18 (Ransom Drysdale x f!Reader)
*This was a totally random and spontaneous idea. Not edited. Light language (so we can get *the joke*), pining, light angst, hurt/comfort, and fluff. This work is for all ages! WC ~2k
Sam Wilson introduces you. Both your parents were veterans and active at the VA, so you practically grew up there.
At first, you’re reserved, a little formal, but very nice. Oddly enough, Steve just likes that you don’t hound him with questions about his military service and how it was different based on the decade, etc. You are just…around to listen.
He finds himself filling any (comfortable) silence between you with stories. Stupid things. Things that don’t have to do with the VA or his past or even his present, which is entirely work as Captain America.
Steve gets to a point where he is itching to live off of Avengers Campus, but he doesn’t want to live alone.
One day he finds you hunched over a laptop and grumbling, “why is everything so fucking expensive?”
A sentiment which, of course, he frowns at.
“Sorry,” you shrug, a look of sincere apology on your distraught face. “I didn’t realize it, but apparently, I’m poor with my measly three-thousand-dollar-a-month budget for an apartment. Now I have to find a roommate, and—“ you start wagging a finger at him sarcastically “—I don’t know if you’ve noticed there’re some real weirdos out there. It’ll take me longer to find a safe, stable roomie than it takes to—“
“I can move in with you.”
Steve almost gasps at how fast the words fly out of his mouth.
“Well, not ‘move in’ to your current place. I mean. I can—I would be willing to live with you. Sorry! That sounds bad. You’re not bad. I meant…you know, anytime you want to chime in and stop me would be helpful.”
You remain silent and smirking.
“Right. Okay. So…think about it? Or not, that’s fine.”
“Let’s talk figures, Rogers. The square-footage just doubled, and I need to rework the budget.”
Moving in is shockingly uneventful. You’re easy to get along with, when not suddenly up on your high horse about something, and Steve is easy to get along with under the same circumstances. You push his militant rigidity to the brink on purpose, but never too far.
Things sit out in the wrong place, but it’s never dirty. Stuff doesn’t always get returned promptly, but if he asks, you’re on it.
There are two bathrooms, thank mercy.
He has random and odd hours. You work nine to five, mostly. It’s the perfect level of independence without loneliness for Steve.
Sam and Natasha stop by regularly or ask you both out for drinks or to fun, new places.
One time, when Nat is ribbing Steve to go talk to a cute girl ordering at the bar, he panics and takes your hand in his on the tabletop.
“How can I do that when my date is right here?” he grits playfully through his pearly white teeth. “Leave it alone.”
Each word is punctuated by a shift forward and a slight tilt of his head.
Natasha is unamused and instantly grabs your other hand (which was holding your drink) to pull you toward the dance floor.
It’s awkward for multiple reasons. You’d pay a whole month’s rent to know what Sam and Steve talked about after you left.
Sam takes a different approach, luring—or attempting to lure—Steve into setting up just one dating profile online.
“You don’t have to put photos,” Sam assures, “and you can stick with your first name only. I swear to you, man, this’ll be good for you. Get you out there more. Help me out here, Tagalong!”
He turns to you for support. To be fair, you did quite literally tag along with your parents for years to the VA, and it stuck. Why it sticks as a grown-ass adult? You’ll never know. You just don’t mind Sam Wilson saying it because he means well and never uses it in public.
“Uh, nooooo.”
Sam’s face falls. “What?”
You look at Steve and grimace, clicking your tongue. “He’s not ready for that,” you conclude.
Steve jumps out of the chair, arms wide with victory.
“THAT’S WHAT I’VE BEEN SAYING!”
“I know you told her to say that,” Sam shouts back.
“Did not,” Steve barks.
“He did not.” You lean against your bedroom doorframe. “I just think it’s obvious.”
That makes Steve deflate a little. “Wait, but…I’m not that bad.”
“Oh gosh,” you fake with a huge smile, “look at the time! Gotta be off to bed…”
The men keep fighting albeit muffled from your side of the wall. The only part you can make out before giving them privacy is Sam, whining, “but you actually like bubble baths and walks on the beach, dude. You’re gonna be money on there.”
“Hey, why do you not, ya know, date?”
You look up from your breakfast, stunned because that came out of nowhere. You’ve lived together over six months now, and Steve hasn’t asked for one iota of personal—well, romantically personal—information.
Twiddling your fork around, you think.
“I always imagine what my parents would think of him, any guy I’ve ever considered being with longterm, and…I was just never proud to say ‘here, here’s the one,’ I guess.”
Your parents have been gone for years. You value their opinion anyway.
“Mhm,” Steve hums, “the one?”
You take a bite of food, straightening your back, tossing a dismissive hand in the air. “Yeah, if you believe in that sort of thing.”
He’s quiet for a while.
“So you’re waiting for the right partner?” Steve finally mutters, and he watches your noncommittal gesturing intently.
That was a ‘yes.’
Natasha knows. Sam knows. Steve suspects but won’t admit to anything. You are kind and unreadable.
You’ve always been kind, so there’s no discernible difference to signal you have feelings for him in return. He can’t bring himself to be anything less than a gentleman at home and makes absolutely no moves to find out.
He stays out in the living room a lot more, all hours, hoping you’ll mention staying in for a movie, praying you’ll be tired enough to fall asleep on his lap on the couch.
He’s in way too deep.
What Steve suspects is that it would be too awkward to start anything while living together, but he doesn’t want to leave you in the lurch for rent or a roommate. He also desperately doesn’t want to move out. The status quo is comfortable.
He loves being comfortable with you.
The stress of not telling you, while needing to make some sort of arrangements should telling you blow up in his face, starts to wear on him.
Steve is a pro at compartmentalizing his life, so it’s when he’s stuck at the apartment without any missions, a handful of meetings, and a team that all have lives for two long months that he cracks…in the least attractive way.
He’s messed up his sleep schedule with worry and playing innocent, and out of the not-so-blue, a horrible, vivid nightmare hits him. Steve isn’t even on the mattress anymore by the time he figures out there wasn’t carpet like this in Germany and the desk chair he grips is not a motorcycle.
“Rogers,” he hears. “Rogers, can you look at me?”
The dark room is somehow hollow and stifling all at once. His head turns slower than his brain tells it to.
Steve blinks.
“Do you know where you are?”
“Hey, sweets,” he husks from a dry throat. “What…”
“Can you tell me where this is?” You step closer and pry one of his hands off the mesh to cradle in yours. “Where are we, Rogers?”
“Home.” He swallows. “Our home.”
Your smile doesn’t reach your eyes, but you nod like he’s done well.
“Okay, Steve, I’m going to get you some water. If you want—“ your fingers smooth over the back of his hand, nudging the other to release the chair “—you can sit on the bed.”
You don’t leave. You don’t even get up from the floor.
He doesn’t notice he’s clutching your hands, shaking slightly until long seconds go by.
“Yeah. Okay.” Steve lets go, otherwise unmoving, contemplating how he ever thought the semi-rough industrial carpet felt the same as mud.
You carefully hand him the water and rub his back, using your nails to trace invisible patterns. He can’t remember what he was so scared of a minute ago. He only knows he’s sweating that empty kind of confused.
“What’s that supposed to do?” he asks absently.
You shrug. “Eh. Back scratches just feel good.”
Steve’s mind remains blank as he sips his water.
: We need to renew the lease soon. Like this week.
Steve has stalled as long as humanly possible; he is officially not being a gentleman now. He is a coward.
: Talk about it when I get home?
: Could you at least tell me if this is a hard NO on staying here or just some concerns/questions?
: I don’t get why you’re being like this.
Steve gets it, but he hates it.
: I’ll be back tonight. Should I pick up food?
: ffs
: Fine. Whatever you want.
Steve also hates when you’re mad at him…which has been happening more and more.
He’s been distant, he refuses to let Sam or Nat come around for fear they’ll play match-maker and ruin the whole thing, and he is about to ruin the whole thing anyway.
Because he is not smooth. Because he is not prepared. Because he’s built up this perfect and amazing, sweep-you-off-your-feet moment.
And he bungles it.
“Out with it,” you command, haughtily yanking your portion of food from the countertop beside him, heading for the dinette.
“I want to be with you,” he blurts.
“Thank god,” you sigh, settling in your spot. “So we’ll go down to the office and sign in the morning. I don’t want there to be an issue if you’re off to wherever for who-the-hell-knows how long on the date the thing expires.”
“No, I…” but Steve’s voice is too quiet.
“There’s only a tiny window where they’re open before I have to head to work, so let me physically sign first, right? Then I gotta go.”
“Sure,” he slurs.
“Steve?” You turn to see him staring down at his food. He’s still across the room. “Are you okay?”
“I said I—I meant that—“ he huffs out his breath and taps his fist on the counter “—I meant that I’m an idiot,” he finishes softly.
Approaching with that beautiful, open-hearted kindness that haunts his days and soothes his night, you cross to him, scratching his back just the way he’s grown to crave.
“Think you might be hangry,” you chuckle.
He cannot do this. Steve is hanging on by a thread until the graze of your hand slides down his forearm to take his plate, and he spins.
He’s thought about kissing you so many times, he mapped out the angles he’d have to hold himself at, how far he needs to lean to get to you, the care to take wrangling in his strength and sheer excitement.
Steve Rogers is good at planning, at least, this part.
Gentle pecks of his plush lips to yours leave gaps in contact that let you whimper, and he fears you stopping him. He presses, wrapping his arms around you and molding your bodies together. The linoleum of the kitchen floor makes sticky sounds beneath your shuffling feet, squeaking once you hit the adjacent wall.
The force of that knocks your frozen arms into his chest, and painfully, Steve relents to step away, but not far. He bites his bottom lip and tastes the balm from yours, his head tilted in shame but fiery eyes watching you from beneath long lashes.
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