If I Didnt Know Any Better - Cutthroat Challenge

If I Didn’t Know Any Better - Cutthroat Challenge

Thank you again @sherrybaby14 for this lovely challenge! Very inspiring and gave me an opportunity to write a little Steve fluff! 

Prompt: Valentine’s dinner with Steve 

Sabotage One: Steve has to have a room filled with children’s toys. 

Sabotage Two: Can’t use the words yes/no/maybe or any synonym! 

Pairing: Steve Rogers x you / Steve Rogers x y/n

Summary: Who could have known that the only thing you needed to finally tell Steve how you feel would be a bottle of red wine and a room full of children’s toys? 

Warnings: Fluff, fluff, and MORE fluff! It’s my birthday, so I’m feeling fluffy. 

Words: 2k 

*** 

“I can’t believe I’ve never been to your place before Steve!” you gasped at the glory of the expansive apartment. Nestled in, on a quiet street in Brooklyn, the antique building was almost dream-like with its ivy-covered façade and large oak trees outside. The exposed brick walls and original hardwood floors paired well with the plush rugs and brown leather couch sat in the living room. Everything was clean lines, utilitarian, but with just the right amount of sentimentality to make it warm. Homey. The kitchen, with its ample-sized marble island lay open, giving it a small modern feel for such an otherwise outdated space. In a way, the apartment was the perfect reflection of Steve. Wonderful smells wafted from the oven and stovetop, leading you further in and past the tall super soldier holding the door open for you.

“Please, (Y/N), come on in,” laughed Steve, closing the door and following you towards the kitchen.

“Where is everyone? I thought for sure I was going to be the last one here,” you admitted sheepishly as you set down your bags and began to unpack the copious bottles of wine. You attempted to suppress a smile as you remembered the aghast expression on the checkers face when you’d placed ten bottles of red blend down on the conveyer belt.

“They didn’t tell you?” Steve questioned, picking up one of the bottles and examining the label.

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summertime sadness .9. finale

the last time

Sequel to kiss me in the d-a-r-k

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 (masterlist under construction)

Warnings: non con (rough sex)

This is dark!(dad)Steve and dark(professor!)Bucky and dark!Loki and explicit. 18+ only.

Summary: The reader makes up her mind.

Note: So this is the end, but I am leaving a possible third addition open in the future but not anytime soon. We’ve followed our reader so far and in my head she’s still growing. No spoilers but this one’s bittersweet.💋

<3 Let me know what you think in a reblog, reply, or like. I’m loving the feedback from y'all and the enthusiasm! Also as always, memes accepted.

💋💋💋

You were at the townhouse at eight but you were certain to linger outside till quarter after before you knocked. You checked your phone and slid it in your pocket. Loki was seething as he answered the door, his nose was swollen and purple around his left nostril; close to broken but not quite. You repressed a smile and entered with an apology.

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Heat Helper Part Two: Lyle

female reader x male werewolf (explicit) 

(Y’all have been so sweet and supportive so here is a sappy conclusion with Lyle!!  Enjoy, this is my first work out of a two month writing block so I’m hoping it’s an okay read. More monster stories may be in the future from me.)

Part One

Part Two (4k words)

Lyle Byrne sat in his truck in the stillness of an early morning gas station lot. It was just up the road from the motel – everyone knew that place, the rogues and the lost all found their way to it.

What did that make her? 

The woman he paid… to deal with his heat, she was all over him. Her scent on his body, her moans and begging caught in his head, and the warmth of her body against his in the quietest moments of dawn. 

Guilt… he was guilty, he’d asked and watched for any sign of her being uncomfortable or coerced. But she seemed to really enjoy it once they got into it. It still didn’t make him feel better about the situation, especially once he realized she hadn’t gone to the motel for the session. 

She lived there. She lived in that motel and he’d been in her space, he’d covered her in his scent, and let his emotions get far too strong over a one night stand. 

His face flushed. 

But he had given his number to her, amidst that extra cash he pulled out for her. 

After he’d seen that Plan B on the counter of the bathroom. 

Lyle’s body heated again, this rut was so close to being done, but it kept shoving images of her moaning and gripping the sheets. 

It took immense effort to not touch himself in the parking lot. 

He hit the steering wheel with the palm of his hand and snarled. This was it. If she spoke to him, he would deal with what came from it. But he needed to stop thinking and fantasizing over her. 

About how much he wanted to bring her home, to spoil her and fuck her, to maybe see her stomach grow with a baby they could cherish and love. 

Lyle turned the keys harshly and gunned it out of the parking lot. 

The truck kicked up dust on the desert road leading towards the lush mountains. With the sun peaking over the horizon, he drove faster to avoid the inevitability of his fluttering heart. 

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Kittens and Bottles

Summary: Your happy life with your favorite cat and favorite hero. This is a small continuation of here.

Wordcount:2644

You have the best cat in the entire world. Here are the reasons why.

She’s adorable; the cutest fur baby. She’s fluffy, sleek, and mews in the most adorable way.

She is cuddly. Not many cats let you rub your face into their bellies as much as you want. But she does; in fact, she will make you cuddle her belly. If you aren’t careful, you could die in your sleep from her smothering you. It would be a happy death.

She found you a boyfriend. A hot, sassy, sexy, funny, pro-hero boyfriend.

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Angel with a shotgun Final

part 1| part 2

wordcount: 3466

A/N: Real quick thanks to @nankri @fukyouthink @terrifying-testicles @domtamaki who made suggestions to me! It really helped me finish this! Thank you!

“Alright, let’s go Blasty,” Kaminari panted to himself as he practically dragged a half-aware Bakugo down the street.

He wasn’t drunk enough to not shoot back with an insult though. “You are weak as shit, Drooly.”

This was just not Kaminari’s night; instead of picking up chicks after a night out with his bros, him caring for a drunk, heartbroken Bakugo. “Well, not all of us can lift a building over our heads like Midoriya or Sato.”

“Drooly.”

He was in no mood to deal with anyone’s shit, especially Bakugo’s. “Stop insulting me and just focus on walking.”

“Kaminari,” Bakugo spoke in such a serious, broken tone that he couldn’t help but to stop to look at his friend. Kaminari stared at Bakugo, anxious to hear what he had to say. Maybe he was about to drunkenly open up to him like he did to Kirishima, finally admitting that they were best friend—

“I’m gonna throw up.”

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*quickly rereads duck and cover because HO YEAH BABY OUR MEDIC IS BACK*

         #DUCKANDCOVER:  you get the hell out of birmingham, headed to london for some much needed leave. on the ride, your love for humphrey bogart and boys from brooklyn are discussed. 

pairing: medic!reader x wwii!buckyword count: 692, a drabblerating: t, swearing and desc. of disastera/n: enjoy some tension + flirting.

                                                AO3    ✚    MASTERLIST

You’re glad to get the hell away from the burning of Birmingham. 

As the transport rolls away, you’re left to swipe at your eyes still stinging with soot and ash from three consecutive nights of bombings. You’d listened to the locals whisper about the Blitz that had come to pass a year ago, huddled close in the darkness of the shelters left as the world came down around you.

They spoke of the bombings like a gnarly, mighty beastie crawling back out from under the bed, here to terrorize the city. 

Maybe it was for the children’s sake.

You can’t help but feel like Lot’s wife; looking back at the wreckage sours something in your gut, paints you all types of angry. Instead of turning to a pillar of salt, you turn back around to worry your hands and breathe out.

The spring sun is hot on your back and the breeze feels nice and it reminds you of home. If you close your eyes and ignore the garish sound of the transmission and the sweet smell of cinders, you could be home – on your back porch with your kid sister playing cards.

You’re quickly jostled out of that daydream, shoulder to shoulder with the Howling Commandos, as the truck bounces down to London.

You’re all in various states of disarray and squalor. 

Bucky, across from you, mimics your sigh. His face is caked in inky soot – it makes him look meaner than he is, painting the sharp contours of his cheeks and leaving bright blue eyes to emote. It bolsters his reputation of being the hard-ass, being the cold one. 

The shell that had blown out the butcher’s shop leveled the first floor; luckily, for the residents cowering in that basement cellar turned meat-locker, everything had been fine. 

Fine was a relative term, he supposes. 

After Bastogne, Bucky reasoned you could walk through hell unshaken. He himself had been slow to rise, coughing and weeping and clawing through the leveled remains of the shop with the other men – the night air had been so calm after the pass of the bombings. 

Jim’s reading a paper, hunched over beside you and making a pained sound. The ranger slaps the page, scoffing. “You believe this shit, doll? Your man’s gettin’ married.”

You blink, leaning over. In an immediate display of interest, you snatch the paper and instantly pull a face, lips pulled in disbelief as your squint at the column. “Oh, Christ, not Humphrey Bogart – no wonder he never replied t’ my letters…”

The truck riles themselves up into laughter as you groan, throwing your hands. 

“T’ who?” calls out Dum Dum, “Susan Hayward?”

You squint, scanning the page. Instantly, your posture drops. “Lauren Bacall.”

Bucky smothers a laugh across from you, amused by the antics. “She’s a real looker. She’s Romanian, y’know.”

“Oh, c’mon,” you call, eyeing Bucky, who’s grinning back at you, “I’m prettier than Lauren Bacall, right? Right? Whatever – guess I’m never gettin’ married now. My heart’s broken.”

That stirs laugh out of the boys.

Falsworth eyes you, lip twitching. “Y’ got a boy back home, dear?”

“Me?” you have to laugh, dry and twisted, “No, god no.”

Bucky deflates in relief. His brow quirks. “Why y’ say it like that?”

There’s something behind his words, something full of promise – you wonder if you’re just wishing; hopeful thinking never got anyone anywhere.

There’s a lot of eyes on you now and you squirm, lips pulled into a devilishly proud look; you have the boys wrapped around your finger, Buck out of them all the most – you can see how he hangs on your every word. You wonder if this is what Rita Hayworth feels like, to be marveled at so openly. 

It’s endearing.

“I dunno,” you say, eyes glued to his, tossing a shrug, “Never found the right one, I guess. Maybe I shoulda looked in Brooklyn.”

There’s a chorus of whoops and Bucky laughs – you toe his boot with yours in good humor and wish you didn’t mean that. But you do. 

He wishes you really did.

If only he knew.