Summary: I copied down the username of the requestor incorrectly and cannot tag you. I am so sorry!
Quarantine leaves everyone a little bored and, despite having moved in with your boyfriend, there is nothing left to do.
Warnings: one whole sex joke
A/N: Given circumstances that will remain unnamed, my requests are currently open to all non-angst requests to help spread a little more fluff and happiness
“It’s missing.”
“You’ve been wrong every other time.”
“No, really. It’s really missing this time.”
“No, really. You’re just grumpy you can’t find it.”
“How am I supposed to tell one red and blue piece from every other red and blue piece on the damn table?” You threw your arms into the air, emphasizing your point, as you dropped your head onto the table, resting your cheek on the cold wood.
Bucky sighed, but you could hear the stifled laughter beneath it. “Here’s your piece, love.”
“I hate you.” You set your chin on the table to peer at the small puzzle piece he held in his fingers. He was right. It was your piece. “How did you find it?”
“Years of practice,” he replied, shrugging as you took the piece from him and fit it next to its match. “Rebecca loved them.” The mention of his sister brought a smile to your face. You had met her once, months ago now. Her warm smile remined you of the man Bucky was in the moments he was really, truly happy. Her wit reminded you of the man Bucky was even in the moments he was really, truly hurting. He always seemed to maintain his sass.
It suddenly occurred to you that he hadn’t mentioned his sister in weeks. “Is Rebecca okay?” The question came out sounding more hesitant that you had wanted it to, full of more fear than you wanted to admit. Bucky may have been older than his sister, but the serum kept him as healthy as your mutations kept you.
The gentle smile that crossed his face made it clear he had heard the worry you hadn’t wanted him to hear. “She’s great, was visiting her daughter at the beginning of March before everything started to shut down. They’re holed up together now. Her granddaughter lives down the street and leaves all their groceries in the garage.”
“Well, I hope she has puzzles. She actually likes them.” You stood up then, crossing through the kitchen and into the living room where you collapsed onto the couch.
“And you don’t? We’ve done seven in the last five days.”
“Only because there’s nothing else to do!” You collapsed into his lap as he sat next to you. It had never occurred to you that you would actually miss the social interaction that you so often avoided, but after three weeks of seeing the same few faces every day, you were beginning to. The day before you had actually chatted with the woman at the grocery store during the necessary biweekly trip you took to replenish your refrigerator. Bucky had teased you about it for hours.
“There’s plenty to do!” he argued. “We have Netflix?”
“Caught up with Handmaiden’s Tale and Brooklyn Nine-Nine in the first few hours of the shutdown.”
“Disney+?”
“There’s only so much Disney one couple can stand before they start singing their daily routine and you know it.”
“Me?” His smile only grew when you laughed, and he pulled you up from your lounging and onto his lap. “You could always do me?”
His eyes nearly glowed as you leaned closer to press a gentle kiss against his lips. “I would love to do you,” you whispered as you kissed him again, “if you’ll make me one of those yummy chicken cream cheese sandwiches you made yesterday?”
It was his turn to laugh and the sound filled the apartment, creases radiating out from his closed eyes. “You drive a hard bargain, (Y/n).”
“Oh, come on! It’s nearly noon. I haven’t eaten in hours.” He shook his head at your dramatic declaration, each of you well aware that you had finished second breakfast less than an hour before. “It’s not as if we do anything other than eat and then exercise, Sarge,” you argued when he looked at you as if he was about to scold you. “We’re both staying in shape. A few extra meals a day aren’t going to be a detriment to us when Fury starts assigning missions again. If Fury starts assigning missions again . . .”
Instead of arguing, he simply stood, setting you on your feet. “I will happily make a first lunch of chicken cream cheese sandwiches if you’ll get some . . . exercise with me afterwards?”
“You drive a hard bargain, Sarge, but I accept without hesitation.”
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Thanks to the lovely @writingruna for taking the time to answer these! Get to know more about lovely Lizzie, go give her a follow and then show her some love!
These questions are from this list. You should check it out, there’s 50 questions all together and they’d be great to ask your favorite fic writer!
1) How old were you when you first starting writing fan-fiction?
I was nineteen when I first started writing fanfiction, but I’ve been writing my whole life. My parents have stories I ordered them to write down from when I was two or three.
2) Do you prefer writing OC’s or reader inserts? Explain your answer.
In fanfiction, I like writing reader insert more than OC’s. I started writing fanfiction – and have continued – to practice writing without having to world-build. It gives me an opportunity to grow as a writer without worrying about accidental plot holes, which I have written plenty of.
3) What is your favorite genre to write for?
When writing fanfiction, I like to toe the line between canon and AU. I always try to keep my characters in character, but I don’t mind putting them in situations that don’t exist canonically or ignoring deaths that occurred canonically. Actually, I pretty actively ignore canon deaths.
Working on original works, my favorite genre is young adult fiction with a focus in mystery and spy craft. I read a lot of Sherlock Holmes as a child.
4) If you had to delete one of your stories and never speak of it again, which would it be and why?
I actually started as a Supernatural writer, and I have deleted a few of those stories and will never speak of them again – specifically a horribly written story centered on the game 2048 that a friend asked me to write.
5) When is your preferred time to write?
Unfortunately, in the middle of the night. It is horrible for my real life, but it’s quiet and peaceful and I find it easiest to focus.
6) Where do you take your inspiration from?
Underneath the bitter cynicism of being a college aged millennial in a dreary economy, I am very much a Romantic Era writer. I am all about finding beauty where there really isn’t any and emphasizing. I find most of my inspiration in dark moments that can bring good. I am well aware the world isn’t always beautiful, but I like to choose to see the beauty wherever I can.
7) In your Where Do the Flowers Go Series, what’s your favorite scene that you wrote?
My favorite scene in Where Do the Flowers Go actually hasn’t been posted yet. There are ten more chapters in the series, and there is a scene between Bucky and the reader that I not only loved writing, but that I love in terms of character growth. It’s a turning point in the series, and a turning point in who the reader is viewed to be.
8) Have you ever amended a story due to criticisms you’ve received after posting it?
I haven’t, but I think I should have. Although it’s not something I talk about openly on Tumblr – mostly because I’m not asked – I have a pretty severe anxiety disorder and some brain damage from a concussion in high school and I stutter when I get anxious. It’s something I didn’t realize wasn’t “typical”. In my story Babadook, the reader stutters when she gets scared. Now that I know it isn’t the way everyone reacts, I worry I might have offended some.
9) Who is your favorite character to write for? Why?
Wanda. I absolutely adore writing characters who speak English as a second language because their dialogue is challenging. Also, I have a huge crush on Elizabeth Olsen and my little bi heart needs me female x female loving in the fanfiction world. I enjoy writing Illya from Man from U.N.C.L.E. for mostly the same reasons.
10) Who is your least favorite character to write for? Why?
Probably Frank Castle? I was asked to write a few Frank drabble during one of those three-day writing games I run when I get stuck and I have actually never seen Daredevil or The Punisher or any of it. Thanks to an amazing friend, I managed to pull it off, but I felt sort of guilty for accidentally writing a character I didn’t know well.
11) How did you come up with the title for the Where Do the Flowers Go Series?
Where Do the Flowers Go is based on an original story I wrote which is loosely based on the myth of Hades and Persephone. The idea is meant to reference the loss of flowers when Persephone descends into the underworld and references a specific chapter in the series itself, although it has not yet been posted. I would love to answer this question in more detail once I have posted the remainder of the story.
12) How did you come up with the idea for the Where Do the Flowers Go Series?
Where Do the Flowers Go is actually based on an original story I wrote which is itself based on the myth of Hades and Persephone. Since I haven’t posted the final ten chapters, I don’t want to give away too much, but there is a specific aspect of the myth that always fascinated me which I incorporated it into an original work about the KGB and a Chicago socialite. I would love to answer this question in more detail once I have posted the remainder of the story.
13) Do you have any abandoned WIP’s? What made you abandon them?
I have a few much older stories that I started when I was fifteen and sixteen that I have since decided not to write. In most cases, it’s because I had a good idea for a short story and tried to stretch it novel length and it just got really bad really fast, but in a few cases I just no longer felt invested in the story I had started.
14) Are there any stories that you’ve written that you’d really love to do a sequel to?
Definitely! I would love to turn Fell for You into a mini-series. I originally wrote it because I had fallen down the stairs at work and really bruised myself up. I am clumsy to the point that it’s not a “quirk”, it’s something people worry about. It could be fun to recount a few more of my more disastrous moments.
15) Are there any stories that you wished you’d ended differently?
Yes and no. I don’t regret any of my endings, but I think the ending of Change of Plans was a little unrealistic. I created a plot hole and actively didn’t fill it because I liked the ending anyway.
16) Tell me about another writer(s) who you admire? What is it about them that you admire?
This question is the hardest to answer because there are so many and I am so aware that I am going to forget some and end up feeling guilty. However, the three I am closest to both on and off tumblr are @buckyywiththegoodhair, @captainpunk, and @bucky-plums-barnes. These three women will listen to me rant for hours about fanfictions and original works, they’ve always been willing to read anything and everything I write, and they are constant cheerleaders both in writing and in life. I would not be where I am and trying to finish my novel without these women. On top of it, all three are amazing writers. Nicky creates such stunning imagery that her stories just swallow you whole. Talya has heart wrenching emotion in her stories that is so hard to capture. Genny has this ability to interact with everyone in every story she writes and make it feel completely personalized.
17) Do you have a story that you look back on and cringe when you reread it?
Just Say It. I had a story in my head that I wanted to tell and I – inexplicably – tied to Not Really Anyway and it just couldn’t measure up. Not Really Anyway is a fic I am amazingly proud of and should have stood alone.
18) Do you prefer listening to music when you’re writing or do you need silence?
Neither, actually. I usually have Netflix on. I’ll play a show that I have seen before and don’t need to pay attention to, but that can provide background noise. I get unease in complete silence and I also don’t want my other people to overhear me talking to myself when I try and work through dialogue.
19) Have you ever cried whilst writing a story?
Stole the Show. I still cry when I read it. I don’t write angst very often, but it’s not because I am not good at it.
20) Which part of your Where Do the Flowers Go Series was the hardest to write?
I removed the part of the series that was hardest for me to write. At the end of the undercover operation, I originally wrote an arrest scene and then I couldn’t post it. Although I knew Zadie was doing terrible things, she was doing it because she truly thought it was right and, deep down, she was a good person. I cared about her as much as the reader did and I couldn’t bear to put anyone through watching her arrested.
21) Do you make a general outline for your stories or do you just go with the flow?
Both. Depending on the complexity of the storyline, and the inspiration. Since my concussion, I have begun to lean more heavily on general outlines, but I do not always use them.
22) What is something you wished you’d known before you started posting fan-fiction?
That I would find such a community of friends and other writers – and that other people would enjoy my writing. I never imagined I would make such close friends and find so many people who admired what I did.
23) Do you have a story that you feel doesn’t get as much love as you’d like?
Stole the Show. It is the only angst story I have ever published and it was painful to write, but I have never been more proud of a story that I was of Stole the Show. I know that female x female fics have a smaller audience and so I didn’t expect it to get a lot of attention, but I experimented with the style and wish it had more of a chance.
24) In contrast to 23 is there a story which gets lots of love which you kinda eye roll at?
Naked Confessions! It was the second Pietro story I wrote and it was one of those stories that you write in two hours in the middle of the day because the idea just hits. I did a single edit and posted it thinking it might get a few notes and it is by far my most popular story.
25) Are any of your characters based on real people?
Yes, although actively and with permission. The readers in Clair de Lune and My Queen were both actively written to resemble the friends I wrote them for. Additionally, a lot of background characters in stories are modeled after other writers on tumblr. I would ask favorite colors or middle names and incorporated details into the stories as “shout outs”.
26) What’s the biggest compliment you’ve gotten?
I have a had a few followers create fan art of Where Do the Flowers Go and I straight up cried when I saw it. As a writer, all you want to do is touch your readers and make them feel something and it was such an honor and inspiration to have this actual proof that I had done so.
In that same strain, it’s always a compliment when other writers come to me for advice or want me to beta for them. I’ve been writing for more than twenty years and I am proud of what I can do, but it’s such an honor when someone else wants me to teach them what I’ve learned.
27) What’s the harshest criticism you’ve gotten?
I’ve actually been really lucky on tumblr so far, and I have yet to get anon hate. I think I once had a follower ask me why I was taking so long to post, but it was more from a place of concern that something was wrong in my life than anything else.
28) Do you share your story ideas with anyone else or do you keep them close to your chest?
There a few close friends that I share most of my ideas with. Specifically, @captainpunk puts up with so much more than anyone else from me when it comes to ideas. I have texted her at two in the morning with random thoughts and she always betas everything I write. She’s even been there to help me plan a lot of my original works as well. She has been my biggest supporter and my biggest cheerleader from the first day we met.
29) Do people know you write fan-fiction?
A few close friends, and of course the friends I’ve met on tumblr. Strangely enough, my parents know, although I have actively never let them read any of it.
30) What’s your favorite minor character you’ve written?
Zadie from Where Do the Flowers Go. She’s the minor character I spent the most time with and I ended up just absolutely loving her – despite what she does. In creating her, I realized she would only do what she had done if she truly thought it was the best thing to do and she just became this very genuine, very loving character that I hadn’t expected her to be.
31) What spurs you on during the writing process?
Again, it’s @captainpunk most of the time. I go time blind when I write and when everything falls into place, I can write for seven or eight hours without stopping, but most of the time I struggled to get through more than two or three paragraphs at a time and Talya on the sidelines sometimes cheering and sometimes yelling can always get me to focus.
32) What’s your favorite trope to write?
Relationships – whether romantic or platonic – between very hard and very soft characters with bonus points if the only reason the soft character is soft is because the hard character is hard and when the hard character disappears the soft character turns out to harder than the hard character. I really hope that makes sense.
33) Can you remember the first fic you read? What was it about?
I don’t remember what it was called, but it was about Dean Winchester and @tralfamadoreian5 made me read it.
34) If you could write only angst, fluff or smut for the rest of your writing life, which would it be and why?
Fluff. Life is hard and unfair and scary enough without stories about life is hard and unfair and scary. The world needs more happy endings.
Fan Art for a fanfiction that I love by http://writingruna.tumblr.com/ - please go and check it out! Its a Reader X Bucky fanfiction and it’s super sweet.
Summary: Request by @morganofthecoves1
Metal manipulation is an asset on the med-bay where you work, but when the helicarrier is attacked and Bruce leaves you behind to help his team, you start to wonder if there is more you could be doing.
A/N: I am not sure that I hit everything that was requested, but I tried my best! I am happy to work on another request if there is something I missed.
“Bruce?” you called softly into his office. You always spoke softly when you were trying to get his attention. He listened well, unless he was busy. Speaking softly ensured you never distracted him but could always grab his attention.
“(Y/n)?” he answered, looking up from the papers at his desk with a smile. It was the smile that had jumbled your thoughts the first months you’d worked with him, equal parts admiration and excitement. “Do you need me?”
“Just for a moment?” He stood and followed you from his office, correctly assuming you needed his help in your med-bay. “I was looking over Captain Roger’s file when the entire network crashed. I may be good with bodies, but computers aren’t my strength.”
His warm smile only grew as he followed your into the med-bay that connected to your small office. “At your service.”
The ground shook, unbalancing the table beside you and sending your medical supplies skittering across the helicarrier floor. You grabbed hold of the patient table to steady your body, your nerves refusing to follow suit. “Bruce? Is everything okay?”
“Absolutely,” he insisted, but you knew him well enough to know he was lying. The creases around his eyes that always accompanied the smile he offered to reassure you were absent, the smile itself strained and wavering.
Your office shook again, and he reached out a hand to steady you as your rocked widely. The medical tools lying on the ground began to shake and you forced yourself to breathe deeply, forcing the metallic air in and out of your chest. “Bruce. What is wrong?”
“An attack,” he answered reluctantly, helping you to your feet before the room shook again, knocking you both down to your knees.
You took a sharp breath, eyes wide with panic, and the medical supplies jumped beside you. Their movement drew Bruce’s attention for a moment before what you assumed was an explosion sounded above your heads. His hand raised to shield you, and yours shot out beneath his arm. “(Y/n) . . .” he trained away as the sound and shaking faded and the scalpel that had jumped toward him fell to the ground. “Did you do that?”
Frantic lies careened through your thoughts, moving too quickly to grab hold of, and the truth spilled from your lips instead. “Metal manipulation can help with bullet wounds. Its why Fury lets me work as a nurse instead of forcing me onto a team. You all seem to have an unnatural propensity to get shot.” You dropped your eyes to scalpel that shook on the floor, jumping up toward you as you took shaking breaths.
His sharp laughter was last response you expected to follow your confession, and you didn’t bother to hide the confusion flooding your eyes when you looked back up at him. “We have an unnatural propensity to get shot at.” The room shook again and the metal tray that normally held your tools crumpled as fear gripped your lungs. “Can you control it?”
“When I’m not terrified,” you admitted again, surprised by the honesty such a disastrous situation pulled from you. The shaking had slowed while he spoke to you, and your breath came easier as a result. “I don’t use it enough to have a complete grasp yet.”
“Stay here, then, beneath your desk. You’ll be safe.” With that last word of reassurance, and a gentle squeeze on your hand, Bruce was gone.
He didn’t come find you again until long after the attack. A temporary medical center had been set up in one of the larger rooms on the main deck of the helicarrier. Nurses scurried between patients, trying to treat the worst of the wounds before it was too late. You worked slower than the rest, and focused on the injured with shrapnel. It was easy to sense the metal when it was too small for the others to see. Now that the fighting had ended, it was even easy for you to manipulate the small shards from their wounds, your tweezers poised close enough to keep up your charade, but not too close to get in the way.
“Hard at work, I see.” Bruce said, holding out a small dish to catch the bits of metal you had pulled from the young man on the cot in front of you. His voice was soft, and the hand he rested against your arm threatened to distract you, but there were more bits of metal – small pieces of nail you thought – in the soldier’s side that needed your attention more than Bruce did.
“It’s best not to feel useless at a time like this.” Another small piece of shrapnel dropped into the dish Bruce held, your tweezers not moving away from the wound on the man’s side. You felt no need to keep up a pretense for Bruce. “I want to help.”
“You are helping, (Y/n),” he assured you, and you knew without looking that same smile he had tried to offer before the attack was lighting his face, the creases around his eyes ensuring its effectiveness. The friendship – if it was still only a friendship – you shared with Bruce was deep enough to know that, and deep enough for him recognize your words for what they had meant and not what they had been. “And you can help in other ways if you truly want.”
The last small shard of what you were now sure was nail clattered against the edge of the dish Bruce held and you stood up, taking his hand in yours and leading him away from the large room bustling with people and out onto the deck of the helicarrier. It was in the air again, the whipping wind making it impossible for anyone to overhear what you had to say. “What other ways, Bruce? I nearly stabbed you with a scalpel in my office!”
Bruce pulled you to a stop and you belated realized you still held his hand. He pushed his fingers through yours and squeezed in the same reassuring way he had before he had left you in your office during the attack. “And I never hurt anyone before I learned how to control my anger.” It was a statement, albeit a rhetorical one, and you didn’t speak, or even look at him before he continued. “Anger and fear can be controlled.”
His hand was warm around yours and the gentle show of affection as he spoke so calmly about his past broke down the walls you had built to protect yourself from what you couldn’t control. He stepped closer to you, and his other hand wrapped around your wrist. “You already know I want to learn,” you admitted softly, “and you already know you’re the one I want to teach me.”
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Summary: based on Crazy for You
Warning:Â allusions to sex, almost smut, but also no real smut
A/N: I’m starting small to try writing again, I’m sorry it’s been so long
The music was loud, pulsing through the room. Tony stood behind the bar, pouring drinks and greeting guests with a smile. Bucky stood at the bar, the whiskey Tony had given him in his hand, and watched as you walked down the stairs with Natasha. You were both dressed in short gowns and high heels, but your hair was down. Wanda wrapped her arm around you as you reached the bottom of the stairs and handed you a drink.
"Staring isn't going to get you anywhere."
"That's rich coming from you. How long again was it before you asked out Sharon? Oh yeah, you didn't," Bucky shot back, setting the empty whiskey glass on the bar behind him. He pulled his eyes from you and glanced at Steve.
"Learn from my mistakes then, don't make them yourself." Steve set his own, still full, whiskey glass beside Bucky's and sighed. "She looks good tonight."
Bucky chuckled, shaking his head. "Yeah. Yeah, she does look good." His attention drifted back to you as Steve spoke. You were on a couch on the other side of the room, Natasha talking with you and Wanda leaning against the arm rest next to you, playing with your hair, and you were laughing. "She always looks good."
Wanda had lead you and Natasha to the couches nearest the balcony, and farthest from the speaker. You watched the city lights through the glass wall, listening as Natasha told you and Wanda about the most recent night she had spent with Sam. Wanda was leaning against the arm rest next to you, braiding your hair.
"He is staring at her again," Wanda said as Natasha paused to finish the drink in her hand.
Laughing quietly, you dipped your head to hide your blush. "He's probably staring at Nattie. The two of them have a past together, don't they?"
"Not the sort of past that leads to looks like that." Natasha took the glass from your hand, taking a sip before you managed to steal it back.
You risked glancing up at Bucky, the red in your cheeks beginning to fade. He was leaning against the bar, talking to Steve. His shirtsleeves were rolled up and he held an empty whiskey glass in his hand. Shaking your head, you struggled to clear away the distraction of Bucky. "What the hell is in this drink, Wanda?"
"I am not actually sure," she admitted. "Pietro gave it to me, one for each of us."
"Whatever it is, it's really fucking alcoholic and really fucking good," Natasha said, reaching for your drink again before you pulled away. "Maybe if we get her to drink enough she'll dance on a table and Bucky won't be able to resist."
The sun had only risen an hour before, but you were already exhausted.
Natasha had insisted on early morning sparring and so you'd been awake for three hours and hadn't yet had breakfast. She'd gone back to bed after you'd won, but you were too hungry. You had managed to drag yourself to kitchen and stood in front of stove, pushing eggs around in your pan with your eyes closed.
"You doin' okay?"
The voice surprised you and you jumped, flinging the pan – and your breakfast – onto the floor, with a loud curse. "What the hell are you doing awake?" you asked, the adrenaline now rushing through your body waking you up. "And what the hell are you doing making me ruin my breakfast?"
"You, uh," Bucky started, trying not to laugh as you bent down to gather up the surprisingly dark scrambled eggs. "The eggs were burned when I got here. Are you sure you're awake?"
"Not even close," you admitted. "Natasha wanted to spar." You carried the refilled pan to the trash and reluctantly threw away the burnt eggs.
Bucky took the pan from your hands as you returned to the stove. "Why don't you make two of those smoothies I love and I'll cook pancakes? Having you near a hot stove right now isn't the best idea."
"And the sharp spinning thing is better?"
He set his hand on your waist for a moment. "I have faith in you."
"What happened to you?" Helen Cho asked, carefully poking at your ankle while you struggled not to pull away from her probing fingers.
"She was an idiot," Wanda answered for you and you rolled your eyes.
"I was not an idiot," you defended yourself, lying back on the table. "I was doing my job."
"Stupidly," Pietro added, and you glared at him, flinching as Helen prodded at you.
"Did you keep walking on it after you stupidly did your job?" Helen asked.
"It didn't swell up until we were back on the quinjet," you defended yourself. "I didn't even realize I was hurt."
"You're lucky it's just a sprain," Helen told you, turning away from you and opening the drawer behind her before turning back to you. "I'll wrap it and you can be on your way. Just take it easy the next few days."
You began to nod your appreciation, but rapid footsteps in the hallway and two voices arguing lowly caught the attention of all four people in the room. Moments later, Bucky and Steve rounded the corner, the first looking terrified and the second exasperated. "She's fine! You're fine, aren't you, (Y/n)?" Steve argued with Bucky.
"Just a sprain."
Bucky sat on the examination table beside you, setting a hand on your knee as he carefully prodded the ankle Helen had managed to finish wrapping. "Please keep it that way."
The smell of popcorn tempted you from your room, despite the baggy sweats and loose pajama shirt you wore.
Movie night was an event at the complex. Pepper had bought Tony a popcorn machine for one a birthday – or anniversary, you hadn't been paying attention – and he turned it on hours before the team gathered. Couches were dragged into movie theater rows. A projector was set up behind them, and the entire wall used as the screen. Bruce had installed surround sound after the first week. There was even an official rotation of who got to choose the movie.
Everyone had already gathered in the room, and it was obvious you'd missed the decision announcement. Bucky stood at the back of the room, his hand on the last couch in the row and he smiled at you as you walked toward him. "Join me?" He walked around the front of the couch and sat down, covering himself in a blanket.
"At the back? Don't you usually sit up front?"
He laughed and nodded. "Tony picked the movie. He picked It. I know you hate scary movies."
You nodded, and almost turned back to your room. "That's why you choose the back?"
"I figured you could hide behind me during the worst parts." He held up a corner of the blanket and you laughed, joining him beneath the blanket. "How bad can it really be?"
Fingers found your waist in the dark, the metal cold against your skin as the movement shifted your shirt. His hand tightened around your side, tentatively pulling you closer to him. You lifted your hands, resting your hands on his hips and loosely holding his shirt in your hands. Heavy breathing filled the small closet. He pressed his nose to your cheek, bringing your lips closer to his. Trails of warmth followed his touch as his fingers brushed against your thigh before slipping past the hem of your shirt and resting at the small of your back.
His shirt slipped between your fingers as you traced up his chest. Your sharp breath brought you closer to him and you felt a ghost of his lips against yours. He dipped his head, nose knocking against yours, and kissed you cautiously. You chased him when he began to pull away and stepped closer as he brought his lips back to yours. A shiver ran down your spine as his left hand dragged up your side, bringing your shirt halfway before letting it fall back down.
He stepped closer and you felt the wall behind you. His right hand slid up your back and pressed between your shoulder blades until your body was flush against his, your hands trapped between you. "You drive me crazy," he breathed.
Summary: based on First Time
Warning:Â character death
A/N: I’m starting small to try writing again, I’m sorry it’s been so long
"Did you grow up in Sokovia?" Natasha asked quietly, sitting beside you on the ground of the carrier. You held his hand so tightly your knuckles had begun to whiten, your thumb tracing rapid circles on his skin. The silence that stretched on after her question did not bother you, but she did not leave.Â
"Not Sokovia," you answered eventually. You wanted her to leave.Â
"Russia, then?" You tore your eyes from the ground, eyes wide as they met hers. "I have been in America a long time now, but I remember Stalingrad."Â
"Siberia, but I liked Sokovia more." Your thumb began to slow its circles. "The markets were bigger."Â
The noise surprised you more than anything else.Â
It wasn't just loud. It was close. Everything and everyone seemed to crowd close to you, pushing you through the market in a wave of bodies and voices. You couldn't remember what you'd come to the market for.Â
You ducked away, pressing yourself against a wall and closing your eyes, trying to remember why you'd come. Blue eyes and a language you couldn't speak surprised you, and you stepped away from the man in front of you, shaking your head.Â
"English?" You shook your head again. "Russian?" he asked, and you nodded slowly. "Are you lost?" he continued, now in your language instead of more of the cacophony that surrounded you in the market. "Do you need help?"Â
"Pears." You remembered. "I need pears, but I can't…"Â
"Speak Sokovian?" he finished for you, and you nodded, casting your eyes to the ground. You'd tried to learn. "I'll help." He took your hand and pulled you away from the wall. "What's your name?"Â
"(Y/n)."Â
"Pietro." He kissed your fingers as he said his name, but didn't let go as he lead you to the large, and obvious, fruit vendor.
"Not an easy place to grow up. Harsh winters," Natasha said, and a weak smile flickered momentarily across your lips. Harsh was an understand, and her own smile gave away her own awareness. "It breeds strong men, and stronger women." You titled your head in gratitude as she finished.Â
"Indigirka Valley was a good teacher when I was young." You could see the surprise in her eyes as she listened. Your valley was not known for it's welcoming winter months.Â
"Sokovian winters must have felt like vacation," she said.Â
"Winters never bothered me," you agreed, moving your hand to rest on top of your intertwined hands as you continued to trace circles. "but it took time to get used to the rain. It did not rain much in Siberia."
Rain fell softly on the roof, the sound echoing around the small room. The rain had chilled the air outside, but it was warm beneath the blanket with you curled against him. Your eyes were closed, your breathing slow and quiet. Pietro skimmed his fingers softly across your cheek, brushing your hair away from your face. He traced gently down your neck and shoulder, not wanting to wake you but longing to somehow be closer to you.Â
A cold breeze blew through the broken window and past the thin linens that served as curtains. Shivers ran through your body and he pulled the blanket more securely around your shoulders, tucking you closer to his side.Â
Storms woke you the first months you lived with them, and it was always his bed you crawled into to fall back to sleep. Eventually, you slept through the gentle pounding on the roof, but you'd begun to start the night in his bed by then.Â
But some part of him had learned. Now he woke when it began to rain, prepared to help you sleep again. Instead he just watched, at peace with the rain and his family.Â
You shifted then, not quite awake, but no longer asleep, and curled close to him.
"Not many people leave Siberia." You could hear the unasked question in her voice, the same implications of guilt that had been endlessly thrown your way. Your thumb began to trace quickly again, the familiar feeling of his hand stifling your anger. "I imagine it wasn't easy."Â
"Nothing is easy, but harsh winters breed strong women," you parroted her words and something akin to pride passed across her face. "I may have left much behind, but I found more."Â
"The twins?"Â
"Maybe we did not own much, but they had each other and I had them. It was enough for us."Â
The air was warm and wet, but the grass beneath your backs was dry. Red mist drifted through the clearing where you all lay, tangling it's way up the trees as Wanda played with two small pebbles above her head.Â
You rested against Pietro, watching both her and the dark sky above you. "She's getting better."Â
"The things you've taught her have helped. She is more calm now." His hand ran absentmindedly through your hair, tracing your jaw as it did. "I am more calm now."Â
"You mean you've slowed down?" His laughter filled the clearing and happiness radiated through you, warming you.Â
"Anything for you, my love."Â
Wanda's voice cut through the night before you could respond. "Did you see it?" she asked, excitement raising her voice. "The shooting star!" The red mist dissipated immediately and the clearing fell dark. She crawled to your side and rested her head on your stomach.Â
No one spoke as sparks of light flitted across the sky. Pietro's hand left your hair and found yours.Â
It felt like hours before the streaks stopped. Wanda stood first, a glow around her hands lighting the way back to where she'd left the thin blanket she'd wrapped dinner in to bring it to the clearing. Pietro sat up, pulling you with him, and started to stand. "I love you too, Pietro."
"From the outside looking in, it is easy to pity us. Apartments with no electricity, winters with no coats, mornings with no breakfast, and all of it with no parents, but we had each other and that was what we wanted. We were our own family." You paused, your thumb slowing its continuous circle as you dropped your eyes away from hers. "We were happy," you finished softly.Â
"Do you regret any of it?"Â
You saw it before he did.Â
You lurched forward, running toward him as he fell. Hands wrapped around your wrist and jerked you to the ground. An otherworldly scream filled the air. It couldn't have been you.Â
You fought against the hands holding you, kicking and punching the figure that held you. "Stop." A familiar voice. "He's gone. You're not. You've got Wanda."Â
You collapsed to the ground, tears streaming unbidden down your cheeks. Natasha pulled you into her chest.
"No," you answered without hesitation, your voice stronger than it had been in hours. Your hold tightened weakly on the hand you still held. With a shaking breath, you finally looked down at the body beside you. His hand was cold. Fresh tears stained his suit as your body trembled and your chest ached. You let go of his hand, slowly tracing your fingers down his cheek as you spoke only to him. "I would do it all again."
Summary: A mission gone wrong and too many shots can lead to unfortunate – but unregrettable – situations
Warnings: swearing, not really smut, unrealistically cute fluff
A/N: Extension of this drabble – also, apologies to my mobile followers, I still haven’t found way to fix the loss of dividers
Voices buzzed dully around you. Blurry sentences faded in and out of focus. Images from the night flashed behind your eyes. A gentle hand on your knee sent adrenaline through your system and the room snapped into focus. The hand tightened softly before disappearing. Electronic files covered the screen at the front of the room. Merlin stood at the head of the table, still talking, but you didn’t hear his voice as you read the last line of the newly closed case.
Female D.O.A.
“…not the ending we expected, or wanted.” Merlin paused, sighing and leaning forward, the palms of his hands pressed against the table. The screen behind him darkened. He took the folder in front of him off the table and tucked it inside his briefcase. “Go on,” he nodded toward the door behind you. “Get out of here you three. I’ll see you all Monday.”
Roxy stood up without hesitation, leaving her open notebook on the table. The room began to fade from your focus again before the same hand rested on your shoulder. “Come on, (Y/n),” Eggsy said, a weak smile on his face when your eyes met his. “It’s time to go.” He took hold of your elbow and pulled you from your chair.
Shaking your head in an attempt to clear it, you followed your partners from the room and into the hall. “Rox!” Eggsy called out, taking a few steps ahead of you. Roxy turned to face you when she heard his voice, leaning against the wall to wait until you both reached her. “Up for a drink? I think all of us could one.”
“Not tonight, Eggsy,” she said, shaking her head softly. “I’ve got a bottle of whiskey and an old film waiting for me at my flat.” She turned before she finished, walking away before he could beg her into coming anyway.
“Just us then,” Eggsy said, winking at you before he began to walk again.
You laughed dismissively, but followed a few paces behind him.“Rox’s quiet night doesn’t sound like such a terrible idea to me,” you argued, hoping he would give up before he started – you both knew it wouldn’t take much to convince you, even if all you felt like doing was wallowing at home.
“Come on, (Y/n). Please? There’s a pub by my place. We’ll start with drinks and if you still want a quiet night it’s not a long walk to my flat.” Eggsy had taken hold of your wrists as he spoke, walking backwards and pulling you out of the building. “Anyway, I don’t want you to be alone.” He tacked the words onto his argument in a whisper, and you weren’t sure if you were even meant to hear, but concern laced his voice and your resolve crumbled.
His eyes pleaded with you and you pressed your lips together, pretending to think for a moment longer. “You’re paying for the cab.”
The vodka burned its way down your throat and you set the shot glass back on the bar. “This was a good idea, Eggs,” you said, setting your hand on his shoulder. “Gettin’ drunk was a good idea.”
“You alright, love?” he asked, laughing as you leaned against him. He had taken the first few shots with you, but had always prefered whiskey to vodka. Your head fell onto his shoulder and his hand found your knee.
Sitting up as suddenly as you leaned against him, you set your head in your hands and your elbows on the bar. “Absolutely fantastic,” you answered him firmly, and the warmth of his fingers disappeared. “I’m out drinking with you! What could be better?”
“A quiet night a bottle of whiskey?” he teased, and you rolled your eyes, hitting his shoulder.
“Don’t like quiet nights, but a bottle of whiskey doesn’t sound too bad. Go get it for me?” You bit your lip when you asked, batting your eyelashes at him.
“What’ll you give me?” he asked, leaning forward and raising his eyebrows.
“My eternal and undying love, Eggsy,” you said, managing to keep your face straight as you spoke. “If it’s really good whiskey, maybe you’ll get lucky,” you teased, dissolving into giggles. He shook his head at you, drunk enough that his usual quick retort was lost amid the haze, and stood up.
Eggsy set his hand on your knee and squeezed gently, winking before walking away and toward the man at the other end of the bar. A flash caught your attention and you glanced down at your phone, quickly replying to the message from Roxy. With Eggsy gone, you continued to focus on your phone, scrolling through the meaningless trivia that filled the Kingsmen files.
“What’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?” a voice asked.
You didn’t look up from your phone to acknowledge whoever had spoken. “Wondering what a man like you is doing using such a pathetic line.”
“Trying to pick up the prettiest girl I’ve seen in days.”
Taking a calming breath, you locked your phone and reluctantly looked at the man. He wasn’t much older than you. His jacket was too big and his pants too small. A golden beer sat on the bar beside him. “Flattered, but no.” Your eyes scanned the pub in search of Eggsy, unable to find the physical or mental energy to fend off the man in front of you.
“How can you say no when you haven’t even give me a chance?” he asked, and you closed your eyes, the alcohol buzzing through your system leaving you with little patience.
“Because a girl like me isn’t in a place like this looking for a guy like you.”
You heard him step closer to you, but didn’t flinch or move away. Eggsy would be back soon. He had a habit of saving you. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”
A familiar gentle hand rested on your shoulder and you smiled, relaxing into the touch and opening your eyes again. “You deaf, bruv? It means she’s not interested.”
“Mind your own business, mate,” the man snarled, eyes narrowing. You felt Eggsy’s fingers tense on your shoulder.
He trailed his hand down your spine until it rested against the small of your back and stepped close enough that his chest pressed to your back. “She is my business and she’s not interested, mate.” You leaned back into Eggsy and his hand trailed up your back and rested against your neck, fingers playing gently with your hair.
The man didn’t move.
“Babe? Let’s find a table?” You looked up at Eggsy.
“Yeah,” he tore his eyes slowly from the man and met yours. “Have Maggie bring our drinks?” The man behind the bar nodded at the question directed at him. He wrapped his arm around your waist when you stood up, tucking you into his side while your hand rested against his chest. Eggsy led you to a booth near the door, waiting for you to sit near the wall before he sat down beside you.
“Surprised you didn’t break his nose,” Eggsy almost laughed as he broke the silence.
“I knew you were coming back, Eggs – figured waiting was better than getting you barred from your favorite pub,” you said with a shrug and Eggsy shook his head. A young woman with red hair set two drinks on the table in front of you.
“Here I was assuming you’d found yourself a replacement.” He didn't smile, but dim teasing still lit up his eyes as he took a slow sip of the drink on the table.
“Replace you? Why would I want to do that?” You set your hand on his arm as you mocked him. He was warmer than you remembered. “Anyway, Merlin would have my arse if I got rid of you. He’s grown a bit attached.”
Eggsy laughed, his eyes finally lighting up. “If anyone could get away with it, it’d be you. You always were his favorite.” Your hand was still on his arm and he rested his own on your knee. “I’m pretty sure you’re Roxy’s favorite too.”
Heat had spread throughout your body when his hand had rested against your knee and there was enough liquor clouding your thoughts to loosen your tongue. His hand slid up your thigh. “And you?” You didn’t look away as you asked. Your hand trailed up to his bicep.
“Love, you know you’re my favorite.” He was speaking quietly. You rested your other hand on the bench beside his leg.
“I really thought it was Merlin.” You nodded as you spoke. Humor sparked behind his eyes. Fire spread through you as his free hand came to your waist.
“Nah, you’re more my type.” His nose bumped yours when he spoke. You tilted your head in questioning.
“Isn’t your type blonde and disposable?” Your fingers brushed against his jeans before moving onto his leg.
“My type is you.”
He tasted bitter when he kissed you, like the beer he’d been drinking. Your hand tightened on his arm. His kiss was insistent and urgent. A quiet voice in the back of your mind reminded you what a horrible idea this was, but the alcohol and his hand still sliding up your thigh drowned it out.
His hand moved up your waist, pulling your shirt with it, and his fingers brushed against your skin, sending shivers through you. With that small touch, his fingers flexed against you before sliding beneath your shirt. He traced past your hip, and you turned toward him, struggling to get closer past the table. Your heart was erratic when he pulled away, beginning to trail his lips down your jaw and toward your neck. You managed to breath his name, struggling to focus.
You trailed your hands up his chest slowly, surprised to feel him shiver beneath your touch. The hand beneath your shirt pressed higher and your breath caught. “Eggsy,” you whispered, moving your hands to his cheeks. He hummed in acknowledgement, but instead pressed his lips back against yours, dragging your bottom lips between his teeth. Reluctantly pulling away, you pressed against his shoulder, pushing him toward the edge of the booth you were sitting in.
Quick to understand, he took your hand, tugging you out of the booth. Digging through his pocket, he tossed money onto the table as he lead you through the pub and toward the door. “Ta, Mags,” he mumbled, not waiting for her to respond as he desperately dragged you outside. The cold air woke you as much as his hands had, and you breathed in the smell of London.
Eggsy pulled you down the street, and you stumbled, your laughter bouncing through the small alley. He turned at the sound, backing you against a wall and grabbing your waist as he hovered his lips over yours. You tilted your head to kiss him and he pulled your hips closer to him in response. His hand tangled in your hair, keeping your head away from the brick as he forced the rest of you against it.
His name fell from your lips in a quiet plea. Forcing yourself to focus, you traced your hands down his sides and slid your hand into his back pocket to grab hold of his keys. He reached after you as you pulled away, shaking his head and laughing as you dangled his keys in front of him. “I thought your flat wasn't a long walk?”
“First time it’s ever been too long.” He reached out for your waist, but you danced away from his him, tossing him his keys before walking toward his flat.
Quiet thunder pulled you from sleep, the once terrifying sound now familiar and relaxing. It was always raining in London. Despite the clouds, it was bright enough outside to light the room through the thin fabric curtains. You opened your eyes slowly, content to lie in bed until you were forced out of it. Confusion leaked into your thoughts. There wasn't a fan on your ceiling.
Carefully sitting up in bed, your head pounding, you glanced around the room you recognized. You had bought the antique chair for his birthday; you were in the only picture framed on his wall. Your mind stuttered to a half as your eyes landed on the naked body beside you.
Shit.
Holding your breath, you crawled cautiously from your closest friend's bed, desperate not to wake him. You underwear hung over the back of his chair, your pants lay in a pile at the foot of his bed, and your shirt was nowhere in sight. His breathing deepened and he rolled across the bed. Panic setting in, you frantically grabbed a random shirt from his closed and hurried silently from his room.
Sound of moving came from his room and your heart raced. You pulled his old football jersey over your head, hastily maneuvering around the couch you had helped move into his apartment and through the kitchen you had helped organize. The door to his room creaked open and you slipped out into the London air, barely aware of the rain that soon soaked through the borrowed shirt.
Knocking echoed through your small apartment and dread seeped into your bones. You closed your eyes and took a steadying breath, knowing it was him without opening the door. Longing to postpone the inevitable confrontation as long as you could, you took small and deliberate steps across the room. He stood in your doorway in an old button up and jeans, his hair disheveled and wet. Heat unwillingly filled your cheeks as his eyes met yours and the image of him sleeping naked as you snuck away flashed through your mind. "Forget your umbrella, Eggsy?"
"Tell me you need me."
"What?" you stammered, your feet moving you away from him without your mind's consent. He followed you out of the rain, closing the door behind him.
"Tell me you need me," he repeated, "like you told me last night."
The fan on his ceiling spun in lazy, steady circles. Rain against the roof lulled you closer to sleep. His fingers traced nonsense patterns against your bare hip. He placed a sloppy kiss against your shoulder. "You're fucking beautiful, d'you know that?"
There was enough vodka left in your system to still haze your mind and you giggled, burying your face against his side. "You're one to talk."
His chest shook as he laughed silently, kissing the nearest skin he could reach. Eggsy sighed in contentment, grabbing hold of your waist and rolling you on top of him. He pressed his lips languidly against yours and you melted into him. "I need you," you said when he pulled away from the kiss, the alcohol finally pulling your eyes closed. He was so warm.
"You need me?" he asked, the humor in his voice easy to hear. "Why is that?"
Resting your cheek against his shoulder, you struggled to stay awake long enough to answer his question. "You make me happy, Eggsy. I need you because I love you," you mumbled, too tired to be sure you'd even managed to speak the words out loud.
"I need you, Eggsy."
"Fucking finally." His hands cupped your cheeks and your back met the wall , his lips desperate and needy as they found yours. You leaned into him, and he lifted you off your feet.
“I need you, Eggsy.”
He tugged haphazardly at the shirt tucked into your leggings – his shirt. Eggsy stumbled through your your apartment with you in his arms, careful to avoid the table he'd helped carry inside.
