Prompt: “Your body is not a reason to put your life on hold.”
Pairing: Platonic Loki x Plus Sized Reader
Word Count: 1538
Warning: Angst with a bit of fluff?
Summary: A night out at the Karaoke bar with the team leads the Reader into a bit of a slump. Loki lights a fire under them.
A/N:
Hi everyone!! This is my entry for @star-spangled-man-with-a-plan ‘s Full Figured Fantasy challenge. I feel a bit rusty writing because the last thing I wrote was almost 10 years ago! Thank you @iamartemisday for making sure I didn’t miss anything. I am eternally grateful.
Summary: It feels like every other day you’re in Frank Adler’s garage while he looks under the hood of your beat-up vehicle, trying to diagnose the newest problem. He’s always been sweet about it; you coming in at the last second because you’re running late for work, always slashing the prices so you don’t go broke. One day, on your way into work, your radiator overheats, leaving you stranded on the side of the road. Knowing he won’t let you down, you call Frank. Ever the gentleman, he gives you a ride, but when he drops you off at work, he discovers a secret you had worked so hard to keep. You promised your boyfriend you’d never cheat, but now you’re not sure what you have could even be called love. What happens when Frank finds himself falling for you? Will he be able to keep himself from intervening in the toxic and tumultuous relationship you and your boyfriend have? Word Count: 1,483 Warnings: First and foremost, domestic violence; emotional, verbal, & physical. Language, heavy angst, insecure female reader, PTSD, no cheating, possibly more to come. Author’s Note: A huge thank you to @captain-rogers-beard for allowing me to steal some of her thunder. Your unwavering support has left me speechless. GIF credit.
My work is not to be posted on any other sites (AO3, Wattpad, etc.) without my express written permission. Reblogs are fine.
After fixing Y/N’s car, Frank dropped it off, just as he promised. He wanted to go in and hand over the keys, if only for selfish reasons, just to see her made his heart flutter in a way it shouldn’t.
The bruising on the back of her neck made him see red. He had never felt such rage before, boiling right below the surface, threatening to rip him apart from the inside out, and it kind of scared him. When she bolted, he called after her, desperation filling him, chasing away the absolute hatred for the man Y/N said she loved. She was inside the diner before he was halfway across the parking lot, his heart pounding in his chest, his palms slick with sweat.
In the parking lot, he stood there, his eyes locked on Y/N as she damn near worked circles around the other waitresses, a genuine smile on her face, one that lit up her face, made her eyes sparkle. There went the fluttering in his chest again.
God, she’s stunning.
Small town or not, the diner was a busy place; residents of said small town, tourists, and people just driving through, their destination further down the coast, to bigger beaches, to catch bigger fish. Y/N made sure to make each patron feel at home, never far away when their drink needed to be topped off, to make sure everything was okay with their meal, to chat with familiar faces. Now, if only they tipped well.
Making up his mind, Frank tucked the keys into the visor, hopped into his truck, and headed back to the garage. He needed to keep himself busy, to keep his mind occupied, to keep from thinking about Y/N. So, he buried himself in his work; the Abernathy account. It was a lot of money in his pockets if he could pull it off. God knew he needed it.
It was well after the sun had set when Frank closed up shop. He was exhausted, mentally and physically. No matter how hard he tried, Y/N was on his mind, those goddamn bruises were a stark contrast the skin they colored. Then there was the desperation in her voice when she had called. He wasn’t blind, Y/N only called him because he was the last person she should even be thinking about calling.
Even the guys at the shop had been giving him a hard time as of late. Frank’s specialty was boats, fixing them, restoring them, remodeling them. It sure as hell wasn’t cars, but that didn’t mean Frank turned his back when someone needed it, and Y/N needed it. He just didn’t know how much.
Frank had called, left a message with Marge, letting you know your car was done and where he had stashed your keys. So, after another grueling ten hour shift, you sat behind the wheel and let your head fall back, your eyes closed, a pained sigh leaving you. You ached deep into your bones, the kind that would take more than a long soak.
Home was the last place on earth you wanted to go, but you had no other choice, no one else wanted you. You were fat, dumb, clumsy, always saying the wrong thing, couldn’t do anything right. James had been… kind in taking you in and loving you. Was it what others considered a normal, healthy relationship? No, but you didn’t deserve that.
Sighing heavily, you turned the key and headed home. Hopefully, James would be in a good mood. You prayed he was, you didn’t think you could handle another fight. The other night had been bad enough, getting knocked out that resulted in a concussion. You had to give him credit, he was nice after that, those two days following, bringing you meals in bed, pain relievers, ice packs. It was the first time in a long time that you enjoyed his company.
Fifteen minutes later, you walked through the front door, hung up your jacket and purse on the hook, and slid out of your tight sneakers. The house was almost dark, just a sliver of light from the bedroom, James’ snores drifting through.
Thank God.
Moving quietly, you darted into the bathroom, shut the door, and ran yourself a steaming hot bath with lavender epsom salt. Stepping into the steaming water was like Heaven. With a folded up towel behind your head and the knots in your body slowly starting to unravel. It would have been easy to lose track of time, had you been in what most considered a ‘normal’ relationship.
The water went tepid quickly, making goosebumps appear on your exposed skin. You let out the water and emerged slowly, making sure not to slip or trip. After drying off, you brushed your teeth and walked naked through the living room to the bedroom you shared with James.
He was snoring loudly, mouth open, sprawled out on the bed. Not wanting to wake him, you had learned your lesson after the last time that happened, you pulled on your pajamas, grabbed your pillow, and headed out to sleep on the couch. It wasn’t the first time it had happened, and you didn’t doubt it would be the last. Grabbing the blanket that was draped over the armrest, you snuggled deep into the cushions, diving deep into the pitch of sleep.
Frank was at the docks, the sun high in the sky, sweat shining on his forehead and the back of his neck, his muscles weary and overworked. He had worked forty-eight hours straight to get the Abernathy boat close to being completed, and he hoped that today would be the day he could call Mr. Abernathy and tell him the job was done.
No matter how hard he tried to focus, he kept thinking about the bruises on Y/N, how she bolted from the car, how the tone of her voice argued with the words she had said, that nothing was wrong. There was something wrong, and it was killing him not to know everything. He had his suspicions, that the rumors floating around town weren’t rumors at all, that James was an abuser.
Marge had said that she wished Y/N had met Frank first. He had a small idea of what she had meant, but he needed to know more. He would head over there as soon as he had a chance. He didn’t have to wait very long, just a few hours later and he was placing a call.
Mr. Abernathy was all smiles and firm handshakes, a check for a large sum of money handed over moments later. Frank hadn’t expected to see so many zeroes, but he felt like he did a good job of hiding his shock. After handing over the keys to the boat, Frank hopped into his truck and headed to the diner.
“I need to talk to you,” he said to Marge as soon as he was inside.
Marge went to argue, but the look in Frank’s eye made her stop. She motioned for him to follow her through the kitchen and out the back door where she pulled out a pack of cigarettes, notched one between her lips, and lit it quickly.
“This about Y/N?” she asked, her eyes sad.
Frank’s hands were on his hips. “What you said the other night, tell me what you meant.”
“It’s not my place to -”
“Marge,” Frank ground out, a hand swiping over his face. “I haven’t slept in two days, I don’t want to hear excuses. Tell me what you know.”
She pulled in a long drag before giving Frank what he wanted. “James was a troubled child, and his daddy was a cruel man.”
“He beat him,” Frank sighed heavily. “The rumors about James abusing Y/N, they’re true then.”
“Nobody has seen him do it,” she muttered, taking another drag, her hand shaking. “But that’s the way they operate, isn’t it?”
Both hands were on Frank’s face as rage boiled inside of him. He had never been a violent man, but men who beat up women brought out the worst in him, made him want to rip the men apart limb from limb. He shook his head in an effort to push away the violent thoughts.
“What do I do?” he asked the older woman.
Marge flicked her cigarette into the designated receptacle. “Be there for her, become her friend. She’ll open up. Until then, I don’t know that there is anything you can do.”
“You have experience with… men like James?” God, his name tasted vile on Frank’s tongue.
“More than you know,” she admitted shakily. “But, that was a long time ago.”
“Will you help me save her?” Frank implored, his hand gripping hers and squeezing.
Marge gave a warm smile, her eyes damp with unshed tears. “Absolutely.”
Summary: A/U. After heartbreak, loss, and healing, special education teachers and long-time best friends James Barnes and Lia Accorsi found their way to each other. Where will life take them now that they have already weathered terrible storms?
Characters: James “Bucky” Barnes, OFC Lia Accorsi
Warnings: Fluff, fluff, fluffity fluff, sweetness and SMUT. This is definitely NSFW 18+ I’m serious!
A/N: Thank you to everyone who read, commented, reblogged, and generally showed mad love for “Love Among the Little Chairs.” I felt wonderful writing it, and knew it had to continue, so for now, here’s the next part of Lia and James’s story. I hope you laugh, smile, blush, and love it like I do. Thank you! – Steph
The last month of school was interminable for both teachers and students, both of whom were in desperate need of time away from each other and from school. Special education had its own particular brand of stress, as each student made gains relative to their own skills, rarely meeting those set by far-away boards of education or curriculum creators. That didn’t stop their parents from wanting their kids to be “normal,” wanting them to keep up with typical brothers and sisters and cousins and friends’ children. For some of her students, the gap between themselves and neurotypical children didn’t close, but became increasingly obvious as time marched on. Lia’s goal was to maximize each child’s learning abilities and give them as many skills as she could. Sometimes that meant repeating something 10 times in 10 different ways, sometimes 100, sometimes somewhere in the middle. No matter the number, no matter how much she had to simplify her lessons, it was Lia’s job to make them learners. It was also her job to help their parents learn what that meant for their child. This meant meeting after meeting, many frantically scheduled after a parent’s late-night freak out and the resulting email or phone call.
The more meetings that piled up during the day the longer she had to stay at night to get her other work completed. Her initial goal when she returned to teaching was to work smarter and not as long. This was not possible at the end of the year, and she felt the impact. She was increasingly sensitive to light, short-tempered with adults, and often had headaches. She needed a new prescription for her glasses and kept her classroom quiet after hours, rather than filled with music as it usually was. The support team that worked with her and James’s classes brought their concerns to her boyfriend, who was unanimously nominated to “talk to her.” He sighed deeply as he sat at his desk and planned his approach, not noticing Lia was watching him from their shared doorway. She knocked softly, not wanting to startle him, and he finally turned to her, a small, sweet smile on his lips.
Prompt:“I’m not ‘pretty for a fat girl’. I’m pretty, period.”
Summary: As Bucky enjoys his new life and a drink at the bar, you catch his eye. You and the way you manage to put that drunk stranger back to his place when he tries to make a pass at you.
Words: 2.5k
Warnings: unsolicited groping, drunk stranger, mention of alcohol, confident reader, mesmerized Bucky, body positivity, smuttish (kind of?)
A/N: Hi, people! So, I’m finally back! (it’s been only a week but it feels like forever!) Here’s my entry for @star-spangled-man-with-a-plan‘s Full Figured Fantasy Challenge! You know I can’t get enough of confident plus size characters so I really hope you enjoy this one as much as I enjoyed writing it! And I might write a part two if you’re interested in it, just sayiiiin’ 😉
Nursing his drink, perched on his stool, Bucky couldn’t help but scan the bar, wondering why he had thought coming on a Friday night would have been a good idea. The place was packed with people in dire need to have fun and blow off some steam after a stressful week at work. And the former soldier was no different. He too had had a stressful week chasing after bad guys, punching some of them in the face or shooting others.
As satisfying as it was to finally get back at HYDRA after what they did to him, it was physically exhausting and mentally draining. So, as always after a mission, Bucky needed to release some tension. His mind was being too loud, all he wanted to do was to numb it with alcohol. The brunet had came to miss the buzzing effect of his favorite beverages, the way he couldn’t feel his skin anymore after a few drinks, how everything seemed ten times more hilarious, the mix of excitement and sleepiness at the same time, how heavy his eyelids felt before he was plunged into a dreamless sleep.
Summary: It feels like every other day you’re in Frank Adler’s garage while he looks under the hood of your beat-up vehicle, trying to diagnose the newest problem. He’s always been sweet about it; you coming in at the last second because you’re running late for work, always slashing the prices so you don’t go broke. One day, on your way into work, your radiator overheats, leaving you stranded on the side of the road. Knowing he won’t let you down, you call Frank. Ever the gentleman, he gives you a ride, but when he drops you off at work, he discovers a secret you had worked so hard to keep. You promised your boyfriend you’d never cheat, but now you’re not sure what you have could even be called love. What happens when Frank finds himself falling for you? Will he be able to keep himself from intervening in the toxic and tumultuous relationship you and your boyfriend have? Word Count: 2,001 Warnings: First and foremost, domestic violence; emotional, verbal, & physical. Language, heavy angst, insecure female reader, PTSD, no cheating, possibly more to come. Author’s Note: A huge thank you to @captain-rogers-beard for allowing me to steal some of her thunder. Your unwavering support has left me speechless.
My work is not to be posted on any other sites (AO3, Wattpad, etc.) without my express written permission. Reblogs are fine.
After another long day of working on Mr. Abernathy’s large boat, Frank stopped at the diner. He sat in his usual spot, back corner, booth, facing the front door. It also happened to be Y/N’s section. To Frank’s dismay, she wasn’t the one that came to take his order. It was Marge, and she didn’t look too happy.
“Your usual?” she asked, her voice thin, annoyed, concerned.
Frank nodded, turning in his seat to notch his elbow on the bench. “Where’s Y/N?”
“Out sick. Poor thing called in two days in a row,” was Marge’s answer before turning away and handing Frank’s order to the chef.
She didn’t look sick the other day.
He was worried about her, which wasn’t a good sign. They weren’t together, they were barely even friends, just two people in a small town that saw each other several times a week. Barely any conversation flowed between them, nothing personal, always having to do with that piece of shit car she owned. Come to think of it, Frank knew more about her car than he had ever known about anyone.
Not that he hadn’t wanted to get to know Y/N, know more about her. God, how he had wanted to. He had wanted to ask her to go out with him, to dinner and a movie, maybe go out dancing, a picnic on the beach, maybe some moonlit swimming, but she put a stop to that straight away.
“My boyfriend, James…” Three words that made his heart drop in disappointment.
Frank hadn’t met the man, but there were rumblings, rumors, harsh words that lit a fire under several of the older women in town. They said he was, “A drunk, just like his daddy. Cruel, heartless…”
Marge slid a plate of food in front of him. “Things goin’ alright, Frank?”
“I’m with the most beautiful woman in town,” he beamed up at her, shooting her a wink. “What could possibly be wrong?”
The check, and a glass of sweet tea, were dropped to the table next. “Dunno,” Marge shrugged. “You looked like you were thinkin’ ‘bout somethin’.”
“That’s what people do sometimes,” he teased, chuckling when the older woman slapped his shoulder.
“You know what I mean, Frank,” she pushed, dropping into the seat across from him. “You were think’ ‘bout her, weren’t ya?”
With a mouthful of food, Frank shrugged. “Dunno who you mean.”
Marge rolled her eyes. “Can’t bullshit a bullshitter. You know damn well I’m talkin’ ‘bout Y/N. And before you try weaslin’ out of it, I’ve seen how you look at her.”
“Yeah, alright,” Frank sighed, dropping his sandwich to the plate. “You caught me. I like her.”
“But she’s -”
“With James.” Another sigh, this one heavier than the last. “Don’t worry, Marge. I’m not going to act on anything. I’m not the kind of man to go storming into someone else’s relationship.”
The manager of the diner gave a warm smile and reached out to grip Frank’s hand. “I do wish she had met you first.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he wondered, brows drawn together, concern washing over him.
Marge didn’t answer, just gave a tight-lipped smile and went back to work. He called after her, repeating the question, but the only answer he received was from Bill Wilder.
“You wanna holler like that,” the old man called out, glaring at Frank, “you git outside!”
“Alright, Bill,” Frank conceded, a hand in the air, his stomach rolling under the weight of Marge’s words.
What in the fuck did she mean?
Three days, it was the longest your car had survived without you needing to bring it into the garage, to have Frank add more water to the radiator, only to have it run empty the following morning. To be fair, you hadn’t left the house for two of those days.
“I’m sick,” was what you’d told your manager, when the truth was much darker.
James hitting you had been your fault, you knew that, you shouldn’t have sassed him, not when he’d been drinking, especially when he’d been drinking.
“What’s this?” he interrogated you, shoving a receipt into your face. It was from the pharmacy, a prescription your OBGYN had sent over, three months of birth control pills. Nothing out of the ordinary, right?
“Pills, James,” you gasped, pain at the base of your skull making you wince. James’ hand was buried in your hair, tugging harshly on the strands.
“I can see that. Why are you getting birth control pills?” James spat out, his breath hot on your face.
You raised one of your hands and covered James’ hand with it. “Be- because our insurance wo- won’t cover the sho- shot.”
“Liar,” he snarled, yanking your head back, making the muscles in your neck scream in agony.
“I… I’m not.”
“You’re fuckin’ that Frank guy, ain’t ya?”
Your eyes went wide at that. “No, James. I’d ne- never cheat on you.”
“So you say.” He threw you away from him, sending you stumbling back into the counter, making you yelp in pain.
“I wouldn’t,” you insisted, tears clouding your vision.
“You’re all talk,” he grumbled, reaching for the bottle of jack on the table.
When he took a large drink, his head back, his eyes closed, four words left you in a huff. “You’re not any better.” If you thought he hadn’t heard you, you were mistaken.
James marched over and grabbed the back of your neck, his grip like a vice. “What’d you say to me, fat ass?”
“No- nothing,” you whined, lying through your teeth, looking into his dark eyes, praying that he would believe you.
With a snarl, he hauled you away from the counter where your hands had been gripping the edge so tight your knuckles ached.
“You still haven’t learned, have you?” His voice was eerily calm, steady, the calm before the storm.
“I’m sorry,” you choked out. God, he hated hearing you snivel and whine.
James released you slowly, smirking when you flinched. “Guess you need to learn your lesson.”
In the blink of an eye, his fist, the one that had been on the back of your neck mere moments before, came down hard on the back of your head, driving you to the floor and into the pitch of unconsciousness.
There was smoke pouring from out of the radiator, making you cough and gag. You waved your hand through the smoke, hoping you could get it to clear just enough to get the cap off and add some more water.
“Please, please,” you begged, tears threatening to spill. “Come on.” The radiator hissed loudly, scaring you, making you jump back, a screech in the back of your throat.
“Fuck you,” you shouted, kicking the bumper.
You stomped over to the wide open driver’s side door and dropped down, thrusting your hand into your purse to fish out your phone. Looking at the time, you groaned, your head falling back, disappointment flooding through you. You were going to be epically late for work.
Why can’t I do anything right?
Opening your phone with a swipe of your thumb, you scrolled through your contacts, your finger hovering over James’ name. No, he’d scream and berate you, call you worthless and dumb. The friend you hadn’t talked to since moving in with James wasn’t an option. The last time you two spoke, she begged you not to go, but you turned your back on her. A tow truck? No, that would cost an arm and a leg, both of which were aching from the other night.
You were about to give up, grab your purse, and walk the remaining three miles to the diner when you saw the one name you knew you could rely on; Frank. Without another thought, you hit the call button.
“This is Frank,” he announced after four rings.
“Hi,” you squeaked. “It’s me, I mean, this is… it’s Y/N.” God, you sounded like an idiot.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” he chuckled. “Thought you skipped town.”
“What? Why would you think that?” you laughed nervously, your gut churning.
“Hadn’t seen you at the garage for a few days. That, and Marge said you were sick.” You could hear the worry in his voice.
The breath you were holding came out in a rush. “Oh, yeah. I’m fine, Frank. I mean, I’m feeling better.”
“That’s good. So, what can I do for ya?”
Here goes nothing.
“I was driving to work, and out of nowhere, the radiator started smoking again. So, I pulled over to the side of the road and opened the hood. The smoke is so thick and it’s hissing really loud,” you blurted out.
Frank was chuckling again, and you didn’t exactly hate the way it sounded. “Calm down,” he instructed. “Tell me where you are, and I’ll be there in a few minutes.
He hadn’t been lying. Five minutes later he was there, driving the tow truck, and smiling gently. Frank backed the truck up so that the chains were facing the engine. Stepping out, he gave a small wave.
“Hop on in,” he said, holding his hands out for the keys. “I’ll get her hooked up and drop you off at work.”
“You sure?” you inquired, handing over the keys. “I don’t want to put you out.”
“I’m not put out in the least,” Frank assured you.
With an unsure smile, you got into the truck, your purse in your lap, and craned your neck as he went about getting your car hooked up. It didn’t take long, a handful of minutes, but you found yourself watching his every move, appreciating how snug his dirty shirt was, showcasing his wide shoulders and flexing biceps.
Frank must have felt your gaze on him, because he looked up and gave you a smile that made your knees feel like jelly. And then, the guilt slammed into you like a ton of bricks.
You turned around and chastised yourself. You were in a relationship with a man that loved you. At least, that was what he said. And you loved him, right? You wouldn’t have stayed with him if you hadn’t loved him. That was what you told yourself.
Frank took his place behind the wheel, the slamming door pulling you from your thoughts. “Alright, let’s get you to work.”
You could feel him stealing glances at you from the corner of his eye, but you didn’t acknowledge it. You couldn’t, not with your inner voice screaming at you, calling you the very names you hated when James uttered them. Slut, whore, fat ass, worthless. You deserved to be called all of those names and more for the way you had been admiring Frank’s physique several minutes back. You loved James. You’d never cheat on him, even emotionally.
He put the truck into park after coasting to a stop at the outer edge of the parking lot. “I should have it fixed and brought back in a couple of hours.”
“Oh, yeah, okay,” you murmured, working your hair into a bun on the top of your head, wincing at the bite of pain at the back of your neck, at the way your hair moved against the knot James’ fist had left.
Frank must have noticed, because the next thing you knew, he had reached over and moved the collar of your shirt. “Shit, Y/N, he gasped. “What the hell happened?”
Shit, fuck, shit. You should have been more careful.
“Nothing,” you said a little too quickly as you opened the door. After securing your purse, you all but launched yourself out of the truck and gave him a tight-lipped smile. “Thank you for the lift.”
You slammed the door and quite literally ran into the diner, apologizing profusely to Marge for your tardiness. Putting what had just happened to the back of your mind, you shoved your belongings into your locker, affixed the black apron around your wide hips, and dove into the fray.
Summary: A/U. After heartbreak, loss, and healing, special education teachers and long-time best friends James Barnes and Lia Accorsi found their way to each other. Where will life take them now that they have already weathered terrible storms?
Characters: James “Bucky” Barnes, OFC Lia Accorsi
Warnings: Fluff, fluff, fluffity fluff, sweetness and SMUT. This is definitely NSFW 18+ I’m serious!
Word Count: 4400
A/N: Thank you to everyone who read, commented, reblogged, and generally showed mad love for “Love Among the Little Chairs.” I felt wonderful writing it, and knew it had to continue, so for now, here’s the next part of Lia and James’s story. I hope you laugh, smile, blush, and love it like I do. Thank you! – Steph
When Lia woke up she stretched. Not in the “wake-up-work-out-pre-stretch” way, but in the “look-like-a drunk-cat-while-in-bed” way. She reached her arms above her head, touched her fingertips to her headboard, stuck her toes out of the blankets and made a noise akin to an old woman getting out of a low chair.
“What the heck are you doing?” James sat up in bed and grinned at her while she did the same thing she’d done every morning since she was little. Though they had been together a few months, it was the first time he witnessed this particular activity, as they did not always spend the night at each other’s houses and when they did, she typically got out of bed first.
@stevieang Sequels can be tricky. They can kick and fight and make you want to throw in the towel, and sometimes, create a huge sophomore slump. This is not the case.
I can feel the love that Lia and James have for each other, and good God, it’s amazing and pure and downright perfect.
You completely nailed Lia’s ‘fear’ of telling James she loved him, the fact that he might not reciprocate those feelings. And, thank God for Sam. I am so happy that Lia didn’t stop seeing him. She needs him about as much as she needs James.
I am metaphorically holding my breath for chapter two.
Bravo, love.
Summary: It feels like every other day you’re in Frank Adler’s garage while he looks under the hood of your beat-up vehicle, trying to diagnose the newest problem. He’s always been sweet about it; you coming in at the last second because you’re running late for work, always slashing the prices so you don’t go broke. One day, on your way into work, your radiator overheats, leaving you stranded on the side of the road. Knowing he won’t let you down, you call Frank. Ever the gentleman, he gives you a ride, but when he drops you off at work, he discovers a secret you had worked so hard to keep. You promised your boyfriend you’d never cheat, but now you’re not sure what you have could even be called love. What happens when Frank finds himself falling for you? Will he be able to keep himself from intervening in the toxic and tumultuous relationship you and your boyfriend have? Warnings: First and foremost, domestic violence; emotional, verbal, & physical. Language, heavy angst, insecure female reader, PTSD, no cheating, possibly more to come.
Summary: Steve Rogers is a multi-millionaire philanthropist, co-founder of a non-profit that aids and rehabilitates veterans, and the Most Eligible Bachelor in Brooklyn. With the spotlight shining bright overhead, Steve becomes the latest victim of The Brooklyn Bandit; a thief that has made away with almost $5,000,000 in cash and rare jewels. After dead ends and embarrassing headlines, Sergeant Fury doesn’t think the Bandit case is one that can be solved. Rather than pour any more man hours into it than absolutely necessary, he assigns Y/N Y/L/N – a first year detective – to the case. Half a million dollars was stolen right out from under everyone’s noses, and there’s not one shred of evidence. With a point to prove and a give ‘em hell attitude, you throw everything you’ve got into solving the case. Too bad you hadn’t prepared yourself for the latest victim’s dazzling smile and generous heart. Word Count: 1,683 Warnings: Language, acts of thievery, language, angst, maybe some smut, possibly more to come as series continues. Author’s Note: Thank you @captain-rogers-beard & @climbthatmooselikeatree for your invaluable help with this. GIF credit
My work is not to be posted on any other sites without my express written permission.
Pulling on a pair of black latex gloves, you ducked under the strip of yellow caution tape that a rookie in their blues held up for you and Sam. Your partner whistled low as he surveyed the spacious floor plan, and it wasn’t in admiration.
“Someone worked hard at covering their tracks,” Sam said.
You narrowed your eyes as you took in the sight. “Or it’s a distraction.”
“Distraction from what?” Sam scoffed.
“Inside job, maybe,” you mused, your head shaking slightly. You crouched down and grabbed some folders, their insides spilling out. Opening the file, you quickly scanned through the papers.
Sam remained standing, hands on his hips. “You find something useful?”
“Nah,” you answered. “Just some profiles and financials on a non-profit. Nothing appears out of the ordinary.”
“How do you know about out of the ordinary financials?” Sam scoffed.
Standing tall, you shoved the folders into his stomach. “My grandpa was an accountant for Howard Stark back in the day,” you rasped. “Thought it would be good for me to know, to be prepared for my future.”
You pushed past him and rolled your eyes, hating yourself for how you had snapped at Sam. It wasn’t his fault that you were crabby, and as much as you wanted to blame it on Fury, you couldn’t. You were the one that had stormed into your sergeant’s office demanding a case. What was the saying… be careful what you wish for? You had just been about to round the corner when there was a voice that didn’t belong.
“I hope you’re using gloves,” the new arrival said with an air of authority. “Would hate to see another one of The Brooklyn Bandit’s crime scene contaminated.”
Whirling around on your heel, you found Steve Rogers standing there, a dark suit clinging to his frame, an even darker wool trench coat draped over his shoulders, his hands in his pockets, an eyebrow arched. You found yourself staring and you gave yourself an internal talking to.
“Who let you up here?” you demanded to know, stalking toward the new arrival.
“I live here, officer,” Steve shot back, his tone unamused.
“It’s detective,” you growled. “Detective Y/L/N.”
“My apologies,” Rogers answered, though you didn’t believe for one second he was sorry about anything.
“In case you failed to notice, this,” you spoke slowly, hooking a thumb over your shoulder, “is an active crime scene, and you,” you took another step toward him and aimed your finger at his chest, “are not allowed to be here.”
Steve chuckled and rolled his eyes. “I live here,” he repeated himself. “Of course I’m allowed to be here.”
“Here, in your home, yes,” you snapped back. “Not here, where the actual crime took place.”
Sam was at your side, jabbing you with his elbow. “Mr. Rogers, thank you for coming in,” he greeted Steve, his hand held out, Steve shaking it a moment later.
“You called him in?” you whispered harshly to your partner. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Steve was smiling wide when you turned your attention back to him. “You were saying?”
Sam stepped in front of you, his way of making sure you didn’t say or do anything that could possibly get you fired. “Let’s go downstairs, shall we?”
With your teeth clenched, you glared at the duo as they disappeared from the room. You closed your eyes and pulled in one ragged breath after another in an effort to calm down. You hated it when people like him, the rich and entitled, talked down to you. God, you wanted to show him, show all of them, that just because they had a fuck ton of money meant absolutely nothing.
Squaring your shoulders, you turned around and headed back to Steve’s desk. There were files spread all over it, papers slipping from the edges, fluttering to the floor, joining the shards of broken glass from the window. Careful not to cut yourself, you dropped down and combed through the debris.
“Something doesn’t feel right,” you murmured to yourself.
“What’s that?” asked Peter Parker, the youngest, and newest, member of the crime scene unit.
You were shaking your head, looking at the floor, then looking at the broken window, which was on the opposite end of the room. Peter watched as you walked over, counting your steps as you went, turned your back to the window, and threw the glass in your hand back the way you had come.
Peter flinched and covered his face. “Hey, watch it.”
“I need to know the exact distance from the desk to the window,” you instructed, picking up the glass you had just thrown on your journey back. “I also need to know where the window was hit, where it would need to be hit in order to achieve the distance, what was used to smash the window, and what would need to be used in order to get glass all the way over here. Got it?”
Nodding, Peter scribbled notes onto the notepad. “Anything else, boss?”
“Get it to me as fast as you can,” you added, ripping the gloves from your hands. “I need to know what the fuck is going on here.”
Sam knocked your feet off your desk, shooting you a glare as he dropped into his seat. “You got any idea how much I had to sweet talk Rogers into not having you pulled you from the case?”
“What are you talking about?” You arched a brow as you propped your feet back on the edge of your desk.
“That little stunt you pulled back at the crime scene,” his eyebrows all but shot off his forehead. “Or did you forget.”
“You’re the one that didn’t tell me that you called him in to interview,” you accused, pointing at your partner.
Sam raked a hand over his face and scoffed. “You’re a piece of work, you know that? You come in here, full of piss and vinegar, chip on your shoulder, ready to prove a point.”
You failed to see why that was a problem. “And?”
“And,” Sam bit out, “it’s going to put a target on your back.”
With your brows pulled together, you sat up. “Is that a threat?”
Sam was shaking his head. “No, it’s just the truth. I’ve seen plenty of detectives, throwing their non-existent weight around, making enemies when you’re supposed to be making friends.”
“Just because he’s filthy rich doesn’t mean I’m gonna butter him up, Sam,” you argued.
“I get that, I do, but -”
“But what, Sam?” You were leaning forward, forearms on your desk, hands clasped together. “You talk about having a chip on my shoulder. What about Rogers? He talked to me, to us, as if we were some small town police officers. What’s the difference between me and him, huh?”
Sam sighed heavily, shaking his head at the fire in your eyes. “Forget it, Y/L/N. Just… forget it.”
You had just popped open a beer when your phone rang. It was your mom, and no matter how tired you were, no matter the shitty day you’d had, you couldn’t ignore her.
“Hey, ma,” you greeted after swiping your thumb across the screen.
She chuckled gently. “Hay is for horses, sweetie,” she joked.
Swallowing the anxiety in your throat, you asked, “How are you feeling today?”
Your mother had breast cancer, stage three, aggressive as hell, and kicking her ass. The doctor said she had twelve to eighteen months left to live. That was two years ago. During those two years, your mother had undergone a double mastectomy and five rounds of chemo, each round more hostile than the last, sucking the life from your mother. So, when you asked how she was doing, part of you really didn’t want to know, that part wanted to hear her say, The cancer is in remission, I’m perfect.
“As good as I can be,” she answered, her voice frail and tired. “Chemo was a bitch.”
“Isn’t it always?” you sniffled, chuckling ruefully.
“Tell me about your day, love,” she pleaded softly.
You rolled your eyes at just the thought of telling her about, not only being put on the Brooklyn Bandit case, but telling her that you’d met the infamous Steve Rogers, and he was a tool.
“Sam and I got assigned a high profile case today, the Brooklyn Bandit,” was what you said instead.
“Oh, yes,” she perked up noticeably. “I saw that on the news. That poor Steve Rogers. He does a lot of work with veterans, you know.”
You managed to hide your groan, but barely. “I know, mother.”
“What? Can’t I dream about my daughter falling in love with someone amazing like him?”
“It’s not gonna happen,” you rebutted before taking a long drink.
“I said, like him,” she clarified sternly. “Not him.”
“Guy’s a douche,” you couldn’t help but mutter under your breath.
Her sharp intake of breath was more than enough of a clue that she had heard you. “Y/N Y/M/N Y/L/N, watch your tongue.”
“Sorry, mom,” you mumbled, your cheeks going red at the mental image of her standing over you as a child, her finger in your face, scolding you for saying you hated your best friend.
“You’ve always had a temper on you,” she noted, no ridicule or shame in her voice.
You couldn’t help but laugh. “Gee, I wonder where I got it from.”
When she laughed in return, it made tears well in your eyes, blurring your vision. “God, it’s good to hear you laugh, ma.”
“It’s been too long,” she confirmed before giving a yawn.
“Get some rest, okay? I love you.”
“I love you, too,” she hummed.
After disconnecting the call, you swept away the tears on your face and drained the bottle of beer quickly. Gasping for air, you pushed up from the couch, threw the bottle in the recycling, and headed into your room to change into something a little more comfortable; dark and form fitting, easier to keep yourself hidden, away from prying eyes.
Summary: Steve Rogers is multi-millionaire philanthropist, co-founder of a non-profit that aids and rehabilitates veterans, and the Most Eligible Bachelor in Brooklyn. With the spotlight shining bright overhead, Steve becomes the latest victim of The Brooklyn Bandit; a thief that has made away with almost $5,000,000 in cash and rare jewels.. After dead ends and embarrassing headlines, Sergeant Fury doesn’t think the Bandit case is one that can be solved. Rather than pour any more man hours into it than absolutely necessary, he assigns Y/N Y/L/N – a first year detective – to the case. Half a million dollars was stolen right out from under everyone’s noses, and there’s not one shred of evidence. With a point to prove and a give ‘em hell attitude, you throw everything you’ve got into solving the case. Too bad you hadn’t prepared yourself for the latest victim’s dazzling smile and generous heart. Word Count: 1,568 Warnings: Language, acts of thievery, language, angst, maybe some smut, possibly more to come as series continues. Author’s Note: Thank you @captain-rogers-beard and @climbthatmooselikeatree for your invaluable help with this.
My work is not to be posted on any other sites without my express written permission.
Wearing a cocky smirk, the man dressed all in black made quick work of shoving stacks of cash into the large duffel. No one would miss it, not really, not considering what he was leaving behind; jewels – both loose and set, stacks of bonds from the 1800’s, rows of antique coins in thick plastic, and many more priceless artifacts. No. Steve Rogers wouldn’t miss a measly $500,000.
He had to be quick, though. There was a party, another one of Steve’s fundraisers, bringing attention to the men and women that protected the nation, to the ones that paid an unbelievable price, and if he didn’t hurry, he might have run the risk of getting caught. Which he couldn’t deny was the main reason he was currently on a burglary streak.
Shaking his head, he secured the bag to his back and easily slipped out the way he had come; through an unmonitored door that hardly anyone knew about. He was behind the wheel of his car, the motor running, pulling out of the parking lot of an abandoned lot several blocks away when the alarm sounded
Champagne glass in hand, Steve approached the podium. “Before everyone goes home tonight, I wanted to give you all the good news,” he announced, silencing the buzz of chatter in the large room. “We not only reached our goal, but we’ve raised three times the original amount!”
The room was filled with shouts and cries of triumph, and there were balloons falling from the ceiling. Several couples hugged and kissed, multiple friends raised their glasses in salute, but none of them really mattered. It wasn’t them he was raising the money for. It was people like his best friend, Bucky, people that had been injured in the war, losing limbs to IED’s, being captured and tortured by radicals. Those were the real heroes. Not Steve, not the million dollar donation by an anonymous donor. None of them knew what is was like to make a sacrifice.
Bucky was at the bar, smirk tugging at his lips, glass of whiskey in his right hand. He raised it in salute and tossed back his head, gulping down the hundred year old amber liquid in one swallow. His wife, Natasha – the leggy redhead that had a penchant for sticking her nose where it didn’t belong – was sipping from a glass of red wine. She arched a perfectly shaped eyebrow at Steve and raised a hand, wiggling her red-tipped fingers at him.
Clint, Steve’s other best friend, and handicapped army veteran, clapped a hand to Steve’s shoulder as he exited the stage. “Don’t know how you do it,” Clint murmured, his other hand fiddling with the new set of hearing aids.
“Doing what I gotta do to help get funding,” Steve admitted.
Truth be told, he hated speaking in front of large crowds, drawing attention to himself, it all made him feel like a dancing monkey, even though it was to raise millions of dollars for the men and women that came home – injured and mutilated – to a country that would inevitably fail them, pretend their injuries weren’t that severe, that all the soldiers needed to do was think happy thoughts.
Steve was tired of seeing the injustice, the barbaric treatment of America’s finest. So, he had a chat with fellow philanthropist and friend, Tony Stark, and together they started a non-profit. All of the money raised went towards the medical treatment of injured veterans, providing them with expensive surgeries, state of the art prosthetics, physical therapy… anything and everything the government failed to provide, at no cost to the veteran.
“We appreciate it, brother. More than you know,” Clint smiled, clapping Steve’s shoulder once more. At the sight of Clint’s wife, Wanda, his entire face lit up. He jogged across the room, his shiny shoes squeaking on the glossy floor.
Steve watched as Clint wrapped his arms around his wife, and spun her around, kissing her heatedly. There was a sting of jealousy at the sight, but he honestly didn’t have the time for it; dating, falling in love, getting married. As if she could hear his inner monologue, Nat was striding purposefully towards the bachelor. Hoping to avoid her, Steve turned to dive into a conversation that Tony was having with Thaddeus Ross, but she was too damn fast, even in her four inch heels.
“Walk with me, Steve,” she purred, her hand sneaking along his side, coming to a stop on the inside of his forearm, pulling him into a slow walk.
With a tight smile, Steve held his arm against his side. “My pleasure, Nat,” he murmured.
It wasn’t that he didn’t get along with his best friend’s wife, he did. She was amazingly loyal, sweet, caring, smart as a whip… almost too smart. While he wanted to keep his private life just that, private, she was set on finding someone for him to go out with, get married, live happily ever after, the life Bucky had, the life Bucky wanted for his friend.
“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Steve asked, smiling warmly at Rhodey, another injured veteran that had just enrolled for physical therapy.
Natasha barely waited until they were outside. “I’ve got this friend-”
“No, Nat,” Steve snapped, pulling his arm away as if he had been stung.
“Why not?” Natasha asked, eyebrow arched once again.
Steve scraped a hand over his face. “It’s just… it’s not something I want right now.” It was a blatant lie, one he had told himself time and time again in hopes of convincing himself that a wife and kids were not what his heart desired most.
“You gotta get out there, Steve.” Nat dropped a hand to Steve’s and squeezed. “Look, I know Bucky and I give you a lot of shit, but we just want you to be happy.”
“I am happy.” And he was. Helping his friends and their friends, their brothers and sisters in arms, it had given Steve a purpose he hadn’t had before. He was doing something meaningful with his life, with his family’s money.
Nat’s lips pulled into a tight smile. “I know you are.” She pushed up and pressed her red lips into Steve’s beard, wiggling her nose as the whiskers scraped her skin.
“You movin’ in on my girl?” Bucky called as he approached.
“Never in a million years,” Steve assured his friend.
Natasha laughed and slapped Steve playfully in the arm. “You couldn’t handle me, Steve.”
Bucky slid his shining prosthetic arm around his wife’s waist and kissed her cheek. “I hope you’re behaving yourself,” he teased Nat.
“When have I ever not behaved myself?” she sighed happily, her hand resting on her husband’s chest, fingers drifting over his black tie. At that comment, both men broke into laughter, not paying any mind to Natasha or the look of faux-offense on her face. Unable to pretend to be upset, Nat joined in, and was clutching her side a moment later.
Tony was jogging towards the trio just as they were composing themselves. “Rogers,” he called. “Might want to answer your phone every now and again.”
“What, why?” he questioned as he dug into his pocket. There was a series of missed calls and voicemails from his cleaning lady, Maria, his building’s security, and Steve’s heart started to race.
“There was a break-in,” Tony answered, glancing over Steve’s shoulder. “I already called for the car.”
With a heaving sigh, you dropped into the chair and kicked your legs up onto the edge of your desk. You had just spent the last fifteen minutes with Sergeant Fury, all but begging for a case, any case, to help out the team. Turned out, the newest cases went to Brooklyn’s finest, and that term only applied to higher ranking detectives, not first year grunts. Since it was your first year as a detective, and you had just begged for a case, you got put on the Bandit case.
Sam Wilson, your partner and good friend, gave a chuckle. “That good, huh?”
“I got us a case,” you admitted, hands folded on your stomach.
“Yeah? Which socialite are we going to rush in and save at the last minute?”
You couldn’t help but snort as you watched him. “Hate to burst your bubble, Sam, but it’s not that kind of case.”
Sam narrowed his eyes. “Someone important has been abducted and we have to find out who did it within forty-eight hours.”
Another unladylike snort erupted from your nose. “Not even close.”
“There’s been a series of threats made against the mayor -”
“It’s the Bandit case,” you muttered, cutting off his fantasy-driven tirade.
He was shaking his head as he leaned back in his chair. “Uh-uh,” he argued. “Boss calls it unsolvable.”
Your phone rang just then, three quick chirps in rapid succession. “Y/L/N,” you gruffed, your head lolling back, eyes squeezing closed.
“Seeing as how you have the Bandit case,” Fury said coolly. “Thought you’d want to know there was a break-in at the Rogers residence.”
You swallowed around the knot in your throat. “Rogers, as in Steve Rogers, sir?”
“There’s the ace detective work that’ll get this case solved,” Fury snapped. “Yes, Steve Rogers. Half a mill was lifted earlier.”
“On our way,” you assured your boss. Shoving out of your chair, you threw a pen at Sam. “Come on,” you ordered.
Summary: Steve tries online dating because he wants someone who wants the kid from Brooklyn, not the Captain. He winds up falling for Reader and when they finally meet, Reader doesn’t care about his fame, just the person who had been writing – requested by @raychic26
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