#Pia's 3k Drabble Round
Note
I’d like to request “I had this dream where you kissed me, and I kind of want to try it now.” With Bucky 🥰
Once Upon A Dream
“Burning the midnight oil?”
Bucky barely even flinched at your voice, merely glancing over his shoulder at you. His senses were still playing tricks on him after his army discharge, and in the month he’d lived with you, you’d awoken more times than you could remember to find light spilling through the door to the spare room that he’d used. The two of you knew each other from college, shared the same major, and had by all accounts been two peas in a pod, sticking your tongues out at each other at graduation. You knew he enlisted shortly after, that it was easier to find a place in the army than a place to work. It broke you when years later, your friend returned home, left arm missing and not knowing where to turn. He’d kept in touch sporadically during his deployment, sending e-mails and holiday greetings, but in the last year before he was discharged, you hadn’t heard a peep, and he wouldn’t talk about it.
“Well, more like the 3 am oil,” he huffs, shifting on your couch. “Sorry, did I wake you? I can turn off the lights.”
“And sit like a creepy horror movie monster in my living room?” you snorted, leaning up against the doorframe. “I pity every burglar that would ever think to break into my little shithole of an apartment.”
There’s a smile tugging at the edges of his mouth, not quite succeeding breaking through the somber mask he’s wearing. You wanna ask what’s going on. He usually keeps in his room, if he ended up here, there’s gotta be something going on… right?
“Did I wake you?” Bucky repeats, pulling his knees up and wrapping his right arm around it.
“Nah, was just gonna go grab a glass of water. You want something? Water? Juice? Mug of warm milk?”
“That shit’s disgusting, you know that?”
There’s a little spark of the Bucky you used to know, the deadpanning grump who would turn up to class a minute before it started and slide in like Tom Cruise in Risky Business. Thankfully always fully dressed. You grab a bottle of water from your fridge, walking back and slumping down next to him, taking a swig and handing it to him.
“So… penny for your thoughts?”
Bucky takes a few swigs, setting the bottle to balance on one of his knees. “That the going rate?”
“For you it’s a bargain.”
He doesn’t immediately answer, simply watches the condensation from the bottle soak into his sweats. His hair is slowly growing out, and you can only imagine the internal full on drama that must have happened when they cut the long locks he spent an inordinate amount of time styling back in college. The sharp edges of the cut has now softened out, leaving him with a floofy mess that you sometimes catch him growling over in the bathroom.
“I had a dream…” he begins, taking hold of the bottle to take another swig.
“That every cat turned up in your room?”
Another college tidbit. He’d woken you up, drunk as a skunk at 4 am one morning, declaring that his dorm room was full of cats and he couldn’t stay there because what if they all slept on him and he died? No matter how you tried to tell him it was a drunk dream, he refused to go back, and spent the night on your floor and woke with a crick in his neck that lasted a week.
“No, but thanks for reminding me.”
Smiling, you leaned over to nudge him, “You had a dream.”
“I… haven’t had a lot of them. And the ones I’ve had have been nightmares. Don’t exactly qualify.” He mumbles the last almost under his breath.
“Was this another nightmare? That why you’re sitting on my couch at pre-asscrack of dawn?”
“No. No, that’s it. First dream in a month that I could remember that wasn’t a nightmare. Was about you actually?”
“Me?” You shift, turning to face him, but he’s stubbornly looking straight ahead.
“I had this dream where you kissed me,” he says, running the tip of his index finger over the rim of the bottle, “and I kind of want to try it now. But I don’t- I don’t expect you to, you know, to do it. It was just a dream, it means- well, it means something, it’s just not-”
Smiling, you gently cup his cheek, turning his head to make him look at you. “Bucky, will you shut up now?”
“Shit, I’m sorry, I never should’ve said something, this is- I’m s-”
You silence him with a kiss. It’s nothing fancy, nothing that would make sparks fly and birds sing like in the movies. It’s soft and gentle, but it warms you to your core, sets your stomach fluttering when you feel Bucky’s lips responding, kissing back just as gentle. It’s quiet and reserved and perfect and you honest to god sigh when you break apart.
“Come on,” you tell him, standing up and holding out your hand for him.
“Wh- what?”
You take his right hand, pulling him up off the couch and leading him back towards your bedroom. “Contrary to last time you came to me and couldn’t sleep, I’m actually gonna let you share my bed this time, Bucky.”
| Pia's 3k Drabble Round |
260 notes
·
View notes
Note
“I keep telling them we’re not dating, but they keep telling me friends don’t normally make out when drunk.” With Steve for the Drabbles?
Never Have We Ever
The poor bastard that pulls up in the saferide outside the frat house looks almost more terrified than you've ever felt at the end of a party night. Then again, Steve tends to have that effect on people. Built like a brick shithouse, the two of you could probably have made it to the dorm you both lived in across campus without getting in any trouble. As it was, Steve was down for the count, and you were not hauling his muscle-blown ass all the way home.
"He's a puppy, don't worry, dude," you tell the poor saferide-guy.
"I am!" Steve agrees with a loopy smile. "I am… I am a puppy! I'm- I'm a fuckin' golden retriever puppy. There once was a golden retriever-"
"I swear to god, Rogers, if you ruin puppies for me with a limerick, I will dump you in the closest field of poison ivy!" you growl, glaring at him before turning back to your ride. "Help me get him in?"
Together, you maneuver Steve, who subjectively at this point has to weigh five tons and is about as limber as a rod of steel, into the car before you crawl in next to him, slumping into his arms and giving the name of your dorm. There's the barest minimum of small talk before you start to doze off.
"Y'know what?" Steve mumbles, words slurring. "We… really need to stop making out at these things."
"Pass. You're the only guy who doesn't kiss like he's trying to best me in a duel."
"Yeah, but Bucky and Sam keep telling me to nut up and ask you out, but like, I keep telling them, right?"
"Mmhmm…"
“I keep telling them we’re not dating," Steve continues, pulling you in closer, "but they keep telling me friends don’t normally make out when drunk.”
"Laaaaaaame," you yawn in response.
"What?"
"Huh?"
"Lame that we're not dating or lame that they don't get why we keep making out."
Not exactly the turn you wanted this conversation to take on a Saturday night after far too many tequilas. But Steve's kisses taste so good with a little tequila. And a little raspberry vodka. Steve's kisses taste good with anything, really. Oh fuck.
"I mean… both?"
If there is hesitation in your voice, you really try to squash it down under the inebriation and fatigue. Steve is… Steve is amazing. Steve is a fucking tower of muscles who majors in fucking English Lit, and he kisses like a god, and it started as a joke at some lame Valentine's day party- or wait, it really started because you got paired up for a project and then you ditched it for the party and someone called kiss, and well, you sure as hell wasn't gonna kiss anyone else, and ugh, he's a really, really, really good kisser. So you kept hanging out even after the project was done, after the course was done and kisses kept happening, but it never meant anything.
Right?
"Why haven't we ever tried dating?" you muse out loud, playing around with Steve's hand that's wrapped around you.
Steve makes a sound like "I don't know", shrugging his shoulders. "Kissing seemed easier?"
"You wanna go on a date, Rogers?"
"What? Like… take you out?"
"Sure," you reply, feeling heat creep up into your cheeks. "You can take me for breakfast tomorrow. Or brunch. Or lunch. Whichever comes first."
"Can I still kiss ya?"
You squirm in his embrace, twisting and turning to climb up to be face to face with him. He's five minutes away from falling asleep, but one eye is squinting at you, a lazy smile playing on his lips. God, he is such a good kisser. You press a soft peck to his lips, melting at the way he responds immediately, kissing you back slow and soft.
"Sure, Rogers," you husk out. "You can still kiss me."
"You got a deal sweetface." Steve smiles like a dope and you lean back in for another kiss.
"Um, guys…" The saferide driver. Ugh, why? You're about to tell him to stop with the perving and keep with the driving when he clears his throat. "Uh, so… we're here?"
It takes a good five minutes to get from the car to the front door and in through it.
(because more kissing)
It takes another five minutes to get to your room.
(even more kissing, featuring some excellent hugging)
It takes until lunch before either of you feel even remotely like something alive, and Steve holds out his hand for you.
"I believe we have a date."
| Pia's 3k Drabble Round |
154 notes
·
View notes
Note
Hi hello yes here is a very very casual ask requesting a drabble with Bucky and #20 from the first prompt list, thank you very much and good day madam
Word Blind
There is a pep in your step as you walk into work this morning. You'd had a couple of good pieces printed, but to be the NYT-journalist to have a feature with the Bucky Barnes is something else entirely. You'd almost fallen off your chair when the assignment landed on your desk, and yeah, there had been maybe a moment or two where you were absolutely terrified because the man had been a damn assassin for seventy years.
All fears, however, had been dispelled the second you met the man in question. You could understand why every history book on sergeant Barnes mentioned his good looks and chivalrous charm in one form or another. Even with his hair grown out, he'd looked like he had just stepped out of a fashion magazine. No doubt courtesy of the Avengers PR-staff, but still. Piercing blue eyes that stood out brilliantly against the black wool coat he'd worn to keep out the chilly air of New York fall, hair falling in soft waves around his shoulders. The photographer had sung the sergeant's praises in between the easy conversation you two had had, all of it recorded by your phone.
Walking into the office, you are met with wolf whistles, applause and cheers and, most peculiarly a lot of pointed commentary about sergeant Barnes. Ignoring them, you make your way to your little cubicle, where some gracious soul has pinned the article to one of the cubicle walls. God, the camera sure loved that man. So what if you take a couple of moments throughout the day to just look at the photo, the sharp silhouette of his profile, the blue of his eyes, the light and shadow playing beautifully off his stubbled cheek. People pat you on the back, call you Ace and tell you to keep up the good work. Most of it, and again peculiarly, in the same suggestive tone.
You decide not to linger on it. You'd done a good job. You'd pulled off a feature other newspapers would die for. There is nothing to worry about.
Nothing.
Until the front desk calls you the next week to let you know sergeant Barnes is there to see you. Perplexed, you tell her to send him up, and you quickly check to see if one of the smaller conference rooms are available before going to the elevator to meet him. The doors slide open just as you get there, and Bucky Barnes steps out.
"Sergeant Barnes," you greet him, holding out your hand. "It's lovely to see you again."
"I thought we agreed you'd drop the sergeant?" he tells you with a smile, taking your hand to shake, left hand encased in a soft leather glove.
You wave him in, leading him through the newsroom. Your co-workers slowly fall silent one after the other, and you're almost grateful to close the door behind you and pull the blinds once you're in the conference room.
"You want anything? Coffee? Tea? A really shitty bagel?" you ask, trying to diffuse the awkward situation.
Bucky only shakes his head, shoving his hands in his pockets.
"Right. Okay. What can I do for you? Did you get a copy of the article?" you ask, sitting down at the table.
At that, he plucks the rolled up paper from inside his coat. Is he… is he blushing? "Yeah… I did. Look, about that…"
Well, shit. That's never a good succession of words. "Is there something wrong, se- mr. Barnes? Why are you looking at me like that?"
Bucky is regarding you with a look that is both inquisitive and suspicious. He stands still at the other end of the table, just a few feet from the door. What the hell is going on?
"I… I'm sure you didn't mean it, and I really don't mind," he says, slowly walking over to set the paper in front of you, turned up to the article about him, "but both Tony and Sam have been giving me hell, and there's a cake riding on this, so I gotta ask… Did you do it on purpose?"
Your mind completely blanks. Did you do… what? With panic rising in your chest, you try to speed read through the article, looking for inadvertent factual errors, anything that may have slipped past you. Nothing.
"I'm sorry, I'm… I'm not sure I follow?"
"'Bucky Barnes Just Likes to Watch'?" he reads, a wry tone to his voice.
You furrow your brow. It's-
Oh.
Oh.
Oh, no.
You want the floor to open and swallow you whole. You had sent an article to print with a fucking innuendo in it and you hadn't noticed. The entire country had read this.
"Oh, fuck." You sink down on a chair, letting your head fall down on the table, thunking painfully against the hard surface. "Fuck, fuck, fuck!"
"I'm- I don't- Hey, I'm not mad!" Bucky quickly adds, sitting down next to you.
"Everyone has been poking fun at me! Oh, my god, how did I miss this?" you wail, pushing the newspaper away from you.
"So it was a mistake?"
How is he sounding so calm? So… not mad? So amused? You look up to see him smirking to himself, phone in his hand.
"Oh god, please, you gotta believe me, it was! I'd never- I swear, I'd never do that intentionally!"
"Sam's gonna be so disappointed."
Sam?
"What?"
"Tony and Sam had a bet going. Tony said it had to be a mistake, not that he's let me hear the damn end of it, and Sam thought you did it on purpose. So now…" With a push of a button, the conversation from the last minute starts playing back.
"You recorded me?" You should be appalled, but this is just so many levels of bizarre.
"I…" He looks like he wants to say something more, but falls quiet for a few seconds before continuing "Yeah. But they said I had to get proof! Figured this would be best and most indisputable."
You let your head fall back down, this time cushioned by your arms. God fucking damn it. Fuck.
"God, I am gonna die. I think I might have died already? Can you check my pulse? Or, just call me an ambulance already because if I'm not already dead, the mortification will finish me off any minute."
A hand comes to rest on your arm, a bionic thumb rubbing circles into it.
"Hey, it's okay. I really, really don't mind. Got us both a lot of publicity, right? PR loves you. Mostly. No, they do. It'll be okay."
"You'll have to excuse me for not being completely convinced about that," you mutter, peeking back up at him. That goddamn, fucking smile.
"C'mon. Let's go get some air."
"Really? You wanna take a walk? It's cold outside. And grey. Like a dead, fat pidgeon."
Bucky stands up, holds out his hand for you. "You got people to talk about something else than my possible murder count. That's worth a break from work at the very least."
"You wanna take a walk with me?" you ask, scepticism colouring your voice. Why?"
Something glints in Bucky's eyes, and he takes the paper, rolls it back up and stuffs it inside his coat again.
"Didn't you hear? I like watching."
| Pia's 3k Drabble Round |
#drabble#Word Blind#Bucky Barnes x reader#Bucky x reader#this is 100% based on the headline for the NYT article about Seb#because for real#either that was on purpose or the most glorious accidental innuendo ever#Pia's 3k Drabble Round
137 notes
·
View notes
Text
It's Not the Same
"How come I always end up calling you when I can't fall asleep?"
You rolled over in your bed, trying to find a comfortable spot. Your pillow was twisted hither and yon into a lumpy mess, your covers tangled in your legs in an attempt to be both warm and cool at the same time, and there was a gap in your blackout curtains that let in a ray of moonlight that may as well have been a laser beam.
“Because you know I’ll be up?” came Bucky’s amused voice on the other end.
“Well, there’s that. Did you really have to get a job that far away?” you moan, kicking at your covers to expose your calf a bit more to the cool air.
“They offered me an assload of money, plus, if I took the offer I got in New York, I would definitely not answer your calls.”
Huffing, a little louder than perhaps strictly necessary, you couldn’t deny that he had a point. Bucky was bright, had so much potential. Of course he was offered the job in London. Of course took it. He would have been an idiot not to, and you would have told him so. It didn’t take away from the fact that you missed your friend, missed late night Chinese takeout, stressy afterwork drinks because he had to run to the gym and then watch his nephews because his sister got called in to work an extra shift.
You missed Bucky, and with every sleepless night that you ended up calling him, something started gnawing at your heart that made you think the answer to your own question was far easier than you wanted to admit. And you never would. Bucky didn’t feel that way about you.
“Hello?”
“Sorry, thought I heard something,” you lied, grumbling as you once again tossed and turned. “I swear to god, I’m starting to feel like I’m in The Princess and the Pea. Except, instead of a pea, I am sleeping on boulders covered by a shitty dumpster mattress pad and there’s no prince testing me. Just life.”
“That bitch,” Bucky laughed with a mock-outraged voice, then cleared his throat. “And people on the train now think I am that kind of American. Thanks.”
“I live to make an ass out of you, you know that.”
“I know. Kinda miss it. It’s not the same working without you.”
And that… hurt. It hurt in a way that for a second made your insomnia fade. It wasn’t the same, isn’t the same. Bucky had been an inadvertent glue in your life, pulling you along, making you stick to other things than just your job. You went out, you met people, you had a life beyond the hours you spent at work. Now… you were back ticking down the minutes of your workday behind your desk and you didn’t go out as much. It just wasn’t the same. Because Bucky wasn’t there.
“Yeah,” you whispered, swallowing back the sadness. “Right back at ya. I really miss getting plastered on Friday afternoons and wasting the weekend away because of it.”
“Sarcasm doesn’t become you.”
You wanted to tell him that neither did loneliness, but here you were.
“Yeah, well, sarcasm is... “ the new life without your best friend that you actually might love but won’t ever own up to “...the new office-appropriate black.”
“Really?” You could almost see the face he made, one eyebrow arched, chin down so that a lock of his stupid long hair fell down his stupid handsome face like some stupid dreamy tv show hunk.
“Stark sent out a memo and everything. Potts-Stark then sent out a memo telling us to ignore him. To which Stark sent a memo saying she was only 12% right and that majority rules. Sorry, that was a joke, I just couldn’t stop.”
“I was about to ask if you were serious. You really need to get some sleep.”
You did. And you didn’t. Why did you always end up calling Bucky when you couldn’t sleep, because it never helped. He wasn’t boring, you never got tired. Instead you ended up lying awake and smiling and reminiscing to yourself.
“I will. I… I’m actually feeling a bit tired.”
“Good. Sweet dreams, okay? We’ll talk again.”
The call ended, and the world fell silent again. Squeezing your eyes shut, you tensed your entire body. Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck. Relaxing, you opened your eyes again and stared up at the offwhite ceiling.
You really needed to stop calling Bucky when you couldn’t sleep.
You really needed to stop calling Bucky altogether.
| Pia's 3k Drabble Round (closed) |
#drabble#It's Not the Same#Bucky Barnes x reader#Pia's 3k Drabble Round#I accidentally posted the ask unanswered because I was tired and pressed the wrong button#so screenshotted the ask and deleted the post#because I am an idiot who should not do anything that requires thinking before 9 am on weekends#sorry about that nonny
115 notes
·
View notes
Note
Hi, my love! Congrats on 3k, that's amazing and you deserve it! For the drabble round, could I get "It was the highest stakes game of rock-paper-scissors ever played," with my boy Bucky, please? Thank you and congrats again
Friendly Games
"C'mon, just one more! Best out of eleven!"
Groaning, you tipped your head back, wincing when you only met a hard bulkhead. It was too early for this. Or late. Or both. You just wanted to get back to base, debrief, peel off the tac suit and faceplant into your nice, big, comfy bed.
"Jesus Christ, Barnes, I am not playing another round of rock-paper-scissors with you! Accept defeat and learn solitaire or something!" you barked at your far too chipper company.
It hadn't been a bad mission per sé. Bad guys were mostly operating on dumb luck and ended up surrendering in the end. It had just been a very long, very frustrating mission, which wasn't helped by Bucky wise-cracking his way through every part of it. If he wasn't so beautiful (and, you know, important to the team), you wouldn't have hesitated to rearrange his face with the arc gauntlets supplied by Shuri for the mission.
"Please, you think you've defeated me? Don't you recognize a hustle when you see one?" Bucky teased, nudging your shoulder. "Got you right where I want you."
"And where's that? 'Cause you're right on my very last nerve."
Bucky put on his best pout, resting his head on your shoulder to look up at you. Pressing your lips together, you kept looking forward. If you broke and looked, he would win and you'd have to play and he'd lose again and this vicious, soulsucking circle would start all over again.
"Pleeeeeaaaaseee…"
Jesus, god, not the voice.
"Please, please, please?"
"You sound like a five-year-old, Barnes. Act your fucking age for once," you grumbled, crossing your arms over your chest.
"Please, I swear, this will be the last. Best of eleven and I'll leave you alone. Won't say a peep, won't even look at you. I'll make sure we're out of debrief within ten minutes?"
"If you think I won't make sure we're out in five, you're insane."
Barnes groaned, sitting back up with all the drama of a Hollywood diva, "Fine. Name your price."
Well, now… That was actually halfway tempting. The possibilities were endless. Breakfast personally delivered for ten weeks. Possibly with Bucky wearing a French maid outfit. He sure had the thighs for it. You held out your hand.
“Fine. If I win, you will bring me breakfast from that place I like down in the Village every Saturday for ten weeks.”
The grin that spread on Bucky’s lips could have lit up all of Manhattan. “Deal. And if I win…”
“Then what?”
“Tell ya that when I win,” he replied cheekily, holding out his closed fist.
Glaring at him, you held out yours, holding his gaze as you counted down.
"It was the highest stakes game of rock-paper-scissors ever played."
“Why, daddy?”
The sound of your daughter Becca’s excited voice pulled you from the bedroom and to the adjoining room, where Bucky was cuddled down in the too small bed, right arm curled around your little girl. He looked up when he heard you coming, shooting you a toothy grin as you came and sat down on the edge of the bed.
“Because, your daddy cheated-”
Bucky fake-gasped, “I did not! I won that game fair and square.”
“And what did you win?” Becca asked, looking up at her father, eyes twinkling with mirth.
“A date with the most amazing woman in the entire world.”
Becca’s eyes widened, looking back at you, “Was that you, mommy?”
Laughing, you leaned in to press a kiss to her forehead, “It was, sweetheart. And I’d lose all over again, because we got you just a year later.”
Together, you tucked Becca in under her covers, said goodnight to her and her considerable posse of stuffed animals before sneaking out, leaving the door slightly ajar. Bucky pulled you into his embrace, holding you close and kissing the top of your head.
“How did I get so lucky, huh?”
“Well, I have it on good authority that I’m amazing,” you said, drawing in the warm, safe scent that you had come to think of as home. “Plus, you know, you cheated.”
Bucky groaned, lifting you to spin your around and carry you to your own bedroom. You quickly got ready, cosying own under the covers, where Bucky immediately pulled you into him. It was his version of a safety blanket, he’d told you, knowing he had his entire world in his arms. Pressing a kiss to your neck, he whispered in your ear.
“Maybe just a little.”
| Pia’s 3k Drabble Round |
#drabble#Friendly Games#Bucky Barnes x reader#Bucky x reader#Pia's 3k Drabble Round#creideamhgradochas
113 notes
·
View notes
Note
Congrats on 3k!!!! For the prompt i was thinking Steve Rogers x Reader and prompt is “is that my shirt?” From that first link u gave us :) (i hope i did this right. I dont usually send requests but i read your rules like 3 times haha)
Surprise
"Is that my shirt?"
Steve looked like a deer caught in headlights, your favourite shirt falling from his grip. Out of the two of you, you definitely thought you'd be the one getting busted trying to sneak off with one of Steve's shirts, not the other way around.
"...yeah?" Steve finally said, stepping in front of it where it now lay on the floor, as if the absurdity of the moment would immediately dissipate.
"H&M run out of smediums?" you quipped, watching as the icon of American heroism and justice blushed gloriously.
"I don't buy smediums, they all fit weird, and- Nevermind, I'm not out of shirts, I just-"
Steve flapped around with his arms, opening and closing his mouth in a decent impression of a goldfish. You couldn't help the small laugh bubbling through you, and he finally shut his mouth and glared at the floor while composing himself.
"I was gonna surprise you," he said, still avoiding your gaze.
"And... you needed my shirt?" His explanation still seemed illogical, even with this additional bit of information.
"It's your favorite."
"Uh-huh..."
Another huff, and Steve worked up the nerve to look you in the eye, "It's your favourite and you complained last week that's it got a hole and it's not worth mending. I found one that looks almost like it, but I didn't want to assume your size, so I was just gonna sneak in and check your size so I could go buy it for your birthday."
His voice had gone from strong and steady to a mumble, his shoulders slumping right along with his volume. It makes you wonder if this was a remnant of Steve before the serum. Slighter frame, a floppier fringe, clothes hanging looser; his demeanor seems more akin to that of someone who rarely found thenselves in the focus of attention. It's endearing, and you find yourself warming at the thought Steve feels confortable enough to be himself, to relax and let the young man from 1943 speak.
"You could have asked me, Steve," you offer, walking up to him, placing one hand on his shoulder.
He looks up, almost a little appalled, "That... no. Would've ruined the surprise. And it wouldn't be polite."
"You could've asked someone else."
"That... doesn't seem polite either," Steve countered, hanging his head again.
Pursing your lips, you cross your arms over your chest. "F.R.I.D.A.Y?" you call out. "If Steve had asked you for my clothing size, would you have given it to him?"
"As long as it is not classified information, Captain Rogers would be given answers to any question he asks," comes the succinct reply from the ceiling.
"And please, do enlighten me..." You tilt your heas, catching Steve's eye again with a smile. "Is my clothing size marked classified, either by me or by command?"
"It is not."
"Problem solved, Steve."
He gives a small smile, rubbing the back of his head. God, he looks so boyish and sweet, and it makes your heart flutter. It's been months of back and forth, never quite getting to the point where a date has bewn suggested, much as the others have moaned and whined about it.
"Yeah, but the surprise is ruined."
Well. You're both goddamn superheroes. Maybe it's time to put that supposed bravery to the test.
"Not necessarily," you tell him, bumping him lightly in the chest with your shoulder.
"But the shirt-"
"You can still get me the shirt if you'd like. Or you could take me somewhere for dinner?"
There's a fraction of a second where the deer in headlights-expression struggles for a comeback, before Steve wrangles it down and stands up straight. If your gaze lingers a little on his chest, then you can't be blamed. Steve needs to find a better place to shop for shirts.
"Like a date?"
"Like a date."
"Where do you want to go?"
You smile like the Cheshire cat, picking up the shirt that finally got the two of you to stop beating around the bush.
"Why don't you surprise me, Rogers?"
| Pia's 3k Drabble Round |
131 notes
·
View notes
Note
“anything, just call me, okay?” with Steve Rogers please😊
Call Me
At first, it was exciting. Living next door to Captain America, call me Steve. You'd be lying if you said you weren't a little starstruck when you first ran into each other in the hall. You were getting back from a grocery run, both hands holding a bag and in your excitement one of them slipped from your grip. Never had you been so embarrassed at having the contents of your fridge, your life spilled out before Captain- Steve Rogers of all people. You're not sure who was more squirmy when the last thing back in the bag was a box of tampons. Not exactly how you wanted to meet a neighbour.
There was more smalltalk, painstakingly smoothing over the awkward beginnings. He'd just moved in, only had the essentials, at least he got his bed. Maybe he wanted something to snack on, you had leftover nachos, you could spare a portion. No, really, you don't need to repay me, Cap- Steve, it's really okay.
"Fine," he'd said, hands in his pocket. "But if you need anything, just come knock on my door, okay?"
Yeah, sure. Just knock on Steve Rogers' door. No problem. You swore you wouldn't. It wasn't like that. It was just polite.
Until you forgot your key and only realize it when you were standing outside your building in the pouring rain. It was too late to buzz Mrs. Callahan. Sharon had a late shift at the hospital. You glanced up at the windows. Well, fuck.
"Hello?"
"Steve? Could you buzz me in? I'm- I've forgotten my key and-"
You were buzzed in before you could finish, Steve meeting you halfway up the stairs. You told him it was fine, you'd wake Mrs. Callahan to get the spare key even if she'd hate you forever. Steve wouldn't have it. He parked you on his couch with a mug of tea and a warm blanket wrapped around you, then left. Ten minutes later, he returned, universal key in hand and a triumphant smile on his lips. He'd followed you to your door, standing awkwardly just outside while you rushed to make sure your own keys were where you had forgotten them.
"I owe you, Steve," you'd told him, smiling when you found him still waiting by the open front door.
"It was no biggie, I was happy to help. You… you can call me anytime if you need anything."
"That would require me having your phone number then, Rogers," you'd replied with a teasing giggle.
Number were exchanged, goodnights wished, you'd gone to bed telling yourself you wouldn't have any need for calling, despite Steve's insistence to "call, anytime. Anything, just call me, okay?"
It seems so ironic now, your fingers trembling as you dial his number. Two tones ring out, before the call connects.
"Don't tell me you're locked out again, because we gotta stop meeting like that."
Tears well in your eyes, and the phone is taken from you.
"Rogers."
"Rumlow? What is this, where is she?"
"You want her back, you come get her."
"Steve!" you call out, yelping when a vicious slap burned across your cheek.
"Tick tock, Rogers. Hail HYDRA."
| Pia's 3k Drabble Round |
87 notes
·
View notes
Note
ahh congrats on 3k!! you deserve it !! can you do “I’m holding your hand because the movie is scary, alright? It’s a... Terrifying... Rom-com... . . ... .” with Bucky?
Holding On
“Where is everyone?”
You came to a screeching halt in the common room, expecting a round of pre-night out drinks to already be in full swing. The only one there was Bucky, and though he always looked good, the ratty sweats and black muscle tank would not make any red ropes part for him tonight. He looked up from the bowl he was mixing a highly questionable cereal medley in, gaze stuttering a little as he took in your party outfit.
“Romanoff and Barton got called out to a mission. Pretty sure Nat was ready to stab someone with her heels. Rest of the gang bailed, I’m sure you’ve noticed it’s raining a little?”
A little… might have been an understatement. It was pouring, going on torrential outside, but still. Cars were a thing, and surely they could have found some place that didn’t have an obnoxiously long line. Giving a huff, you let your head tip back. So much for the fun night out you had so looked forward to.
“You… wanna hang out?” Bucky asked, hovering still by the counter, carton of milk in hand. “Was gonna watch a movie, you’re welcome to join. Won’t cost you a mint and my couch is as VIP as it gets,” he added with a crooked grin.
“I…” You had already resigned yourself to going back to your room, sulking over a lost opportunity to have some fun, but he looked so sweet and it would be nice to not be alone.
“I’ll let you pick the movie?”
Oh, Barnes… you thought as a smile grew on your face, nodding your agreement. You sweet, summer child.
His room in the tower was by far the smallest, but from what you understood, he’d requested it. More like a studio apartment, it had his bedroom, living room and a kitchenette crammed into one space, and as soon as you stepped in, Bucky started fussing about, clearing discarded clothes and grabbing snacks while you picked the movie. He arched an eyebrow at your choice but didn’t comment, settling down next to you in the little loveseat he had, a bowl of chips between you.
“Barnes…” you whispered, about halfway into the movie.
Bucky’s eyes were focused on the tv, but there was no denying that he was holding your hand. Not accidentally resting it on top of yours, but full-on holding it.
“Why are you holding my hand?”
The image of the supersoldier all but jumping vertically out of his seat - still not letting go of your hand - was a sight to be seen, and you wished you could have captured it on film.
“I’m not! I’m-” He gave a glare as you levelled him with a look, holding up your linked hands. “Fine! I’m holding your hand because the movie is scary, alright? It’s a… terrifying… rom-com…”
“Really?” you deadpanned, pausing the movie.
“Really!”
Pointing to the frozen scene, you tried to hold back a grin. “You find a rom com, one of the best rom coms I might add, scary?”
“There were cannons! And… lightning. And a baby! In a bar!”
Unable to hold back your laughter anymore, you broke down in giggles. “Bucky, do you want to hold my hand? Because you can, if you want to. I just have one condition.”
The smile that had been tugging at the corner of Bucky’s mouth quickly died down, his lips pressing into a nervous line. “What?”
Swinging your legs over his lap, you snuggled in closer to him, unpausing the movie, “That you keep doing it after the movie’s over, too.”
| Pia's 3k Drabble Round |
#Pia's 3k Drabble Round#Bucky Barnes x reader#Bucky x reader#drabble#if someone tells me Sweet Home Alabama is not a great rom com#then we meet at dawn
85 notes
·
View notes
Note
Hello love, congrats on the milestone! Could you please write "I'll be your blanket" with Steve?
Whenever
“Hey, you okay?”
The short answer is no, but no one needs to know that. Least of all Steve Rogers of all people. You’re surprised he’s even talking to you, even more so that he’s seen you. You didn’t figure the varsity baseball team’s star to be sitting on the roof. Steve Rogers, best shortstop to play the school’s varsity team in decades. Steve Rogers, senior and most likely to succeed. Steve Rogers, everyone’s idol and everyone’s swoon object.
Including yours, let’s be honest.
“I’m fine,” you tell him, wrapping your arms tighter around you. You really should have brought a sweater.
“Right.”
You expect him to ignore him, so you carry right on letting your anxiety wreak absolute havoc on you. This was not supposed to happen. You were supposed to have a senior year with minimal stress, a fun spring break to look forward to next year, making memories with your friends, get into your dream college. Not… this.
“Hey!”
Yelping, you flinch as something lands next to you.
“Did… you just throw your shoe at me?” you ask, and you hate how your voice starts wavering.
“Shit, no,” Steve stutters from where he’s standing right at the edge of the roof of his house. “I mean, yeah, I threw it, but I didn’t mean for it to land that close.”
“What do you want, Steve?”
He looks a little bashful, a strange look on him. He’s always walking around oozing confidence with the rest of his team. The Howling Commandos are the royalty of your school; popular, good-looking, a little rambunctious. You’ve seldom seen Steve without a huge grin on his face.
“I.. I kinda heard you cry earlier. ‘S why I asked if you were okay. And why I threw my shoes. I was trying to get your attention.”
Great.
“I’m fine,” you grumble, but Steve is not giving up now that he has your attention.
“No offense, but you’ve said that twice now and you sound like not even you believe yourself.”
You throw your hands up, turning to face him, “Fine! I’m a little stressed, okay!”
Steve has the audacity to look pleased with himself. “Wanna talk about it?”
“Across the roof? Sure, just let me get a bullhorn so I can announce it to the entire neighbourhood.”
“Fine. Catch.”
You barely have time to react before Steve’s pulled off his other shoe and tossed it over and backed up a few yards.
“Steve? What are you-” Eyes widening, you watch as Steve braces himself to start running. “Steve! You’re gonna fall! Your coach will kill you!”
“Not if I make it!”
With that, Steve breaks into a sprint, launching himself across the gap between your houses, landing in a crouch that is far too graceful for someone of his build. A grin spreads on his face as he shuffles over to sit next to you.
“See? Made it.” He ignores the way you glare at him, letting his grin melt into a friendly smile. “Now, are we gonna talk? What’s up?”
Steve Rogers, star baseball player, voted most likely to succeed, the most popular guy in the senior class… is asking you what’s up. It’s hilarious, bizarre and just… You shake your head. Fuck it.
“I’ve got the math SATs in two weeks. Because in three attempts I still haven’t gotten a score that will get me into my college. Mr. Zemo is on my ass, my parents are on my ass, and no matter how hard I keep staring at the prep material it still makes no sense, and I have to submit my college applications before mid-December. I’m studying and studying and it just makes me want to cry so I came up here and now I don’t want to go back inside to get a blanket because it’s fucking cold.”
The silence is deafening after. Steve isn’t saying anything, not that you really expected him to. You, on the other hand, feel a little lighter. Just having voiced your worries makes them feel a little less crushing, although you still hate the feeling of going back inside to your books and notes. When Steve wraps an arm around you, you have to fight your instincts to shy away. Your experiences with someone putting their arm around you have not been great.
"Well… I’m not the best at math. I barely scraped together good enough scores to get into my dream college and that’s all riding on whether I get a scholarship or not. Coach Phillips has been grilling me all season. ‘You gotta put your back into it, Rogers. Those scouts are gonna be lookin’ at ya and they’re not gonna pick a halfassed shortstop, so keep working!’ I swear, every time I see him, he’s got his stop watch out, I feel like he’s timing me on how fast I walk the hallways.” You both let out a little laugh, and Steve pulls you in a little closer. You’d be lying if you said your eyes didn’t flutter close for a split second, relishing in the warmth he’s exuding. “So yeah, I can’t help you really with the math. Bucky’s much better at that. But… I could keep you warm.”
“W-what?” you stutter, looking up at him. Part of you is expecting to see him with a leery expression on his face, but you only find him look at you with his brows slightly furrowed.
“You said you were cold.” Steve wrangles out of the oversized cardigan he’s got on, stretching it out and wrapping it around you. “I can keep you warm while you sit out here. See, it’s big enough for both of us. I'll… I’ll be your blanket.”
“You don’t have to,” you protest, although it’s only a token protest, your body already relaxing from the gentle heat.
“‘S okay. It’s the least I can do. I mean, it’s not gonna help you pass the SATs, but I promise I’ll keep you warm whenever you want to.”
It feels as if the world is stopping on its axis. Whenever you want to.
“Whenever I want to?” There’s an unspoken question behind your echo.
Steve Rogers, sans the prestige, sans ulterior motives, leans his head against yours, holds you tighter. “Whenever you want to.”
| Pia’s 3k Drabble Round (closed) |
#Whenever#drabble#Steve Rogers x reader#Pia's 3k Drabble Round#endless thanks to Beka who helped me navigate baseball and the general timeline of American high school#Anonymous
50 notes
·
View notes
Note
“Love is stupid” with Bucky for the drabble please
Nothing/Something
Bucky’s not sure why he came. It seemed like the right thing to do. Proving that he could do this and it was no big deal. He could absolutely be the photographer at the wedding of the girl he had pined for since third grade. An entire day spent capturing her happiness, surely nothing could go wrong.
(Steve, his videographer, had slapped him over the head when he announced he’d accepted the gig)
And it started fine.
They did a few portrait pictures, with Steve and Bucky switching between the bride’s party and the groom’s party to get both stills and video. It was… manageable. He could disconnect from the two, compartmentalize them into two different gigs. He could joke with both groups, make them laugh, he could get close, step into their midst, show them his vision, and it was fine.
It was all really, super fine.
Until it came time to capture the groom’s first look of his bride to be. Steve sidled up to him, giving him a look that Bucky steadfastly ignored. No more pretending. He could do this. He could be a professional. It was mostly Steve’s time in the limelight anyhow, he’d just take a couple of shots to be safe. Otherwise, he’d stay in the background, focus on breathing, rearrange his gear and squash any and all mental images where he was the one in a perfectly cut suit, the small hairs of his neck standing on end at the sound of a rustling dress behind him.
Out of all the days, all the gigs, this had to be the one with perfect weather, perfect light, perfect poses and everything going off without a hitch. After each shot, he’d look through the series he’d taken out of habit, and every photo was a fresh stab in a heart that had been bleeding since it was first pummelled at the spring fair when he’d been left at the shooting range with a stupid, fuzzy stuffed toy kitten because the girl he so desperately wanted to impress had been charmed away by fucking Andy Holloway. It never got any better after that.
“Dude, are you okay?” Steve asked under his breath as they packed up to head to the reception because of course he had fucking agreed to that, too.
“‘M fine,” Bucky bit out, pushing Steve’s gear to the side to load in his own. “‘S hot, that’s all.”
Steve knew better than to prod, and Bucky knew better than to look at his friend. This would be fine. It would be fine. It was a reception. Those were always fun. People laughed. There were games. Booze.
...that he couldn’t drink.
But no, this would be fine.
“How long?”
He’s sitting tucked away in a corner, forgotten glass of champagne by his side, looking at a particular shot from the wedding waltz. A little torture is good for the soul, right? When he looks up, you’re plopped down next to him, hands folded in your lap, looking expectantly at him. You’re one of the bridesmaids, you’d almost refused to get into the veritable mosh pit that formed for the bouquet toss.
“I’m sorry, I don’t- Think you’re better off asking the maid of honor or the best man for-”
“No, no,” you interrupt him, an indulgent smile on your face as you nudge the hand holding the camera. “I mean, how long?”
“No. No, you got that wrong,” Bucky rambles, quickly turning off the view mode. “I’m not- I just- We know each other from way back.”
“Hey, hey, it’s fine. Bucky, right? I’m not gonna tell on you. I thought I’d just get the awkward question out of the way, I didn’t mean to make you make you uncomfortable.”
Bucky purses his lips. If you knew… oh, fuck, did the entire fucking wedding party know? Fuck, if this night ended with him getting punched out by the groom, he would swear off weddings and switch to fucking nature photography instead.
“Twelve years, by the way.”
He looks up at you, finding you looking straight ahead, right at…
Oh.
“That’s…” he begins, trailing off. Hell, he can’t even say something to cheer you up.
“I know. Sometimes I think I’m stupid for coasting along. For saying yes to this. For… I don’t know, staying because… because even being their friend is better than not, you know?”
Bucky hangs his head, giving a sardonic laugh, “Yeah, I know.”
“But is it though? Is it worth it? Why is it so fucking hard to let go?”
He fumbles for his flute of champagne, drains it in one gulp, swallows down the bubbles and tries not to grimace because it’s too sweet, too bubbly, too happy.
“Love is stupid,” he grumbles, looking out over the room, where people are dancing to the same cheesy songs he hears at every fucking wedding reception. “We’re stupid. And we can’t see it.”
“You think you’ll ever be able to stop?” you ask.
“I mean, I want to hope so. I just… Right now I don’t know if I ever want that day to arrive when I’ll wake up and not feel the way I feel about her, you know? It’s… not all-consuming, it’s just… It’s just there, and if it went away, what would be there instead? Nothing?”
“Well, something,” you amend, sighing. “Just not that.”
“Yeah. Just not that.”
| Pia's 3k Drabble Round |
49 notes
·
View notes
Note
“quit staring! they’ll notice us!” With Steve Rogers please
In Con-trol
On the one hand, it could have been worse. It could have been madmen and explosions and coming home with aches in your body that wouldn’t let go for days. It could have been undercover missions that would have you flirting and pretending to be oh so fascinated by what a sad excuse of a human said while their hands rested around your waist. Almost made the physical aches seem preferable.
On the other hand, you should have known that bringing Steve in for this particular job would be fraught with risks. Most of them because he kept squirming in his uniform and gawking at everyone around them, and not necessarily because they were looking for the rogue HYDRA agents that were supposedly running shop somewhere in the building. You elbowed Steve for the fifth time.
"Quit staring!” you hissed under your breath. “They'll notice us!"
“He looks like me,” Steve said, with more awe than you had ever heard from him. “Hell, he looks more like me than I do now. Did I really have to wear this one?”
Rolling your eyes, you resumed looking out over the crowd, looking for anything suspicious while Steve continued his combined grousing and fanboying. “I swear to god, I should have brought Barton instead,” you muttered.
“No can do, I am not worthy of that outfit,” came Barton’s chipper voice over the comms. “I don’t have the all-American ass to fill out those tights and booty shorts.”
“You’re from Iowa, how much more all-American can you get?” Steve grumbled, pulling at said booty shorts.
“Says the guy whose birthday is on 4th July.”
You didn’t admire HYDRA. You didn’t. They were the scum of the earth, and you wanted to personally send each and every HYDRA operative to the Raft. But. You had to give it to them. Deciding to set up shop at a con to recruit and spread their ruinous tentacles through society was… not actually as dumb a move as you’d first think. If nothing else, it made Steve all worked up over a) seeing himself, and b) having to dress up in a replica of his spangle circuit suit.
“Because I obviously had a say in when I was born. Jesus Chr- What are these made of?” Steve used his shield (the real one because he refused to go in with anything but) to scratch between his shoulder blades. “Why couldn’t we get the real one, I know the Smithsonian has it!”
“Steve, you really think the Smithsonian is going to hand over anything to anyone from the Avengers, but you in particular, after you broke in and stole from their exhibit?” you asked, craning your neck. Oh, this had better be a joke…
“It was my stuff! They should give it back, not glare at me whenever I get dragged there for a fundraiser!”
“Steve…”
“It was a national emergency, okay, what was I supposed to do, walk into Hot Topic and ask for a hoodie and a pair of pajama pants and go save the world? I mean-”
“Steve.”
“-just rude and if that conservator thinks she’s heard the last of me, I will-”
“Steve!”
Elbow to the rib number six actually made Steve yelp and look at you like you had personally hurt his feelings by interrupting his rant. With a nod, you indicated ahead, where at the end of the strada was a small table manned by two people wearing…
“You’ve gotta be shitting me,” Steve said in disbelief, cocking his head. “Really? Out in the open? They got a fucking booth? And merch? Is someone actually buying that shit?”
“Barton, we’ve got eyes on possible targets, booth closest to the west wall, right side of the aisle. We make two perps, male, late 20s or early 30s,” you reported, head turned to Steve to obscure you.
“Copy, Nat’s hacking into the security system, we’ll have the names they booked their booth under and screenshots of their ugly mugs in a sec.”
“It’s impossible to miss them,” Steve muttered, glaring at the two men. “Because they are idiots wearing t-shirts with HYDRAs logo on them.”
| Pia's 3k Drabble Round (closed) |
38 notes
·
View notes
Note
Congrats darling Pia for 3k! Could I request "I'm personally offended you didn't get me to be your fake date." with my main man, Sam Wilson?
The Real Deal
He’s standing in the gym, going over tactics and training attack patterns when you walk through the doors and start making a beeline for them. Sam has learned to be discreet with his crush on you, but he still can’t help his chest puffing out a little, stretching to stand taller when you approach, a nervous smile on your face.
“Fellas,” you greet them, then turns to the agent. “Klaus, could I talk to you for a minute. I swear, Sam, you’ll have him back in five minutes.”
Sam’s not nosy. He’s not. Really, really not. But this is weird. It’s weird and it bugs him trying to figure out what you’d want with a junior agent, nevermind that particular junior agent. Don’t get him wrong, Klaus is good. Maybe not completely out of his rookie phase, but Sam thinks he has promise. So when Klaus gets back, Sam bites down. He won’t ask. He’s a big boy, he doesn’t need to know everything, and this is none of his business and-
“So, what did she want?”
And he is a big fat lying liar who can’t even lie to himself.
“Huh? Oh, you mean-” Klaus fumbled through getting his hands rewrapped, not really avoiding Sam’s gaze, but not exactly making an effort to look at him either. “Uh, she… wanted me to be her fake date? For some family thing?”
Okay. It’s cool. Sam can deal. He’s okay. He’s been pining for you forever, but this is cool. He is a grown ass man, and this is not high school. If he hands Klaus’s ass to him a little harder than necessary, that’s got absolutely nothing to do with this. If he spends the flight out to some mad scientist brewing up trouble in the back of beyond, it’s totally because he did not appreciate Bucky coming into his room and tossing his gear at him. While he was still sleeping. And if he glares a little at Klaus the day of when the dude shows up dressed in a fucking linen suit, then it is clearly because the sun was in his eyes, don’t tell me it’s an overcast day, Barnes, shut up.
He stews for a good three days afterwards, and in the moments of clarity that sometimes hit him, he realizes there’s no reason why. It’s not like you asked Klaus out on a date-date. It was a fake date. With your family. Where he’d pretend to be your boyfriend. Maybe even kissed you on the cheek. Or god forbid, your mouth.
The moments never last long.
“Are you okay?”
It’s a Saturday night, and he’s bleeding off some nervous energy (and maybe some very long-lasting envy) down in the gym. He’d made an offhand promise meet up for a beer after, but eh… He could end up in a flow, things would draw out, he’d need a shower, he’d sit down in his couch to watch some tv, he’d “accidentally” fall asleep. These things happened.
Other things that also apparently happen: You showing up in a pair of jeans that honest to god make him lose focus a little and almost get clocked in the head by the maize ball. Your shirt isn’t bad either. And your face… looks worried?
“I’m fine,” he says, and even though he knows it’s a fucking glaring tell that he is very much not fine, he turns back to punch at the ball again, dodging it as it swings back.
“So why does it feel like I haven’t seen you in a while?” you counter, crossing your arms over your chest. “And for that matter, when I do see you, why do you look like you’re walking around with a rain cloud over your head?”
A small voice inside his head is telling him to just fold like a cheap suit already and tell you just what is bothering him and why, but it is unfortunately drowned out by the side of him that insists on being a moron.
“Been a coupla rough missions. Kinda still getting used to the whole… thing.”
“Sam, you make victory barrel rolls on every mission when the bad guys admit defeat and you got so excited at Halloween when a whole gaggle of kids came dressed as you that you emptied out a whole gallon’s worth of candy between them. Now what’s going on? Is this because of thing with Klaus?”
Come on, Sam, be the bigger man and fess up.
Or, alternately:
“Nah,” he shrugs.
“‘Cause you do know what fake means, right? Fake, as in not real.”
Sam grumbles under his breath, but obviously not unintelligible enough.
“What was that?”
“I said…” he enunciates, with very bad grace, “I said, maybe… I’m personally offended you didn’t get me to be your fake date.”
The reaction he expects ranges from surprise to harsh rejection, and maybe if he’s being totally honest, something that would not be totally out of place in a teen rom com. The reaction he gets is silence. Which… is not really great. Because good things seldom follow silence. Sam’s had that experience far too many times.
“Maybe I didn’t ask you for a reason,” you finally say, looking at him while, and Sam cannot believe this, scraping your foot.
“And what reason might that be?”
You cock your head, and Sam swears to any god listening that if you start swaying, he might just explode into tiny unicorns.
“If you were my fake date, that means we’d be in a fake relationship, and I’d eventually have to fake break up with you and I would never be able to take you to see my family again.”
What?
“You- what?”
“Jesus Christ, Wilson…”
Sam holds up his hands, “Hey, now, I am not the one talking in riddles here!”
“I am telling you I didn’t want you to be my fake boyfriend because I want you to be my real boyfriend and take you to see my family on more than one occasion, okay?”
Well.
That’s-
That is-
He has absolutely zero witty comebacks for that, and so falls back on the oldest, most moronic reaction in the book.
“Huh?”
Scrunching up your face, you close the distance between you, mumbling “oh, for pity’s sake” under your breath before cupping his face and kissing the everliving daylights out of him. It’s not the most elegant kiss, and Sam thinks he may need to reevaluate his stance on having game, because he feels like he’s sixteen all over again and trying to not make an absolute ass of himself kissing Chelsea Bradford at junior prom.
It turns out well in the end. You break the kiss with a satisfied smile, declaring “not bad” before sweeping out, and leaving him completely bamboozled for about five minutes before his brain reengages and he runs after you. One does not simply Cinderella Sam Wilson. It feels a little high school asking if you’re, like, official now, and you are definitely failing at holding your laughter back, but a man’s gotta know, okay? Klaus looks a little too relieved a few weeks later when they’re training again, and you breeze back into the gym to ask Sam to be your very real, actual date for Christmas.
“Okay, why did Klaus look like he wanted to run and hide at the sight of you?” Sam asks later, spread out on the couch while you’re getting dressed after a shower.
“Oh. Maybe he thought I’d ask him to be my fake date again,” you call back from the bedroom, peeking out. “Or it may be the fact that Klaus was very much horrified by his only visit with my parents and I had retroactively bribe him with Ben & Jerry’s and promise him he wouldn’t have to do it again.”
Sam all but bolts out of the couch, “I’m sorry, can you say that again?”
“Which part?”
“The part where he was horrified and you had to bribe him?” he urges, walking up to the bedroom. Keep your wits about you, Wilson, she’s only wearing a robe and she knows how to use it.
“I mean, you could just say I was paying him for services rendered,” you shrug, and oh no, do not open that sash.
“You used the word bribe!”
“It was a joke!”
“The man was horrified!”
“Calm down, Sam, you’ll be fine. Just…”
“What?”
You peer at him, squinting before pursing your lips, “Nah, nothing. You’ll be fine.”
Sam is about to protest, but that damn sash gets untied and that damn robe falls open and damnit damnit damnit damnit-
You’re up close and he can feel how warm you are through his clothes and you promise him that he’ll be fine, he’s Cap now and Cap always has things under control.
Right?
Right.
| Pia's 3k Drabble Round (closed) |
34 notes
·
View notes
Note
Hello hello hello! Could I please request "So what? You did it" as angsty for Steve?? I admire you so much as a writer, thanks for being generous with sharing your work!!
Repeat
The second he lands is always disorienting. He's still hurting, both body and mind, and he always thinks maybe this time he's finally broken the circle, finally died.
"Steve?"
It feels like he's dying all over again. How many times does he have to live through this? Over and over, the same vicious circle. The last couple of hours before-
"You goddamn idiot, why did you do that? I'm- You had no right-"
The words hurt, and he doesn't want to say them, but resisting never helps. He doesn't want to, but it never plays out any differently. You're furious, pacing the room, looking like you're working yourself up to throw a punch.
"It's a tactical plan, it's not personal!" he tries to plead. God, did he really think this would work?
You whip around, a fury in your eyes that makes him take an inadvertent step back. “A tactical plan? You demoted me to the back seat, Steve! You know I am capable, that my skills are needed where the action is! You made me look like a fool and treated me like I was a little child who wasn’t allowed with the grownups!”
Steve’s heart aches, because he knows, he knows and he can’t change it, every attempt to force an apology only makes it hurt more. This is penance, a sick and twisted penance.
“I did it to protect you!” Why did he have to raise his voice? “It’s a dangerous mission and I wanted to keep you out of harm’s way before harm found you. I don’t- I know what you’re capable of, I didn’t mean to talk down to you or demean you or whatever you think I did.”
The way you blanch at his words makes Steve want to kick himself. Your anger dies in a second, a mask of feigned nonchalance wiping your features clear. It’s as if he has forced you into a mold, and you no longer have the energy to fight it.
"So what?” Your voice sounds as dead and flat as your expression looks. “You did it. You did it and you don’t even care."
It is the longest three second silence in history, the way his chance at redemption ticks away in a simple one-two-three before you turn on your heel and march out of the room. He won’t see you again, not this close. He’ll catch a glimpse of you before he, Sam and Clint are deployed, and he’ll see that you’re avoiding his gaze. He’ll hear you report coolly over the comms, he’ll see the structure come crashing down and the metallic screech of debris and screaming in his ears. He’ll see your body, broken and defeated and his world will start spinning, a pain so intense he feels as if his body is being split open from deep within him. There will be a scream, and he’s heard it enough now to recognize it as his own. The edges will haze, the world will spinspinspin and he will land and-
“Steve?”
And it will begin again.
| Pia’s 3k Drabble Round |
45 notes
·
View notes
Note
Congrats on the milestone! 💖 is it possible to get “The date didn’t go well. Yeah, she/he didn’t like how I kept mentioning all of our adventures.” + Nick Vaughn? Please & thank you ☺️
Mysteries
He’s back at Grand Central, far too little sleep in his body, but he’s there, as if pulled in and unable to resist. The case rests beside him, the trumpet inside hastily polished. Not that it’ll matter in the end. In the end, it’s all on him.
“Jeez, Nick, what are you doing here?”
Your voice pulls him out of the haze where he may or may not be dreaming about still being in bed, blowing this thing off just for a precious two hours more sleep. Smiling, Nick, shrugs, the motion morphing into a stretch and oh dear god, that feels so good. Once this day is over, he’s gonna go home, he’s gonna faceplant into his own bed and he’s gonna sleep for twelve hours straight.
You roll your eyes at him, “Come on, you look dead on your feet. You need some coffee in you.”
He’s in no mood to protest, simply gets up, grabs his case and slouches after you. It’s far too early to be that chipper, it has to be. Then again, it’s coming up on noon, and he’s not the only one looking haggard around here. He’s likely not the only one wishing he was back in bed, either. You lead him through the station and into the bar where you work, directing him to a chair with a simple, “sit”. Easy enough. At least the stool will be too uncomfortable to fall asleep in. Resting his head in his hands, Nick listens with half an ear as you putter around, barely notices when a tiny cup of coffee lands in front of him. It burns on his tongue before his eyes bulge and he nearly chokes in an attempt not to spray it all over you and your pristine dress shirt.
“Are you okay?” you ask, and while there is concern in your voice, your lips do a poor job of hiding your smile.
He grimaces something that he thinks might be a smile, but the sharp, bitter taste is now ingrained in his tongue and it makes his face wanna curl in on itself.
“Think you gave me battery acid.”
You snort. “Triple shot of espresso. You need a kickstart, Vaughn, because I refuse to stand here and listen to you whine about how you blew your audition.”
“It tastes awful,” Nick mutters, ignoring the reminder of why he’s dragging himself up and back to Midtown when he could be sleeping the day away like a sane human being.
“It tastes great, you just need to stop drinking the shitty kind of diner coffee. Coffee should not have a sheen of gunk on it.”
“Snob.”
Shaking your head, you set about opening the register, stealing a few glances at him while he sips the tiny, supercharged cup with exaggerated grimaces. Nick might be putting on a little bit of a show. Just a little. He knows it makes you smile.
“So…”
“If you say ‘big day, huh?’, I will leave,” he tells her, pushing the now empty cup away from himself.
“Oh, how you wound me,” you deadpan, leveling him with a stare. “I was gonna ask how your evening was. Last I saw you were disappearing into the night with a pretty blonde? I never thought I’d see the day when you went on a date.”
“Wasn’t a date. Kinda got her into trouble in the end.”
“How much trouble could you have gotten her in, you’re a trumpetist!”
Nick snickers. “Okay, first off, ouch. Second, a lot apparently. She missed her train and her purse got lifted.”
“That doesn’t sound like your fault,” you point out, coming around the bar counter to sit down next to him. “Unless you tripped her and then ran off with her purse.”
“Funny.”
“Okay, so you got her in trouble?”
“Maybe not in trouble.” He sighs. More like he got himself into trouble. “I made trouble for her. She needed to get back to Boston, but her purse was gone, so no money. I tried to offer to pay for a cab, but my card…” He can’t get the words out, it still stings. Declined. “Anyway, I tried chasing after the guy to snatched her purse, it was a whole mess, we ended up at some party and she sang while I played-”
Furrowing your brow, you hold up a hand, “Okay, stop. Where is this story even going, because so far it sounds like a date. A very cheesy one that would definitely be a rom com, but still, very much a date.”
Another laugh. Date. Right.
"Well, if it was a date, then the date didn't go very well.” Maybe he sounds a little calloused, Nick thinks, but he’ll blame last night. And the espresso. Soured his heart down on the spot. He looks up at you. “Yeah, she didn't like how I kept mentioning all of our adventures."
That wipes the mirth right off your face, “You… You brought those up? Nick, why the hell would you need to recount our childhood adventures?”
“Yeah, $64,000 question, right? I just… It started as a thing to make her smile. You remember playing Nancy Drew? And I was somehow both the Hardy boys? So I told her I was an excellent detective and worked with Nancy Drew, and then you kind of just… kept popping up.”
You scrunch up your face, “Jesus Christ, you told her about that?”
Nick nods, “And the time we ran away for two hours. And the bike incident. And the- the-”
It the thing that’s never been spoken of between you. Not since it happened. High school graduation, you were gonna leave for a college at the other end of the country, he was going to movie into the city to attend a conservatory. The most awkward kiss at the end of the night, fumbling, with lips barely grazing and stuttering goodnight that followed. Nick clears his throat.
“Plus, we also, kinda ran into Hannah. That… didn’t really help. She… she actually kinda ditched me after that.”
You looked at him as the seconds ticked by, before finally shaking your head and reaching for the landline phone Nick couldn’t believe this place still had.
“I can’t believe I’m doing this…” you muttered, looking at him before smiling. “Nick? This is Nancy Drew. From the future. Listen. You are gonna walk in here one day- No, I’m not telling you where! It doesn’t- Look. You are gonna walk in here one day, and you are gonna tell me all about how you messed up a date. And it’s not gonna be the first time. You need to stop burning your bridges, Nick. And you need to stop blaming yourself. One day, you’re gonna meet a girl, and she’ll be great by all accounts. I won’t know her until we meet up three years after she turns down your proposal, and the only from what you tell me. Maybe I’m being unfair to her, but that’s on you.”
It’s a thing you two started. In a world before cell phones, you’d hang around payphones just before curfew and call your future selves, gushing about your futures. It was a good way to keep dreams alive. Calling the other way is apparently for killing them. You take a breath.
“You and I, we’re gonna blow it. The night of high school graduation, we’re gonna kiss, and we’ll blow it. Not for long, we’ll meet up again, obviously. But for eight years, we’re gonna blow it, but you better listen close now Hardy-comma-Frank-and-Joe. I don’t regret it. Sometimes I think about it, think about how you made my pulse run away from me, and how I angsted over it the first year of college. It happened. No, we were dismal. No finesse whatsoever. But I don’t regret it. It didn’t ruin us. So don’t ruin yourself over things to come. It’ll work out. Trust me. I’m Nancy Drew.”
Nick, amused smile tugging at his lips, is leaned back as much as the pitiful backrest allows. “What is he saying?”
You put down the phone, lean over the counter, “Dunno, hung up on me. Rude bastard.”
“Probably had to go solve a new mystery.”
“Probably.”
“Here’s another mystery for you, Nancy Drew.” His voice dips, goes low and gritty. “Would you do it again?”
“It?” He’s so close now and you can feel his breath, the soft scent of strong coffee, a whiff of whatever cologne he’d sprayed on before leaving home, the wool of his coat.
“Kiss. Not back then. We… we really blew it then. Wrong time. Or right, and we just…”
“Blew it,” you finish.
“Right. Maybe now’s not the right time either.
You smile at him, lean in, press your lips to him. It’s awkward. You’re hanging off your stool, body wavering as you try to keep your balance, and he’s positioned so that you have to stretch up and he has to lean down because the seats are nailed to the floor. It’s awkward because it’s been eight, going on nine years since last time and he’s had a night, a year, more than a year, and you’ve had your life and he’s learned about your own failures, but the warmth that blooms in him when you finally part makes it worth it.
“You never know unless you try, right?” you whisper.
So they try. They try and try, and it gets easier and maybe the world is a little kinder than he thought. Maybe it’s as easy as Nancy Drew and Hardy-comma-Frank-and-Joe. Maybe it’s as easy as reconnecting, running into each other here of all places. Maybe he should have known this was too good to be a coincidence.
But then again...
These things happen, right?
Little mysteries of life.
| Pia's 3k Drabble Round (closed) |
24 notes
·
View notes
Note
I’ve love literally everything you have written for this 3k celebration! Can we get “The date didn’t go well. Yeah, she/he didn’t like how I kept mentioning all of our adventures.” With Sam Wilson please :)
Adventures In Avoiding Adventures
It’s one of those nights when you can’t settle. The buzz of a successful mission, adrenaline that is hard to bleed out of your system, your mind preoccupied. Some of the nightshift staff at the tower has jokingly begun calling you the Ghost because of how many times you’ve inadvertently scared the bejesus out of them by walking around the building at night.
Tonight, you’re doing your rounds earlier. Technically, you are on light concussion protocol and should be in bed, but you’re too antsy and worked up to comply with that. You can deal with the no tech, no driving, no loud noises, but the adrenaline is still killing you. Walking is not technically strenuous activity, and the tower is mostly dark where you’re roaming. You’ll just walk down like ten floors and then take the elevator back up. Easy. Cake walk.You could sneak some from the communal kitchen and make it an actual cake walk.
“Aren’t you supposed to be sleeping?”
The voice sends you almost jumping out of your skin just as you’re opening the fridge, and the sound of the plate clattering to the floor is like a shriek right in your ear. Whirling around, you find Sam sitting on the counter in the opposite end of the room, apparently also in the mood for cake.
“Jesus Christ, are you trying to kill me?” you hiss at him, only because screaming would hurt. “What the hell are you doing sitting in the dark like a creep?”
“Says the one the staff call the Ghost. I think Barnes is starting to take offense that you’re trespassing on his turf.”
Rolling your eyes, you pick up your plate, “Shut up. And if Barnes wants to have his moniker back he can fight me for it.”
Cutting an obscenely big slice, you close the door, and the room falls into dusky darkness once more. Sam leans over to flip a switch, turning on the spots inset into the cabinets. You wonder what his excuse is, he usually taps out by 10 pm. Or closer to 4 am because he’s-
Wait a minute.
“Why are you home? Didn’t you have a date?”
There’s a second’s hesitation where Sam’s hand stills before digging into his slice of cake.
“Yeah, I did.”
“Tire her out already?”
Sam sighs, sets down his spoon and looks up at you, "The date didn't go very well.” He chuckles at your expression, your eyebrows almost up by your hairline. “Yeah, she... didn't like how I kept mentioning all of our adventures.”
To be fair, some of them have been actual adventures. Missions that took a very unexpected “you wouldn’t believe me if I told you”-turn. Sam still has trust issues with the elderly after the instance with the gun running grannies. For the most part, though, your adventures have mostly been of the drunken variety. Boarding the wrong train at the end of a long night, accidentally ending up in the Bronx and walking around Van Cortlandt Park for two hours before realizing you were not in Central Park. A certain karaoke performance at a certain dive bar that you ended up having to beg F.R.I.D.A.Y to intercept any possible video clips being uploaded because you did not need that floating around the internet.
“Sam… You should know better than to talk about another girl when you’re on a date,” you chastise him gently, shaking your head.
“I didn’t mean to!” Sam defends himself, crumbs flying from his mouth. “She just asked questions and, you know, we’re on the same team, we go on missions, we hang out.”
“Yeah, and you also hang out with Bucky and Rhodey, did they pop up in these stories?”
“Yes… okay, fine, not as much. I can’t help it that you’re a goddamn magnet for trouble.”
Scoffing, you clutch at your chest in mock-offense, “Excuse you, I am a saint and the reason you’re still not wandering around up in the Bronx!”
“And I am the reason you’re still not glued to that stage singing-”
You point at him with the spoon, shaking it at him, “Do not. Bring that up. You were just as guilty as I am for that night, or are we ignoring the fact that you brought the Jack?”
“Only because you were out of José!”
“What was I supposed to do, tell you to hold that thought and run down to the closest liquor store for a fresh bottle so we could get drunk on tequila together?” you rambled between bites of cake, quite possibly making crumbs rain just as vigorously as Sam had.
“I mean, in hindsight, a dinner would have been better, but yeah!” Sam retorted, shrugging his shoulders.
“Fine. You and I, dinner, once I’m off concussion protocols. You pick a place and make it fancy because I doubt I can get into trouble wearing heels and anything formal.”
Sam furrowed his brow, looking at you as if waiting for you to tell him you were joking. When you didn’t, simply glared at him, a smile started tugging at his lips.
“Are you asking me out?”
“No!”
(okay, maybe, a little)
“You told me to have dinner with you.” Ugh, that stupid singsong-y voice he got when he thought he was winning.
“Pick. A damn. Place, Wilson, or I swear next time we end up in the wrong borough, I will leave you there.”
“You’re so cute when you’re asking me out.”
“Sam, god damn it!”
He chuckled, finished off his cake and came up to rinse off the plate in the sink next to you. Nudging you, he met your gaze with a smile that was less teasing.
“Be ready in… say, 48 hours?”
| Pia's 3k Drabble Round (closed) |
30 notes
·
View notes
Text
3k Follower Drabble Round
You have spoken! After a week of having an open poll, we have a winner. To celebrate 3000 amazing followers, I’ll be opening requests for drabbles for this week, August 5th to 11th. I’ll be filling your requests out during the week and for as long as it takes afterward. Rules and prompt links under the cut.
Rules:
- send in your prompt via ask, only one prompt per ask!
- include prompt in full and your desired character/pairing
- there will be no smut written for this round
- you can request drabbles for the following:
Sebastian Stan: Bucky Barnes, T.J Hammond, Carter Baizen, Chase Collins, Dayton White, Chris Beck, Hal Carter, Lance Tucker, Jefferson, Destroyer!Chris, Charles Blackwood
Chris Evans: Steve Rogers, Frank Adler, Nick Vaughan, Colin Shea, Curtis, Nick Gant
MCU: Tony Stark, Natasha Romanoff, Clint Barton, Bruce Banner, Thor Odinson, T’Challa, Sam Wilson, Wanda Maximoff etc
- find prompts here, here, here or here
- if you don’t want your dash all cluttered, you can blacklist #Pia’s 3k Drabble Round
24 notes
·
View notes
Last Seen Blogs
njfleetdjz-blog
NJFleetDJz
tabledit
I Tabled It
masyaluk
🏁mася лук
tophealthclinics-blog
Top Health Clinics
nervousanimebeautytoad
Untitled