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Daryl Dixon x Reader

Setting: Between season 2 & 3, before they found the prison.

—

The sun is hot. Grows hotter everyday as the seasons change from winter into spring and you fear for the heat of summer. Since the fall of Hershel’s farm, months ago now, there isn’t a place you’ve all stayed for more than a few hours - if you’re lucky a day or two.

Hope. For answers, for a savior or a cure is dwindling with everyday that passes. What replaces it is worst - hunger, exhaustion, fear and anxiety. The only thing anyone’s holding out for is the baby growing in Lori’s belly. She’s far along enough to have to wear larger clothes and even so, her protruding stomach peeks out.

The scent of roasted beans, Glenn and Maggie managed to scavenge earlier wafts in the air. The clearing you all stopped in is small but it’ll do for a much needed break. Your stomach grumbles for more of something, anything other than the canned food that’s slowly becoming nauseating to you.

The fallen leaves crinkle beneath your feet as you weave through Beth and Carl huddled near the small fire.

“No…I can’t-” Lori starts, hands pausing your movements mid way to giving her the extra food she desperately needs.

“I can’t eat anymore of this…it’ll just go to waste.” You cut her off, using the same excuse as you have for the past few months. Lori needed it more than you, for her baby. You haven’t met the kid yet, but if she comes out anything like Carl, she already has your heart.

Lori looks torn, as always. You don’t give her a chance to hesitate as you press more firmly into her hands, moving as soon as it’s in her grasp, “I’ll go find you some more ginger.”

Daryl follows behind you silently, he doesn’t have to - you’ve more than proven you’re able to handle yourself now but he does anyway. It’s always the same, you walk a few paces ahead, he’s silent and vigilant while you look for whatever is you’re looking for.

He watches you, he always does. You’re different from the girl he met all those months ago when this all began. You’re tougher, stronger. His eyes are trained on your back, the ends of your cornrows, long and frizzy with the heat swing down your back with every step you take, your knife sits on makeshift holster on your waist and he can’t help his eyes from watching your hips move. The shirt you cut into a crop top to battle the heat doesn’t help his case, neither is the shorts you found last week.

Too wrapped up in his thoughts of you, he almost crashes into your back as you stop. You make him loose focus, and that’s dangerous.

“There.” You mutter quietly, whether to yourself or to him - you don’t clarify as you step towards a shaded area in the treeline. Your body already dropping to its haunches beside the plants.

Daryl doesn’t know much about plants but luckily you do.

Your hands and knees are dirty, mud and grass stained as you dust off the ginger you found.

“Things like gold now.” Daryl grunts casting a side glance at the plant in your hands as he lowers himself onto the tree trunk beside you.

“Oh, yeah.” You agree. You had revealed your extensive knowledge on plants back when Lori had horrible morning sickness, back then you had found the plant easier and in an abundance but that was miles back.

In truth, it helped you too. As much as you hated eating it, it helps to curb your appetite.

“You think you could ever do it?” You suddenly ask after a moment of comfortable silence. From the tree you’re sitting on, you’re out of sight from Walkers but looking up the sun rays pierce through the tree line and highlight the woods around you. You never appreciated nature before the fall.

Daryl doesn’t have to ask you to elaborate, he already knows what you’re asking. If he could raise kids in a world like this.

“Don’t think it matters what’s goin’ on with the world…it’s the way of life, ain’t it?”

Humming softly, his words settle in your mind. You stew over them, gearing up to reply when your stomach grumbles, loud enough to embarrass you.

Releasing a sheepish laugh, you divert your embarrassment. “God, I miss sushi.”

A light scoff pulls you out of your daydreams of the perfect roll, “Of all things, you miss raw fish?” Daryl’s incredulous tone mixed with a hint of disgust throws you off.

“Are you judging me right now?” You deadpan, eyebrows furrowed and voice mixed with light amusement.

He shrugs, standing while adjusting his crossbow into his hands to begin the trek back to camp. “No. Shamin’.”

You gasp, mock shock escaping as you trudge after him. “Hey! It’s an acquired taste.”

“Uh-huh.” His simple, nonverbal hum of an answer, annoys you but not enough to push away the amusement in you.

The walk back to camp feels shorter, maybe because for once you’re not in total silence pretending you both aren’t stealing glances at each other.

Your close - close enough to hear the voices of the group and see the side of T-Dog on perimeter watch when Daryl lightly nudges your shoulder with his, “Hey. Tell Rick I’ll be back, gone huntin’.”

Your hand catches his arm before he can make it too far away, “Be careful.”

You always say it, but this time it carries a weight he can’t begin to unravel so he nods after a long moment of looking into your eyes. Wide and full of emotions he doesn’t understand.

“Yeah.” He finally agrees, giving his bottom lip a light nibble - what you’ve learnt of the closet thing to a reassuring smile you’ll get from Daryl.

—

Daryl had been gone for a while, at least long enough to the sun to be dipping low and Rick to ask you for the hundredth time which direction he went in. Lori had eaten a slice of ginger from when you brought it back and now she lays by Carol, getting some much needed rest.

Beth, Carl, Maggie, and Hershel are already tucked in and fast asleep after another batch of canned goods for dinner. You swapped places the T-Dog a few moments ago, relieving him from watch for rest. Besides, you needed to get away from the scent of canned spaghetti.

Shuffling makes way from the right of you, low enough to not cause a panic but enough to have you on alert. The gun in your hand raised as a stick is snapped closer, too close.

Your mouth drys and your heart beats in your chest too loud to hear anything else.

“Easy.” That familiar deep grumble emerges from the darkness, his hands raised high.

The sigh that blows from your chest is heavy as your whole body relaxes, “I could’ve shot you, you know.”

“Ya’ didn’t.” He counters, not a hint of fear detected in him as he reaches behind him for something.

“Catch.”

“Wha-” You only have a second before Daryl tosses something in your hands, hairy, wet and carries a little weight. Glancing down, your heart stutters and your belly grumbles at the sight.

A rabbit. Although, killed - by the bolt sized hole in his head, but actual meat.

Daryl steadies himself when your eyes snap up towards his, full of gratitude and appreciation. It makes him shy.

“Ain’t sushi.” He grumbles, playing with the ear of the other rabbit tied to the string around him.

You’re rendered silent, utterly and completely. You, who always has something to say. But you can’t place words onto what you’re feeling, he went hunting because you made an off handed comment.

And of course, Daryl brushes it off as if he hadn’t ventured off further than he should’ve because he couldn’t bear coming back empty handed and watching you starve yourself over food you hated.

So, he walks away not being able handle your silence or the way you’re looking at him.

Setting: Captain America Civil War

The sweet, soothing scent of vanilla and eucalyptus wafts in the air. Finally, after a gruesome two weeks in Siberia undergoing a mission for Nick Fury, you are home in the comfort of your own apartment.

It’s too late in the night for anything other than the Chinese take out a few blocks down, which you’ve taken up for yourself. It sits next to the candle you have burning to push out the stuffiness that lingered from everything being closed up in your absence.

The shower you just had, refreshes you in ways you’ve craved in those 2 weeks and your hair damply drips down your back as you pull a long sleeve top over your head.

Of course, the break is too good to be true. The second you’re squatting to sit down, there’s a firm knock on your door. One that has your brain kicking into overdrive and pulling a gun from its hidden spot under your couch as you cautiously bound towards the door.

And just as you’re weighing your options, contemplating your approach. “It’s me…it’s Steve.”

The door opens with a firm click of the lock, your frame filling the gap with a brooding expression. Doesn’t he know you need a minimum 3 days before your social battery is recharged?

“To what do I owe this pleasure?” You ask, hand bracing the edge of the doorframe.

Steve hesitates for only a moment, noting your obvious sarcasm. Thankfully, he doesn’t have to answer.

“We need to lay low.” Sam’s voice cuts into the conversation as he strolls up beside Steve.

You liked Sam, he’s funny, a good fighter and he saved your life once. All good traits in your book.

Although, the slight suspicion and curiosity that washes over you isn’t enough to overcome the exhaustion you feel so with a final narrowed look their way you walk off with a nonverbal invitation inside.

Feet shuffle inside behind you, more than two but you don’t pick up on it until your in the kitchen about to grab at your plate of food and tell your two dear friends that they can’t have any when you notice the extra person.

Standing in the open floor plan threshold between your kitchen and living room stands Steve, Sam and…

“What is he doing here?” You grit out, your gun up and trained on The Winter Soldier. At just looking at him the horrible scar on your side aches in pain. It took you weeks to recover from the wound he had left in his wake almost 2 years ago.

“Easy.” Steve attempts to diffuse the situation, hands held out as a barrier between you.

Your eyes never once leave his, although they aren’t as empty as you remembered. No, his eyes are…gentler, tainted in what you could only make out to be guilt. But he doesn’t say a word, just keeps steady eye contact with you.

And you don’t move an inch. Not even as Sam brushes past Steve to help himself to a glass of water from your fridge, muttering a smug, “Told you.”

Sam isn’t phased by your reaction, he expected. So, he gears up to watch it unfold as he groans softly when he lowers onto your couch, even fluffing a pillow to rest his aching back.

You’re not stupid, you’ve seen the news. You know he’s wanted by basically everyone. But apparently Steve is stupid.

What is he thinking brining this to your front door?

“Drop the gun, he’s not a threat.”

“Bullshit, he’s not a threat.” You snap.

What you actually want to do is shoot Steve a glare and curse him for adding you into his mess but you can see the fatigue biting at each of them. Hunger, exhaustion, mild paranoia - all symptoms of yourself.

Maybe that’s why you reluctantly lower the gun. Definitely not because the guilt on Bucky’s face is too much for you to deny.

Steve visibly relaxes but the tension in the room doesn’t disappear. Not when you’re still staring Bucky down as if he’ll switch into the killing machine you fought face to face once.

Bucky refuses to break the stare, he needs to see it. The aftermath of what he’s done, the people he hurt. He remembers you, what he did to you. He wears that guilt now.

And for that, you let the sleek metal of the gun hit the counter top.

“You hungry?”

—

Turns out your Chinese for one which you had wanted to stretch for the entire 3 days you had planned to spend in your own company, can be split into 4 portions.

The air is still tense, but less charged as you all ate and Steve filled you on what’s going on.

Apparently, a failed mission left the Avengers with a big pill to swallow - The Accords.

And a bomb at The Accords meeting left people dead and the blame on Bucky, which he didn’t do.

It’s times like these your happy you decided to stay out of the Avenging world, however Steve doesn’t share the same sentiment or he wouldn’t be here.

Your apartment is off all radars, for now as you suspect. You all know it won’t be long until your found, but as of right now it’s the safest place.

Sam had been the last to freshen up in your bathroom, using the last of the clothing your ex-fling had left over. You had contemplated throwing the clothes away but you liked the oversized pieces and it came handy for the three men in your living room.

You offered your bed to Steve, knowing you wouldn’t get sleep with Bucky so close. You hated to admit it but apart of you had been traumatized from your fight with him.

Ultimately, Sam had taken your bed after the back and forth you and Steve had, while Bucky took the couch without a word said and Steve took to the cushioned area of your bay window.

Not a smart place for a fugitive. Luckily, you had renovated before you moved in, replacing the glass with reflective bulletproof ones instead.

Time moves on, slower than normal it seems. Your body is in overdrive, fighting against the softness of your single sofa which sits opposite to the exact thing keeping you on high alert.

Bucky holds a certain…innocence when he sleeps. It’s the only time he looks relaxed, well before his eyes begin twitching and his plush lips pull into a deep frown.

You have to hold back the flinch your body wants to release when he suddenly springs up, eyes wide, breath shallow and his hands fisted and ready.

A nightmare.

He doesn’t notice you yet, or maybe he has and is just choosing to ignore you. You’re not sure and you don’t care as you observe him.

His left arm - the flesh arm moves toward his face, rubbing the sleep from his eyes before swiping at the sweat on his neck where his overgrown hair sticks onto him. Your now noticing how much the clothes don’t fit him.

His arms bulge out of the black shirt, nearly threatening to burst through the fabric…and he’s not even flexing.

Before you could drool over the first male body you’ve seen in weeks, you focus back on your thoughts.

“You don’t sleep.” You say it as a statement rather than an accusation or a question.

Bucky isn’t surprised by your voice, he had been waiting. He had felt you watching him from the moment he woke up, he felt your stare…all over him.

He doesn’t answer, and normally that would frustrate you but you imagine there’s not much he can say in relation to your statement. How could he sleep with the blood on his hands?

You accept not getting a word out of him so you settle your attention on the TV playing some show you’re not really paying any mind to.

Bucky sits up, his right arm - the metal one buzzes in a phantom pain that only comes deep into the night. A reminder of who he is, what he is and always will be. At least to you, the people he’s done wrong.

“I’m sorry.” Rough, quiet and scratchy. The voice comes out the man who blends into the darkness all too well. The light from the TV highlights apart of his face, at least enough for you to make out the guilt still swimming in his blue orbs.

Bucky truly is sorry, for what it’s worth. He remembers the fight you had put up. You were fast and slick in ways he struggled with, you had been a nuisance to him in that state. A distraction in the way of his mission.

The piece of ragged metal had been in arms reach, something you hadn’t noticed before it was too late. The metal was already impaled into your side when you realized what had happened and by that time he had pushed you out of the helicarrier and left you to fall to your death.

Sam had been the one to catch you.

The apology stuns you, you didn’t expect him to talk, much less apologize. You know his story, that he wasn’t really ‘himself’. Apart of you wanted to kill him, for what he’s done. Not just to you but all who have suffered at the hands of ‘The Winter Soldier’.

But the human part of you emphasizes with him. He truly seems remorseful over his acts, well the acts of his controlled mind.

“You won’t get the chance again.”

A promise. You accepted his apology with a promise to follow. You will help him because you can tell he never wanted what life had given him, he is a man stuck in time and paying the price of men who believe themselves to be judge, jury and executioner.

Bucky nods. Fair enough, he just hopes it won’t ever come to that again.

The air grows lighter, a shared understanding floats between you. It’s a start.

Steve watches the moment quietly, pretending he’s still asleep as he listens. He just needs someone else to believe in Bucky the way he does.

POV: A red carpet interaction turns into another viral moment.

—

Whatever you were rambling about tot he interview in front of you pauses a should collided with your own. Thankfully, it’s a relatively light collide, so you turn to brush it off with a polite smile of understanding.

Only to come face to face with an artist that’s been on the rise. Jack Harlow.

Jack’s eyes widen, an apology already rushing through his lips before an easy smirk slides over.

“My apologies, Miss…” He begins, his hand reaching out for yours easily. He recognizes you, he’s seen you on the media.

And he can confidently say, your beauty is even better face to face.

“No shaking.” You point out before you could really think to stop the words.

“Oh no-” Jack groans , his face falling and instant turning a few shades too red.

Out of all the moments you could recall, you bring up the one that’s haunts him.

Watching him turn into a flustered mess pulls an amused chuckle out of you. With his hand still in yours, you give it a subtle squeeze.

“No, no. It’s adorable.” You reassure, not meaning to make him feel embarrassed.

—

View all comments

random2 stop they would make such a good couple

miss!onaryjac lmaoooo why would she say that😭

user421 he will never live down that moment with Saweetie😂

user122 -100 aura

—

jackharlow posted a story!

jackharlow tagged y/nforlife in a post

Loki Laufeyson x Black!Reader

POV: A meeting turns into something unexpected.

Setting: A little before the events of Thor (2011)

Loki doesn’t consider a lot of things perfect, but as he watches you it’s hard to come up with anything else to describe you.

Most Ljósálfar (Light Elves) don’t come close to your beauty. The darkest part of you being your skin tone - warm and velvety under the pure white locks of hair cascading down your back. Your ears peak through the curls, pointed and decorated with the finest jewels.

Everything thing about you is captivating to him.

Maybe that’s why Thor’s stuttering outburst startles him.

“What? Marriage? Father-” Thor’s words register to him when he whips his head to side. Marriage? What did he miss?

It’s not hard to piece together what was said. The All-father at the head of the table, your father - Freyr at his right. Thor’s mumbling shock, your silently stunned stature and his mother.

Frigga stands to the left of her husband, hands clasped in front of her as she appears elegantly calm. But, her eyes express what her mouth can’t - something Loki has inherited from her.

The sadness, the guilt and slight despair he finds in them as she looks between you, and himself.

Your fathers want you to marry…

Loki’s eyes move towards yours but you’re already looking at him with a wide stare filled with painful acceptance.

Your fathers want you to marry Thor.

The doors burst open despite the calls of your name, it was all too much.

Loki would never admit it but he wishes for once Odin would entrust him for a duty such as this. His oaf of a brother would never appreciate you, not like he would.

Does Thor even know you? Surely not like he does.

Does he know that you wear your arm cuffs only on your left arm because you your mother did the same? Does he know your ears wiggle when you laugh? Does he know you have the tinniest mole above the right corner of your upper lip?

Loki could go on for ages about the things he knows about you. Not because you’ve told him, no. Because he watches, he listens and observes.

Thor would never be devoted to you as he would. Thor would never worship the ground you walk on, or lay his life down for you. His brother is a gentleman, that is certain. Thor would protect you, spoil you but he could not love you as Loki would.

With these thoughts flowing through him, Loki ignores the call of Thor and the calls of the All-father to find you.

Hurrying through the halls now is much different to how it was when you all were much younger, but he’s just as quick to find you as he’s always been.

There you are, hunched on a stone pillar of the veranda. Hands clutching the intertwining vines cascading around the pillar as your chest heaves up and down. Quick paced and irregular.

At first Loki believes you’re crying, his heart twitching at just the thought of it. But it takes him less than a second to realize the panic you’re experiencing.

There’s a deafening rip that tears through the air, something you ought to be more worried about but your to busy sucking in the air you so desperately need. The panic had ripped its way through you as soon as you burst through the double doors. How could your father ask this of you? How could he suggest such a thing? Of all people? Thor? There could be worst choices, but he’s not…

“Loki.” You gasp out, a free hand of yours holding the front of your dress to your chest. Did you burst your dress in your panic? What a mess.

“I’m here.” The velvety voice of your savior tickles the shell of your right ear.

Loki’s hands mold your sides, he needs to feel the air pushing into your body and traveling to where you need it most.

Your knees threat to give out next at just his presence, but you relent in favor of turning your head to catch his eyes.

What a compromising position you find yourselves in and yet, you two can’t muster up the care.

“Lok-” You start after a thick gulp, voice slightly shaky as you begin to feel the weight of him around you. His back to your chest, his hands on your waist, and his face threaten to cross every boundary that’s ever laid between you.

“Don’t do it.” He breathes out as he cuts you off, quickly as if the words had been begging to burst out. “Don’t marry him.”

Loki wishes he had the courage to tell you sooner. That he’s loved you for thousands of years, that he should’ve been brave.

If only it were that simple, if only you both could go against the wills of your fathers. It wouldn’t be a losing game.

You manage to turn in the tight hold your in, and whether you meant to or not, you cage yourself between Loki and the pillar again.

His eyes, your favorite part of him tells it all. You use your free hand to caress the side of his face, your fingers smoothing over the crease between his eyebrows. No words are exchanged as you both savor this stolen moment. Loki’s head nuzzles into your touch, craving more.

“I wish it was you.”

He almost feels as if he imagined the whisper that leaves your lips as it drowns beneath the sound of feet shuffling down the corridor. He wants to wrap you in his arms and take you away, somewhere you both could be alone. But he can’t, and he may never get to.

The call of your name by Frigga is gentle yet borders on a hint of warning only Loki could pick up on. She’s your together and she’s not alone.

It takes everything in him to pull away, to place distance between you both again after confessing what could’ve been this entire time.

A foot is as much as he can muster but it’s enough for him to see the damage. Your body is still pinned to the pillar where he had you and your hand holds the front of your dress from falling.

He hadn’t meant to ruin your dress, but nothing would stand in the way of him making sure you’re alright. His cloak slips off easy, barely a twist of his hand before the fabric falls over your shoulders.

“My dear girl, there you are.” You’re barely listening as Frigga rounds the corner with her lady’s maids. How could you when the man you want is looking at you like you’re everything he needs but can’t have?

“What happened to your dress? Oh dear, we’ll get you fixed up.”

His fingers flex against his side, he could still feel your warmth under his palms. And the silky fabric of your dress straining against his hold as he pulled at the strings of your corset.

He watches you be guided away, his cloak around you, your eyes on his and your words imbedded into his mind.

Bucky Barnes x Wakandan!Reader

“White Wolf.”

Bucky turns at the greeting, getting more use to the name given to him as the days go on. He’s not quite sure why they call him that, but anything is better than ‘The Winter Soldier’.

Confusion licks him for only a moment as he takes you in, slender frame under traditional clothing rather than fighting leathers. You look a little different than the last time he saw you - your hair was much curler, not in the braids you have them in now and your face was clearer, not marked with white tribal paint.

“You were with Steve.” He states but it borders on a question.

“I was.” You nod, closing the short distance to stand next to him overlooking the lake.

He looks better, different but better. It had only been a few weeks since he had been released from the cryostasis and you have returned to your homeland. Shuri had been the one to update you on his recovery, after all you had promised Steve to look after his dear friend. She told you the kids took a particular liking to him.

A moment of silence passes between you both, your eyes taken in the African scenery and stealing glances at each other from the corners of your eyes.

“Thank you.” Bucky mutters into the open, small and quiet yet grateful. Bucky recalled how hard it was for you to be on his side, to go against your fiends, your King. In the end it worked out, but at the time it was a choice that was hard to carry.

You can recall the moments yourself, being frozen between fighting against people you’ve come to call friends and doing what you thought was right.

“A friend of Cap is a friend of mine.” You settle it, looking over with a little smile.

It leaves Bucky sort of confused by the sentiment. He spent 70 years not use to kindness, so having it in abundance now messes with his brain chemistry.

—

From that day, you visited more. Just to check on him, maybe to talk, sometimes to play with the children but nights like these are what he’s slowly getting use to. Some would say, he looks forward to it.

It’s late, the last orange rays of the setting sun wash the front of his hut in warm lighting. Your both sitting at the table, abandon stacks of kids drawings laying around and your chair is pulled closer to his.

“Ungubani?” The question comes and Bucky is prepared this time, he had been memorizing the language everyday since these impromptu lessons began. (Who are you?)

“Ingcuka emhlophe.” He replies back, slightly hesitant as if somehow he mixed up his words. You don’t outwardly show it but you’re proud at how quickly he’s picking up the language. For someone that hasn’t learnt IsiXhosa from an infant, it could be very hard to learn but he’s not bad for a white boy. He isn’t great but not horrible either. (The White Wolf)

He catches he’s the slight impressed look on your face and he bites back the small smile threatening to pull at his lips. “Not bad, White Boy.”

He feels like a school boy at your praise, he’s been alive a lot longer than you and he’s never met anyone that has affected him this much in such little time.

Bucky’s curiosity regarding you grows with every moment. He’d never admit it but once or twice he’s questioned the kids about you. He really couldn’t help it, he wants to know your story and it’s easier to talk to them than bribe them with the promise of playing in his hair.

“Mamela, James.” You cut him off, with a steady voice. You’ve taken to calling him James, a name he hasn’t gone by in a very long time and he hasn’t once corrected you. Because he likes it, he likes you giving him that part of himself again. (Listen, James.)

He doesn’t mind one bit at the firmness in your tone, he actually finds it funny how you take it all so seriously. How you help him understand the people and culture better.

“Jong-” You cut him off with a hand pressed to his chest. Whether you notice or not, Bucky realizes he doesn’t flinch when you touch him. His body doesn’t freeze or act on fight mode. He’s surprisingly calm.

“Jonga.” You emphasis the part of word messed up, “Here. Feel it in your chest when you say it.”

The moment is intimate in ways he can’t explain, the warm and steadiness of your palm pressing into his chest. The way your mouth moves with his, eyes focused on his lips as you encourage him to speak.

“Jonga.”

Releasing a hum of approval, you nod before slowly pulling away. The way he’s looking at you, so attentively that you have to look away to stop yourself from crossing a boundary.

Bucky isn’t stupid, he catches the shallowing of your breath, the way you can’t hold eye contact and how you mess around the papers littering the table.

“What does it mean?” He asks after a moment of just watching, and you swear the room feels smaller - warmer even.

He waits for you to answer, patient and quiet. When you look up, his eyes drown you just as yours capture him.

“To see.” And the irony of it is electrifying, because it’s as if the two of you are finally seeing each other.

—

Loki Laufeyson x Reader

—

Loki is a traitor. To his family, to his home, to his brother and now to himself. For so long his rage directed towards Thor stemmed from his weak heart. Not only for Midgard but a mere mortal woman. And now, Loki finds himself in the same position.

Loki couldn’t think of a worst punishment then being exiled to Midgard to pay for his crimes. After the Avengers, a group of misfits formed together by the fear of otherworldly threats beat him, he was supposed to be on his way back to Asgard with Thor but you stopped that.

You and your powers. You shouldn’t have been able to do it, connect into his mind. It should’ve been impossible, you are nothing more than a Sun Summoner. And yet, the past can’t be rewritten - the connection your powers hold (your powers came from the Mind Stone) and the tesseract has allowed you to look into his mind.

You had been the one to rationalize with the team, with Director Fury, with Thor.

“He’s as much a victim to the Tesseract as anyone.” Is what you had said.

At the time he doubted anything would help to undone what was already done, but you seemed to always get your way.

So, that brings him to now.

Like clock work, the sliding doors of the bedroom (cell) slide open next to the clock that reads 12:45pm.

“I have a new one for you.” You start as you come walking in, hands clutching an old box stacked with miscellaneous things and at the top a new book.

Everyday for the last 6 months, well whenever you’re not on a mission you’re strolling in. At first, Loki found it humiliating. He already has to stay on this mortal planet because of you and now he couldn’t even be alone? But now, he likes your company…sometimes craves it, despite himself.

You don’t look at him like the rest of them do. You’re kind, although feisty and quick witted. You don’t make him feel like a failure.

“What? No feedback?” You ask, an eyebrow tipped up as you grab at the last copy of Harry Potter you gave to him yesterday. It felt nice to have someone that read as quick as you and enjoyed it, although it’s maybe because he has nothing else to do.

“It was a children’s book.” He stated, not confirming that it was indeed good. He’d never admit to it.

“Ah. But it was good, no?” You smile, curls bouncing as you flop onto the bean bag opposite him. It took a long time for you both to get this comfortable with each other. You wanted to understand him, to know the why of it all.

Your smile, the way it takes over your features. Pulls at your lips and creases at your eyes, even your nose scrunches a little under the weight of your smile lines. Loki has never thought of a woman like this before, not even the ones in Asgard. He’s watched women fall at his brother’s feet, all but you. You, who stood up to Thor, all 5 foot of yourself to defend his honor. You, a mere mortal stranger.

You never really know what version of Loki you’ll get - feisty and angry, flirty and charming, playful and mischievous, or like today quiet and self pitying.

You chuckle under your breath when he doesn’t answer, too busy playing catch with the ball in his hands. Up and down, the little ball goes.

A flash of light, yellow and too bright for his eyes to stay open. You summon the little sun ray from your hands, successfully bursting the little ball into microscopic atoms and gaining his attention.

“Not talking, huh?” You ask, watching him sit up. His jet black curls bounce when he sits up, silky and healthy thanks to the products you provided him with. He’s also in ‘civilian clothes’, a pair of black trousers and a green dress shirt. Took him a while to actually be fine with it.

“You’re not here to talk about the books.” He avoids your eyes, as of late he’s realized he’s becoming powerless to your stare. It’s foreign and indescribable, he shouldn’t be feeling this.

Your quiet for a moment, the kind of quiet that Loki has picked up on - it means you’re contemplating your next move. Finding the best approach. You’ve done it since day one, trying anything to make him open up.

But you know or rather, you’ve learned that he struggles to communicate himself. His feelings and his emotions, like a repressed child.

“Tell me about your father.” A loaded question, heavy and yet it’s been the topic that you’ve gathered most of his anger originates from.

You watch it like a show on a loop, the way his jaw clenches and his hands rub together out of habit rather than restraint.

Sighing softly, you move until you’re comfortably hunched over with your elbows on your knees. “Look, you have to give me something. We made a deal…I can’t protect you from the board if they don’t see results. They just want you to know the weight of your actions, and who did this to you.”

Loki wants to tell you, he does and he doesn’t know what to do with that. Because he can hear it in your voice that you…care. It’s all too confusing and heavy.

Holding back a scoff of light frustration, you instead pull out the little notepad you brought.

“If you can’t say it aloud…maybe you could write it down.” You suggest, holding out the notebook. An olive branch of sorts.

Accepting the book, he finally allows himself to look you in the eyes. He just wasn’t prepared for the conviction he finds, somewhere deep inside you truly believe in him. You shouldn’t, he wants to tell you.

He’s a doomed god with nothing but ruin and destruction in his path, and for once he’s found something he doesn’t want to destroy.

—

Bruce Banner x Black!Reader

2012 Avengers Era - Avenger!Reader

—

Late night warm milk proves fruitless on your attempts to wean your body back into slumber. You had tried it all, counting sheep, counting to 100 and even white noise. The tower is quiet, for once. It’s the only time it usually is. Those few hours between 2 am to 4 am, just after Tony calls it a night and Steve wakes up to start his day.

Your use to being the only one awake during that sweet time, at least the only one awake and roaming. So, passing by the lab and seeing the lights still on has your interest piqued.

It’s silent, completely silent. No soft music, no whirring, no clanking, no desk chairs rolling. You think it’s just Tony leaving the lights on again, but when the doors slide open you can’t help but to smile fondly at the sight.

The desk along the far right is only occupied by one person, papers litter one side, the many screens show things you can’t even begin to decipher and in the center of the chaos is Bruce. Lab coat hung over his chair. Body hunched over the desk in a way, you’re sure he’ll silently complain about in the morning. His glasses are resting beside his opened hand in way that tells you he hadn’t meant to fall asleep. And his face is pressed to the only clear part of the desk, his eyelids closed and he looks so peaceful you can’t help truly seeing him.

The way his bottom lashes are a touch longer than his top ones, his forehead doesn’t wrinkle like it does when he’s distressed. His hair, mostly black are gradually being taken out but the salty white strands infiltrating his hairline. Even his lips, soft and pout doesn’t make a sound, not even a light snore. He almost looks too peaceful to wake.

You contemplate waking him and you’re sure if anyone were to walk in you’d look like a creep just watching him. But you can’t help it. In the few months you’ve known each other, Bruce has quickly became a friend. Sure, he’s awkward and shy. To you, it just makes him cuter and more charming.

Making your decision, you softly rest your mug of lukewarm milk on the corner of his desk. “Bruce.” You call softly, easing him back into consciousness with a light poke to his side.

Bruce doesn’t expect to be woken up, least not by a soft poke to his side or to open his eyes to a blurry outline of the only person he knows that wears a satin pink bonnet to bed. He can feel embarrassment licking at his cheeks as he fumbles around for his glasses, slipping them on when his hands find purchase on the delicate frames.

And just as he suspected, you come into view. Warm dark melanated skin, still moisturized by the shower you had earlier are under a pair of soft looking pajamas and white socks with little hearts. The silk bonnet hides your hair but Bruce can’t complain when he really gets to see your face, your soft smile and kind eyes.

“Sorry, I just didn’t want you to wake up with a sore back.” You explain, in a soothing whisper.

Even though, he’s still a bit embarrassed at being caught asleep especially by you, he can’t help but to swoon at you looking out for him. He’s a mess, between caught off guard by your gesture and his natural awkwardness, it takes him a moment to actually form words from his gaping mouth.

“Right! Yes…thank you.” He mumbles after a moment, his lips pursing in a shy smile.

He’s adorable, you can’t help but to giggle lightly as you watch him get more flustered.

“I wasn’t supposed to…actually fall asleep…” he begins to explain, eye contact cutting in favor of him finding his desk more interesting.

“It’s okay, you don’t have to explain.” You reassure, resting a gentle hand on his shoulder.

Your hand is warm and a welcoming weight on his shoulder, he almost allows himself to crave more just before you remove it.

“You should get some more rest though, you’ve been working a lot lately.”

You’ve noticed? It’s a foreign concept to Bruce, he’s use to being in the sidelines, in the background when he’s not Hulk. He likes it, prefers it even. But you just simply noticing affects him in ways he’s not use to.

After a long moment of no answer, you chuckle softly. “Come on, we should both get some rest.”

Bruce can’t argue with that, only nodding and following after you as you grab your mug and retreat out of the lab.

The walk is fairly short, Bruce’s room is closer because of how much time he spends in the lab. “Goodnight, Bruce.”

He almost shivers at the way you say his name, so soft and lighthearted that he can hear the smile in your voice.

“…Night.” He manages, eyes staring at your figure moving further down the hall. He’s too busy staring that he almost forgets how to turn the door knob, only getting it when he hears your soft chuckling.

Benito Ocasio x Reader

Benito isn’t sure what he walked into. What was once the bedroom you both shared is now comparable to a shoe factory. Various colors, sizes, buckles, laces, straps and charms take up every inch of the floor, some are even placed atop of clothing cabinets and your vanity.

And there you are, admist the shoe hurricane. Your legs are folded beneath you as you hum softly to yourself, dusting away at your precious heels. At least once every 3-6 months you’re pulling apart the walk in closets Benito made you to rearrange your collection.

You call it therapeutic, Benito calls it an addiction. He always jokes that you should go on that TLC show ‘My Strange Addiction’.

Though, he can’t complain, he really can’t. Despite your obvious shoe addiction you’ve earned it all. He has never seen you without a fresh pedicure, or watched you meaninglessly throw about your heels. You treat them as if they are worth a million bucks…and as a collective they definitely do.

But he’s a man, so he would never understand the feminine satisfaction that exudes from you when you’ve had a fresh shave or wax, legs smooth from a scrub followed by body butter and freshly manicured toes to bring out the beauty of the heels.

“Mi amor.” He greets, softly pushing further into the bedroom.

Your humming ceases the moment you hear his voice, tongue rolling over the words.

“Hi.” A sheepish smile is already pulling at your lips as you peer at him over your shoulder.

“¿Limpiando de nuevo? ¿Estás aburrido, mi amor?” He asks out of genuine curiosity, the last time you’ve cleaned this much was during COVID. Cleaning again? Are you bored, my love?

Chuckling softly, you mask the slight nervousness in it. How can you tell him, you bought 3 pairs of heels yesterday and you had to rearrange to fit them?

“Well, it’s spring.” You say matter of factly as if it’s obvious. Spring aka spring cleaning season.

“Ah.” He nods in understanding, knowing exactly what you’re referring to. He’s grown up knowing what his day would look like when he woke to music playing.

“Then, is this the donation pile?” He points a finger over to a section of Jimmy Choo’s, and a pair of Rene Caovilla’s. The sparkling sequin dancing in the sunlight pouring into the room.

Failing to catch the obvious joke, you almost give yourself whip lash with how fast you shake your head.

“No! Definitely not.” The absurdity almost makes you collapse, does he know how much women would kill for a collection like this?

“I’m joking, mi amor.” He starts, chuckling softly as he takes another look around the room. “But you should think about getting rid of some, you don’t wear them all.”

“I do.” You defend, looking around at a pair of So Kate’s you haven’t worn in years but they’re just as polished and pretty as the day you bought them.

Benito chuckles softly under his breath, his girl and her only vice. Expensive shoes.

He’s careful to watch his feet to grab his headphones he originally came for, only he lost his footing at the last second while dodging a pair of six inch green wedges and his foot trips over a pair of-

“Oh my Gosh, Benito! Do you know what these are? Their Giuseppe!” A horrified squeal leaves your lips and you’re already moving to collect the heels in your hands, eyes moving to inspect them. Forget if your boyfriend’s ankles are okay.

Platonic!Deran Cody/Craig Cody/Pope Cody x Black!Reader

Craig has never been good at being quiet or sitting still. Especially when he’s just had a few snorts of some ‘special blow’ he scored last night.

Deran doesn’t bother trying to tame his hardheaded brother. He’s knows he’ll get what’s coming to him.

And he does.

Clinking and clattering stirs you out of your sleep. Sunlight beaming into your bedroom, your hands feel around trying to catch onto the blanket to cover your eyes. Only when you fail to feel anything there you huff out a breath of groggy frustration.

You could care less about your lack of upper-ware, the lacy black lining of your panties catch into the vanity mirror as you step over the obstacle of clothes and beer bottles littering your floor.

As soon as your bedroom door opens, you’re overstimulated.

Craig and Deran stand in the kitchen, bodies colliding, and feet shuffling. Deran trying to shush Craig while trying to pry a frying pan from his hands.

“What the actual fuck are you doing?” The groggy call of pure irritation comes from you.

“Oh shit.” Deran mutters under his breath, releasing the frying pan from his hands and allowing it to drop into Craig’s at the sight of you.

Your tan has settled after the day of surfing you guys had yesterday. Your arms are a touch darker than the rest of your body shown by you only wearing a pair of panties. But that’s the least of your worries as you glare daggers at the two grown men in your kitchen.

“He started it.” Craig starts, immediately placing blame onto Deran who also sends a glare his way. Pulling the cigarette from his lips to exhale the smoke into the air.

“You’re so full of shit.” You are watch as Deran shakes his head, reaching forward for a mug of freshly made coffee.

Your glare is still settled on Craig, stood frozen in the middle of your kitchen clutching your frying pan like a deer in headlights. Of course you know it was him, his eyes are blown to shit and no one else would be able to stomp around but him and his big ass feet.

“Mornin’.” Deran mutters brushing his shoulder with yours as he passes, stopping to press a gentle kiss onto the crown of your head and rest the mug into your hands after taking a generous sip.

He’s a smart man, way smarter than Craig who’s about to suffer at the hands of your screaming. He’s sure you’re gonna make him clean your whole apartment again. Not the first time, you’ve gotten Craig to behave on your leash.

Literally saved by the bell because just as your about to tear into him, the doorbell rings, followed by an inpatient knock.

As if you couldn’t be more irritated upon waking up. Deran takes the responsibility to stay in your good graces, already moving to open the door after checking the peep hole.

“Good. Where’s Craig? We gotta go.” Pope’s emotionless drawl is the closest thing to a greet when the door opens. His feet barely step inside when he pauses to take a look at you. Eyes taking over your lack of clothing with a squinted look of judgement. He’ll never understand the dynamics of your friendship with his brothers.

“Why are you naked?”

“It’s my fucking house.” You scoff out the rebuttal, arms crossing over your chest - not to hide but rather excentuate your point.

Pope can’t argue with that, just takes another appreciative glance with a slow nod. “Get your shit, we gotta go.”

He’s never met someone so all consuming, that it leaves so little room for him to think of anything else but you. He thinks of you every second of every waking moment. When he’s in a business meeting, going over important documents and numbers he’s thinking of what you may be doing. When he’s scoping out new properties he’s imagining you turning it into your own, a big garden like you always talk about or maybe a huge tree swing like what you had growing up.

He never raises his voice at you, even when he’s boiling with rage. He doesn’t like you see him that way. Even on the off chance he gets a little too overwhelmed, attempting to decompress after a long day while you drone on and on about the day you had and he snaps. Nothing serious, just a small sigh of exhaustion and disengagement that you pick up on. But before you can get offended, he’s already muttering an apology and urging you to continue on about whatever you want.

He also knows that you are the sole reason he got clean. Rafe would rather die than see the hurt and disappointment on your face when you found him snorting a line of coke. He quickly realized that no amount of drugs or money would ever compare to the feeling you give him. The euphoric feeling of being high on love of all things hooked him unconditionally.

Rafe kisses the ground you walk on. All 6 foot 2 of him is wrapped around your finger and he doesn’t mind one bit.

And despite what anyone thinks, he’s a gentle lover. Fresh flowers are always the first thing you see when you walk through the door, a different arrangement every week. At night, he’s the one to reach into your stash of soothing essential oils to rub your back or your feet or anywhere that makes you feel good. Your pleasure is his main priority.

He’s very meticulous when planning dates, depending on your mood it’s a full night out with a nice dinner and the whole works. While on other days it’s a simple picnic or a relaxing weekend on the catamaran.

His gifts are always thoughtful too. Something you stared too long at in passing, an off handed comment made stemming from weeks ago or the day before. He believes anything that reminds him of you should be yours.

Rafe is also a possessive man. He detests the thought of someone else experiencing you, of being able to worship you in ways only he can. And he knows he’s completely gone when he realizes he would do the unthinkable to assure your safety. You can wear whatever you want, act however you want because he allows you to feel safe enough to cut your brain off and let him worry about everything. He’s killed before, what’s another body for his lady?

Rafe is a traditionalist in the sense of providing. He believes you shouldn’t be doing anything stressful or strenuous. You can work if you want, but he never allows you to spend your own money.

Love has always been a far fetched concept you never allowed yourself to indulge in. How could you? For every swoon worthy romance you read, you watched the deranged, hurtful parts of love in real life.

To spend years holding the most delicate parts of yourself inside, and to now allow yourself to give it to another person feels surreal. You never expected to fall in love.

For every doubt your mind conjures up, he kisses it away. Soft lips, slightly chapped by the summers breeze landing on your skin. Trailing - no, mapping the way. Memorizing every curve, scar and stretch mark. His hands, so big and warn engulf you whole, protecting you from the dangerous of the world. His body, tall and strong - muscles thick under your touch making you feel small and feminine, not pushing your body into sizing up in an attempt to be independent.

Because with him, you don’t have to be.

Lee Dutton x Reader

Always been in love with him, hated this his character only lasted 1 episode (sorry for the spoiler)

Lee hated dressing up. He hated attending meaningless parties and attempting to network with people that care more about numbers than the actual hard work that goes into ranching even more. And yet, here he is looking dapper and spiffy in the nicely tailored tan suit that matches the tan suede of his cowboy hat. At the very least, he can keep that.

“You sure I have to be here?” He asks, pulling at the collar of his tux, it’s not tight or uncomfortable just way out his usually get up.

Lee has always been a simple man. Wake up, fix a cup of coffee, get to work, grab drinks with the ranch hands, maybe screw around with a pretty lady from the bar and do it all again.

“Yes, Lee. You can’t just think like a cowboy.” His father reminds him. John Dutton has always known out of all his kids, Lee would be the one he would leave it all to. Being the first born, John had been engraving the way of life into Lee. Only as time passes, he realizes Lee isn’t as reciprocal to the business side of things as he should be.

The dinner is in full swing. The Commissioners Dinner only happens once a year and it’s a night John capitalizes on for business. Of course, he’d bring Lee this time.

Just as Lee is gearing up to complain again, his eyes caught onto you. Light laugh escaping through your plush lips, hands clasped together which makes the shimmering jewelry on your wrists jingle. Your dress - fancy enough to be on theme, simple enough not to upstage anyone and still there’s a hint of city flair.

So captivated by you, Lee almost fails to recognize his own father greeting you with a friendly embrace. Now, he’s intrigued. At least enough to stop fussing over his suit and walk over. Playboy grin already slapped onto his face and large hands shoved into the pockets of his trousers as he flanks his father’s left, directly in front of you.

“You remember Lee, my oldest.” John chooses to ignore his son’s sudden interest, already spotting the trouble making smirk on his face.

You’d be a fool to forget Lee Dutton. Even after years, he carries himself the same. Though, the years have favored him, he’s taller - not surprising as he’s always towered over you. His eyes are softer, highlighted by crows feet and his rosy cheeks are covered by his thick red beard sprinkled with salt and peppper. And that damn smirk, the corner of his mouth pulled into that smug upturn.

“‘Course I remember. Lee, good to see you.” You greet him, a warm smile of amusement pulling at your glossy lips as you watch realization crash over him.

Your voice, always comparable to melting honey to him has his eyes widening. It’s been years since he’s seen you. Back then, you were just a little girl, best friends with his sister and doing nothing but getting in his way. And now, you’re a grown woman.

“Y/n. I can’t believe it, look at you.” And he is looking, his eyes take an appreciative once over. Despite only being 4 years older than you, Lee has always kept you at arms length. And now, you’re standing before him after attending a fancy college in the city.

Your giggle is soft and breathy, eyes panning over him as well. “I could say the same to you.”

“God, come here.” Lee chuckles, moving forward for a friendly embrace. But when you step forward, your body slotting in his, he feels all those juvenile feelings returning.

You can’t deny the rush that goes through you as well, feeling his strong body sculpted by years of hard labor under your palms.

Pulling away is the last thing Lee wants to do, but he has no choice especially when the lights being to dim all the attention being called to the stage for the event to begin.

All the disappointment Lee was beginning to feel quickly washes away when he notices both your names tags are placed next to each other at the table.

You can’t deny the satisfaction you feel at sitting next to Lee. Settling into your seats, your table falls into divided conversations. Naturally, Lee pulls you into one.

“So, you’re back?” It’s a statement that borders on a question, his attention fully on you.

So, he doesn’t know. Your eyes cast a fleeting glance over to John seated beside Lee but he’s busy speaking to Mr.McKeller.

“Yeah, I’m back for now.”

“For now? What does that mean? You don’t know if you’re staying?” He asks, confusion and intrigue present in his tone.

“It means, plans aren’t finalized.” You fill, not giving away too much.

The low hum that leaves Lee’s lips are paired with his eyes staring you down, trying to figure out that new version of you.

“What?” You chuckle, feeling hot under his investigative gaze.

“Nothing, just…been a while.” He brushes off, not wanting to admit he can’t keep his eyes off of you.

“It has…” You agree, willing your eyes stay on his instead of raking over him again. Or how he’s slightly manspread in the chair.

“Got a boyfriend or anything that’s gonna a burst in here?” He asks, his eyes quickly flickering to your hands in search of a ring.

The question is comical. You recall seeing Lee with his fair share of girlfriends back in the day.

You chuckle, shaking your head. “No guy…you? Or are you still a ladies man?” Curious on if anyone is able to tame Lee Dutton.

“Ladies man? Is that what you think of me?” He grins, flashing a dangerous grin.

Lee watches you roll your eyes, your grin equally as dangerous to him.

And that’s how the night goes on, catching up with flickering looks and old feelings resurfacing with every moment that passes.

Lee doesn’t even feel the time passes as you drink and eat and laugh and talk. It felt like old times before life forced you both to grow up.

The evening air has a slight nip as you wait for your car beside Lee, n his hands are shoved inside of his trouser pockets and his head keeps turning towards you. A grin spreading across his face every time your eyes meet.

He doesn’t want the night to end, doesn’t want you to disappear again. And just when he’s about to ask you to grab another drink, your car is pulling up.

“Goodnight, Mr. Dutton.” You bid goodbye to the older Dutton as he joins his son next tot he valet stand.

“See you in the morning, Y/n. I’ll get you started with Jamie.”

Lee’s words die on his tongue, his eyes never leaving yours as you flash him a satisfied grin. You knew all long, his father had been speaking of getting a finical advisor to help Lee get more into the business.

Lee can’t even be annoyed at his father’s plan, when he takes in your look. The way you giggle lightly as you settle into your car, casting him a small wave.

Rafe knows he should’ve told you no the moment you called his phone crying about finding a kitten stuck behind his pool shed. He should’ve never left his meeting and rushed home to rescue the little ball of fluff, because the second you had your hands cradling the thing you were gone and with one look of your pleading eyes, Rafe knew you wouldn’t let it go.

At first everything revolved around the cat, getting the best food, the best toys, even going a little crazy on expensive litter boxes and scratching posts. All expenses paid for with Rafe’s card of course, he never minded because of how happy it made you.

The problem only occurred when he noticed all the attention you gave him now only is given to the cat and Rafe was jealous.

Ready to cuddle on the couch after a long day at work? You’re already there with the calico ball of fluff snuggled into your side. Exhausted and wanting to sleep next to you? The cat is already passed out on top of his pillow.

And what really gets him is when you’re out and he’s left alone with the cat, they would just stare at each other like two people whose common friend went away. Rafe would swear the cat has it out for him, hiding his pens, sitting on his desk after countless times of him shooing the little thing away.

Or when you would finally come back, feet softly padding into the living room where you can hear Rafe talking to the cat, “You think you’re cute, huh? I know what you’re doing.”, “Damn thing corrupting my girl.”

But what Rafe hates more than anything is your greeting. You’re feet pick up a bit when your around the corner from the living room, you’re smile already extending with excitement. “Hi, my sweet boy.” You coo in that affectionate baby voice, heeling towards the couch. And Rafe’s smile grows, expecting a kiss and to finally have his arms around you but you stop at the end of the couch where the cat is already perched on the armrest and purring at your loving.

In those moments, Rafe would heavily considered taking the cat when your out and giving it away. Come up with some story about how it ran away or died but he could never do it, not with how happy you are.