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#mcu fanficton
allandoflimbo · 9 months
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I  C  E    P R I N C E S S  8
Pairings: Popular Girl!Reader x Outkast!Bucky
Explicit Content - Smut - NO MINORS
Summary:
Bucky Barnes is the quiet boy who gets picked on.
The Reader and her friends run with the popular crowd at Stark High.
As the Winter Ball approaches, she is partnered with Bucky Barnes for a class project. They grow close in an inadvertently secret friendship, which later turns into love.
Only catch is…she’s Steve Roger’s ex girlfriend, and before she was partnered up with Bucky, her friends had planned to use and turn Bucky into Stark High’s new it boy to try and get back at Steve; a disgusting bet.
Another catch: She’s a figure skater at the town’s arena every Tuesday and Thursday nights. Bucky works part time at the rink resurfacing the ice. The other doesn’t know.
Modern AU High School fic - later goes into adulthood.
M A S T E R P A G E - FULL SERIES
Warnings: This story will have a lot of angst, a lot of fluff, a lot of cursing, and a lot of sex. Oral, praise kink, body worship, overstimulation, etc. you know me. There will also be loss of virginity in this.
Please support your content creators and writers and leave a review.
PREVIOUS CHAPTER
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"Like I said, I have to be out of there by seven again today."
"Can't you just quit your job?"
Bucky smiles at you so hard his eyes squint.
You have to bite your lip and look away.
"You're silly." He says quietly.
You shrug with a smile.
"Come on, today's lesson is actually really fun."
He's already packing up.
"I know, but I can't I'm sorry." When he sees your puppy dog eyes staring up at him, he considers telling you the truth.
You catch the look on his face immediately. He's holding something back that he doesn't want to hold onto.
"What is it?" You ask quietly, this time more concerned.
He sighs.
"My mom. You saw her. She has cystic fibrosis. She also has a lot of bills that my dad can't handle on his own, no matter how much he tries to tell me he can." He says.
It clicks in your head.
"You work to help pay for her medical bills."
Bucky nods.
"Yeah. So you can see why I can't stay, no matter how much I'd really like to."
His words make your tummy flutter and you both clear your throat.
"I understand." You gesture to the desk, "Don't forget the quiches I made for your parents. I'll see you at school tomorrow, Bucky."
He looks at the quiches and back to you and something happens.
His heart flutters.
Shit.
"Bye, Y/N/." He grabs his little container, the one from the same set that you have ready for him almost every week.
When he's outside your door, he takes in a deep breath.
Shit. Shit.
The mystical music was playing again. It wasn't the same song, but it had to be the same girl.
At first, he had been okay with it and he admired it, but now he was kind of getting annoyed.
He could've spent an extra hour with you if he had known this girl would be back here again tonight.
His heart skips at realizing the thought that just ran through his mind.
He feels his nerves pick up and he finds himself walking to the direction of the music, preparing to ask this girl if this would now be an every day occurrence for her, and also how did she have the permission to have it all to herself in the first place.
He walks into the arena.
This time, all the lights are off except for the one directly on the ice itself.
Crap. He forgot how good this girl was.
How captivating her movements were.
She's dancing gracefully, skating her heart and soul out. The music's just about to hit its peak when she turns around in his direction, and his heart just about beats out of his chest.
Even more so when your eyes meet his.
It was you.
Something happens to him in that insistence. Something changes.
He can hear his blood in his ears and the heaviness in his chest and it consumes him.
Little did he know that the same exact things were happening to you as you stared back at him.
You're both just standing there looking at each other when, finally, you're the first to speak up.
"Did you follow me?" But he can't hear you over the music. He can't hear you over his racing heart. You skate over to your wireless speaker next to your phone that's on the ledge and pause it. It's dead silent as you watch him come down the steps closer to you. You look up again once your Spotify app is closed, "Did you follow me?" You ask again.
He eyes you up and down in a way that sends shivers down your spine.
That look on his face did something to you.
"No, I work here." He says. His voice is a rumble as he says it.
You look at him properly now that he's close to you.
How have you never noticed how hot he was?
Or did you always notice but it just felt different this time?
Was it the way he was looking at you?
Was it because this is the first person outside your family who ever saw you skate before?
Which one was it?
You feel your cheeks heat up instantly and you clear your throat and look away.
"Oh." You say.
Bucky looks down and bites his bottom lip.
"Yeah." He whispers back, trying to still force that feeling away. Whatever that feeling even was.
He looks up at you through his lashes.
"What exactly do you do?" You ask him with a squint.
He quickly catches onto your playful tone. You were teasing him to see if he really did work here and wasn't lying.
He gives you a light chuckle.
"I clean the ice."
"With the zamboni?"
"No, manually. Just two days a week." You hum a response. He tilts his head at you when you get a certain look on your face, like you were up to something, "What?" He asks.
"Grab a pair of skates." You say.
He raises both his brows at you.
"Excuse me?"
You motion with your head to the cabinet of skates, trying to hide your growing smile as much as you could.
"You're skating with me. I need to practice and since you're here, we'll make the most of it." You answer. Bucky's gone pale now. He looks physically and literally terrified. Especially when you start skating backwards, eyes still glue on him like a prey. "Come on, hurry up." You add.
"No, I don't..." his voice trails off as he watches you move and he gulps, "I don't skate. I don't know how." His voice is timid is he says it.
He really was afraid.
"I'll teach you. I promise, you'll be safe with me."
Bucky thinks about this.
He really does.
He knows he's screwed the second you gave him those little puppy dog eyes of yours again.
___
If someone could take a photo right now of this moment, you would thank them for the rest of your life.
There was nothing funnier than seeing Bucky holding onto the edge of the wall of the rink for his dear life, his eyes squinting together, and his legs going in opposite directions and out of control.
Eventually he was able to get them straight but he still held onto the wall.
"Bucky. You work in an ice rink and you don't know how to skate?"
"I wear ice shoes! Not two pieces of sharp metal!" He shouts, "I'm not crazy." He mumbles the last part.
You smile and skate over to him.
He relaxes just slightly when he feels you come up behind him. Your hands go to his arms and he feels the goosebumps on his skin. He feels them even more when you drag your hands to his waist, your front flush up against him.
His heart speeds up.
What were you doing?
He feels you tug him back.
"No!" He shouts, hands tightening on the wall.
"Bucky! You're not going to fall, I promise. We'll go slow, okay? You can hold my hand and the other can stay on the wall."
He closes his eyes again and takes a few deep breaths.
"Promise?"
You chuckle.
"I promise."
"It's not funny. Don't laugh." Your face goes serious in a millisecond and you make it into a serious pout. You shake your head for added effect.
"It's not funny." You repeat his words back to him and tug him once more, "Come on."
Slowly, but surely, he turns until he is next to you.
His left hand stays on the wall, but his right one quickly finds your hand.
He holds you tight.
"Relax. Shhh." You tell him, trying to ignore the way his skin feels soft against yours, "Just don't think about it. We'll move and talk. That's all."
It takes him a few deep breaths for him to finally take his first glide.
You show him the proper way.
He's a few feet from where you both were when you turn to look at him. Your heart flutters as you feel his fingers tightening over the back of your hand.
"I used to be scared, too. Right after the accident," his hand squeezes yours again in response, "Our car slid on black ice and we hit a snow bank." He looks over to look at you as you continue, "I still get scared sometimes, especially when I have those memories," you look at him and your eyes meet, "but there is something that feels so amazing about conquering the thing that has also destroyed something in your life."
You look away and continue to skate slowly.
"Have you always been a figure skater?" He asks.
"Yeah, since I was a little girl. My parents always wanted me to go to the Olympics."
He senses your tone and he looks down at the ice.
"But it's not what you want." It's a statement.
You shake your head.
"No. No it's not."
He gives you another squeeze.
"What is it that you want?" He asks you so quietly you almost don't hear him.
"I've applied to some schools. Then, I want to go to med school. I know it's random but I'd love to maybe see if I can be an Anesthesiologist. Maybe."
He wasn't expecting that. It was oddly specific.
"Is there something specific about it that intrigues you?"
You smile, and he swears he can see your eye twinkle.
"Did you know that in open heart surgery, they use ice to stop your heart?"
Bucky swallows and shakes his head.
"No," you feel him run this thumb over the back of your hand, "What else?"
"The power of the drugs is beyond earthly. People don't realize much power is an anesthesiologist's hand. It's amazing what they do, but it's also amazing how much they contribute to saving someone's life. Especially in trauma cases."
He gets it.
Your brother.
"You should go after it." He tells you.
You feel a hot flush on your neck and you smile.
"How about you?"
"I have never figure skated once in my life." Bucky starts, and it makes you laugh. It makes him laugh too.
"I mean after graduation."
You both skate for a few more seconds in silence before he responds.
"Yale. Law and Journalism."
"Wow."
"Carrerr goal is news anchor and journalist correspondent for the white house."
You just know you have the funniest look on your face right now.
"Damn. That's very oddly specific but also very prestigious? I don't even know. How do you even get into that?"
He squeezes your hand again.
"Get my undergraduate at Yale, transfer to Fordham University back at home. After my attorney license, work on my journalism degree. Meanwhile interning local news places and then trying to make my way up. It'll be hard but I'll try. Even if it's a secret service job, I'll be fine with that."
"That sounds like you have it all planned out." You say.
He shrugs.
"I try to be optimistic in a world that's ready to hand you nothing but shit."
He doesn't realize he made a full round in the rink until now.
You're reaching for his other hand with your other free one and you're pulling him closer into the center of the rink.
He's too distracted to tell.
"Tell me more." You tell him.
"I miss New York." You start to very slowly spin him in a wide circle, "I'm going back for the summer, right before college."
You grin.
"You're gonna tell everyone there how a girl in a small town taught you how to ice skate?"
He squeezes his eyes at you playfully.
"Maybe."
You pull his arm a little farther away from yours and his eyes go wide.
"Y/N." His voice is a warning tone.
"I'm not letting go," you keep the tips of your fingers connected. You turn around and start pulling him behind you, "Just concentrate on anything else, don't think too hard,"
"I'll be thinking too hard about how i'll get back at you when you make me fall."
Your eyes are closed and you're still pulling him behind you, a big smile on your face.
"Just relax!"
"You're really enjoying this, aren't you?" His tone is fearful but his laughter is heartfelt and loud.
"So are you."
You keep speeding up bit by bit.
"I can't, you're going too fast—"
"—It's fine, we are not—"
Before you can finish, a big wall of muscle hits you from behind and you're toppling forward onto the ground.
It hurt.
You're wondering why he hasn't said anything, when instead you realize your moans of pain aren't just yours. You also feel the heat over your body, consuming you entirely.
Opening your eyes, you look up to see Bucky laying on top of you, his mouth leveled with your forehead.
When his eyes open and he stares down at you, your breath skips and you see how blue his eyes really were.
You're both staring at each other breathing hard when the moment is ruined by your skate hitting his shin.
He moans again and then laughs into the crook of your neck.
"Ouch." His hand goes to your waist and he squeezes you there, "You alright?"
You can only nod, not trusting your voice to speak.
What was happening?
It takes him a deep breath and few moments to finally fully himself off of you.
When you sit up on your elbows you see him already sitting with his back against the wall.
"You okay?" You ask him, trying to contain your emotions as best as you could.
"I'll stick to my ice shoes." He says.
You chuckle and rest your forehead on your knees to catch your breath.
He watches you, instantly very afraid of the foreign feeling he's never felt before but had only seen in movies.
__
N E X T   C H A P T E R
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queen-of-the-avengers · 8 months
Text
Step One: Forgiving Yourself
Pairing: Steve Rogers x Female!Reader
Word Count: ~1k
Warnings: angst, feeling broken down, blaming yourself for the people you killed under hydra's command, no fluff whatsoever
Request by anon: Vixen and bucky vs therapy ft dr reener (frm fatws)
Summary: After the events at Wakanda, you and Bucky are placed in therapy to try and work out your feelings regarding Hydra. However, you're not keen on the idea of facing up to the horrors you've caused.
Squares Filled: villain turned hero (2019) for @avengersbingo
Cat and Mouse Masterlist
Author’s Note: any and all comments are appreciated <3
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You have no idea what you’re doing here. Bucky and Steve insisted that you come here and start to heal, but you’ve already done that. Wakanda wiped Hydra from your mind. You’re trying to move past it, not revel in it.
“Is this necessary? I’m healed. I’ve apologized. I’ve done my part.”
“You haven’t dealt with the trauma,” Bucky sighs.
Bucky drags you into Dr. Raynor’s office despite your objections. This is a requirement from Steve and Tony that you must complete in order to go back into society as a normal person. Therapy doesn’t always work for everyone, but if you want to show them you’re fine, you have to go to this.
“Welcome, Y/N and James,” Dr. Raynor says.
“Please, call me Bucky.”
“Okay, Bucky. Do you both know why you’re here?”
“Because of what happened with Hydra,” Bucky answers.
You roll your eyes in annoyance but stay silent. You’re going to sit here and not say a word because this shit is stupid.
“How does that make you feel?”
“Terrible, I guess. It’s not something I like to relive.”
“What about you, Y/N? How does that make you feel?”
Bucky and Dr. Raynor looks at you but you shake your head at her dismissively.
“Pass.”
“Would you like to elaborate?”
“Nope.” You look over at Bucky and sigh at his disapproving look. “This whole thing is stupid.”
“Why?”
“This doesn’t really matter if I’ve already healed.”
“Have you?”
“Yes.”
“I want you to take a look at some photos.” 
Dr. Raynor takes out a folder from her desk and shows you pictures from your past. The first one is of Wakanda when you escaped as Vixen. The second one is from the bar you went to where you’ve left bodies on the flood for Zemo. Three through six are other parts of your life as the dangerous Vixen. Tears form in your eyes but you refuse to let them fall. You look away from the pictures once you’ve had enough.
“If you were healed, you wouldn’t have looked away.”
“What’s your point?” you sniffle.
“The point is that you need to look at these pictures and not feel guilty.”
“Are you done?”
Dr. Raynor closes the file and leans back in her chair.
“This isn’t going to work if you won’t let it.”
“Okay, I’m out of here.”
You get up and leave Bucky alone. You walk all the way back to the compound where Steve is waiting for you.
“Hey, how did it go?” Steve asks.
You walk right past him without saying a word to him. You stomp all the way to your sewing room and slam the door shut behind you. Steve is about to go in when you lock the door, preventing anyone from walking in.
“Y/N?” Steve asks and knocks on the door.
When you give him no answer, he decides to give you some space. Bucky comes home two hours later, and Steve approaches him slowly in case he has the same reaction as you. 
“How did it go? Are you going to slam a door in my face, too?”
“She won’t face it.” Bucky walks to the kitchen to crack open a beer and Steve follows him. “She knows what she did was wrong, but she wants to bury it instead of deal with it.”
“Maybe I can talk to her.”
“Yeah good luck. I have the same trauma as her, Steve. She’s not budging.”
“We’ll see.”
Steve gives you a few more hours of space before he heads to your sewing room. This time, it’s unlocked but he still knocks on the door and waits for your permission to enter.
“Come in,” you say quietly.
 Steve enters the room and sees you’ve made a lot of different clothing from shirts to dresses to additions to others’ suits. You’re at the sewing machine working on some pants with your hair in a messy bun and a thimble on your thumb.
“Can we talk?”
“About what?” you ask distractedly.
“You know what. Therapy is going to help you.”
“If you’re going to talk about that, then you can leave.”
Steve walks over to you, kneels on the ground, and gently takes your hand away from the machine. Steve has always been good at making speeches, and you know he’s going to make a damn good one right now. You refuse to look at him but that’s not good enough for him. He reaches up and gently pulls your chin so you’re facing him. 
There are already tears in your eyes.
“It’s going to hurt and you’re not gonna like it, but you are better than what they made you to be.”
“How can I face this? I hurt so many people and I didn’t apologize enough. I’m a killer. People are dead because of me. How can I ever apologize to them? To their families? Tell me, Steve, how can I make it right?”
“The first step to healing is forgiving yourself.”
The first step to healing is forgiving yourself.
“Will you go with me tomorrow?”
“Of course.”
The next day, you and Steve head over to the office. She had an opening in her schedule to fit you in since you’re on a weekly schedule with her. You’re nervous but you know you have to do this.
“Welcome in.” You and Steve get settled in the chairs across her desk. “This is a private meeting.”
“I want him here. Please,” you whisper.
“Alright. I’m glad you’re here. Let’s start easy. How are you feeling?”
“Tired,” you sigh. “Exhausted. Wakanda erased the trigger words from my head, but they didn’t erase what I did. I can never take that back. I’ve hurt a lot of people. Please tell me how I can make this go away.”
“Well, healing is different for everyone. Some things I’ve noticed help people is writing letters to the people they’ve hurt.”
“Some of them are dead,” you whisper painfully.
“Write them anyway. Take those letters and burn them. It’s a way of cleansing yourself of the memories and the pain.”
“What if it doesn’t work?”
“Then we try something else. We will not stop trying until we find something that works for you.”
“Okay, I’ll try.”
This better be the start of truly healing because you don’t know how much longer you can go with feeling like complete shit.
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gracescor3 · 4 months
Note
Second request:
Tony stark x daughter reader. Reader ends up falling ill with appendicitis but doesn't know it at the time. She thinks she just has a bug or something but eventually her dad rushes her to the hospital concerned and ends up being by her side when she wakes up at the hospital and takes care of her when they bring her home.
I'm going to ask 3rd request if that's okay with this one and ask for the same but with steve rogers x reader. Making it all fluffy and cute when Steve looks after her especially after she's had her appendix out.
Hope that's okay and thank you for reading these requests. Looking forward to reading your writing!! 🤗
Dad something doesn't feel right..
Paring: Tony Stark and Daughter!Reader
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Warnings: Mentions of Menstrual cycle ; Pain ; Surgery ; Emergancy Surgery ; Sickness ; Hospitals ; Mentions of Vomit ; Not Eating due to being sick ; Fevers ; Appendicitis ; Discomfort ; Reader being taken care of ; Mentions of needles/IV ; Mentions of Propofl (Anesthesia) ; Operating room ; Doctors ; Hurt reader ; Passing out due to pain ; MRI ; Mentions of Lab Tests ; Mentions of Bodily fluids
Summary: You thought you had a stomach bug but it turns out to be much worse.
Word count: 1881
You'd walk into the kitchen to get some medicine, your stomach has been really hurting lately you thought it might be your period so you didn't worry too much about it.
"What's wrong sweet pea?" Your dad asks as he notices you getting into the medicine drawer. "Oh my stomachs just cramping, you know girl problems." You sighed and he just nodded.
You grabbed the bottle of Tylenol and took two tablets with a sip of water.
"I'm going to go lay down for a bit, probably take a nap." You informed your dad and he looked at you. "Alright goodnight Squirt." He smiled.
You smiled at the nickname before walking off with a bottle of water and going back into your room.
You laid there for what felt like hours, your stomach pain getting progressively worse with each second.
You felt like you couldn't move, your body coated with a thin layer of sweat.
You curled up into a fetal position and the pain faded making you sigh in relief.
Someone knocked on your door. "Sweet pea?" You looked towards the door and mustered up enough energy to speak. "Come in."
Your door opened and your dad walked in. "Hey are you okay?" He asked concerned. "Yeah I think I just have a really bad stomach bug. I should feel better tomorrow." You smiled to show him you were fine but your face contorts to one that is pain when your legs move out of the fetal position.
"Are you sure? Can I get you anything?" He asks and you shake your head. "No, I think I'm just going to go to sleep. Thank you.." you mumbled as you got back in the same position as before.
"Okay I'll wake you for dinner." He smiles before walking out and closing the door behind him.
Your eyes started to droop as you closed them and fell asleep.
You woke up the next morning in an even worse amount of pain. Your eyes watered because of the pain you were in.
You tried getting up but instantly regretted it as the pain became worse. Your head becoming foggy.
You stood up only to fall down onto the floor.
You awoke in a hospital bed your mind still foggy. You noticed your dad sitting beside the bed and open your mouth to speak before he notices you were awake. “Oh thank god.” He mumbled before pushing the red button on the remote beside the bed.
“Dad.. what- What happened?” You asked while blinking your eyes several times to see clearly.
“We’ll squirt, I heard a thud come from your room so I rushed in and saw you passed out on the floor. It scared me to death, so I rushed you to the hospital. The doctor did some tests and we’re still waiting for the results to come back.” He informed.
Your face turned into one of fear. “B-But it was just a stomach bug!” You cried. “Honey-“ Your dad started before the doctor walked in.
“Hello Ms Stark, I’m doctor Woods.” He introduced himself as he put hand sanitizer on, and you just nodded. “I’m going to ask you a couple of questions based on symptoms before you passed out. What symptoms were you having?”
“I mean my stomach was really hurting..” I spoke softly. “Do you mind showing me where?” He asked as his nurse walked in with a clipboard and pen.
“Right here.” You’d point to your belly button. “And then it moved down here and it just hurt worse with each passing second.” You moved your hand down to your lower right quadrant.
“Lower right quadrant pain.” He spoke to his nurse as she wrote it down. “Any pain anywhere else?” He asked and you nodded.
“My shoulder blade hurts, it’s my left one. Feels like I need to pop my back but it’s really sharp.” You informed and he nodded to his nurse and she wrote it down also.
“Do you mind if I press on your stomach?” He asked and you nodded again.
You watched as he put gloves on and then walked over to the right side of the bed, he pushed your shirt up just a bit and moved the side of your sweatpants down so he could see the abdomen.
“Does it hurt when I press here?” He asked as he pressed down in a certain part that made pain flare up. “Yes it does really bad.” You cried and he continued to press around as you would tell him where else it hurt.
“Any nausea or vomiting?” He asked as he pulled your shirt down and pants up.
“I have been really nauseous.” You admitted. “When you lay on your side and curl your legs up like a baby, does it feel better or worse?” He asks as he thinks.
“Better..” You responded as your dad still looked worried and listened in on everything.
“Well, I’m afraid it might be your appendix. Your blood test came back and your white blood cells are high which means you have an infection somewhere. The shoulder pain would explain it too. I’ll order a Cat-scan and we’ll see how it looks.” The doctor informed as you looked at your dad.
“Thank you doctor Woods.” Your dad smiled sadly and turned to you as the doctor and nurse left.
“You’re gonna be okay.” He smiled and you just nodded.
As you and your dad were talking a nurse walked in with a wheel chair. “Hello Mr and Ms Stark. I am Cindy and I’m going to be taking you to radiology for your Cat-scan.” She smiled sweetly.
You got up; with your dad’s help of course. And carefully got into the wheel chair.
Your dad followed as Cindy rolled you down a few corridors until pushing a button and rolling you into a room with a Cat-scan machine.
“I’ll be waiting outside since I can’t go in.” Your dad informed even though you were an adult, he still acted like you were his little girl.
You just nodded as the doors shut and they helped you onto the little table.
“I’m just going to inject some contrast into your IV here and it’s going to make you feel warm and fuzzy inside. It’s going to feel like you wet yourself but you didn’t it’s just the medicine I promise.” Cindy smiled as she began to give you the contrast.
You suddenly felt warm and fuzzy as they walked out of the room and the machine started.
When it ended you were rolled back into your room, you suddenly felt exhausted and started falling asleep.
You awoke to your dad calling your name as the doctor walked in with the results.
You groggily opened your eyes and looked at Doctor Woods. “Ms Stark, we’re transferring you to the other side of the hospital for an emergency surgery. Your appendix is infected and inflamed and it must be surgically removed.”
You instantly felt not tired and scared. You were afraid of surgery, you always hated it and had a huge phobia of it.
Your dad’s eyes were wide as he listened to the doctor. “What happens if we don’t remove it in time?” He asked cautiously.
“It may exploded and cause serious problems and possibly death.” Doctor woods informed as other nurses started to walk in to prepare for you to be moved.
“How long is the surgery?” You asked, “About an hour.” He said as the nurses transferred you to another bed.
Your dad got up and started to follow as the nurses rolled you out of the room and Doctor woods followed.
“Your surgeon will be my partner, his name is Doctor Smith. And he is ready for you.” He informed as they brought you down multiple corridors all the way across the hospital.
Once you got to the operating area your dad sat down as they began to prep you for the operating room.
“Dad I’m scared, you know about my phobia of surgeries.” You cried and your dad held your hand. “It’s okay, everything will be okay I promise. Have I ever broken a promise with you?” He asked softly and you shook your head. “No.” You mumbled.
The surgeon came over to your room and slid open the curtain. “Mrs Stark I’m Doctor Taylor and I’m going to be preforming your appendectomy. Don’t worry you’re in good hands, I’ve done this surgery several times.” He smiled as the put gloves on.
“A nurse will be with you soon to give you some medicine that we call ‘Funny medicine.’ It’s going to make you feel all jittery inside. Will probably make you laugh a little bit too. I’ll meet you in the operating room.” He smiled and walked out closing the curtain behind him.
A few minutes later a nurse opened the curtain. “Alright I’m going to give you some medicine and then I’m going to take you to the operating room, it will be a bit cold in there but you’ll be covered in blankets.”
“I love you dad. I’ll see you- See you so-“ You couldn’t finish your sentence as you started to laugh from the medicine they injected in you.
“I’ll be right here when you get back Sweet pea. Good luck I love you.” Your dad kissed your forehead as they rolled you away with you still laughing.
Once they pulled you into the operating room you weren’t laughing anymore, you just felt really woozy and like you were outside your body.
They helped you onto the operating table and laid you down. “Okay Ms Stark we’re going to put this mask on you and we want you to count down from 10.” One of the surgeons told you.
You nodded as they put the mask on you, you started breathing in the air as it started to taste different. You started feeling woozy as you counted down from 10.
7..
6…
…5..
You suddenly woke up as you looked around and noticed you were in a bed and there was a nurse typing at the computer. “Heyyy..” you said still high from the drug they gave you.
“Hi.” She smiled.
“You’re really pretty..” you gave a lazy smile, “aw thank you.” She responded.
“I just had surgery. Isn’t that cool?” You laughed not knowing what you were saying. “Yeah that is cool.”
“Can I see my dad now?” You asked sadly. “I want my dad please.”
“You’ll see him in a bit when we roll you into the out patient area.” She smiled as she walked out to go get the other nurse.
You looked around and noticed the ceiling was moving. “Woah..” you laughed before you felt your bed being rolled through the hall.
You saw your dad come in and you instantly smiled. “Hi dad..” you laughed highly.
“Hey sweet pea. How are you feeling?” Your dad smiled.
“A lot better! I just feel woozy.” You laughed again as he sat in the chair next to you.
As a few minutes went by you were able to go home.
You got home and the whole team celebrated you coming home, nothing big of course but just a little celebration and hugs. Lots of hugs.
I don’t really know if I like this that much. I might rewrite it if you want me to. I feel like it might be a little boring but thank you for the request🫶
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starkslove101 · 11 months
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PRESENT OF THE PAST READINGLIST
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CHAPTER 1: "The future becomes the present
CHAPTER 2: "Welcome home"
CHAPTER 3: "The not-so- grand entrance"
CHAPTER 4: "My past. My future. My hell."
CHAPTER 5: "The Good. The bad and the okay, I guess"
CHAPTER 6: "God, you're hot"
CHAPTER 7: "Project freedom"
CHAPTER 8: "This is everything I never wanted"
CHAPTER 9: "Oh, that's awkward"
CHAPTER 10: "Ah, there it is. Bitterness"
CHAPTER 11: "Build me up, Buttercup"
CHAPTER 12: "Choices within four walls"
CHAPTER 13: "Glorious Purpose"
CHAPTER 14: "The Battle of New York
CHAPTER 15: "Ignorance is Bliss, right?"
CHAPTER 16: "I've seen it al before and I can't take it anymore"
CHAPTER 17:"desperate measures"
CHAPTER 18: “Shadows in Time: A Journey Beyond 2012” 
CHAPTER 19:"King Ahmed Of Avelora"
CHAPTER 20:“I want to be free from desolation and despair”
CHAPTER 21: "The prince of rescue"
CHAPTER 22:
CHAPTER 23:
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kitcat992 · 10 months
Text
Identity Within︱Chapter 6 - Something New (UPDATE PREVIEW)
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Identity Within
New York always had a certain…well, vibe to it during the autumn season.
Every year come November, the trees that lined the streets of the city were consumed in whole by vivid reds and burnt oranges, replacing the once lush canopy of green seemingly overnight. With it, the crisp air that came with each breeze was a pleasant but firm reminder that the unforgiving cold of winter was right around the corner — a subtle sign from mother nature to enjoy the metamorphosis of seasons before the cityscape would transform once again.
Peter paced back and forth, repeatedly crossing the length of the rooftop to Grimaldi’s Pizza Parlor — not because the brisk autumn wind had made him chilly. No, his spider-suit — brand new, at that — did a fine job of keeping his body temperature perfectly regulated.
It wasn’t the chill that kept him moving, rather a poor attempt at shaking off his nerves. In fact, it was a feat he hadn’t left groove marks across the rooftop yet. At this point, he could’ve very well walked a few miles just going back and forth, all while soaking up the smells of the pizza dough that came wafting up from the vents of the restaurant down below.
“Alright, you got this — you totally got this.” Peter clapped his hands together, only to shake them right after — desperate to release the bundle of energy that practically ate him alive. “This is no big deal. Nothing to sweat. C’mon Parker, you rode Captain America’s motorcycle today — you’re Spider-Man, you got this!”
His nerves only seemed to get worse every time he looked across the street; this time turning his gaze right as the lights inside Peter Pan’s Donut Shop shut off, one by one.
Despite the strong draft of wind that passed through the surrounding foliage, Peter couldn’t help but notice that he suddenly felt flushed.
Warm?
Definitely warm.
Maybe his new suit still had some kinks they needed to work out. After all, he’d only had it for a few weeks now. It wasn’t uncommon for the motherboard systems to need the occasional update. Maybe that was the issue.
Or maybe, just maybe, he was more nervous than he wanted to admit.
“Alright — just….don’t over think this. Don’t get stuck in your head.” Peter let out a breath so heavy, most of it couldn't filter out of his mask. The smell struck him at full force, causing the eye lenses of his mask to twitch and spasm in response. “Oh, that’s gross. That’s-that’s bad.”
He really needed to start carrying breath mints on him.
Peter shook away the thought — literally, shaking his arms for the umpteenth time, the little wiggle-wobble he did in place doing absolutely nothing for his nerves.
Across the street and through the windows of the donut shop, Peter could make a middle-aged man working inside, flipping over chairs and stacking them on top of the tables. Not far away from him was a much younger girl, busy wiping down the counters, with half of her face hidden behind long strands of brown hair.
Peter chewed on his lower lip, watching MJ from afar — not once looking away after his eyes gravitated towards her.
Man, was she pretty.
Really pretty.
“Hey MJ, what’s up?” Peter practiced out loud, taking a deep breath in — deep enough to pull his shoulders back and lift his chin high. “It’s me, Peter. Peter Parker.”
Nearing the edge of the rooftop, Peter casually plopped down until his legs hung off the edge,
letting them dangle freely as his gaze fixated on the donut shop across the street. His attention was drawn solely to one person inside.
“What’s that? I have a new suit?” Both hands grazed across his chest, gloved fingers running down the length of the black and red fabric. “Yeah, fully upgraded, new look, all new colors — why am I doing that voice?” Peter stopped the moment he realized his voice had deepened by five octaves. He shook his head like a wet dog. “That voice is so stupid, don’t do that voice.”
For a moment, the only response he received in turn was the occasional sound of Brooklyn traffic from down below.
MJ was talking to the much older gentleman now — with a brown paper bag in one hand, and her book-bag over her other shoulder. Her hair covered half of her face, but Peter could still make out the tiny smile beneath the thick, curly locks.
After all, her smile was his favorite thing about her.
“MJ, hey, it’s me.” Peter swallowed, hard, a tight V forming between his brows beneath his mask. “Oh, this? You know, just patrolling, saving the city, nothing major — I’m still doing the voice!” A hand smacked across his face — covering the two large white eyes of his mask. “Why am I doing that stupid voice!?”
His frustration was shouted in the form of a whisper, barely heard over the breeze that passed by. And yet Peter was still flushed — there was no shaking off the nerves. The past half and hour made that abundantly clear.
“I believe that is because you are nervous, Peter.”
And for what time didn’t make obvious, there was always his AI.
“I’m not nervous!” Peter’s voice squeaked in his retort. He waved both hands out in front of him, dismissively, as if Karen could even seen his movements to begin with. “I’m not — I’m not nervous, I just…” Another deep sigh reminded Peter that he really needed to start carrying around breath mints. “I just don’t know what to say.”
The middle-aged man approached the front door, flipping the sign that once said ‘Open’ and turning it around until it said ‘Closed.’ Peter watched, a tight frown forming on his lips, as the two remaining employees inside got ready to depart.
The setting sun was making it difficult to see inside through the windows. Peter knew he wouldn’t be able to procrastinate much longer.
“That could be because you’re anxiety has made it hard for you to focus,” Karen said. “That is likely in part due to the fact that you are nervous.”
As much as Peter wanted to roll his eyes at Karen’s answer, he also didn’t have much ground to argue with her. She was, after all, usually right about things.
It was strange. There was a lot Peter had confidence for — a lot of things he gained confidence for. It wasn’t that being nervous was a foreign thing for him. Hell, these days it felt like a perpetual state of his existence.
MJ made him feel…different.
A different nervous.
Almost a…good nervous.
“I really don’t wanna mess this up, Karen,” Peter spoke quietly under his breath, both hands falling into his lap as his dangling legs came to a slow stop.
There was a noticeable pause from Karen before she asked, “With MJ?”
The sunset of the evening caught the golden hues from the trees, shinning bright against orange and burgundy leaves. Peter had to squint past the light to see the front door of the donut shop open up, watching silently as the older man let MJ exit before he locked the door behind her.
“Yeah,” Peter, once again, spoke the words in a hushed whisper. The sigh that left his chest was heavier than his own voice.
There had been so much that happened this past year — things that, while not directly his fault, had caused a cascade of problems in their wake. Mysterio getting away in Times Square, everything with Dmitri the wannabe Bond villain, all of the symbiote…
Peter could feel his heart skip a beat at the memories — his very alive, and very much beating heart that was once not beating after he died.
That was never not gunna be weird.
“I believe, Peter,” Karen spoke up, breaking him away from his thoughts,“if you were to mess anything up…it would be deliberately. And I don’t see any reason you’d sabotage yourself when it comes to MJ.”
Peter made a face beneath his mask — contemplation taking over every muscle in his expression, all as he watched MJ give a tiny wave to the man still inside the donut shop. He locked the door from the inside before she began to walk down the streets of the city, and slowly, Peter began to stand up from the edge of the rooftop.
Karen’s voice was the last thing he heard before he shot out a web and took off.
“Just be yourself.”
It took six and a half rooftops before Peter finally caught up with MJ — a lingering moment of hesitation nearly made it seven, but with all the courage he could muster up, he finally made the move to approach her.
A single strand of webbing attached on top the nearest fire escape ladder, allowing him to drop down gracefully into the alleyway, landing with a soft thud on the cement sidewalks.
Right as MJ walked by.
“Need someone to walk you home?” Peter asked, his voice muffled by his mask and three times deeper than average.
MJ spun on her heels to face him.
And screamed.
“AH!”
“Ah!” Peter startled back, stumbling backwards until his shoulder collided with the nearest dumpster behind him. The two lenses of his mask went from wide white to pitch black in a millisecond as he grabbed his arm and hissed, “Ahcck!”
“Ahhh!” MJ’s shrill shout easily reached over his, even as she swung her book-bag around her shoulder and began to frantically dig inside. “I have a taser, I know how to use it!”
“Mother of fudge —!” Peter clenched his shoulder firmly with one hand, squeezing away the pain before both his eyes shot open with realization. “Wait, MJ, it’s me —!”
“Don’t make me use it!” MJ stepped forward while also somehow taking a step back. “I’m not afraid to use it!”
“MJ, MJ!” Peter leaped forward, using one hand to wave in front of him while the other ripped off his mask, clenching it tightly in his grip. “It’s me! It’s Peter! Peter Parker!” he hissed low under his breath, making sure to stay tucked away in the alley as he all but squeaked, “Please don’t tase me!”
If MJ had been sporting a mask like Spider-Man’s, complete with twitchy mechanical lenses, they would’ve certainly shattered with how large her eyes grew, bigger than the setting sun above them both.
Finally, she smacked her hand against his chest — completely ignorant to the brown paper bag she still held in clenched fingers — and pushed him further into the alleyway.
“This — this is why you’re terrible at keeping secrets!” MJ broke free of her stunned trance with four hard steps forward, pushing Peter back the entire way; looking around for the both of them to ensure no one was paying any attention. “This is exactly why Susan Yang thinks you’re a male escort!”
Peter’s nervous laugh quickly became one of incredulity.
“Do you really have a taser?” Peter only stopped walking backwards once MJ came to a stop herself, though her hand stayed firm against the spider emblem on his chest. “Wait, Susan Yang thinks I’m a male escort?”
At first, MJ’s only response was a rapid nod of her head, and a sound that was most certainly supposed to be something coherent and understandable.
“Yeah!” she eventually managed, her throat bobbing hard with the clear struggle of swallowing the abundance of saliva that came with a near heart attack.
Peter’s eyes only narrowed in confusion. “Yeah to what?”
The every day ambience from the city life briefly filled the lull that fell over them, freezing time in a ridiculously exaggerated second — the kind that felt like an eternity being stretched out for dramatic effect. The honking traffic outside the alley seemed to join in on the playful suspense — Peter swore even the cars were holding their breath for who would say what next.
MJ flittered her eyes up and down — looking up at Peter, sans his mask, before her eyes flickered back down — where her fingertips pressed firmly against the black spider insignia center on his chest.
Not a second later, and Peter looked down at that same hand. As if just now realizing MJ was touching him, and had been all along.
“This…must…be…your new suit,” MJ slowly said, tapping his chest twice before finally removing her hand entirely — making sure to keep her grip on the brown lunch bag. “Very nice. The colors are…very new.”
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elvenfforestydd · 1 year
Text
Scars
What happens when even super serum can't heal all scars? The army redacted Steve's WWII capture, and he'll do anything to keep them from finding out.
Chapter 1 Here
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bowiebond · 2 years
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My favourite “problematic” trope is when you’ve got two characters who are obsessively and possessively in love to the point where they find a deep sentimental romance in all the blood, sweat and tears they shed together. The kind of couple who will kill for each other in order to stay together because they would rather die than be apart, even if one character has slightly better morals that causes conflict in the couple yet they can’t stay away from each other. I want that intense must have you always energy in my ships. You are my world kind of energy but literally. The hold my face in the rain as it washes away the blood and kiss me like you might never get a chance again kind of dark romance.
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comment-exchange · 8 months
Text
308. The Space Between (Spider-Man, MCU)
Title: The Space Between
Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/44918854
Platform: AO3
Creator: MondayVibes
Work Type: Fanfiction
Fandom: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Rating: T
Pairing: May Parker (Spider-Man) & Peter Parker
Word Count: 6,656
Warnings: grief/loss, whump
Number of comments: 1
Completion Status: Complete
Short summary/description:
It’s November, a couple of weeks before Thanksgiving and a couple of weeks after the Unsnappening, and Peter is… what? Sixteen, still? Twenty-one? He doesn’t even know.
What he does know is that his body somehow feels both numb and splayed open—raw and bleeding, chest cracked and heart exposed, in a way that both hurts like hell and leaves him lifeless—and, despite the season, he really doesn’t feel like there all that much for him to be thankful for at all.
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mgcldydrms · 1 year
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> character list
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Bridgerton:
Anthony Bridgerton, Benedict Bridgerton, Colin Bridgerton, Theo Sharpe
House of the Dragon:
Aegon Targaryen, Aemond Targaryen, Criston Cole, Daemon Targaryen, Harwin Strong, Jacaerys Velaryon, Rhaenyra Targaryen
Peaky Blinders:
Arthur Shelby, Finn Shelby, John Shelby, Michael Gray, Tommy Shelby
Stranger Things:
Billy Hargrove, Eddie Munson, Jonathan Byers, Nancy Wheeler, Robin Buckley, Steve Harrington
Wednesday:
Enid Sinclair, Tyler Galpin, Wednesday Addams, Xavier Thorpe
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Avatar
Lo'ak, Neteyam, Spider (Miles Socorro)
Harry Potter:
Cedric Diggory, Draco Malfoy, Fred Weasley, George Weasley, Harry Potter, Neville Longbottom, Ron Weasley, young!Remus Lupin, young!Sirius Black
MCU:
Bucky Barnes, Druig, Loki, Peter Parker (Andrew Garfield), Peter Parker (Tom Holland), Sam Wilson, Steve Rogers, Shang Chi, Wanda Maximoff
Narnia:
Prince Caspian, Edmund Pevensie, Peter Pevensie
Scream
Billy Loomis, Chad Meeks- Martin, Ethan Landry, Steve Macher, Tara Carpenter
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revengewitch · 1 year
Link
Chapter 6 is out~
It felt like dying. Like no amount of oxygen could make him breathe.
What happened after that particular point was incomprehensible.
The hands on him vanished, only to return once again to pry one of Peter’s hands away from his body.
Then the sensation of something sharp and pointy going into the crook of his arm, a needle.
Even between the haze of the panic attack, Peter was horrified by the new realization. What was happening? What was he trying to do to him? His eyesight wasn’t working.
He tried pulling his arm back, but he couldn’t.
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builder051 · 2 years
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At least we would know that the sparks didn't glow
Powers/No powers
Steve whump
Whumpmas in July 2022 Day 3: Lost
___________________
It's the slamming of someone else's locker that makes Steve grind his teeth. He swallows through his bitterly clamped jaws, and one of his ears pops. The other gives a rather weaker crackle. Like if he stepped on an ice cream wrapper.
Steve does due diligence, picking up his feet and glancing down, just to be sure there isn't any litter that's gone and become his responsibility to pick up.
The big blonde guy, the All-American, the guy they call 'Captain' in the office, the one who's just burned himself out with calisthenics, free weights, and a five-minute plank that he counted out himself instead of passing the time listening to over-excited HGTV in the background.
Steve knows he has a fan club. The girl who swipes key tabs behind the front desk, well, there isn't much he can do about her. But the others... experienced mountain bikers on arm day ,right down to pushing 18 and struggling to program the most basic equipment... Steve's gon back to some of his old practice of avoiding people's faces.
To be completely honest, he has kind of been waiting for someone to just reach out and grab him. Kiss him. Force him in for a photo. He's relieved it hasn't happened. Yet. But if this...yes, it the crinkling outer wrapper for a bag of regular M&Ms...is any prediction for what's coming. Steve shakes his head. He sincerely hopes that it isn't a foot fetish.
Steve throws away the paper, which rattles slightly with one or two candies still trapped in the packet. To ensure he's free of all chocolate scents and essences, Steve pulls hand sanitizer from his dopp kit. Chocolate on people's feet...He'd take a professional pedicure massage as much as the next person. An indulgence to take care of a utilitarian need, Steve supposes. But with a food element... It's like drawing then nonsexuality out of something already asexual, so it boomerangs in reverse and hits him painfully in the face.
Steve's sinuses feel abraised, as if he's been slapped across the cheek with a metal yardstick. M&Ms are a bastardization of chocolate. More than half a century past their moment of need, but still on sale. Popular, even. People make M&M cookies, which is a mystery to Steve. Baking chips ar cheaper, and the color betrays the flavor. On the rare occasion some idiot leaves peanut M&M-related something on the welcome desk, Steve pretends not to take personal offense as he sniffs, asks several people if they think it is safe, then acts the total dick on purpose when he chopsticks a cookie onto a plate between his inhaler and epi pen.
The sanitizer mini-bottle belches at Steve as he squeezes it and snaps it closed. He cleans his hands, then uses a dab as he would cologne, behind his ear, under his beard line, in the crook of his navel, and the rest rubbed randomly across his chest until his hand is dry.
Steve thinks he smells good now. Or clean, at least. The salty gym aura has dissipated from his t-shirt, just like the junky candy scent has gone from his fingers. He should probably do the bottom of his shoe for good measure, but he stops himself. That's a bit much. As long as he takes advantage of the mesh laundry bag and the fact that always is a good time to sanitize and refresh the kitchen towels, he can clean his sneakers in the washing machine. "Chill," he murmurs to himself. "Just... go."
After a couple of deep breaths, which do nothing for confidence; they just prove that his uncomfortable sinuses are and may be planning to stay problematic. Air coming in through Steve's nose halts as it contacts a blockade of gummy slime, which, in turn, vibrates into the part of Steve's upper side-mouth that is neither uvula nor tongue. One slow breath would've marked the presence of an issue and the need to blow his nose, force a gag, scrape his tongue across the roof of his mouth... But now that he's standing before his closed locker, Steve robotically locks it up, picks his bag up briefcase style, and holds it a waist height as he walks purposefully to the door out into the parking lot.
The silver sedan is in the first spot, next to the area marked handicapped accessible, with the deep van parking place in the center, and two lanes of extra space painted in white and yellow lines. It's always been Steve's spot, because, depending on the time of day, he's oft to arrive before morning staff, during the afternoon cleaning break, or at the same time as the night manager. He also thinks of himself as protection, of the subtle variety, in case anyone in legitimate need of the accessible spot gets bullied about it. About a year ago, some motorcyclist tried parking his bike in one of the yellow and white non-parking lanes. The gym's girl behind the counter called the cops, but it was Steve who picked up the thing and placed it into an empty, albeit less convenient spot at the end of the strip in front of the Pho restaurant.
This evening, though, Steve's relieved that there's hardly a walk before he can fall into soft upholstered seating. Tonight the driver's seat feels more like it's made of memory foam, though, or maybe even a water bed. Now that his ass is in contact with the cushion, there's no way of getting him back out.
Steve's gym bag is small enough to pass between his chest and the steering wheel, and he plops it into the passenger seat. He'll have to take it inside as soon as he gets home, but that's, what, at least 10 minutes away? For now he can just enjoy the comfort and cleanliness of his own car. Besides the folded Map of the State of Virginia in the side pocket, a spare suction cup for the phone stand and a folded napkin in the console, and one of Bucky's hoodies folded in the passenger footwell, the car is empty.
Steve cracks the windows to get some airflow before the air conditioner works up its own breeze. Nothing flaps or flies around. The night is still, and the air in the car is still, even though pausing and turning to follow the rules of the road sometimes brings in a draft and a whiff of outside.
Steve knows the mechanics intuitively; he interacts with much more challenging circumstances all in a good day's work. So maybe it's the simplicity of it, then, that is quite literally hurting his brain. The back of his head, the bottom portion, perhaps an inch or so above his tidily shaved hairline is developing a steady throb. Which is odd. Which is vision-related. Which is...
Steve takes one hand off the wheel and scrubs at his eye, though he misses badly and gets a knuckle dug into his brow and another jamming his tear duct before he so much as considers that it's his hand not behaving, rather than his face.
He's all a massive tremor. Steve's insides jolt with panic. "Keep control. Keep control. Keep control..."
And he tries. But with one eye clouding and dribbling hot saltwater, the other realizing he's arrived at the slew of speed bumps that lead up to the private drive behind the townhouses. He's not lost. He's... thinking with his subconscious.
There's no way he's going in from the front, even if that's the way Bucky will be watching out the window for him. The troop of apartment kids that appear randomly from doorsteps around them seem to have a collective cognition level somewhere around the level of Bugs Bunny. Between the lush grassy park and the twinkling, uncovered swimming pool set within the village's fencing, there is, or at least there was least last year, an assumption that children and explosives can celebratorily interact over the rough-cut time span of the first week of July.
Steve has the state and city laws memorized, and he mumbles a few lyrics from the vintage Smokey the Bear infomercial that used to cross the line between light entertainment and the threat of preemptive and over-calculated guilt. Who thought it was a good idea to plant the seed of an ulcer in kids' stomachs as they swallowed their spoonfuls of Frosted Flakes, the sugary sweet part of a complete breakfast? And anxiety was certainly suggested where it shouldn't be when at least one of the early-rising weekend kids squinted and tried to remember whether Fat Albert's breakfast had come off a gas or electric stove. Only you can prevent forest fires. Yeah, and when your local forest is three pine trees and a grassy traffic circle between the next bank of apartments...
Inconsistencies between his sight and his stomach. Steve hangs a right. He wants to be relieved; perhaps two minutes left, depending on what he gets at the flashing yellow, and if he can manage to slide past the stop sign without notice. Breaking the rules of the road... Not his usual, but when the neon stripe on a tennis ball lost to the gutter seems to fly up and give his eyelashes a solid pull in, well, not the way he wants to go...
The sedan's front tire scrapes the curb. Steve feels gutted again. Shocked at his own stupidity, quick and sharp in the areas of heartbeat and breathing. He doesn't do this.
Goosebumps spread down Steve's arms, right across his hands, knuckles, and down to his fingernails. His teeth chatter, but don't clunk; they've developed a coating of the sick mucous that's all inside the rest of him. His natural desire to clean up, to apply toothpaste, takes a turn at being in charge, but a prognostication of foam and chemical mint and stomach acid and rivulets of rust-colored blood makes him wrinkle his nose. He brushes too hard; he always does. He tastes bitter copper even now.
"Pull yourself together, dammit." It sounds like gargling, like speaking under the water during dive training as he splashes around with his coworkers, smooshed into snorkeling masks and still allowed not to take any of it seriously--not until the bald guy in decorated fatigues approaches the edge of the pool with the oxygen tanks.
Steve is taking it seriously. He grasps the steering wheel at 12 o'clock with his dominant hand to swivel away from the curb, and uses the other to swipe under his nose. Heavy, sticky biological material comes off on the back of his hand. The urge to look down at it surpasses the need to keep his eyes on the road. Mottled semi-solid mucous in shades of orange juice, cloud grey, coffee grounds, and dripping scarlet sit in a blob like a dead rain forest grub, melting against his body heat.
Steve reaches over his own lap and finds the sunbleached, crispier than when it started, fast-food napkin in the drink console and rather pastes it to the back of his hand. It's less successful that what he was hoping for, but at least now he doesn't have to look at it. He takes a light breath, visualizing himself in the car on GPS aerial view, creeping slowly down the left-hand turn lane toward the stop sign, the other one, the three-way, which cannot be ignored when convenient. Then it's... how many doors in? Five? Six? Five from one way, six from the other. It hardly matters. He'll use the garage door opener.
He's going. He's going to make it. Steve can see the corner.
Someone screams, and a red ball of light shoots straight up from a bank of trees to Steve's right. The last spark makes contact with the curved bulb of the streetlight set a few yards diagonally from the launch point. A green ball follows immediately, this one sizzling harder. A purplish blue sails clean over the street light. There's an audible whoop, and much overlapping laughter. Then there's a white light. A tail of sparkles like a comet. Which stay. And stay.
Steve doesn't realize he's stomping the brake pedal until the kids set themselves in motion, and it contrasts with his relative stillness.
There are five or six of them, running out of the trees, making circles around the street lamp, one does a cartwheel in the grass. They poke fun at each other, trying to take yet more unlit Roman Candles out of a package that one of them holds close. Another seems to be the fire bearer, and they scrounge up a stick of medium length, light its end, and threaten their friends like an angry cave-person.
It's illegal. All of it. Roman Candles. Need an age 18 or older ID to purchase. And not legally for sale in this municipality. Too big for residential areas. Too dangerous. They might've fucked up a streetlamp. That's against city ordinance. They could've fucked up someone's house. That's personal property damage.
Kids aren't supposed to play with fire. They're not supposed to light sticks and wave them in the air, adding oxygen and making huge mistakes, like losing an arm to massive, irrecoverable cell death. Or doing the same to one of their friends. Or dropping the thing and setting a tree, which would set a fence, which would set an apartment, which would set the complex...
They start running across the street, jaywalking in front of Steve's car. To be fair, he isn't moving, so they might have the messy, youthful unawareness that in actuality, he knows way more than they do. The scent of electrical char follows them, wafting through Steve's still-cracked windows, as well as the irresistible smell of campfire.
But, no. This is, no. Steve shakes his throbbing head. He flicks on his high beams and slaps his sweaty palm down on the horn. He thinks about touching the accelerator and gunning it up a few feet, but he doesn't trust his awareness of spatial judgement. Nor theirs.
"What? Hey!" the kids shout at him. Some try cussing at him. But he beeps his horn again and flashes his turn signal, a weak reply of 'I'm bigger and badder and will run you over."
There's another second of stalemate. Steve picks up his phone and turns the brightness up, then makes the display a giant keypad. He dials 9, then hovers his finger over 1. The kids scream and scatter. The one holding the burning branch drops it, right there in the middle of the street.
Once he's clear of all running bodies, Steve accelerates and eases the car forward until the stick cracks under his tire. He reverses and runs over it again. Three more times Steve does his damage control, then he has to stop, panting, with clammy sweat dribbling down his temples. His stomach seems to have invited itself to take up residence in his chest. That's ok, Steve supposes, sighing. As long as his esophageal muscles are still cool with being a one-way street. He swallows for good measure. It's thick and gross and glues his tongue to the roof of his mouth, but Steve wills his body to maintain stasis, if not function.
He turns at the 3-way stop. Steve isn't sure whether to close his windows and recirculate the air conditioner or to just leave everything be. The smokey air feels heavy, as if it's proof of what he just experienced, how terrible he feels, and how very much he despises this time of year. The molecules of burnt ozone, melted plastic, and caustic chemical reaction will drift through the car and settle inside the nooks and crannies of the interior. The campfire odor which did not come from a campfire may as well be guilt branded into the essence of the vehicle.
The garage door opener clips neatly to the driver-side sunshield. Steve depresses its large grey button when he makes it about halfway down the block of narrow townhouses, almost identical in the moonlight. A couple of them are unique, like the unit with the added screen door and cactus-shaped birdbath, but for the most part, dark driveways loom in the same enticing and slightly creepy manner before giving a driver a visual of the friendliness of a house's front door.
The proper garage squeaks as it folds upward. Steve automatically thinks to the can of WD-40 that he's not sure if he bought for home use or for an ongoing project at work... It is much easier to move the helicopter pilot/copilot training sim into the building next door if all the bolts on the robotic legs aren't rusted to the floor. He's pretty sure it went to work. Yes, he even let Nat present it, subtly spraying the bolt above Tony's head, unscrewing it by hand, and asking him what his trouble was.
It's definitely Steve that has the trouble now. He has to force himself into movement, tossing his legs out the driver-side door whilst scooping his gym bag over his shoulder. He makes sure to collect his keys, but leaves the car windows as they are, hoping the neutral mechanic-y aura of garage will help air out all the anxiety-provoking leftovers.
The door into the house is unlocked. Steve steps inside and closes it gingerly, his body very opposed to the sound and feel of it slamming.
"You're home?" Bucky's voice asks from the vicinity of the living room.
"Um." Steve has to un-gum his throat before he can make actual words. He's alarmed at how hoarse his voice sounds once he can. "Yeah. Um. Finally home."
"The gym didn't eat you, did it?"
Bucky turns off the television and stands. He loops around the couch and sits backward on the arm so he's facing Steve across the carpet.
"No..." Steve's head objects to being upside-down as he unlaces his sneakers. It's a strain on his neck to look forward while he finishes stripping down to socks, but at least he doesn't feel in imminent danger of drowning in unreleased vomit.
There's a box of Kleenex on the side table, and once Steve straightens up, he reaches for it. Bucky intuitively fills the gap, picking it up and throwing a few tissues at Steve while he puts on a concerned face.
"You feeling ok?"
Steve uses the first tissue to wipe his clammy forehead and upper lip. Then he blows his nose, gently, one side at a time. The thin layers of lotion Kleenex soak through with thick, neon-brite mucous. Steve feels it shifting and burbling against the back of his throat as if he's removing just the head of an enormous gooey rope that's still well-adhered to the inside of his body.
"Um." Steve wipes his wet hand on his shorts, then takes another tissue to wrap his disgusting used ones. "Is something, like, blooming?" he asks. "You know, like an intrusive weed from, I don't know, Kentucky or someplace?" Steve hides a snuffle behind his hand. "Like the purple flowers that always die when you plant them in the median and in front of the WalMart?"
Bucky raises his eyebrows. "I thought you grew out of most of your allergies."
"I have a freaking peanut epi-pen." Steve complains thickly.
"I mean, like, rolling in the grass and stuff. Even when we had to dive into bushes in Central Park with our asses hanging out--"
"Ok, ok, I don't need reliving of that..." Steve's stomach twists, and his heart beats at the base of his neck, like a boxing glove set on a spring to wallow him upward and alternately block his ability to breathe and swallow. He would be able to deal with that if there wasn't so such fucking bloody much inside him, like jello that had somehow set outside the limits of its mold
"Are you going to feel better when you throw up?" Bucky jumps off the couch and takes Steve by the shoulder. It's basically another quarter of a rotation, a pause to open the door, and then a hip bump to get him directed over the toilet. "I think you're, like, all junked up."
Steve weakly nods. His mouth immediately begins to water. His body recognizes the escape route. He feels topheavy, frontheavy. Steve crashes to his knees, clipping them against the edge of the toilet seat before Bucky negotiates him backward a few inches and slowly curls him down properly.
The gags start without warning. Nothing coming at first because it's too sticky to pass. Then liquid acid from the deepest depths. It probably didn't need to come out, but, hey, if we're having an evacuation... Eventually Steve's throat gives up an intense globule of slime, and its extended family shifts out of his nasal cavity, sinus, and off the coating of his uvula in a slow, sickening mass exodus.
Steve breathes hard out his nose and quickly waves at Bucky for a Kleenex so he can wipe at the trails oozing down his face before he retches again.
The violent attacks of illness back off, leaving behind clearish, thick strings that won't depart Steve's lips. If they want to live behind his teeth for the time being... Steve doesn't care. He has a pressure headache like nothing else, and the shimmers edging in across his visual field are certainly due to exhaustion. Imbalance between what he can see and what his body feels. They only occasionally go red or green or blueish purple, and he's able to catch himself and actively stop before he yells to Bucky that the bookcase of presidential biographies is going to catch a spark and burn to the ground.
And that odd, nature smell? The one associated with the loud beep, after which Bucky left towels draped over the sink, but vanished into thin air?
Steve makes it as far as the end of the couch, then breathes deeply. It's not campfire, though his senses are willing to read it as campfire and throw him back down into another sick panic attack. Bucky doesn't make campfires. Not in the apartment.
The kitchen would make sense. Steve steps up to the table and holds the back of a chair for stability. The kitchen light is on and the backsplash display of the stove is illuminated. The part that controls the oven.
There's a soft clatter, and Steve sees Bucky, waist deep in a cabinet, then emerging with a wire cooling rack. Bucky catches a glimpse of Steve watching him. He places the cooling rack on the counter, then says, "I'm not letting you scald yourself. Not on your birthday."
It takes a second for the words to sink in. "It's... it's not my birthday."
"Well, I'm not having another birthday for you tomorrow." Bucky grins. "I was planning on tinfoil-ing the windows anyhow, but you're quarantined to bed and drinking honey lemon tea all day. That's strictly un-celebratory."
Steve takes a shaky breath out, and his throat wibbles uncomfortably. He doesn't dare cough to clear it, lest he start another uninvited deluge. "I'll give you that one."
The timer on the stove beeps again, and Bucky pulls on a mitt. He carefully opens the oven and removes the baking tray with ease. Closing the door with his knee, Bucky focuses on placing his creation in the exact center of the wire cooling rack. He removes the mitt, takes up a red spatula instead, and whirls to face Steve.
"So," Bucky says. "I suppose you're burning with curiosity?"
Steve nods, but knits his brows as he tries to fill in blanks he really ought not to have forgotten. Trees and outside and char and paper wrappers. Kids passing one along to the next along to the next... Boom pop illegal... Don't set the forrest on fire...
"Please tell me it's not a Roman Candle..." Steve covers his eyes.
Bucky laughs. "Uh. No."
"Army?" Steve guesses. "Or... before...?
"Both, actually." Bucky waves the spatula like a magic wand, then uses it to cut a sharp line through the steaming decadence in the baking pan. Swirls of heat and sweetness rise from the crack he's made, releasing yet more of that sharply pleasurable backyard smell, now mixed with what's undeniably...
"Chocolate?" The spot of Steve's memory that's stuck in threat-check, that hasn't gotten over an M&M wrapper being stuck to his shoe with fuck-knows-what as adhesive, sends up an anxious flare.
He doesn't pack his own flight bags, so the powder stick meant to catch on one paper end with the standard BIC lighter supplied to him might go up in red. Or green. Or blueish purple. The PJs say they like green, because it shows up better in night-vision goggles. The powder stick is meant to be handled with gloves. By an adult. With training. And it's purchased en mass. By a corporation. Invested in National Defense. Ironic how any fake 18-year-old can come by more fire power with less supervision and cause more damage.
"Oh, come on." Bucky pulls an annoyed grin. "Just because you have a head cold doesn't mean you get to forget about the existence of pot brownies."
"Oh." It all comes together in a fast-motion set of confirmations, and he berates himself for continuously looking in just barely the wrong spot. "Oh. Ok." Steve lets his face relax. "Thank you."
"You've been really tense," Bucky says. "I hope it isn't mean to point that out."
"No, you're right." Steve waves his hand over the pan of brownies and directs some of its intoxicating steam toward himself. "It's this time of year, I think. But, just, stuff... and I..." He breaks off. "Hard."
"Let's schedule you an un-birthday on the 5th, too," Bucky suggests, cutting the brownie into serving-sized pieces.
"Huh?"
"You need to be not-sick in order to go to work." Bucky balances his tone between know-it-all and especially caring.
"Mm. Point." Steve accepts the perfectly square brownie Bucky has cut for him. He pulls it delicately toward himself on its folded paper towel, relishing the contrast of the crunchy edge to the flaky top to the miniscule glimpse of green visible within the body of dark chocolate. A tiny thought in the back of his brain tells him that he's being gross. Steve tries arguing back that he's not being unreasonably judgemental, but one tiny shift and he's no better than the so-called lessers who have intercourse using their feet and M&Ms.
Steve tears off a tiny corner and drops it onto his tongue.
"Don't go at it too fast, now," Bucky warns thickly, already going to town on his serving.
"You don't say..."
Steve's walking Bucky home from football practice, and they know up to the minute how long the can dawdle before Mrs. Barnes will consider them "late." Sometimes they puff on a blunt, but that has to be done up by the school so the rest of the walk neutralizes the smell. Sometimes they stop off in the alley to kiss and get in each other's pants. That's more fun. Except for once in a while it takes too long, and Steve's stuck walking home with a raging hard-on.
Steve can't hide his grin as he swallows and takes another bite.
Years before that, when Steve's chin didn't reach the ice cream counter and his lisp made him the joke of the entire grade school, he and Bucky had an entire act worked out. Bucky would push him a little and fake bully him out of his money. Then he'd drag Steve into the soda fountain, seeming like he wanted to humiliate him, too. But he'd just order himself some exotic sundae, the add on, "Oh, and scoop 'o vanilla on a brownie for the kid, too."
"Where'd you get this recipe?" Steve asks slyly.
"I'm taking it to the grave." Bucky wipes crumbs on his own paper towel.
"Nat, right?" Steve guesses. "You begged?"
"Requested," Bucky corrects, then winks and smiles. His face takes on a more relaxed expression. Then he says, "I know you're not feeling good. Like, stressed, and sick, and all that stuff. And these next few days..." He shakes his head. "Usually not so good."
Steve rests his forehead on his elbow, trying to focus only on what he can hear now, smell, taste, everything in this exact moment.
A moment passes, and Bucky's at his side, inviting Steve to lean on him instead. "C'mere," he murmurs. "I'll make it better. Try my best?"
Steve takes a slow breath. He can smell weed and chocolate on himself now, and on Bucky, along with Bucky's soft scent. Though Steve's body has yet to completely relax, his instinctive mind has shifted to an unguarded sense of safety.
"You always take care of me best," Steve whispers. All his feelings of exhaustion and sickness and anxiety and fear and anger dull under a blanket of gentle relief. Whether it's the drug, or Bucky's soothing presence, or just time ticking by, Steve's stiffness begins to unravel.
"Couch, right?" Bucky offers. "Stairs are..." He waves his hand dismissively. "Blankets and pillows and maybe Ken Burns?"
Steve nods gingerly. It's Bucky who claims the bed, who watches documentaries and fishing shows on loop without knowing what they're called. But when Steve's trauma comes leaching through what he thought were well-sealed barriers, when beds just don't work, when the only soothing of wartime wounds is the continued explanation, curation, and presentation of war... There's a reason the shelf under the presidential biographies is PBS special edition box sets. And the shelf under that is stacked with extra blankets.
Bucky swats at the kitchen light and walks Steve into the living room. The couch cushions are fluffed for sitting. Bucky automatically flattens them and flps the largest throw against the far arm like a bed pillow against a headboard. Steve lies down and pulls one blanket tightly around him. Bucky wrestles a DVD out of a multi-pack sleeve; from it's relative placement, Steve guesses it's Vietnam.
Another blanket fluffs over Steve's legs. Bucky surpasses the DVD menu, sets the sound and TV brightness to lower degrees where they're less likely to blow out Steve's eyeballs and eardrums.
Bucky builds himself a place to kip with a blanket and pillow in front of the sofa. He lies down, then reaches up to intertwine his fingers with Steve's. Bucky squeezes gently. He makes no movement to let go.
Steve listens to the narration coming from the TV. He enjoys the latent taste of spiked chocolate still in his mouth. Steve squeezes Bucky's hand. He wonders if he's going to cry. He breathes deeply again and decides he doesn't care.
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cowboykissing · 11 months
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be honest is this too much
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keenerkey · 2 years
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Fanfic writer culture is just now writing a fic that you promised to write 6 months ago
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nb-peace · 2 years
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And Now My Pointless Thoughts I During Thor: Love and Thunder.
Spoilers. Duh. 
 Has Christian Bale always had that mole near his eye?
Did they just flip that shot of him because now the moles on the other side 
Huh I could of brought mum with me Korg just explained everything you need to know 
What do I know that blue guy from? Checks IMDB. STEPHEN CURRY!!
I love when random Aussies show up in this shit.
I missed Jane in Ragnarok. I’ve shipped them form the start.
Hey did Darcey ever bring up what happened in Westview?  
Darryl!! hey you know he Produces Bluey! 
Well the Gradians went here that long were they. They had to come to Australia for that 
Did Jeff Goldblum have to come to Australia just to be cut?
Hey Sif got her Comic book Costume. 
So why did Thor have to change in to the blue and gold outfit.
How come we have never heard of Heimdall’s son before?
I like Jane and Val are friends. We Don’t have enough female friends ships in the MCU. 
 This place looks cool and I cant wait for New Rockstars to tell me who everyone is.
Were do I know the blond next to Zeus from. Checks IMDB. BELLA FOR H20 JUST ADD WATTER!!
I don't know what Russell Crow is doing here but I'm for it.
That's Australia's ass.
I like how may cuts to the Maori goddess there was I see what you did there Taika.
Yay they kissed. But sad because she's sick.
Well the shadow realm looks sick. But is it as sick as Yu-Gi-Oh ‘s shadow realm?
Where did tent come from? they were just out side now there in a tent?
Fuck  Christian Bale is killing this shit. 
So now the axe stops acting like a bitch. 
Don't do ultimatums that doesn't end well.
I am all for the kid fighting these cunts. Especially the girl with the bunny and the one dressed as a fairy.
“IT IS MIGHTY THOR. OR IF THATS TO HARD DOCTOR JANE FOSTER”
This place looks the opposite of the place you go when you get the soul stone.
Fuck Then for killing Jane but wouldn't be surprised if Natalie didn't want to come back for another movie. 
So Val still didn't get a girlfriend.
Gee Taika must love a good pun whit the Dwayne the Rock in this and the German Shepperd's joke in Jojo Rabbit.
 So Sif cant get a robot arm Like Bucky?
And are we going to find out where she was during Ragnarok?
It is very cute that Chris's daughter is playing Love.
And she still has her Aussie accent.
Thor you were just holding the box you count get Pancakes right?
Well the name is very literal isn't it.
Hey its the guy from Ted Lasso.
 Okay this might be a long shot but. Isn't it in Norse Mythology that they don't believe Valhalla is forever? Don't they believe Ragnarok will come and they will be reincarnated? and hasn't that happened in the comic books?
So is there a possibility that Jane and Heimdall and the other gods could be back?
Also if they have to die in battle to get to Valhalla dose that mean Odins not there? 
And lastly WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DICKHEADS ON ABOUT THAT MOVIE IS GOOD!! SOMETIMES THINGS CAN JUST BE FUN!!
Now to get to fanficton to get back on my Jane and Thor shit.
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morsmordre-writes · 3 years
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am i more than you bargained for yet? - masterlist
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Bucky Barnes x Reader
Summary: Bucky has an unwanted secret admirer, so naturally you pretend to be his girlfriend until it blows over. Will someone catch feelings? Will they be absolute idiots about it all? Will they live happily ever after? We may never know.
AN: send me an ask if you wanna be apart of the taglist for this series, permanent tag list will open back up feb 1st. this series should be updated every Saturday :)
Masterlist | Twitter Profiles
[1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10] [epilogue] 
moodboard by @fangirlinsweden 🥰🥰
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xxgoblin-dumplingxx · 4 years
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August 2019 Masterlist
Pastry and Magic: Eighteen
Pastry and Magic: Nineteen
Burned
To-Do List
Pastry and Magic: Twenty
Burned: Two
Logically Speaking: One
Pastry and Magic: Twenty- One
Safe Harbor: Nine
Logically Speaking: Two
Nothing Good Happens After Midnight: One
Logically Speaking: Three
Nothing Good Happens After Midnight: Two
Nothing Good Happens After Midnight: Three
Pastry and Magic: Twenty-Two
Ink and Lace: One
Nothing Good Happens After Midnight: Four
Nothing Good Happens After Midnight: Five
Burned: Three
Ink and Lace: Two
Ink and Lace: Three
Nothing Good Happens After Midnight: Six
Nothing Good Happens After Midnight: Seven
Nothing Good Happens After Midnight: Eight
Nothing Good Happens After Midnight: Nine
Nothing Good Happens After Midnight: Ten
Logically Speaking: Four
Pastry and Magic: Twenty-Three
Nothing Good Happens After Midnight: Eleven
Nothing Good Happens After Midnight: Twelve
Nothing Good Happens After Midnight: Thirteen
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