lovebugism

[lovebugism]

A request for the Thunderbolts (if you're interested no pressure <3)! - being caught/interrupted having sex

ty for requesting! :D below you will find four separate blurbs for the thunderbolts (bucky, john, yelena, and bob), each with their own separate summaries and a whole lotta smut!! enjoy :D

BUCKY BARNES X READER — you and bucky try to have some alone time after a mission gone wrong but, like most things, it doesn't go as planned (0.9k words)

Bucky Barnes has been waiting for this all day.

The need within him borders on primal now. Adrenaline and yearning course through his blood like fire and ice water in his veins; a near-lethal concoction of anger and want and craving. It’s the job that makes him this way, Bucky always tells himself — if it wasn’t always so life or death, and if you weren’t always so willing to throw yourself into the line of fire, he figures he’d be as even-tempered as they come.

But this latest mission wasn’t nearly as easy as Valentina made it out to be. The six of you scattered for safety, and somewhere in the gunfire, Bucky lost sight of you. It took four hours for the dust to finally settle, and for you and John to stumble back to the rundown motel in the middle of nowhere that your boss mistakenly called a ‘safehouse.’ Neither of you sported anything more than couple scrapes and a bruised ego, but Bucky hugged you with enough force to knock the breath from your lungs, anyway.

“You’re okay…” he mumbled into your hair within a sigh of relief.

“I was,” you joked. “Until you started suffocating me.”

Bucky loosened his hold but never quite let you go, while John shifted uncomfortably behind you. “I’m okay, too, guys. Thanks for asking.”

Bucky channels all that stifled grief and rage into you now, in each of his rhythmic thrusts into your pulsing pussy. The thin motel bed creaks beneath your bodies with every roll of his hips. A lewd sort of symphony swells within the walls of the dark, dank motel room accordingly — a sinful orchestra of squeaking, panting, clapping, and moaning.

He feels the very beginnings of an orgasm tightening in the pit of his lean stomach. His hands ball the pillow into his fists on either side of your head, and you smile deliriously up at him.

“Close?” you pant, fighting back a moan when he slides into you just right, the coarse thatch of pubic hair above his cock rutting perfectly against your swollen clit. 

Bucky nods obediently, then ducks his heavy head to your shoulder. The ends of his hair tickle your jaw while he exhales quiet grunts into your neck, right over your racing pulse. 

“I know you are,” you coo through labored breaths, nails etching crescent shapes into shoulders. “I know you need it, Buck. C’mon— Cum for me.”

His hips stutter against yours. His rosy mouth parts to exhale a broken whine. He nearly lets himself go until a knock at the door brings him to — urgent, rapid, and unable to be ignored.

Yelena’s deep voice comes muffled from outside. “T-minus five minutes before the military shows up! Whoever’s not outside is getting left behind,” she announces far too casually, then strolls to knock on the next door. “So much for a safe house,” you hear her grumble as she goes.

Your legs lock around Bucky’s hips when he threatens to pull out of you. You meet his subtle look of shock with something stern and mischievous, an unstoppable force to an immovable object. 

“Did I say you could stop?” you ask him.

Bucky blinks like an owl, then shakes his head in response.

“Then cum for me.”

He buckles down over you again, resting the bulk of his weight on top of your pliable body, while his thrusts turn shallow and irregular. 

He cums inside of you much sooner than he would’ve liked, because he had every intention of dragging this out until daybreak — until the only words you could think of were his name and the pleas to let you orgasm. But you have far too much control over him for that, and he quickly turns into putty in your hands. 

Upon his release — quick, unshared, and premature, like a total teenager — neither of you shares a word while you hurry to get dressed. You help each other put on your tactical gear and rush out the door in time to find the rest of the team piling into the rusted van parked outside.

The tin can was supposed to be inconspicuous enough to carry a team of so-called New Avengers, but nothing could be discreet with Alexei behind the wheel.

“Just in time!” the older man shouts when you and Bucky pile into the back seat.

The door slams behind you, and Alexei peels out of the pitch black parking lot, old tires squealing. His wide smile makes his eyes squint at the edges when he peers at you through the rearview mirror. It makes you wonder if he’s slept.

You shift uncomfortably, sandwiched between a pair of broad shoulders, trying hard to ignore the sensitivity between your thighs. 

“We were about to leave you,” John deadpans from beside you, voice gruff with leftover sleep. 

You squint at him while he props his tired head against the window. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, Walker.”

Yelena twists in the passenger seat, smirking at you over her shoulder. Her box-dyed locks are wild from the sleep she never got. “What were you two doing in there?” she lilts, Russian accent deep and gravelly.

“Sleeping,” Bucky monotones.

Ava scoffs from the row in front of you, though you can hardly see her from here. She takes up most of the room in the middle seat, resting her head on her backpack and her legs in Bob’s lap. “Yeah, I bet,” she laughs.

“We were!” you try to argue, though the break in your voice is hardly convincing.

Even Bob turns around with a suspicious squint in his kind eyes. “The walls were criminally thin, to be fair,” he mumbles, almost apologetically.

“Sorry…” you waver.

“Hey! Do not apologize!” Alexei shouts from the front seat, waving his pointer finger in the air. “There is nothing wrong with needing a little bit of release—”

The van fills with a chorus of annoyed groans before he can properly finish his sentence.

JOHN WALKER X READER — you and john try to have a quickie on a mission, but mistakenly forget to turn off your comms (1.1k words)

John Walker saw it coming.

He knew what he was in for the moment the idea fell from your mouth — the blueprint of an elaborate heist to return the smuggled vibranium back to Wakanda, for which each of the New Avengers had their role.

Alexei had been honored to be a distraction, to brush elbows with the wealthiest people in the world and get his fill of complimentary champagne. John, however, was slightly offended that his only part in the whole thing was to woo the woman running the gala long enough to catch her in a lie.

“That’s it?” he laughed from the opposite end of the long table. “You want me to… flirt with some woman I don’t even know?”

You nodded. “Yes. I want you to flirt and look pretty— That’s what you’re best at.”

Yelena fought back a laugh. John shifted uncomfortably in his seat, swallowing through a pang of mild embarrassment. “And it won’t make you jealous?” he wondered aloud.

“Why would I be jealous?” you scoffed.

“Well, what if she doesn’t give in right away?” the blonde man challenged, folding his strong arms over the table to lean in close. “What if she thinks I actually want to have sex with her—? What if she doesn’t want to tell me anything until I’ve had sex with her?”

You hesitated, for only a fleeting moment, then shrugged a lazy shoulder in response. “Whatever it takes.”

John nodded slowly and leaned back again, as though he were taking your words as some kind of dare.

Alexei, unable to read the room, then offered, “Well, if Walker’s too scared to do it, I would be happy to take one for the team and sleep with this strange woman—”

The plan went exactly as you thought it would.

Maybe a little too well.

John Walker plays his part to perfection, the only way he knows how. Turns out, you were right — he was best at flirting and looking pretty, it seems — because it takes very little work on his part to get what he wants.

He dials his charm to eleven, like he knows you’re watching over him; and the drunk woman, worth more money than Walker will ever see in his life, fawns over him with ease. He gets the intel and then some, sporting a smirk and a pink lip print on his cheek.

“Did ya get that, honey?” he asks into his comm, smiling at the nearest security camera because he knows you’re watching him from there.

“Don’t look so smug,” you grouse in his ear. “Meet me at the rendezvous point when you’re done gloating.”

John’s able to sneak his way into the basement, thanks in part to Alexei’s Russian drinking game that he’s roped a group of drunken elites into.

He finds you waiting for him in the security room, all dolled up to blend into the party you never actually attended. The thin, emerald silk of your dress drapes over your body like soft, summer rain.

John loses his breath at the sight of you, quickly forgetting that he came here to gloat, as the door clicks shut behind him.

“Where’s everybody else?” he asks, walking to stand behind you in front of the wall of security cameras. You can see the entire gala from here, every bustling body filmed in black-and-white static.

He stands close enough behind you for you to feel the warmth radiating from his body. He can smell the vanilla perfume in your hair the same way you can smell the oaky cologne on his neck.

“Ava and Bob are tracking down your new girlfriend,” you quip, pointing to the screen at the bottom left corner where the two of them rush down the hallway. “And Yelena and Bucky are jetting off to the super luxurious private island your girlfriend really wanted to take you to.”

“She still waiting for me in her room?” John wonders, eyes flitting across the screens ahead of him.

“Yep,” you nod without looking back at him. “You can probably still catch her before the others if you’re fast enough. You know, if you were serious about that good time you wanted to show her.”

John laughs. You feel the exhale of the warm breath against your shoulder, right before he leans in to press a kiss to your bare skin.

“You’re so jealous,” he croons lowly into your neck.

You fight a shiver when his scruff brushes against you there. “I’m not jealous,” you insist proudly, shrugging your shoulder and dipping away from his touch. 

You spin on your heel and brace yourself against the table to slide yourself on top of it. John migrates instinctively towards your parted thighs.

“No?” he presses sarcastically with his head tilted like a puppy.

“No. ‘Cause she’s about to go to prison,” you say, nodding towards the camera where Ava leads the confused woman, dressed in nothing but a silk robe, out of her hotel room. “And you’re about to fuck me.”

“Really?” John hums, despite settling in between your spread legs like he was made to do it. “That’s very presumptuous of you.”

You use his tie like a leash to pull him closer, smiling with a sadistic look in your eye. “Don’t keep me waiting, Walker.”

It’s a mess of scrambling limbs. John hurries to free his cock from the confines of his slacks while you lift the skirt of your dress to slide your panties to the side. 

You watch with lidded eyes, propped against the square screens behind you, while John works himself the rest of the way hard with his fist. You inhale the sweet scent of his cologne when he leans over you, and bite back a whimper when he slides slowly inside of you.

The quiet security room fills quickly with the sounds of heavy breaths and quiet moans — but before John can fuck you the way he wants, the door swings suddenly open.

Bob stumbles in, mouth already parted to say something, but his eyes widen in shock before he can.

“Jesus, Bob!” John shouts, jerking out of you and tucking his stiff cock back into his pants.

The curly-haired boy falters for a moment. He knows he should leave, but his brain isn’t working properly. He turns around to face the corner instead. “Sorry!” he squeaks. “I’m sorry!”

“What are you doing in here?” you pant.

“You said to meet at the rendezvous point!”

You and John share an anxious look. Both of you have forgotten about the in-ears and the live microphone inside them. “You’ve been hearing us on comms?” you waver, distantly fearful of the answer. “Like, this whole time?”

Bob nods. “Yeah…?”

“Why didn’t you say something?” John snaps.

Ava’s voice crackles suddenly through the microphone. “Well, we didn’t want to be rude—”

YELENA BELOVA X READER — walker almost catches you and yelena having a "late night snack" in the kitchen (1k words)

Yelena Belova can’t help herself.

It’s the whiskey running through her veins, maybe, or the way you look in the yellow refrigerator light. She forgets all about the movie paused upstairs and the late-night snack the two of you came searching for at three in the morning.

You bend at the waist, reaching for something deep in the fridge, and your t-shirt rises to reveal your underwear. Modest. Cotton. Pale pink and decorated with so many cream-colored stars.

It drives Yelena wild. 

You leave the carton of milk on the counter and stand on the tips of your toes, reaching for the boxes of cereal Walker always keeps on the highest shelf. You just barely manage to grab the Cinnamon Toast Crunch container when you feel Yelena press herself against your back, caging you between her body and the counter’s edge.

“Excuse me,” you giggle and struggle to spin in her hold.

You just barely manage to catch Yelena’s lazy smile before she leans in closer. “You’re excused,” she murmurs, voice low and smooth as honey.

She kisses you once, twice, and then a third time — longer and more languid than before — then begins to trail her lips down your jaw. 

You grin when she licks over your pulse point. Her fingers ball the hem of your shirt into her fists. “I really want to finish that movie, Lena…” you lilt knowingly.

“We will,” she hums, half-muffled against you. “Right after I make you feel good.”

She goes to sink to her knees in front of you. You hold tightly to the outsides of her elbows to stop her, eyes wide and glittering with panic. “Not here,” you scold with a shake of your head.

Yelena’s face scrunches in a stubborn, girlish pout — far too cute to be a world-class assassin. “Yes, here,” she argues.

“What if someone walks in?”

“No one will walk in. I promise.”

She smiles when your hardened gaze refuses to waver. She leans in close, trailing the tip of his nose over the bridge of yours. Her breath fans over your cupid’s bow. “It’s late, everyone’s sleeping. And I’ll be quick, okay?”

Her fingers dip beneath your shirt, curling over the hem of your panties. She doesn’t know how wet you are for her already. You don’t know how her mouth is watering for a taste of you now.

You huff and turn to the side, finding the blinking green numbers on the stovetop: 2:57 a.m. 

“Fine,” you cave. “But I’m only giving you three minutes.”

Yelena falls slowly to her knees. “I only need one,” she smirks, pressing a chaste kiss to your clothed stomach as she slides your pretty underwear to the side with an expert hand.

You scoff. “That’s very presumptuous of y—” She licks a fat stripe up the length of your pussy. You sigh a broken moan. “—Oh…”

Her hands carress the backs of your thighs, just beneath your ass, as she kisses your cunt the way she would your mouth.

Your knees threaten to buckle when her lips lock with your sensitive clit, sucking gently there until you keen. You feel her smiling against you when you brace yourself on the counter’s edge to keep from falling.

Yelena’s mouth is a merciless thing. She has every intention of making you cum in a minute, just like she promised she would. She focuses mostly on your swollen clit — licking, then sucking, then sucking and licking — to pull a swift and powerful orgasm from your body. 

You think she would’ve broken a record if Walker hadn’t walked in at the absolute worst time.

You tense when the hall light turns on. His steps are slow and heavy, like he’s barely lifting his feet off the ground. John turns the corner, dressed in sagging sweatpants and a tank top, and flinches at the sight of you there — leaning awkwardly against the counter. 

With the kitchen island in the way, he can’t see Yelena from where he’s standing — or how she’s sucking an orgasm most devilishly from your body.

You’re grateful when he stops short in the doorway. You’re less grateful when your girlfriend refuses to cease her merciless assault on your pussy.

“What are you doing up?” John asks, voice gravelly with sleep.

“Oh, you know, just—” You clear your throat when your voice wavers. “Just getting something to eat.”

He nods politely and takes another step.

Panic swells within you the same way your orgasm does.

“Did you need something?” you blurt, fighting back a whimper when Yelena's teeth scrape gently along your clit.

John’s brows furrow, but he makes no mention of how strange you’re being. “I was just getting some water—”

He takes another step. You reach for a rogue water bottle and chuck it across the room, perhaps more forcefully than you mean to.

“Here you go!” you shout with a wavering smile, feeling your orgasm tightening in the pit of your stomach.

John catches the plastic thing against his chest. He scoffs a tired laugh and shakes his head. “Thanks, weirdo…” he mumbles and walks away.

You don’t relax until the hall light has turned off and you’ve heard his bedroom door click shut again. Then you deflate against the kitchen counter — one hand propping yourself up and the other holding tight to the back of Yelena’s head.

You give the short, blonde tendrils an especially sharp tug and she moans into your pussy, heavy eyes fluttering shut.

Your thighs tremble on either side of her face when you cum. You bite your lip until it hurts in a feeble attempt to keep yourself quiet. The kitchen fills with the sound of your subdued whimpering as Yelena sucks the remnants of your orgasm from your weeping cunt.

She doesn’t stop until you’re pushing her away.

Yelena leans back, wiping her glistening mouth with the back of her hand. She smiles while you catch your breath. “How was it?” she quips.

“I’m so getting you back for that,” you pant. “Just so you know.”

“Oh…” she croons sarcastically, rising to full height again. “Are you now?”

You nod once, lidded eyes glinting with something stern and mischievous.

Yelena tries not to cower at the way you look at her, like you’re some kinda succubus who can’t wait to swallow her whole.

“The entire tower is going to hear you screaming before I’m done with you, Belova.”

ROBERT REYNOLDS X READER — the one where alexei finally learns to knock before entering your bedroom (1k words)

Bob Reynolds is having the most amazing dream.

It’s of you and him, all tangled in an unmade bed, and bathing in the morning glow of a golden sunrise. You’re pressed against the side of him, heavy and warm, with your arm tucked under the blanket. You rub his half-hard cock over his boxers and press chaste kisses up and down the length of jaw. Bob’s mouth tugs upward in a lazy smile as he exhales slowly through his nose.

His eyes flutter open on their own accord. 

He finds his bedroom soaked in the same orange glow he was dreaming about. He blinks the haze of sleep from his eyes, and only then registers your body pressed against his — and the way you knead his stiff, clothed cock with a gentle hand. 

Bob wakes from one dream only to enter the next. His sigh of contentment leaves in a grumbled moan in his throat.

He feels your smile curl against his jaw. “Good morning,” you hum against his skin.

Bob nods until the words catch up to him, chestnut curls in a frizzy halo around his head. “Yes, it is…” he jokes, words weighed down with sleep.

Your body trembles with a quiet laugh from where you’re lying along his side. “Well, you were poking me in the back to be fair,” you say, punctuating your murmurs with another kiss to his neck. “So this is kinda your fault, if you think about it.”

Bob might’ve argued if he wasn’t already so close to his orgasm. Your hand dips beneath the hem of his boxers, using his pearly pre-cum as lubricate while you glide your fist up and down his cock.

His stomach tenses — there’s a knot at the pit of it he feels tightening, bound to snap at any moment.

His mouth parts to speak, but a pathetic whine escapes instead.

“You don’t care, do you, Bobby?” you coo to him, mouth brushing the shell of his ear. “You just wanna cum, don’t you?”

He nods wordlessly, eyes squeezed shut.

“Use your words.”

“Yes,” Bob squeaks obediently, right before he sighs. “Yes, please…”

With his eyes still shut, he feels the mattress dip beside him as you crawl on top of his body. The blankets shift to accommodate you as you settle between his legs.

“Where do you wanna cum, then?” you ask, too innocently for how demoniacal you're being just now. “In my hand or in my mouth?”

“Your mouth,” Bob answers instantly, voice breaking as cock jerks in your fist. “In your mouth, please— In your mouth.”

You nod, even though he can’t see you, and smile wide at the broken look on his face. “Good boy,” you hum, just to make his cock drool, before you dip beneath the covers. 

You tuck the hem of his boxers beneath his balls, keeping the base of his cock in your fist as you lick gently at the tip. You savor the salty tang of his pre-cum when you suckle at his sensitive head with no warning. Bob tenses immediately beneath you. A moan escapes from his parted mouth, filling the quiet bedroom.  

“Sorry!” he squeaks when he realizes how loud he’s being, exhaling a trembling breath and squeezing his hands into fists. He yearns to touch you, but not without permission. “I’m sorry, baby…”

If you’re angry with him, you don’t show it.

You just take is cock down your throat and until he keens. You work at him swiftly and mercilessly — knowing that, at any moment, it’ll be seven in the morning, and the rest of the tower will be up and recruiting for the latest mission.

You need Bob to cum before then.

So you swallow around the length of his cock and cup his sensitive balls in your hand. It’s a near-lethal combination that you only use during your quickies — or when you’re especially trying to torture him. 

“Can I cum?” Bob pants when he feels the knot tightening in his stomach. “Please, can I cum?”

You don’t answer him with words. You can’t with your nose buried in his pubic hair and his cock stuffed down your throat. You hum affirmatively around him instead, “Mhm.” 

The added stimulation makes him burst. Two salty ropes of warm cum pool in your mouth.

“Oh— shit!” 

His moans turn into something more urgent, fearful even, as your bedroom door clicks suddenly open.

Both of you jerk into upright positions — you on your knees, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, and Bob cupping his palms over his still twitching cock.

You find Alexei standing in the doorway, with a steaming breakfast burrito clutched in his fist. He blinks hard, like he’s trying to discern exactly what it is he’s looking at.

He swallows down his mouthful and fights back a sudden wave of nausea. 

“Team meeting downstairs in five,” is all he says, half-detached and strangely robotic, before turning back the way he came.

“Shut the door!” you call to his disappearing figure.

He doesn't seem to hear you.

“Lenaaaa!” he shouts over you, Russian voice booming throughout the quiet tower. “Never make me do that again!”

You and Bob are only slightly late to the team meeting in question.

The room is deafeningly silent, heavy with a nameless tension. Neither of the team seems to look at you with anything other than sleep in their eyes — other than Alexei, of course, who sits slouched at the head of the table.

Yelena pets unenthusiastically at his shoulder, begrudgingly comforting the pouting man.

You take your designated seats at the long table without a word — you at the opposite end, and Bob sitting most adjacent to you.

Alexei’s eyes harden into a pitiful glare. “Is there anything you two want to say to me?” he wonders dramatically, accent sounding deep in his throat. “An ‘I’m sorry,’ perhaps?”

Bob shifts uncomfortably, gaze averted. “Sorry—”

“Learn how to knock,” you deadpan, then flash a cynical smile that makes the man cower. “Or I’ll show you something a lot worse than what you saw this morning.”

[lovebugism]

first stranger things 5 teaser just dropped. check on your nearest loser, they're probably losing it rn

[lovebugism]

anything with domestic jackson!joel……. i miss him dearly

✶ ┄ END OF THE WORLD !

summary: you intervene when joel and ellie get into an argument, and try to find a way to tell him some shocking news of your own.

pairing: joel miller / f!reader

contents: s2ep6 spoilers, established relationship, angst, hurt/comfort, pregnancy mention, loads of fluff + girl dad joel miller <3

“Your husband’s a lunatic,” an unfamiliar voice calls as you slide the rain-soaked jacket from your shoulders. 

You pause with it halfway down your arms, face twisted as you turn to the strange girl rushing down the stairs. One of Ellie’s friends, you presume, with auburn hair chopped to her chin and pale skin littered with tattoos. She tugs a flannel over her shoulders, concealing the faded locket on her forearm.

“Husband—?” you echo, voice laced with confusion. “—Who are you?”

The girl slides past you in the doorway without a word, ducking her head as she rushes down the porch and into the rain. You watch over your shoulder as she disappears into the downpour and wonder briefly what’s got her seeking refuge in a storm. 

Then you hear yelling, two muffled voices in a screaming match, coming from the bedroom the stranger had just left.

You realize, then, what she had meant by husband. 

And lunatic. 

“Joel?!” you shout with a nervous waver in your voice as you ascend the creaking staircase, skipping a step at a time and tucking the piece of paper in your hand into the back pocket of your jeans. The angry voices grow louder the closer you get to Ellie’s room. 

“—I guess this is what I get for tryin’ to surprise you, huh?”

“—I didn’t ask for any of this shit!”

“—That’s what a surprise is!”

You push the ajar door open with one hand, finding the two deadlocked in a glaring match in the center of the room. Joel holds the girl’s arm in a stern but gentle grip, while she keeps her free one balled into a trembling fist at her side. The arguing ceases when you appear in the doorway, but the angered looks twisting their features remain when their heads whip in your direction.

“What’s going on?” you pant, wide eyes darting between the two of them. “What happened?”

“This happened,” Joel spits and angles Ellie’s arm in your direction. The length of her forearm is adorned with fresh black ink — a long fern leading to a wide moth on the inside of her elbow — red around the edges and slightly swollen. 

Your face floods with a visible shock, though you fail to understand why it’s got Joel so angry. “It’s… It’s just a tattoo,” you say with an awkward laugh. “I don’t understand—”

“It’s not just a tattoo,” the man shouts, voice deep and gruff and accented. He drops Ellie’s arm to inch closer to you, gesticulating wildly with his weathered hands. “It’s all the teenage shit all at once. Drugs, sex, experimenting—”

“It wasn’t sex,” Ellie bites, dark eyes hardened. “And it wasn’t an experiment.”

“She’s seventeen,” you remind the man looming over you, as tall and angry as a black storm cloud. There’s a frown etched between his pinched, greying brows that you meet with a quiet smile. “We can’t expect her not toact like a teenager—”

“So, what?” Joel’s voice booms, much firmer than your soft one. “You’re— You’re takin’ her side, now? Is that it?”

“Obviously not!” you say, laughing. “We’re definitely gonna talk about smoking in the house, because it makes everything smell like shit—”

You look over Joel’s shoulder to flash the girl behind him a pointed look. Ellie cowers under your gaze, “Sorry…” she mumbles.

“And we need to set some ground rules about having people over, but—”

“But what?” Joel interjects, hands on his hips, already angry at you for something you haven’t yet said.

“But it’s just a tattoo. And it’s just some girl.” You wave your hand vaguely to the open door behind you, where the stranger had just scurried from. “It’s not the end of the world you’re making it out to be.”

The anger in Joel’s tired eyes flickers suddenly, like a snuffed flame. “I thought we were supposed to be a team?” he murmurs, low and slightly strained. You see the stress of the situation hit him then, a visible fatigue on his greying face. 

“We are.” 

Joel exhales sharply through his nose in place of a laugh. The corner of his mouth quirks in an emotionless half-smile. “Well, then, it’d be real nice if you took my side every now and then.”

His broad shoulder brushes yours as he walks past you out the door. “Joel!” you call to him, though his only response is the slam of Ellie’s bedroom door. The framed photos and paintings on the wall jolt softly in protest.

Ellie huffs a breath of relief when he’s gone. “Thanks…” she murmurs, shifting shyly on her feet.

“Don’t thank me,” you sigh and lean your weight against her desk. 

To your left is a birthday cake — chocolate icing, rainbow sprinkles, and her name written in cursive. You think it must be the surprise Joel mentioned earlier, since he’s done this every year right before her birthday. He always says that there’s no real time to worry about cake on the day, ‘cause he’s always got something elaborate planned for her outside of Jackson.

He was gonna take her on her first patrol at first light tomorrow, like she’s been begging for since she was fifteen. You hope he’ll still take her. You hope she’ll let him.

You feel the exhaustion of the long day in your tired bones, then. All the sleep you didn’t get and the early hours you spent feeling sickly hit you all at once. You feel more infected than human most days. It’s a palpable weariness Ellie can feel across the room.

“Then I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize either,” you tell her. “I mean, I was serious about you smoking in the house— and about you having people I don’t know over, but… You’re not doing anything wrong, okay?”

Ellie’s brows pinch. She eyes you from beneath her lashes like she’s half suspicious, too used to Joel and his never-ending lectures. “I’m not?” she wonders aloud.

“No. Not as long as you’re being safe, you know, with the weed and the… whoever that was.”

“Kat,” she finishes for you.

“Sure. I just— I think it’d be easier for Joel if you’d, you know, talk to him— to us. I know you don’t care about his permission or whatever, but I think it’d help if he felt… included.” You shrug like you’re offering her something, but it’s more of a plea than anything. “At least then he wouldn’t have to find you smoking weed and sneaking girls over all at once. He’s old, Els, there’s only so much his heart can take.”

Ellie fights back a smile and plops down on the foot of her bed. The old thing creaks softly under her weight. “I don’t know how,” she murmurs, running her finger over the fresh ink in her arm. “To talk to him, I mean.”

“I don’t either, sometimes,” you confess with a sigh and rise from your slouched position. “But I guess I’m gonna try.”

“Good luck,” Ellie lilts as you wrench open the door.

“Thanks,” you deadpan back. “I think I’m gonna need it.”

You take your time making your way to the garage, which is where Joel usually goes to let off steam. He holds all his love in his hands, but he keeps his anger there, too — which is why you find him working on Ellie’s handmade guitar in the quiet yellow lamplight. ‘Cause even though no one pisses him off quite like than soon to be seventeen-year-old, Joel Miller can’t love her anymore than he already does.

You knock softly on the already open door to announce your arrival.

Joel, with his back turned towards you, blows dust from the waist of the guitar as he sands down its edges. “I don’t wanna talk right now,” he murmurs gruffly, running his calloused palm over the smooth wood.

You exhale a breathy laugh before you mean to. Joel glares at you over his shoulder. You clear your throat and try hard to be serious. “Sorry. You just— You talk a lot about Ellie’s mood swings, but some days you’re just as bad,” you confess, inching closer with hesitant steps. “Like father, like daughter, I suppose…”

The corner of Joel’s lip quirks in a quiet smile that he rubs away with his hand, fingers brushing over his greying beard. You walk closer and smooth your palms over his tense shoulders. Joel tries to deny himself the intimacy, “I’m serious, I really don’t—”

You bend at the waist to press your mouth to his ear. “Shh…” you whisper there, right before pressing a kiss to his scruffy cheek. Your arms wrap loosely around his neck as you sprinkle chaste kisses everywhere you can reach. His cheek, his temple, his jaw, his neck. You bathe him in softness until it washes the learned hardness from his body — until he exhales a much-needed breath and relaxes in your hold.

“There you go…” you coo, embracing him with one hand while your other smooths over his silver curls. Joel’s head tilts instinctively into your touch. His heavy eyes flutter slowly shut. 

“I just don’t understand her sometimes,” he murmurs.

“I know. I’m sure she feels the same way.”

His brows pinch. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You don’t think you confuse her the same way she confuses you? When you go from… barely talking to exploding out of nowhere?”

“I don’t explode,” he scoffs, face twisted with offense as he turns his head to look at you. You flash him a knowing look in response, which only offends him more. “I don’t!”

“You don’t ask her to open up, and then take it out on her when she keeps things from you.”

Joel glares when you straddle the bench to sit beside him. “You’re doing it again,” he deadpans and turns away, anxious hands messing with the half-done guitar in his lap.

“What?” you laugh. “Knocking some sense into you?”

Joel rolls his eyes in response. You reach for him, grabbing his scruffy chin with your thumb and forefinger to pull him closer and press a smacking kiss to his cheek. “I’m just kidding…” you lilt within a sigh and rest your head on his shoulder. “I know how you feel, Joel.”

You feel him shaking his head. “You don’t.”

“I do. I know every little thought that goes on in that head of yours, Joel Miller,” you insist gently, smoothing your cheek over his shoulder like a cat. “I know you love Ellie like a daughter. Like Sarah—”

The mention of her name makes him tense beneath you.

“—And I know that sometimes you miss Ellie like you miss Sarah. And I know that that confuses you, ‘cause Ellie’s still here, and that you just don’t want her to grow up… I get it.”

Joel flinches softly at your words, at the weight of them. His weathered features screw together, as though physically pained by the thought. He swallows hard and admits the hard truth out loud, “I just wanna protect her,” he mumbles, slightly strangled with emotion.

“I know you do. ‘Cause that’s what you always do,” you hum, resting your chin on his shoulder to gaze softly upon his profile. His features are strong and chiseled, like that of an ancient sculpture slightly worn with time. You smooth a rogue grey curl from his temple, chin bobbing as you speak, “But I think tattoos and weed are the least of our problems right now, all things considered.”

Joel huffs, broad shoulders deflating. 

Thinking about it now, he can’t remember why he got so worked up in the first place — why he resorted to the yelling place, as you called it, instead of just talking like a normal human being. But, in truth, nothing about him and Ellie has ever been normal. She was cargo to him one minute, and then he blinked and realized he’d set the world on fire if it meant keeping her safe. It’s a guttural, primal feeling he doesn’t think many people understand — least of all Ellie herself.

“Yeah. You’re right,” he sighs, southern drawl like honey, as he props the handmade guitar on the floor beside him. He rises from the workbench and guides you with him with a gentle hand on the outside of your elbow. “You always are,” he follows with a quiet, crooked smile.

“Thanks for admitting it, Miller,” you grin, and migrate instinctively into his arms when he opens them for you. 

You press yourself against him with every intention of melting in his warmth, inhaling his sea-salt scented shampoo when you nose into his curls. Joel buries his face in your shoulder and lets out a heavy sigh of contentment there. You try not to shiver when his beard scrapes the delicate skin of your neck.

“Ellie said she wants to move in here,” Joel mumbles against you.

“The garage?” you ask. 

He nods against you. 

“And what did you say?”

“Hell no,” he deadpans in response, then smiles to himself when he feels your body shaking with subsequent laughter.

“I’m not trying to take Ellie’s side, or anything, but… I don’t think it’s the worst idea ever,” you start slowly, awaiting his response. Joel stays silent to egg you on, and your eyes flit to the wooden panels on the ceiling, trying to find the words to say. They all just seem to strangle you instead. “I think that, you know, maybe we could use the extra room.” 

Joel parts from you, but only slightly. Just enough to peer down at you with a bearded face twisted in a gentle sort of confusion. “For what?” 

“I don’t know,” you shrug, even though you do know and you’re just trying to find the courage. “Maybe a nursery?”

It comes out like a question, like you’re just testing the waters — gauging his reaction. You don’t tell him, yet, that a nursery will become unequivocally necessary in the coming months, much sooner than either of you realize. 

The realization of such comes slowly. You watch his confusion deepen, then ebb slightly, before his face floods with a gaping look of shock.

“Are you…” Joel stammers. “You’re…”

“Pregnant? Yeah, apparently,” you answer casually, ‘cause you’ve had an hour or so now to get over the initial stupor. You reach into the back pocket of your jeans for the sonogram you tucked there for safekeeping. “I was coming back from Dr. Quinn’s when I found you and Ellie in a screaming match—”

Joel takes the ultrasound you offer him with shaking hands.

“Turns out, it wasn’t actually food poisoning,” you quip, crossing your arms over your chest to tuck your own trembling fingers under your armpits. “Even though I’m still almost certain that chicken alfredo Tommy made last week was, like, totally raw, but—”

Joel’s wide eyes flit between your face and the black-and-white photo in his hands. At the center is an indistinct blob, no bigger than a raspberry, and it sends his racing heart to the pit of his stomach. “You’re pregnant?” he wonders aloud, more firmly this time, though the words still sound a bit foreign on his tongue.

“Yep,” you answer, brows raised and smile wavering. “Surprise…” you lilt shakily.

Joel shifts on his feet before you, maneuvering the sonogram between his sweaty hands so he can wipe each one on his jeans. His mouth opens and closes for a few long moments as he tries to find the right words to say. It’s hard to, though, when his head’s racing a million miles a minute.

“Is… Is it…?” he trails off.

You don’t let him finish. “I swear to god, Joel Miller, if you ask me if it’s yours, I’m gonna be the one moving into the garage.”

Despite being half-breathless, Joel manages a quiet laugh. “No, I mean, is it… Is it a girl, or…?”

“Oh. Uh… It’s too early to tell, I think?”

“Right,” Joel nods. “Yeah. Obviously.”

Despite his obvious gracelessness, he’s been through this once before. He remembers every inch of his time with Sarah, who’d changed his life before she was even born. That all feels like lifetimes ago now, though — and, in some ways, it has been. 

The world went to shit, but it didn’t truly end until his babygirl died. And then decades flew by like minutes, and he found Ellie, and realized too late that she was his second shot at a life he thought was long gone. And when he got to Jackson, and when Jackson gave him you, he realized he could start living again — and that Sarah wouldn’t punish him for moving on. (Though she was always too kind for that, anyway.)

“I hope it’s a girl, though,” you say when Joel gets lost in his head, smoothing your hands over his chest. You think you can feel his heart racing beneath your palm. “I wanna keep you outnumbered, Miller.”

“I wouldn’t mind that,” he mumbles, lips quirking in a quiet smile. 

Your grin comes more absentmindedly, relieved by his reaction. “So… You’re happy?”

Joel falters for a moment, ‘cause he can’t imagine being anything else — not when he’s got Ellie, and you, and this baby who’s not here yet. “Yeah,” he nods, slightly strangled when his eyes burn with unshed tears. “‘Course I am.”

He hugs you again, this time like he’s trying to press all the love in his heart directly into yours. His strong arms wrap tightly around you, like they have every day for years now, until he remembers his strength and jerks back like he’s burned you. 

“Oh. Shit. Sorry,” he curses under his breath, holding you gently by the waist with careful hands. His dark eyes dart wildly from your smiling face to the barely-there bump beneath your sweater, scared that he’s hurt you somehow.

“It’s okay,” you laugh. “Keep holding me. I liked it.”

He abides you, ‘cause it’s in his blood to, though he’s clearly more gentle this time. He keeps one warm hand on your lower back and his other cradling the back of your hair. He presses his lips to the crown of your head and mumbles there, “‘M sorry for stressin’ you out today. Wouldn’t have made a fuss about it if I knew… Shouldn’t have made a fuss about it anyway…”

“Don’t worry about that,” you murmur sincerely into his chest, then joke quietly, “I want you to stress me out for a lifetime, Miller.”

You feel his soft laughter rumbling against your cheek. “I guess I can do that.”

[lovebugism]

Tag “x reader” please 🙄🙄🙄🙄

i did??? i'm not totally sure what this is in reference to lmao but all my work is tagged x reader

[lovebugism]

anything with domestic jackson!joel……. i miss him dearly

✶ ┄ END OF THE WORLD !

summary: you intervene when joel and ellie get into an argument, and try to find a way to tell him some shocking news of your own.

pairing: joel miller / f!reader

contents: s2ep6 spoilers, established relationship, angst, hurt/comfort, pregnancy mention, loads of fluff + girl dad joel miller <3

“Your husband’s a lunatic,” an unfamiliar voice calls as you slide the rain-soaked jacket from your shoulders. 

You pause with it halfway down your arms, face twisted as you turn to the strange girl rushing down the stairs. One of Ellie’s friends, you presume, with auburn hair chopped to her chin and pale skin littered with tattoos. She tugs a flannel over her shoulders, concealing the faded locket on her forearm.

“Husband—?” you echo, voice laced with confusion. “—Who are you?”

The girl slides past you in the doorway without a word, ducking her head as she rushes down the porch and into the rain. You watch over your shoulder as she disappears into the downpour and wonder briefly what’s got her seeking refuge in a storm. 

Then you hear yelling, two muffled voices in a screaming match, coming from the bedroom the stranger had just left.

You realize, then, what she had meant by husband. 

And lunatic. 

“Joel?!” you shout with a nervous waver in your voice as you ascend the creaking staircase, skipping a step at a time and tucking the piece of paper in your hand into the back pocket of your jeans. The angry voices grow louder the closer you get to Ellie’s room. 

“—I guess this is what I get for tryin’ to surprise you, huh?”

“—I didn’t ask for any of this shit!”

“—That’s what a surprise is!”

You push the ajar door open with one hand, finding the two deadlocked in a glaring match in the center of the room. Joel holds the girl’s arm in a stern but gentle grip, while she keeps her free one balled into a trembling fist at her side. The arguing ceases when you appear in the doorway, but the angered looks twisting their features remain when their heads whip in your direction.

“What’s going on?” you pant, wide eyes darting between the two of them. “What happened?”

“This happened,” Joel spits and angles Ellie’s arm in your direction. The length of her forearm is adorned with fresh black ink — a long fern leading to a wide moth on the inside of her elbow — red around the edges and slightly swollen. 

Your face floods with a visible shock, though you fail to understand why it’s got Joel so angry. “It’s… It’s just a tattoo,” you say with an awkward laugh. “I don’t understand—”

“It’s not just a tattoo,” the man shouts, voice deep and gruff and accented. He drops Ellie’s arm to inch closer to you, gesticulating wildly with his weathered hands. “It’s all the teenage shit all at once. Drugs, sex, experimenting—”

“It wasn’t sex,” Ellie bites, dark eyes hardened. “And it wasn’t an experiment.”

“She’s seventeen,” you remind the man looming over you, as tall and angry as a black storm cloud. There’s a frown etched between his pinched, greying brows that you meet with a quiet smile. “We can’t expect her not toact like a teenager—”

“So, what?” Joel’s voice booms, much firmer than your soft one. “You’re— You’re takin’ her side, now? Is that it?”

“Obviously not!” you say, laughing. “We’re definitely gonna talk about smoking in the house, because it makes everything smell like shit—”

You look over Joel’s shoulder to flash the girl behind him a pointed look. Ellie cowers under your gaze, “Sorry…” she mumbles.

“And we need to set some ground rules about having people over, but—”

“But what?” Joel interjects, hands on his hips, already angry at you for something you haven’t yet said.

“But it’s just a tattoo. And it’s just some girl.” You wave your hand vaguely to the open door behind you, where the stranger had just scurried from. “It’s not the end of the world you’re making it out to be.”

The anger in Joel’s tired eyes flickers suddenly, like a snuffed flame. “I thought we were supposed to be a team?” he murmurs, low and slightly strained. You see the stress of the situation hit him then, a visible fatigue on his greying face. 

“We are.” 

Joel exhales sharply through his nose in place of a laugh. The corner of his mouth quirks in an emotionless half-smile. “Well, then, it’d be real nice if you took my side every now and then.”

His broad shoulder brushes yours as he walks past you out the door. “Joel!” you call to him, though his only response is the slam of Ellie’s bedroom door. The framed photos and paintings on the wall jolt softly in protest.

Ellie huffs a breath of relief when he’s gone. “Thanks…” she murmurs, shifting shyly on her feet.

“Don’t thank me,” you sigh and lean your weight against her desk. 

To your left is a birthday cake — chocolate icing, rainbow sprinkles, and her name written in cursive. You think it must be the surprise Joel mentioned earlier, since he’s done this every year right before her birthday. He always says that there’s no real time to worry about cake on the day, ‘cause he’s always got something elaborate planned for her outside of Jackson.

He was gonna take her on her first patrol at first light tomorrow, like she’s been begging for since she was fifteen. You hope he’ll still take her. You hope she’ll let him.

You feel the exhaustion of the long day in your tired bones, then. All the sleep you didn’t get and the early hours you spent feeling sickly hit you all at once. You feel more infected than human most days. It’s a palpable weariness Ellie can feel across the room.

“Then I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize either,” you tell her. “I mean, I was serious about you smoking in the house— and about you having people I don’t know over, but… You’re not doing anything wrong, okay?”

Ellie’s brows pinch. She eyes you from beneath her lashes like she’s half suspicious, too used to Joel and his never-ending lectures. “I’m not?” she wonders aloud.

“No. Not as long as you’re being safe, you know, with the weed and the… whoever that was.”

“Kat,” she finishes for you.

“Sure. I just— I think it’d be easier for Joel if you’d, you know, talk to him— to us. I know you don’t care about his permission or whatever, but I think it’d help if he felt… included.” You shrug like you’re offering her something, but it’s more of a plea than anything. “At least then he wouldn’t have to find you smoking weed and sneaking girls over all at once. He’s old, Els, there’s only so much his heart can take.”

Ellie fights back a smile and plops down on the foot of her bed. The old thing creaks softly under her weight. “I don’t know how,” she murmurs, running her finger over the fresh ink in her arm. “To talk to him, I mean.”

“I don’t either, sometimes,” you confess with a sigh and rise from your slouched position. “But I guess I’m gonna try.”

“Good luck,” Ellie lilts as you wrench open the door.

“Thanks,” you deadpan back. “I think I’m gonna need it.”

You take your time making your way to the garage, which is where Joel usually goes to let off steam. He holds all his love in his hands, but he keeps his anger there, too — which is why you find him working on Ellie’s handmade guitar in the quiet yellow lamplight. ‘Cause even though no one pisses him off quite like than soon to be seventeen-year-old, Joel Miller can’t love her anymore than he already does.

You knock softly on the already open door to announce your arrival.

Joel, with his back turned towards you, blows dust from the waist of the guitar as he sands down its edges. “I don’t wanna talk right now,” he murmurs gruffly, running his calloused palm over the smooth wood.

You exhale a breathy laugh before you mean to. Joel glares at you over his shoulder. You clear your throat and try hard to be serious. “Sorry. You just— You talk a lot about Ellie’s mood swings, but some days you’re just as bad,” you confess, inching closer with hesitant steps. “Like father, like daughter, I suppose…”

The corner of Joel’s lip quirks in a quiet smile that he rubs away with his hand, fingers brushing over his greying beard. You walk closer and smooth your palms over his tense shoulders. Joel tries to deny himself the intimacy, “I’m serious, I really don’t—”

You bend at the waist to press your mouth to his ear. “Shh…” you whisper there, right before pressing a kiss to his scruffy cheek. Your arms wrap loosely around his neck as you sprinkle chaste kisses everywhere you can reach. His cheek, his temple, his jaw, his neck. You bathe him in softness until it washes the learned hardness from his body — until he exhales a much-needed breath and relaxes in your hold.

“There you go…” you coo, embracing him with one hand while your other smooths over his silver curls. Joel’s head tilts instinctively into your touch. His heavy eyes flutter slowly shut. 

“I just don’t understand her sometimes,” he murmurs.

“I know. I’m sure she feels the same way.”

His brows pinch. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You don’t think you confuse her the same way she confuses you? When you go from… barely talking to exploding out of nowhere?”

“I don’t explode,” he scoffs, face twisted with offense as he turns his head to look at you. You flash him a knowing look in response, which only offends him more. “I don’t!”

“You don’t ask her to open up, and then take it out on her when she keeps things from you.”

Joel glares when you straddle the bench to sit beside him. “You’re doing it again,” he deadpans and turns away, anxious hands messing with the half-done guitar in his lap.

“What?” you laugh. “Knocking some sense into you?”

Joel rolls his eyes in response. You reach for him, grabbing his scruffy chin with your thumb and forefinger to pull him closer and press a smacking kiss to his cheek. “I’m just kidding…” you lilt within a sigh and rest your head on his shoulder. “I know how you feel, Joel.”

You feel him shaking his head. “You don’t.”

“I do. I know every little thought that goes on in that head of yours, Joel Miller,” you insist gently, smoothing your cheek over his shoulder like a cat. “I know you love Ellie like a daughter. Like Sarah—”

The mention of her name makes him tense beneath you.

“—And I know that sometimes you miss Ellie like you miss Sarah. And I know that that confuses you, ‘cause Ellie’s still here, and that you just don’t want her to grow up… I get it.”

Joel flinches softly at your words, at the weight of them. His weathered features screw together, as though physically pained by the thought. He swallows hard and admits the hard truth out loud, “I just wanna protect her,” he mumbles, slightly strangled with emotion.

“I know you do. ‘Cause that’s what you always do,” you hum, resting your chin on his shoulder to gaze softly upon his profile. His features are strong and chiseled, like that of an ancient sculpture slightly worn with time. You smooth a rogue grey curl from his temple, chin bobbing as you speak, “But I think tattoos and weed are the least of our problems right now, all things considered.”

Joel huffs, broad shoulders deflating. 

Thinking about it now, he can’t remember why he got so worked up in the first place — why he resorted to the yelling place, as you called it, instead of just talking like a normal human being. But, in truth, nothing about him and Ellie has ever been normal. She was cargo to him one minute, and then he blinked and realized he’d set the world on fire if it meant keeping her safe. It’s a guttural, primal feeling he doesn’t think many people understand — least of all Ellie herself.

“Yeah. You’re right,” he sighs, southern drawl like honey, as he props the handmade guitar on the floor beside him. He rises from the workbench and guides you with him with a gentle hand on the outside of your elbow. “You always are,” he follows with a quiet, crooked smile.

“Thanks for admitting it, Miller,” you grin, and migrate instinctively into his arms when he opens them for you. 

You press yourself against him with every intention of melting in his warmth, inhaling his sea-salt scented shampoo when you nose into his curls. Joel buries his face in your shoulder and lets out a heavy sigh of contentment there. You try not to shiver when his beard scrapes the delicate skin of your neck.

“Ellie said she wants to move in here,” Joel mumbles against you.

“The garage?” you ask. 

He nods against you. 

“And what did you say?”

“Hell no,” he deadpans in response, then smiles to himself when he feels your body shaking with subsequent laughter.

“I’m not trying to take Ellie’s side, or anything, but… I don’t think it’s the worst idea ever,” you start slowly, awaiting his response. Joel stays silent to egg you on, and your eyes flit to the wooden panels on the ceiling, trying to find the words to say. They all just seem to strangle you instead. “I think that, you know, maybe we could use the extra room.” 

Joel parts from you, but only slightly. Just enough to peer down at you with a bearded face twisted in a gentle sort of confusion. “For what?” 

“I don’t know,” you shrug, even though you do know and you’re just trying to find the courage. “Maybe a nursery?”

It comes out like a question, like you’re just testing the waters — gauging his reaction. You don’t tell him, yet, that a nursery will become unequivocally necessary in the coming months, much sooner than either of you realize. 

The realization of such comes slowly. You watch his confusion deepen, then ebb slightly, before his face floods with a gaping look of shock.

“Are you…” Joel stammers. “You’re…”

“Pregnant? Yeah, apparently,” you answer casually, ‘cause you’ve had an hour or so now to get over the initial stupor. You reach into the back pocket of your jeans for the sonogram you tucked there for safekeeping. “I was coming back from Dr. Quinn’s when I found you and Ellie in a screaming match—”

Joel takes the ultrasound you offer him with shaking hands.

“Turns out, it wasn’t actually food poisoning,” you quip, crossing your arms over your chest to tuck your own trembling fingers under your armpits. “Even though I’m still almost certain that chicken alfredo Tommy made last week was, like, totally raw, but—”

Joel’s wide eyes flit between your face and the black-and-white photo in his hands. At the center is an indistinct blob, no bigger than a raspberry, and it sends his racing heart to the pit of his stomach. “You’re pregnant?” he wonders aloud, more firmly this time, though the words still sound a bit foreign on his tongue.

“Yep,” you answer, brows raised and smile wavering. “Surprise…” you lilt shakily.

Joel shifts on his feet before you, maneuvering the sonogram between his sweaty hands so he can wipe each one on his jeans. His mouth opens and closes for a few long moments as he tries to find the right words to say. It’s hard to, though, when his head’s racing a million miles a minute.

“Is… Is it…?” he trails off.

You don’t let him finish. “I swear to god, Joel Miller, if you ask me if it’s yours, I’m gonna be the one moving into the garage.”

Despite being half-breathless, Joel manages a quiet laugh. “No, I mean, is it… Is it a girl, or…?”

“Oh. Uh… It’s too early to tell, I think?”

“Right,” Joel nods. “Yeah. Obviously.”

Despite his obvious gracelessness, he’s been through this once before. He remembers every inch of his time with Sarah, who’d changed his life before she was even born. That all feels like lifetimes ago now, though — and, in some ways, it has been. 

The world went to shit, but it didn’t truly end until his babygirl died. And then decades flew by like minutes, and he found Ellie, and realized too late that she was his second shot at a life he thought was long gone. And when he got to Jackson, and when Jackson gave him you, he realized he could start living again — and that Sarah wouldn’t punish him for moving on. (Though she was always too kind for that, anyway.)

“I hope it’s a girl, though,” you say when Joel gets lost in his head, smoothing your hands over his chest. You think you can feel his heart racing beneath your palm. “I wanna keep you outnumbered, Miller.”

“I wouldn’t mind that,” he mumbles, lips quirking in a quiet smile. 

Your grin comes more absentmindedly, relieved by his reaction. “So… You’re happy?”

Joel falters for a moment, ‘cause he can’t imagine being anything else — not when he’s got Ellie, and you, and this baby who’s not here yet. “Yeah,” he nods, slightly strangled when his eyes burn with unshed tears. “‘Course I am.”

He hugs you again, this time like he’s trying to press all the love in his heart directly into yours. His strong arms wrap tightly around you, like they have every day for years now, until he remembers his strength and jerks back like he’s burned you. 

“Oh. Shit. Sorry,” he curses under his breath, holding you gently by the waist with careful hands. His dark eyes dart wildly from your smiling face to the barely-there bump beneath your sweater, scared that he’s hurt you somehow.

“It’s okay,” you laugh. “Keep holding me. I liked it.”

He abides you, ‘cause it’s in his blood to, though he’s clearly more gentle this time. He keeps one warm hand on your lower back and his other cradling the back of your hair. He presses his lips to the crown of your head and mumbles there, “‘M sorry for stressin’ you out today. Wouldn’t have made a fuss about it if I knew… Shouldn’t have made a fuss about it anyway…”

“Don’t worry about that,” you murmur sincerely into his chest, then joke quietly, “I want you to stress me out for a lifetime, Miller.”

You feel his soft laughter rumbling against your cheek. “I guess I can do that.”

[lovebugism]

omg i just hit 12k !!!! expect a joel miller fic tonight as a token of my appreciation i love you all xoxo

[lovebugism]

um so this episode of tlou has officially ruined me :D if anyone has any domestic joel miller requests to spare i will take them most graciously

[lovebugism]

obsessed with your bucky content!! <3 love the way you write him :)

ahh thank u!! and thanks so much for reading 💚

[lovebugism]

oh girl im loving these thunderbolts blurbs i wish i could say i had a request but im not creative 💔

omg no worries i'm the same way lol i would be suffering from perpetual writers block if not for other ppl's requests hahah thanks for being here angel <3

[lovebugism]

Hi!

Would you take a John Walker commission? He's not on your list of characters so I wanted to check before requesting anything :)

hi! yes i absolutely would!! (and thanks for the reminder to update my character list ily)

[lovebugism]

omg omg i’m writing the test from general pedagogy (literally my first exam at uni) this noon at 12:30 am wish me luckkk pls.. i’m so nervousssss 😭😩💀💀 and tomorrow i’m having a job interview at film festival (literally biggest film festival in europe) aaaahahsggsgsgsgsgsh i’m gonna throw up

omg i hope it went well !! i'm manifesting the job for u in the meantime because it sounds super duper cool :D

[lovebugism]

Your acc is so pretty!!

ah thank u !! 💚

[lovebugism]

Thunderbolts prompt: fake dating with them oh my lordy

ty for requesting :D below you will find four separate blurbs for the thunderbolts (bucky, yelena, john, and bob), each with their own separate summary and warnings! enjoy!!

BUCKY BARNES X READER — you pretend to be bucky's wife to help his image during the election (friends to lovers, pre-thunderbolts but also kinda canon divergent | 0.8k words)

Bucky Barnes never lets go of your hand. He never stops smiling either, at the sporadic camera flashes that threaten to blind him while the elevator doors squeak to a close. Only when the two of you are finally alone, away from the leering eyes of the press, can Bucky take his first good breath of the evening. Only then does he let go of your hand.

You migrate to opposite sides of the small lift and bathe in the welcome silence after a too-long night of shaking hands and people pleasing. Bucky sighs and tips his head back against the wall. “I’m sorry about this,” he mumbles beneath the ding-ing elevator. “Again.”

Despite the ache in your feet from a long night in heels, you manage a small, tired laugh. “You don’t have to keep apologizing, Bucky— Valentina put me up to his, alright? Not you.”

“No, I know, I just…” he trails off with an awkward chuckle, loosening the knot in his tie with two fingers. “I just know you’d rather be anywhere else in the world than here, you know, with me. I know how boring these things are, trust me.”

He tilts his head to flash you a tight-lipped grin, ocean eyes dark and weighed down with a visible fatigue. You give him a much more apologetic look in return.

“Actually, I’m kinda happy I’m here,” you correct and avert your gaze. “I know Valentina did all… this,” you wave your hand vaguely between the two of you. “But if pretending to be married helps you get elected, then I’m happy to do it. I seriously think you could do some good— like, world-changing good, so… I wouldn’t wanna be anywhere else.”

Bucky’s chest warms with an unfamiliar feeling. Something fuzzy, like television static or crackling embers — the kind of feeling he only gets whenever he’s holding your hand. It feels strange now, not to be touching you after spending a whole evening at your side.

He flexes his flesh hand and tries to ignore the ache while the numbers on the elevator continue to rise — 27th, 28th, 29th… 

“I know neither of us wanted to be here, but… Out of everyone Valentina could’ve picked, I’m glad it was you.”

“I’m sure you are,” you quip, trying not to be as vulnerable as you feel. “Considering her first idea was pairing you and Walker to go on, like, pretty public missions together.”

Bucky’s face screws. “No, it wasn’t...” he groans.

“Yeah. Like, saving kittens out of trees— Real serious stuff.”

He makes a pained, grumbly noise in his throat. “Well, now I’m extra glad it’s you.”

The two of you exhale soft laughs and stare ahead at the closed doors before you; more specifically, at the bright red numbers above them — 41st, 42nd, 43rd — praying silently that they’ll slow down.

“And even though Valentina did all those for show… You know, the whole married Avengers thing…” Bucky trails off and clears his throat, trying to find the words to say. “Every time we kissed, every time we pretended to be in love… It was real to me. It was always real to me.”

You exhale a heavy breath. Like his words have physically punched you in the stomach. 

“And if you don’t feel the same way, I get it. Okay? I do,” Bucky rambles, preparing himself for an inevitable rejection. “But when all this dies down, whether it gets me elected or not, I’d like to take you out on a real date.”

“No press?” you ask, peering at him from beneath your lashes.

Bucky shakes his head in agreement. “No press.”

“Even if you don’t get elected, and all of this ends up being for nothing?”

“Well, it… wouldn’t have been for nothing.”

You exhale a breathy laugh. “You know, despite what Walker says about you, you still know your way around women, Sergeant Barnes,” you quip beneath the ding of the elevator. 

Bucky’s brows furrow in confusion as the elevator doors whir open. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he calls to the back of you as you step out onto the fifty-third floor.

He doesn’t follow you — equal parts because he feels like his feet are glued to the floor and because his real room is a floor above the one Valentina booked for Mr. and Mrs. Barnes. 

You flash him a look over your shoulder, eyes dolled up and magnetic like a siren’s gaze would be. “It was real to me, too, Bucky,” you murmur, so quietly he barely hears it, then remove every ounce of vulnerability from your being. “Now, do you wanna come in for a night cap or what?”

You walk off before he can answer. Bucky catches the closing door with his vibranium hand and rushes to follow behind you.

You share a bed that night, like many nights before, but this time with the knowledge that everything will be different when you wake up the next morning.

YELENA BELOVA X READER — yelena wants to show her parents that she's doing okay after the death of her sister, and recruits your help to do so (friends to lovers, post-thunderbolts | 1k words)

Yelena Belova’s trying to prove that she’s okay. Alexei and Melina were worried that Natasha’s passing had ruined her, which it had — and that a life without her sister had left her all alone, which it did. But, in an attempt to stave off the weepy conversations and squishy-eyed gazes, Yelena decided to bring a companion to the family dinner. 

You were her teammate, first and foremost, and the only one she could tolerate long enough to pretend to date for a night. And, besides, you were too soft for your own good to deny her of anything.

You were too perfect a choice, turns out, ‘cause her parents end up taking to you like a third daughter.

Yelena groans with her head in her palms when Alexei returns from the bathroom, modeling his original Red Guardian supersuit like he does every time they visit Melina’s country house. The spandex gear was created in the early eighties and smells like it, too. The thing gets tighter every time Alexei shoves on it, but he wears it with a bright smile on his bearded face anyway.

“Still fits!” you exclaim kindly from the kitchen table as the older man poses in the doorway.

“I told you it would!” Alexei slurs in his deep Russian accent. “Forty-one years old, this is! Can you believe it?!”

“Yes, I can,” Yelena mumbles into her shot glass before swallowing its golden brown contents in one go.

You shake your head with a polite smile. “You don’t look a day over thirty, Alexei.”

“Oh, you flatter me,” the man chuckles from the depths of his round stomach, then deflates with a realization. “Ah, drisnya— I forgot the, uh… the…” He trails off, motioning vaguely around his head as he searches for the English word. “The helmet. I just— I ruined this whole thing…”

Melina smiles at the pouting man she used to call her husband (and still does, on occasion). “No, you didn’t, my love,” she coos, voice low as honey. “You look great.”

Alexei shakes his stubborn head, swiping a calloused hand through his long, greying locks. “No, I have— I have to do it all over again. Just… wait. Wait here, da?” he scurries back down the hall, searching for the helmet he’d left behind.

Melina deflates with a sigh. “We’re going to need a lot more alcohol than this,” she mumbles, rising from the table and taking the half-gone bottle of whiskey with her.

“Maybe something a little stronger?” you quip.

The older woman smiles down at you. “Now, you’re speaking my language, solnyshko.” 

You wait until she’s left the room to lean over to Yelena, “What’s sul-nish-co?” you whisper.

“It’s solnyshko—” she corrects in perfect Russian. “—And it means sunshine.”

You smile, warmed by the term of endearment. “That’s nice…”

“Don’t get used to it,” Yelena scoffs and takes another shot. (Her tenth, or maybe hundredth of the evening).

Your brows furrow at her words. You flinch slightly, like they’ve physically pained you in some way. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means this isn’t real,” she says, motioning wildly between your bodies. “But those idiots think it is, and they’re getting attached— which means they’re going to wonder why I don’t keep bringing you around— which means I didn’t solve any problems, I just made a new one.”

She points an accusatory finger at you. You blink back burning tears.

“You invited me here, Yelena… I don’t deserve the blame for this…” You turn to your own shot glass, which has been sitting on the table ahead of you for some time now, and finally find the courage to take it. “…Whatever this is.”

Yelena watches with an apologetic look in her eyes as you down the whiskey in one swallow. She can’t help but smile softly to herself when you grimace at the bitter taste.

“You’re right. It’s not your fault. I’m sorry,” she mumbles, so quiet you barely hear it, as she rakes her fingers through her chopped, box-dyed locks. “They’ve just been so worried about me since ‘Tasha died… I wanted to prove to them that I still had someone who cared about me. Even if it was just pretend.”

You smile at the sullen Russian girl. “It’s not pretend, Yelena. You have people who care about you— The entire team would’ve shown up if you asked them.”

Yelena gives you a knowing look in return, doe eyes shadowed with smoky liner.

“Well… Maybe not Walker,” you correct yourself, gaze flitted to the ceiling. “Or Ava… Or Bucky— But Bob definitely would’ve been here, and you know it!”

“Exactly,” the blonde girl says with a soft, gravelly laugh. She fails to meet your piercing gaze and fidgets nervously with her empty shot glass instead. “You’re the only one who cares enough to pretend to like me.”

You feel her tense when you put a soothing hand on her denim-clad thigh. She peers at you beneath her lashes with a shy ocean gaze, chest warming something fierce when you smile. “It’s not pretend, Yelena…”

She falters, unable to tell if your words are some kinda confession or if you’re still just being nice. Her eyes dart across your features, like she’s looking for an answer inside them. Before she can find one, Alexei stumbles in from the bedroom.

“I thought we agreed, no PDA,” the grown man whines, still in his too-tight suit but now sporting the matching helmet. “It’s nasty, ‘Lena, I can’t stomach it.”

“Yeah, well, I can’t stomach you,” the girl retorts instinctively.

You smile in the face of their banter. “You were right, Alexei— It definitely needed the helmet.”

“I told you!” the man exclaims, voice booming as loud as his wide smile. “I told you it made the outfit better— In your face, ‘Lena!”

Yelena shakes her head, but can’t help but smile to herself. 

She figures she could get used to this.

JOHN WALKER X READER — john takes care of you after a mission gone wrong, like the doting husband he's pretending to be (enemies to lovers, pre-thunderbolts, cw for mentions of injuries | 0.8k words)

John Walker is just trying to survive — or, at least, that’s what he keeps telling himself. Valentina pairs the two of you on a mission nothing short of life and death. “You’ll draw less attention as a couple,” the woman smiled, passing you an envelope with a forged marriage license and two golden wedding bands inside. “Trust me. You guys are pros at this— What could go wrong?”

The answer to that question was easy: everything.

It was good until it wasn’t. John posed as a business exec Monday through Friday, nine to five, where he would then return to his ‘house’ in the suburbs with a cold beer and a home-cooked meal waiting for him. White picket fence, rose garden, backyard with a pool — the whole nine yards. As far as he was concerned, the only problem was having to share it with you.

You pretended to be his housewife. You went to book clubs, pilates, and over-priced grocery stores, all in the name of fitting in with the rest of the Stepford wives around you. While John got close to the bigshot CEO that Valentina wanted dead, you played nice with his wife — pretty, a little stupid, and satan reincarnate. 

It went on like that in an unforgiving cycle. You received intel in the name of petty gossip and found ways to busy yourself until Walker got home; you had parties, get-togethers, and barbecues to blend in with the community, pretending to love each other all the while.

It was nothing short of your own personal hell. 

The mission was inevitably a success, though not without a couple casualties. You and Walker managed to make it out with a couple scrapes, a few bruises, and only a single gunshot wound — which isn’t so bad, all things considered. 

You think you’re taking a bullet to the stomach much better than your faux-husband is.

“Jesus Christ, you’re a fucking idiot,” John mumbles under his breath as he stitches your weeping wound with careful hands. 

He only managed to stop panicking when he got you to the safe house. Before then, you thought he might cry. You would’ve made fun of him for it if you'd stayed conscious long enough on the ride here.

“Wow,” you scoff, tilting your heavy head against the pillow to glare at him. “Your bedside manner is impressive, Walker. Truly.”

John’s face twists with a palpable irritation. “You don’t get to make jokes right now, alright?” he grouses, snipping the remaining thread from your sutures.

You laugh despite the stinging in your side. “Why not? I think now’s a perfect time, honestly—”

“Because you almost died!” John shouts over you. 

“What the fuck do you care?”

“Uh, because we’re married,” he monotones like it’s obvious, flashing the wedding ring on his left hand, now stained with your blood. 

“No, actually, we’re not—” You wince when you try to sit up. John reaches for you on instinct, helping you prop yourself on the pillows he’s piled beneath you. “—And I’m totally divorcing you when we get home. Just, by the way.”

“Trust me. The feeling’s mutual,” he deadpans, towering over you as he wipes the blood from his hands on a towel. “But we’re probably gonna be stuck here awhile. Valentina’s not getting in a hurry to send any backup, so…”

“What a fucking bitch…” you sigh and tip your head against the bedframe.

“We only have to play husband and wife for a few more days. Think you can handle that?”

“It wasn’t so bad…” you shrug, eyeing John with lidded eyes as he rounds the mattress to the right side — which had, over the course of eight months, become his side. He sits down gingerly, careful not to make any sudden movements that might hurt you. You melt into his warmth on instinct, leaning your shoulder against his broader one. “…Until you got me shot, anyway.”

“Hey, you did that yourself— No one asked you to protect me.”

“Sorry for saving your life, you idiot.”

“I’m a super soldier!” he laughs. “I can take a hit! You can’t!”

“I think I took it pretty well, actually,” you scoff, face screwed in offense.

“Yeah…” John sighs despite himself. “You kinda did.... Just don’t let it happen again.”

“But I like watching you dote on me,” you joke, tilting your head on his shoulder to see him better. 

Your noses nearly brush at the proximity between you, which would border on romantic to virtually anyone else. But, for the two of you, it’s your job — and you’ve gotten used to playing your role to perfection. Being close to him now is like muscle memory. 

“You don’t have to almost die for me to take care of you,” John chuckles. “You know that, right?”

You shake your head. “No, actually. I didn’t.”

“Well…” John shrugs. “Now you do.”

It’s just as much of an admission of love as the blood on his hands from patching you up, or the bullet fragments in your side from shielding him from gunfire. All the rest of it goes unsaid.

ROBERT REYNOLDS X READER — you and bob pretend to date because it's easier than trying to convince everyone you're just friends (friends to lovers, post-thunderbolts | 1.2k words)

Robert Reynolds didn’t want to be alone, and neither did you. The decision to attend Valentina’s wedding together was as mutual as it was unsaid, just like most of the time you spent together. 

You haven’t been apart since the day you found him in New York. At first, it was just babysitting — making sure he didn’t turn half the city into a shadow again — but then you grew rather fond of his company. And eventually, neither of you could stomach being without the other. So you never were. Ever.

It was all completely, utterly, and unequivocally platonic, but the rest of the team convinced themselves otherwise. After a year or more of constant prying, it just got easier to let everyone else believe what they wanted. And, besides, pretending to have a boyfriend got you out of a ton of unwelcome social interactions. 

The team wants to get a beer after a mission that totally drained your social battery? Oops, sorry, I have to get home to Bob before he thinks I’m dead.

Old acquaintances from high school want to hang out with Bob now that he’s quote-unquote famous? I wish I could, but my girlfriend’s super sick. Maybe another time?

You and Bob were best friends and nothing more. But sometimes pretending otherwise had its benefits.

“Isn’t wearing black to a wedding bad luck?” Bob mumbles as you enter the elaborate dining hall side-by-side. (Valentina’s wedding had only two rules: all guests must wear black, and absolutely no kids.) It made Bob nervous, as most things tended to.

“It’s her fourth marriage,” you shrug. “It’s basically a funeral, anyway.”

You’re bombarded on entry by Alexei, who by the looks of it, had already pre-gamed in the Avengers Tower before coming.

“Ah! It’s the lovebirds!” he shouts, voice booming over everyone else’s. He turns to a total stranger passing by and motions to the two of you. “Aren’t they cute?” he asks the strange man, who just gives him a weird look in response. Alexei smiles anyway. “See? He agrees with me.”

“I don’t think he does…” Bob murmurs sincerely.

“It’ll be your turn next, eh?” Alexei chuckles, hitting the boy hard on the shoulder. Bob flinches under his tattooed hand despite being the most powerful Avenger the world’s ever seen. “Getting married. Being all… married.”

Bob hesitates, looking to you for an answer ‘cause he’s never been the best liar. You just smile, like it all comes too naturally to you. “Only if you promise to officiate the wedding,” you croon and wrap your left arm around Bob’s right one.

Alexei’s smile ebbs into a look of shock. His eyes go soft around the edges, filling with tears at the kind gesture.

“There would be no greater honor—” he tells you, Russian accent deep in his throat as he takes a step closer. He holds Bob’s wrist in one hand and yours in the other, shaking them for emphasis. “—Than uniting the two of you in marriage.”

You realize how seriously he’s taking it and start to flounder. “Well, you’ll be the first one we tell, Alexei,” you mumble awkwardly and slide your hand from his grip. “I promise.”

You’re dragging Bob away before the man can go on another half-drunken rant about a faux relationship and a wedding that will never happen.

You weave through the bustling crowd, hands instinctively entwining to stay together. 

“Do you think anyone would notice if we left?” Bob mumbles, nervously adjusting his tie with the hand not holding yours.

You look around, then shrug. “I don’t think I care.”

You end up sneaking into the kitchen before cocktail hour even starts, stealing a tray of sweets on your way to the wine cellar. Bob trails behind you like a lost puppy, distantly fearful of getting caught (because his omnipotence has yet to cancel out his perpetual anxiety.)

He paces back and forth while you try to pry the cork out of a vintage Merlot.

“I’m starting to feel bad,” Bob blurts suddenly, sweaty hands wringing into knots.

“Why?” you scoff with your mouthful, chewing through a tart chocolate-covered strawberry. “It’s just wine. No one will even know it’s missing—”

“No. About… lying to everyone.”

You freeze with half a strawberry still wadded in your cheek. “Oh…” you mumble, then swallow the rest of it down. You adjust the wine bottle between your anxious hands and stammer for a response. “Do you wanna… Do you wanna stop?”

The concept of stopping is slightly foreign to you. You've gotten so used to pretending to date him that sometimes you forget you're not actually dating.

Bob pauses his pacing to shift his weight on his feet. He shakes his head and answers honestly, “No. I don’t wanna stop, I just… don’t wanna lie.”

It’s a confession, albeit a vague one. He eyes you with a wide, attentive gaze and prays you get the hint. He can tell, by the sudden fearful look on your face, that you do. 

Your eyes flit to the ceiling as you smack your lips against your teeth, as though deep in thought. After a moment or more of silence, filled only by the distant swelling of violins, you nod. 

“Okay,” is all you say as you spin on your heel and turn away. You can’t face the vulnerability, so you choose to pick your battles and search for a cork screw for the impossible-to-open wine.

“O-Okay?” Bob stammers, nearly stumbling over himself to follow behind you.

“Yeah,” you shrug. “I mean, we were already kind of doing it, so… We’re basically halfway there anyway, right?”

Bob’s sigh of relief comes out like a laugh as he leans against the counter beside you. “I just… I didn’t think it’d be that easy,” he chuckles, crossing his arms over his chest in a feeble attempt to still his racing heart. “I would’ve asked you out forever ago if I did.”

The cork exits with a low, smoking pop. You inhale the scent of bitter grape as you bring the heavy bottle to your mouth. “How long have you been planning this?” you wonder with a laugh before taking a lengthy sip.

“Not long,” Bob insists with a shy shrug. “Maybe about… a year?”

You nearly choke on the dry wine. “So… Since we met?” you press, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.

“Uh—” Bob trails off, voice an octave higher than usual, as his eyes dart to the ceiling. He tries to do the calculations in his head, but the days have all blurred together since the Sentry Project. All he knows is, at the very least, that he’s been in love with you since the day he met you. “—Yeah. That sounds about right.”

“Here,” you blurt, offering him the too-expensive bottle of wine in your hand. “I think you need this more than I do.”

You can’t help but falter at his admission — that all the time you spent together wasn’t just pretend. Not entirely. 

Every time you held hands in front of the team, cuddled on couches during movie nights, pretended to make out beneath the blankets so that whatever unfortunate team member was sent to recruit you for an early morning mission would leave the two of you out of it — some of it was actually real.

You can rest easy now knowing that you weren’t the only one who’d somehow fallen in love along the way. 

It was all Bob’s fault, really. 

But he’s more than happy to take the blame.

[lovebugism]

just found out ralph fiennes has been cast as snow in sunrise on the reaping.... i'm about to become the biggest hunger games fan the world has ever seen

[lovebugism]

Thunderbolts prompt: fake dating with them oh my lordy

ty for requesting :D below you will find four separate blurbs for the thunderbolts (bucky, yelena, john, and bob), each with their own separate summary and warnings! enjoy!!

BUCKY BARNES X READER — you pretend to be bucky's wife to help his image during the election (friends to lovers, pre-thunderbolts but also kinda canon divergent | 0.8k words)

Bucky Barnes never lets go of your hand. He never stops smiling either, at the sporadic camera flashes that threaten to blind him while the elevator doors squeak to a close. Only when the two of you are finally alone, away from the leering eyes of the press, can Bucky take his first good breath of the evening. Only then does he let go of your hand.

You migrate to opposite sides of the small lift and bathe in the welcome silence after a too-long night of shaking hands and people pleasing. Bucky sighs and tips his head back against the wall. “I’m sorry about this,” he mumbles beneath the ding-ing elevator. “Again.”

Despite the ache in your feet from a long night in heels, you manage a small, tired laugh. “You don’t have to keep apologizing, Bucky— Valentina put me up to his, alright? Not you.”

“No, I know, I just…” he trails off with an awkward chuckle, loosening the knot in his tie with two fingers. “I just know you’d rather be anywhere else in the world than here, you know, with me. I know how boring these things are, trust me.”

He tilts his head to flash you a tight-lipped grin, ocean eyes dark and weighed down with a visible fatigue. You give him a much more apologetic look in return.

“Actually, I’m kinda happy I’m here,” you correct and avert your gaze. “I know Valentina did all… this,” you wave your hand vaguely between the two of you. “But if pretending to be married helps you get elected, then I’m happy to do it. I seriously think you could do some good— like, world-changing good, so… I wouldn’t wanna be anywhere else.”

Bucky’s chest warms with an unfamiliar feeling. Something fuzzy, like television static or crackling embers — the kind of feeling he only gets whenever he’s holding your hand. It feels strange now, not to be touching you after spending a whole evening at your side.

He flexes his flesh hand and tries to ignore the ache while the numbers on the elevator continue to rise — 27th, 28th, 29th… 

“I know neither of us wanted to be here, but… Out of everyone Valentina could’ve picked, I’m glad it was you.”

“I’m sure you are,” you quip, trying not to be as vulnerable as you feel. “Considering her first idea was pairing you and Walker to go on, like, pretty public missions together.”

Bucky’s face screws. “No, it wasn’t...” he groans.

“Yeah. Like, saving kittens out of trees— Real serious stuff.”

He makes a pained, grumbly noise in his throat. “Well, now I’m extra glad it’s you.”

The two of you exhale soft laughs and stare ahead at the closed doors before you; more specifically, at the bright red numbers above them — 41st, 42nd, 43rd — praying silently that they’ll slow down.

“And even though Valentina did all those for show… You know, the whole married Avengers thing…” Bucky trails off and clears his throat, trying to find the words to say. “Every time we kissed, every time we pretended to be in love… It was real to me. It was always real to me.”

You exhale a heavy breath. Like his words have physically punched you in the stomach. 

“And if you don’t feel the same way, I get it. Okay? I do,” Bucky rambles, preparing himself for an inevitable rejection. “But when all this dies down, whether it gets me elected or not, I’d like to take you out on a real date.”

“No press?” you ask, peering at him from beneath your lashes.

Bucky shakes his head in agreement. “No press.”

“Even if you don’t get elected, and all of this ends up being for nothing?”

“Well, it… wouldn’t have been for nothing.”

You exhale a breathy laugh. “You know, despite what Walker says about you, you still know your way around women, Sergeant Barnes,” you quip beneath the ding of the elevator. 

Bucky’s brows furrow in confusion as the elevator doors whir open. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he calls to the back of you as you step out onto the fifty-third floor.

He doesn’t follow you — equal parts because he feels like his feet are glued to the floor and because his real room is a floor above the one Valentina booked for Mr. and Mrs. Barnes. 

You flash him a look over your shoulder, eyes dolled up and magnetic like a siren’s gaze would be. “It was real to me, too, Bucky,” you murmur, so quietly he barely hears it, then remove every ounce of vulnerability from your being. “Now, do you wanna come in for a night cap or what?”

You walk off before he can answer. Bucky catches the closing door with his vibranium hand and rushes to follow behind you.

You share a bed that night, like many nights before, but this time with the knowledge that everything will be different when you wake up the next morning.

YELENA BELOVA X READER — yelena wants to show her parents that she's doing okay after the death of her sister, and recruits your help to do so (friends to lovers, post-thunderbolts | 1k words)

Yelena Belova’s trying to prove that she’s okay. Alexei and Melina were worried that Natasha’s passing had ruined her, which it had — and that a life without her sister had left her all alone, which it did. But, in an attempt to stave off the weepy conversations and squishy-eyed gazes, Yelena decided to bring a companion to the family dinner. 

You were her teammate, first and foremost, and the only one she could tolerate long enough to pretend to date for a night. And, besides, you were too soft for your own good to deny her of anything.

You were too perfect a choice, turns out, ‘cause her parents end up taking to you like a third daughter.

Yelena groans with her head in her palms when Alexei returns from the bathroom, modeling his original Red Guardian supersuit like he does every time they visit Melina’s country house. The spandex gear was created in the early eighties and smells like it, too. The thing gets tighter every time Alexei shoves on it, but he wears it with a bright smile on his bearded face anyway.

“Still fits!” you exclaim kindly from the kitchen table as the older man poses in the doorway.

“I told you it would!” Alexei slurs in his deep Russian accent. “Forty-one years old, this is! Can you believe it?!”

“Yes, I can,” Yelena mumbles into her shot glass before swallowing its golden brown contents in one go.

You shake your head with a polite smile. “You don’t look a day over thirty, Alexei.”

“Oh, you flatter me,” the man chuckles from the depths of his round stomach, then deflates with a realization. “Ah, drisnya— I forgot the, uh… the…” He trails off, motioning vaguely around his head as he searches for the English word. “The helmet. I just— I ruined this whole thing…”

Melina smiles at the pouting man she used to call her husband (and still does, on occasion). “No, you didn’t, my love,” she coos, voice low as honey. “You look great.”

Alexei shakes his stubborn head, swiping a calloused hand through his long, greying locks. “No, I have— I have to do it all over again. Just… wait. Wait here, da?” he scurries back down the hall, searching for the helmet he’d left behind.

Melina deflates with a sigh. “We’re going to need a lot more alcohol than this,” she mumbles, rising from the table and taking the half-gone bottle of whiskey with her.

“Maybe something a little stronger?” you quip.

The older woman smiles down at you. “Now, you’re speaking my language, solnyshko.” 

You wait until she’s left the room to lean over to Yelena, “What’s sul-nish-co?” you whisper.

“It’s solnyshko—” she corrects in perfect Russian. “—And it means sunshine.”

You smile, warmed by the term of endearment. “That’s nice…”

“Don’t get used to it,” Yelena scoffs and takes another shot. (Her tenth, or maybe hundredth of the evening).

Your brows furrow at her words. You flinch slightly, like they’ve physically pained you in some way. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means this isn’t real,” she says, motioning wildly between your bodies. “But those idiots think it is, and they’re getting attached— which means they’re going to wonder why I don’t keep bringing you around— which means I didn’t solve any problems, I just made a new one.”

She points an accusatory finger at you. You blink back burning tears.

“You invited me here, Yelena… I don’t deserve the blame for this…” You turn to your own shot glass, which has been sitting on the table ahead of you for some time now, and finally find the courage to take it. “…Whatever this is.”

Yelena watches with an apologetic look in her eyes as you down the whiskey in one swallow. She can’t help but smile softly to herself when you grimace at the bitter taste.

“You’re right. It’s not your fault. I’m sorry,” she mumbles, so quiet you barely hear it, as she rakes her fingers through her chopped, box-dyed locks. “They’ve just been so worried about me since ‘Tasha died… I wanted to prove to them that I still had someone who cared about me. Even if it was just pretend.”

You smile at the sullen Russian girl. “It’s not pretend, Yelena. You have people who care about you— The entire team would’ve shown up if you asked them.”

Yelena gives you a knowing look in return, doe eyes shadowed with smoky liner.

“Well… Maybe not Walker,” you correct yourself, gaze flitted to the ceiling. “Or Ava… Or Bucky— But Bob definitely would’ve been here, and you know it!”

“Exactly,” the blonde girl says with a soft, gravelly laugh. She fails to meet your piercing gaze and fidgets nervously with her empty shot glass instead. “You’re the only one who cares enough to pretend to like me.”

You feel her tense when you put a soothing hand on her denim-clad thigh. She peers at you beneath her lashes with a shy ocean gaze, chest warming something fierce when you smile. “It’s not pretend, Yelena…”

She falters, unable to tell if your words are some kinda confession or if you’re still just being nice. Her eyes dart across your features, like she’s looking for an answer inside them. Before she can find one, Alexei stumbles in from the bedroom.

“I thought we agreed, no PDA,” the grown man whines, still in his too-tight suit but now sporting the matching helmet. “It’s nasty, ‘Lena, I can’t stomach it.”

“Yeah, well, I can’t stomach you,” the girl retorts instinctively.

You smile in the face of their banter. “You were right, Alexei— It definitely needed the helmet.”

“I told you!” the man exclaims, voice booming as loud as his wide smile. “I told you it made the outfit better— In your face, ‘Lena!”

Yelena shakes her head, but can’t help but smile to herself. 

She figures she could get used to this.

JOHN WALKER X READER — john takes care of you after a mission gone wrong, like the doting husband he's pretending to be (enemies to lovers, pre-thunderbolts, cw for mentions of injuries | 0.8k words)

John Walker is just trying to survive — or, at least, that’s what he keeps telling himself. Valentina pairs the two of you on a mission nothing short of life and death. “You’ll draw less attention as a couple,” the woman smiled, passing you an envelope with a forged marriage license and two golden wedding bands inside. “Trust me. You guys are pros at this— What could go wrong?”

The answer to that question was easy: everything.

It was good until it wasn’t. John posed as a business exec Monday through Friday, nine to five, where he would then return to his ‘house’ in the suburbs with a cold beer and a home-cooked meal waiting for him. White picket fence, rose garden, backyard with a pool — the whole nine yards. As far as he was concerned, the only problem was having to share it with you.

You pretended to be his housewife. You went to book clubs, pilates, and over-priced grocery stores, all in the name of fitting in with the rest of the Stepford wives around you. While John got close to the bigshot CEO that Valentina wanted dead, you played nice with his wife — pretty, a little stupid, and satan reincarnate. 

It went on like that in an unforgiving cycle. You received intel in the name of petty gossip and found ways to busy yourself until Walker got home; you had parties, get-togethers, and barbecues to blend in with the community, pretending to love each other all the while.

It was nothing short of your own personal hell. 

The mission was inevitably a success, though not without a couple casualties. You and Walker managed to make it out with a couple scrapes, a few bruises, and only a single gunshot wound — which isn’t so bad, all things considered. 

You think you’re taking a bullet to the stomach much better than your faux-husband is.

“Jesus Christ, you’re a fucking idiot,” John mumbles under his breath as he stitches your weeping wound with careful hands. 

He only managed to stop panicking when he got you to the safe house. Before then, you thought he might cry. You would’ve made fun of him for it if you'd stayed conscious long enough on the ride here.

“Wow,” you scoff, tilting your heavy head against the pillow to glare at him. “Your bedside manner is impressive, Walker. Truly.”

John’s face twists with a palpable irritation. “You don’t get to make jokes right now, alright?” he grouses, snipping the remaining thread from your sutures.

You laugh despite the stinging in your side. “Why not? I think now’s a perfect time, honestly—”

“Because you almost died!” John shouts over you. 

“What the fuck do you care?”

“Uh, because we’re married,” he monotones like it’s obvious, flashing the wedding ring on his left hand, now stained with your blood. 

“No, actually, we’re not—” You wince when you try to sit up. John reaches for you on instinct, helping you prop yourself on the pillows he’s piled beneath you. “—And I’m totally divorcing you when we get home. Just, by the way.”

“Trust me. The feeling’s mutual,” he deadpans, towering over you as he wipes the blood from his hands on a towel. “But we’re probably gonna be stuck here awhile. Valentina’s not getting in a hurry to send any backup, so…”

“What a fucking bitch…” you sigh and tip your head against the bedframe.

“We only have to play husband and wife for a few more days. Think you can handle that?”

“It wasn’t so bad…” you shrug, eyeing John with lidded eyes as he rounds the mattress to the right side — which had, over the course of eight months, become his side. He sits down gingerly, careful not to make any sudden movements that might hurt you. You melt into his warmth on instinct, leaning your shoulder against his broader one. “…Until you got me shot, anyway.”

“Hey, you did that yourself— No one asked you to protect me.”

“Sorry for saving your life, you idiot.”

“I’m a super soldier!” he laughs. “I can take a hit! You can’t!”

“I think I took it pretty well, actually,” you scoff, face screwed in offense.

“Yeah…” John sighs despite himself. “You kinda did.... Just don’t let it happen again.”

“But I like watching you dote on me,” you joke, tilting your head on his shoulder to see him better. 

Your noses nearly brush at the proximity between you, which would border on romantic to virtually anyone else. But, for the two of you, it’s your job — and you’ve gotten used to playing your role to perfection. Being close to him now is like muscle memory. 

“You don’t have to almost die for me to take care of you,” John chuckles. “You know that, right?”

You shake your head. “No, actually. I didn’t.”

“Well…” John shrugs. “Now you do.”

It’s just as much of an admission of love as the blood on his hands from patching you up, or the bullet fragments in your side from shielding him from gunfire. All the rest of it goes unsaid.

ROBERT REYNOLDS X READER — you and bob pretend to date because it's easier than trying to convince everyone you're just friends (friends to lovers, post-thunderbolts | 1.2k words)

Robert Reynolds didn’t want to be alone, and neither did you. The decision to attend Valentina’s wedding together was as mutual as it was unsaid, just like most of the time you spent together. 

You haven’t been apart since the day you found him in New York. At first, it was just babysitting — making sure he didn’t turn half the city into a shadow again — but then you grew rather fond of his company. And eventually, neither of you could stomach being without the other. So you never were. Ever.

It was all completely, utterly, and unequivocally platonic, but the rest of the team convinced themselves otherwise. After a year or more of constant prying, it just got easier to let everyone else believe what they wanted. And, besides, pretending to have a boyfriend got you out of a ton of unwelcome social interactions. 

The team wants to get a beer after a mission that totally drained your social battery? Oops, sorry, I have to get home to Bob before he thinks I’m dead.

Old acquaintances from high school want to hang out with Bob now that he’s quote-unquote famous? I wish I could, but my girlfriend’s super sick. Maybe another time?

You and Bob were best friends and nothing more. But sometimes pretending otherwise had its benefits.

“Isn’t wearing black to a wedding bad luck?” Bob mumbles as you enter the elaborate dining hall side-by-side. (Valentina’s wedding had only two rules: all guests must wear black, and absolutely no kids.) It made Bob nervous, as most things tended to.

“It’s her fourth marriage,” you shrug. “It’s basically a funeral, anyway.”

You’re bombarded on entry by Alexei, who by the looks of it, had already pre-gamed in the Avengers Tower before coming.

“Ah! It’s the lovebirds!” he shouts, voice booming over everyone else’s. He turns to a total stranger passing by and motions to the two of you. “Aren’t they cute?” he asks the strange man, who just gives him a weird look in response. Alexei smiles anyway. “See? He agrees with me.”

“I don’t think he does…” Bob murmurs sincerely.

“It’ll be your turn next, eh?” Alexei chuckles, hitting the boy hard on the shoulder. Bob flinches under his tattooed hand despite being the most powerful Avenger the world’s ever seen. “Getting married. Being all… married.”

Bob hesitates, looking to you for an answer ‘cause he’s never been the best liar. You just smile, like it all comes too naturally to you. “Only if you promise to officiate the wedding,” you croon and wrap your left arm around Bob’s right one.

Alexei’s smile ebbs into a look of shock. His eyes go soft around the edges, filling with tears at the kind gesture.

“There would be no greater honor—” he tells you, Russian accent deep in his throat as he takes a step closer. He holds Bob’s wrist in one hand and yours in the other, shaking them for emphasis. “—Than uniting the two of you in marriage.”

You realize how seriously he’s taking it and start to flounder. “Well, you’ll be the first one we tell, Alexei,” you mumble awkwardly and slide your hand from his grip. “I promise.”

You’re dragging Bob away before the man can go on another half-drunken rant about a faux relationship and a wedding that will never happen.

You weave through the bustling crowd, hands instinctively entwining to stay together. 

“Do you think anyone would notice if we left?” Bob mumbles, nervously adjusting his tie with the hand not holding yours.

You look around, then shrug. “I don’t think I care.”

You end up sneaking into the kitchen before cocktail hour even starts, stealing a tray of sweets on your way to the wine cellar. Bob trails behind you like a lost puppy, distantly fearful of getting caught (because his omnipotence has yet to cancel out his perpetual anxiety.)

He paces back and forth while you try to pry the cork out of a vintage Merlot.

“I’m starting to feel bad,” Bob blurts suddenly, sweaty hands wringing into knots.

“Why?” you scoff with your mouthful, chewing through a tart chocolate-covered strawberry. “It’s just wine. No one will even know it’s missing—”

“No. About… lying to everyone.”

You freeze with half a strawberry still wadded in your cheek. “Oh…” you mumble, then swallow the rest of it down. You adjust the wine bottle between your anxious hands and stammer for a response. “Do you wanna… Do you wanna stop?”

The concept of stopping is slightly foreign to you. You've gotten so used to pretending to date him that sometimes you forget you're not actually dating.

Bob pauses his pacing to shift his weight on his feet. He shakes his head and answers honestly, “No. I don’t wanna stop, I just… don’t wanna lie.”

It’s a confession, albeit a vague one. He eyes you with a wide, attentive gaze and prays you get the hint. He can tell, by the sudden fearful look on your face, that you do. 

Your eyes flit to the ceiling as you smack your lips against your teeth, as though deep in thought. After a moment or more of silence, filled only by the distant swelling of violins, you nod. 

“Okay,” is all you say as you spin on your heel and turn away. You can’t face the vulnerability, so you choose to pick your battles and search for a cork screw for the impossible-to-open wine.

“O-Okay?” Bob stammers, nearly stumbling over himself to follow behind you.

“Yeah,” you shrug. “I mean, we were already kind of doing it, so… We’re basically halfway there anyway, right?”

Bob’s sigh of relief comes out like a laugh as he leans against the counter beside you. “I just… I didn’t think it’d be that easy,” he chuckles, crossing his arms over his chest in a feeble attempt to still his racing heart. “I would’ve asked you out forever ago if I did.”

The cork exits with a low, smoking pop. You inhale the scent of bitter grape as you bring the heavy bottle to your mouth. “How long have you been planning this?” you wonder with a laugh before taking a lengthy sip.

“Not long,” Bob insists with a shy shrug. “Maybe about… a year?”

You nearly choke on the dry wine. “So… Since we met?” you press, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.

“Uh—” Bob trails off, voice an octave higher than usual, as his eyes dart to the ceiling. He tries to do the calculations in his head, but the days have all blurred together since the Sentry Project. All he knows is, at the very least, that he’s been in love with you since the day he met you. “—Yeah. That sounds about right.”

“Here,” you blurt, offering him the too-expensive bottle of wine in your hand. “I think you need this more than I do.”

You can’t help but falter at his admission — that all the time you spent together wasn’t just pretend. Not entirely. 

Every time you held hands in front of the team, cuddled on couches during movie nights, pretended to make out beneath the blankets so that whatever unfortunate team member was sent to recruit you for an early morning mission would leave the two of you out of it — some of it was actually real.

You can rest easy now knowing that you weren’t the only one who’d somehow fallen in love along the way. 

It was all Bob’s fault, really. 

But he’s more than happy to take the blame.

[lovebugism]

I’m obsessed with the way you write these characters (im a walker girl myself hehe) <3 nice work

omg thank u so much!! walker girls unite!

[lovebugism]

another thunderbolts headcanon incoming because i simply cannot help myself <3