#emmmasreads

[fireheartpages]

hiya i love your 4th wing work and was wondering if you had any recommendations for other fics (other than callsign-rogueone bc im actually obsessed with her stuff) <333

thank you!! unfortunately i’m actually the capital-w-Worst at saving fics i really enjoy unless i stumble across one multiple times which is dumb like emma you’re literally a writer yourself do better so i fear i don’t have very many recs on tumblr, but i have a few ao3 ones i can link!

@callsign-rogueone is a phenomenal writer and you’re so right to have her first on the list

i recently discovered @she-whatshername and i’ve been obsessed. another fantastic writer!

bed of sunshine is my favorite liam fic i love love love it and have gone back and reread a few times. author also did an imogen/reader fic that had me 🧎‍♀️🙇🏻‍♀️

another good liam rec pls ignore these are all smut i take what i can get ok

a bodhi rec bc he’s my pookie wookie kins and i love him

this author on ao3 has a handful of good bodhi fics and a lot more!

i feel like there’s a ridoc/reader fic scratching at the back of my mind that i can’t find anywhere so if i remember or find it i’ll reblog w/ some more :)

[fireheartpages]

YOUR NAME’S ENGRAVED ON THE—

paper rings

matt murdock x female!reader

summary: matt murdock, who’s always the romantic, was always set on marrying you, but life and daredevil had gotten in the way of that.

warnings: angsty, talk of traditional marriage, heteronormativity. 

author’s note: there’s not a single reference to taylor swift in this, but paper rings played in my head the entire time i wrote this. 

He knew the tension was there. He knew the conversation was coming when they got back to their apartment. You were both attending another wedding of college friends. A couple that had gotten together after you and Matt. The question had greeted you with the buzzing bride asking, “When is it your turn?” During the reception. You breathed in a harsh and quick breath. Matt could hear it and hear you swallow even though you weren’t eating or drinking at the moment. Matt’s hand moved to your thigh in an effort to show assurance, but your hand never covered his in the typical fashion. He wasn’t greeted with the warmth of your palm and instead the cold air remained on his hand. 

“Soon.” Matt said cooly. You shared a look with the bride of skepticism. It should have came and went by now. You weren’t the traditional or old fashioned type, but Matt always made his remarks about marrying you one day. All throughout grad school, you were greeted with promises of a nice wedding after you both graduated. He had called you Mrs. Murdock in sweet tones after Foggy had jokingly referred to you as such. He would refer to you as his wife when flight attendants or nurses asked about your relationship to each other, though it was a lie, he often said that marriage makes strangers take your relationship more seriously. Never had you corrected him. 

Now you’re back from another wedding. Another first dance, tearful exchanges between lovers during their vows, celebrating love with closest friends and family while under the influence of free alcohol. It left a bitter taste in your mouth watching him walk into the living room, tugging at his tie. The idea of Matt with a loose tie, hair astray, top button undone, with the look of love in his eyes while dancing at the end of your wedding reception was something that seemed so obtainable, but so far out of reach. 

“When we get married, I want to rent the reception place an extra hour after the reception officially ends.” Matt remarked out of the blue in the kitchen one day. Your eyebrows furrowed at the request, you turned away from the stove to look at Matt. The speaker you kept in the kitchen playing Father John Misty’s Real Love Baby lightly. Matt moved towards you, taking your hands in his before dancing with you. He pressed a kiss onto the top of your head. “Weddings are for sharing your love with others, but I want to have you to myself at least for a little bit. I want to dance alone with you like we do in the kitchen every night.” You looked up to Matt, a small smile on his face. “We can do that.” Your voice was smitten with love, there was no hiding that, “Any other requests, Mr. Murdock?” He looked down to follow your voice, his face an inch away from yours, “None right now, but I’ll update you with any, Mrs. Murdock.” 

You couldn’t track if you were being toyed. He treated you with the same love and adoration that he had greeted you with when you were 21, now you were 28, and still loved fully, but no ring to prove it. It was futile. You shouldn’t be mad about it. Your breathing was beginning to become shaky. You were fighting the tears coming to the brims of your eyes. You looked down to toy with your dress, pulling at the creases and wrinkles on the dress. Matt came home to you every night. This should be enough to keep you content. There was still a sadness every time you were introduced as a girlfriend, as you were reminded that you didn’t have his last name. He was the one to mention it periodically. He was the one who teased it. 

“Why won’t you marry me?” It left your mouth so quickly and quietly. You knew he had heard you, but nothing changed in his demeanor. The tears had caused your voice to become hoarse, “It’s old fashioned, but you wanted to marry me so badly. And now,” You couldn’t find the words as the tears finally fell, “And now, I don’t know what you want.” Matt’s stance didn’t move. He knew this was coming. Matt had always expressed what he wanted and expected in all aspects of his life. He was direct and honest. He finally let out a breath he was holding. 

“I want to marry you. I’ve always wanted to marry you.” Matt spoke clearly. He could hear your heart racing. He could hear the tearful weariness in your voice. He was trying to hide the fact that he was hurting from just hearing you. “Yeah, sure, whatever you say, Matthew.” You scoffed as you sat on the sofa and took off your shoes. Matt took his steps towards you. You placed your shoes to the side of you as Matt sat down in front of you. He grabbed for your hands, holding them with such ferocity. “I know, it sounded like bullshit leaving my mouth, I know, but I want to marry you. I want to spend that extra hour on the dance floor with you. I know you want a winter wedding, but you’re afraid of planning it too close to my birthday. I know the wedding isn’t what bothers you. It’s the fact that you want us to be tied together forever, but that’s what I’m afraid of.” 

Your heart shattered more at the words, but before you could stutter out a response, Matt continued on. “I’m afraid that you’ll be even more linked to me. You’ll share my name. I’ll have a ring on my finger, because if I married you, I would never take it off. I’d want everyone to know, but that’s the issue. Someone figures out I’m Daredevil and then you are at risk. You’re at risk now, but I can’t.” He stopped for a minute and you could see the words catching up to him, “I can’t live without you. I wouldn’t let anything happen to you, but I don’t want you in danger.” 

You removed your hands from his grip and for the moment, he was so afraid something would happen. You would get up and walk out of the apartment as if it was nothing. He made you aware of his own fears and you could leave for that reason alone. He opened his mouth again to make any form of a plea, but your hands moved to slip off his glasses and hold his face. The tears hidden behind his glasses were now evident. “Loving you has always been so simple, Matt. You’re trying to make it complicated, but I just want to spend the rest of my days with you. I don’t need the wedding, the ring, or the last name. I just need you. I just wanted to know why.” 

His features softened again, “I couldn’t marry you, because I love you too much.” Matt smiled pathetically up at you. “I bought the ring. I saved for the longest time, but then I started my night job and I… I didn’t want to endanger you.” He scrambled his way up before disappearing into your shared room and rustling through his belongings. He came back getting down on one knee, “I can’t legally marry you. I can’t legally change your name. I am yours to have and to hold through sickness and through health and till death do us part.” The ring was subtle. A red garnet in the middle, his birthstone. 

“I know, I can’t have your last name legally…” You trailed off to which Matt answered. “You’ll always be Mrs. Murdock to me.” He quirked the corners of his lips up in a smirk. “Give me your right hand. I want you to wear it, but not on the traditional finger. It’ll make me feel better.” He whispered at the end. He was still anxious while trying to soothe you. The ring slipped onto your finger effortlessly. He had acquired your ring size over the years and heard you mention birthstones to a friend on the phone once. He was coy, but he understood your wants and needs. “I’ll be okay. Nothing’s going to happen to me. I don’t need the marriage or the wedding, I just need you.” You cupped his cheek and ran your thumb along his cheek to which he nodded. 

“I still want that first dance though.” Matt remarked as he got to his feet offering you a hand. You took it gratefully as you got to your feet. He pulled you close to him and began swaying. “What about a wedding band for you?” You asked as you looked up at him. “Way ahead of you.” He remarked as he pulled his hand away from yours. His hands found the chain hanging around his neck and pulled it free from behind his button up. A silver ring hung from the chain. You took it in between your fingers. “Your name’s engraved on the inside.” Matt smiled. It wasn’t what you had expected for marrying Matt, but you hadn’t minded, it was simple and that was okay.

[fireheartpages]

“He has always been Atlas with the world on his shoulders. But now he’s discovering that when the world shifts from his shoulders to his arms and takes your shape, its weight is bearable. Its weight is glorious.”

i am literally so obsessed with this please

where you decide to stay

𝐒𝐭𝐞𝐯𝐞 𝐑𝐨𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐱 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

Summary: It’s become a routine for you and the Captain to do this; go out, get drinks, and hookup when you’re on assignment together. You didn’t fall into bed with each other because you fell in love; you feel into bed with each other because Wilson doesn’t seem interested, Rogers holds his relationship with Romanoff too sacred for him to corrupt with sex, and you’re the only other option. You’re there. You’re easy. And yet…

Author's Note: This fic is for my 300 followers challenge, inspired by the song "All I've Ever Known" from the musical Hadestown. Title is from "That Could Be Enough" from Hamilton, because I'm a theatre kid and this is a theatre challenge. This fic is kinda different from anything I've ever written and it absolutely could not have happened without the help of @divine-mistake, who encouraged me every step of the way. Thank you for believing in me, Taylor.

Warning(s): angst with a happy ending, implied smut, mention of sex trafficking (in passing), light description of injury, mutual pining, submitting to the mortifying ordeal of being seen

Word Count: 3,571

( masterlist / ao3 )

You wake up in a cocoon of warmth. Not only are you nestled under five blankets, a quilt, and a heavy-duty comforter, you’ve also got a big muscular arm keeping you close to a big muscular chest. It’s a moment you wish you could stay in forever; quit your life of international vigilantism and just live in a breathless moment between sleep and waking.

You shake the thought from your mind, pushing yourself from the cocoon and into the cold winter morning of the St. Petersburg safe house. You begin to gather various clothing items and weapons from around the room. Steve's still asleep, the peaceful lull of his breathing drawing your heart back to bed like the tide. You consider joining him again.

You sigh, shaking your head.

Nothing gold can stay.

You walk to the front door and step outside.

It’s snowing in St. Petersburg. The wind whips at your face as you sneak down the alley away from Steve and the safehouse. You tuck your chin in towards your chest and flip the lapels of your coat up around your face.

This is the part that you’re used to: the leaving.

You’d done a lot of that in your life. You’d been essentially alone, after becoming a fugitive at fifteen. You’d hacked the CIA. That was until a year ago, when Captain America had tracked you down and asked if you’d be willing to help him win a fight. He was taking on half of the Avengers, and all the scientists and engineers were on the other team. You agreed. You improved some of their tech, got in trouble with the UN, and now you go on secret missions all over the world saving lives and falling into bed with Captain America.

Damn Rogers, with his bright blue eyes that can see a whole world beyond the one you’re in. He’s crazy. He makes you feel alive.

You feel a tug in your chest, knowing how long it will be until you see him again.

You bury it somewhere deep in the snow under your feet.

╳ ╳ ╳

The first time Steve sees you, the world stops short.

You’re at that empty airport in Germany, preparing to fight. He’d met you in the same way he’d met Lang, just a quick introduction before things become serious.

The whole group of you walk towards the edge of the parking lot, out into the light of day.

Steve looks down the line at his teammates, with their stoic and fierce expressions, and then there was you; stood at the end of the line, looking terrified.

Steve’s not one for love at first sight. He judges people on the content of their character, and could never love someone without really knowing them.

But he watches you, all that fear on your face rippling like he’d touched the surface of water and then settling and smoothing out into something more determined, and he thought “that’s the point”.

Then he turned forward and went to battle.

╳ ╳ ╳

You stumble through the door of the St.Petersburg safehouse around midnight, tipsy and in the middle of smudging your lipstick all over Steve’s face. You’re only a few steps in the doorway before you’re shedding clothes. You’re lucky the place is just a studio apartment. Otherwise, you wouldn’t make it to the bed.

It’s become a routine for you and the Captain to do this; go out, get drinks, and hookup when you’re on assignment together. You didn’t fall into bed with each other because you fell in love; you feel into bed with each other because Wilson doesn’t seem interested, Rogers holds his relationship with Romanoff too sacred for him to corrupt with sex, and you’re the only other option. You’re there. You’re easy.

And yet…

Steve Rogers touches you like you’re precious. He brings you to your climax and then clings to you like you’re the answer he’s been searching for. He traces gentle patterns into your bare hip in the aftermath, while your mind is occupied with exit strategies.

“You gonna be here when I wake up?” he whispers when he thinks you’re asleep.

No, you say to yourself. You live to disappoint.

╳ ╳ ╳

None of you take much with you, but Steve has a backpack. He calls it a “knapsack” and you laugh at him a little in your head every time. From what you’ve observed, it contains a few changes of clothes, a little notebook, a compass, a case full of pencils, and a sketchbook. You see him sketching in it all the time, although you never quite catch what he’s drawing.

But you wonder. And he leaves his backpack on the floor when he takes you to bed.

You wake up in the middle of the night. You’d had a bad dream, not a nightmare. (It’s not a nightmare if it doesn’t wake up your bedmate).

The backpack is sitting on the floor across the room, staring at you.

Staying quiet enough not to wake Captain America’s enhanced hearing is a challenge, especially when you’re rifling through his bag. But you feel the familiar leather of the sketchbook and you grab on for dear life, running on tiptoe over to the hotel room bathroom. You sit on the toilet seat and open up the book.

Steve is remarkably good. Some of the more basic sketches are familiar faces; Tony Stark and Clint Barton towards the start, Romanoff and Wilson, Wanda Maximoff, the guy with the metal arm you haven’t seen since Germany (Bucky; Steve’s best friend, your mind supplies). There are also some more cartoonish works, like one of a monkey in the Captain America suit balancing on a thin wire labelled “principles”, or a man sleeping on a bed made of icicles. There are a couple sketches of you; one of your back that must’ve been done one night while you were asleep, or your silhouette during some kind of battle that must’ve been done from memory.

Judging how often you saw Steve drawing you assumed he’d have to have sketched you at some point. It’s not surprising; you’re there. You linger on the silhouette for a moment before flipping the page.

The following page makes you gasp.

It’s you again, but unlike any of the others. In this one you’re smiling; head tilted over the one side, lips pursed from the effort of keeping in a full on laugh. Your expression looks fond. Your eyes twinkle.

You stand quickly, looking into the bathroom mirror. You smile. The smile makes you frown.

You have all the same features as the woman from the sketch; same hair and eyes and nose. But you can’t recreate that twinkle, or the fondness. It’s not an expression you can bring out of yourself, you realize. It’s an expression only he can.

You quickly shut the bathroom light, return the sketchbook to Steve’s backpack, and crawl back in bed.

╳ ╳ ╳

Steve’s leaning up against the wall of an alley somewhere, waiting for Sam to bring food back to the car. He can’t really show his face anywhere anymore, and a cowardly part of him is glad for that. He doesn’t think he can face the world as the guy who destroyed their protectors.

You stayed back to wait with him, though, and for that, he’s grateful. You don’t ask much of him, just stand there kicking rocks in your beat-up combat boots.

“Have I ever thanked you, for everything?”

Steve watches you ponder the laces of your boots. He thinks you’re trying to decide if he’s serious. He thinks he can tell what you’re feeling, sometimes, just by looking at you.

“I didn’t do anything, Rogers.”

“You decided to join my team,” he says. “You knew the UN was against us - that Tony was against us - and you still signed on. That’s pretty brave.”

You scoff, eyes trained on the pebbles you’re kicking at. Steve wishes you’d look at him.

“I’m serious.”

Your eyes flick up to his face and for one paralyzing moment, you’re looking straight at him.

“When you recruited me, you said that the battle might not end easily, or soon. You said this could turn into the fight of my life.”

There’s this awful expression on your face that Steve recognizes from his military days. It’s the face of a commanding officer writing to the families of a soldier who was killed in action.

“I wasn’t noble,” you say to his forehead. “I was hungry.”

╳ ╳ ╳

It’d be wrong to tell you you’re beautiful right then, but he thinks it.

╳ ╳ ╳

There’s dirt all over your body, seeping into your pores and your lungs and somehow, your heart. It’s suffocating, the unsettled air around the warehouse. You’re on your back in the middle of the ground. Your side burns, and without any examination you’re pretty sure it’s a knife wound. Fucking sex traffickers.

“Everyone alright?” You hear his voice from the comms in your ears. “Romanoff?”

“I’m alright and on my way to the jet.”

“Good. Wilson?”

“I got eyes on Romanoff, following her out.”

“Alright. Y/l/n?”

You try to sit up and tell Steve you’re alright at the same time, but all that comes out is a cry of pain at the gash across your ribs.

“Y/l/n?!” He yells into the comms.

You suck a breath through your teeth, biting back another scream and more tears. Your side burns, so much so that disembowelment seems like a better option than struggling your way back to the jet. Better to just throw the whole person away and start over.

Steve is calling for you over the comms, but it takes a second for your hearing to get back online.

“Y/l/n?!! Where are you? Y/n?!!”

“I’m here, Cap. It’s gonna - uh shit - take me a sec to get to you guys.”

“Don’t even think about it, I’ll come to you.”

You don’t know how long you’re sitting there, willing yourself to stand up but unable to move again without whimpering. You might’ve blacked out for a second. You do know the familiar clomp of Captain America’s boots, rushing over to your position on the warehouse floor.

There’s a moment where he just stands there, stunned and frankly quite useless, looking you over. He tilts his head at you, arms held out on either side, eyes raking over your weakened frame.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he says at last.

You chuckle through gritted teeth, and almost black out from the pain it sends to your ribs.

“I don’t really think that’s an option, Cap.”

He nods, looking a bit sheepish. As gently as he can manage, he eases you into his arms, taking extra care around your bloody rib cage. The whole affair takes about five minutes, but you manage to find a position in his arms.

The exhaustion overtakes you immediately. You know you need to stay awake, but your eyelids have a different agenda. They close every other second, heavy and getting increasingly hard to fight.

“Y/n, you still with me?” Steve asks, panic rising in his tone.

“Unfortunately,” you say, forcing your eyelids open just in time to catch Steve’s expression.

Damn him, he smiles at that. And damn you, you bare your bloody teeth and smile back.

╳ ╳ ╳

The problem with being international fugitives is that there’s really no safe place to go for medical care. You’re bleeding from your side, fading in and out of consciousness, and Steve’s just about done hearing why he can’t take you to a hospital.

“Steve,” Sam says, adopting his “I work at the VA” tone that Steve loathes. “Your face is plastered on every news channel in the world. The second you walk into a hospital, you’re gonna come out in handcuffs.”

“I can break handcuffs,” Steve reminds him.

Sam gives him a look.

“Super handcuffs.”

He stares Steve down for a moment, and maybe in another life where Steve isn’t as stubborn and hasn’t already disassembled Earth’s Mightiest Heroes for the sake of not being so alone, it’d work.

“Look, boys, we need to get her somewhere,” Natasha reminds them.

Right. They’re still standing outside a warehouse. You’re still bleeding out in Steve’s arms.

“There’s a safehouse we can go to in Budapest, I have a hospital grade first-aid kit there. Okay?”

Steve looks down at you, lying limp in his arms.

“Okay.”

╳ ╳ ╳

“He likes you, you know,” Sam Wilson says to you from the driver’s seat of the car, during a rare moment when it’s just the two of you.

“Who, Rogers?” you ask. “He likes you too, Wilson.”

Sam scoffs.

“You know damn well that’s not what I meant.”

He has you there.

Neither of you says a word the rest of the journey.

╳ ╳ ╳

Natasha sits next to Steve in the back of the quinjet on the way to Budapest.

“You’re in love with her,” she says. It’s not a question.

“Really, Romanoff?” Steve tries for venom, but he’s never been good at fighting, not for himself. He’s just tired.

She arches a brow at him.

“Are you denying it?”

Steve stares at his hands.

╳ ╳ ╳

Natasha knows a nurse who’s able to confirm you don’t have internal bleeding, stitch up the gash across your ribs, and be handsomely compensated for her discretion. You’re human and you almost bled to death, so it’s gonna take at least a few weeks to recover. Romanoff and Wilson take off on new assignments within the first couple days. Your Captain insists on staying for the duration of your recovery.

“Can I get you anything?”

He’s leaned against the doorpost of the only bedroom in the place - the bed’s a queen but he’s been taking the couch because he is irrevocably that guy - giving you his best impression of a concerned mother.

You smile a little at that. His brow furrows.

“What?”

“You make a good nurse,” you tell him.

“Yeah?” He walks over and sits himself down next to you on the bed.

“My mom was a nurse, and I spent a lot of time with ‘em. I used to get sick a lot, back in the day.”

“Well, I think you’d make your mother proud,” you say.

You meant them as a joke, but the words fall from your lips too softly.

There’s something painfully close about Steve right now. You’ve been naked in front of him in bed before, but you’ve never felt so exposed as you do at this moment, telling him his mom would be proud of him.

Steve seems to pick up on it is as well. He drops his gaze to his hands.

“You almost died,” he all but whispers.

You swallow.

“I did.”

He nods. His eyebrows knit together in that way they do when he’s preparing for a fight.

“Natasha thinks I’m in love with you -”

Natasha’s always right about people, you think.

“ - but I think you already knew that.”

Maybe Steve’s right about people too.

“Yeah,” you breathe. “I know.”

Your mind is blank. He’s looking at you, looking for a sign in you, the way he’d done in a thousand moments before this one, and you have no words.

“Right,” he coughs, nodding to himself. “Well, I’ll, ah, go then.”

He moves to stand from the bed, legs sliding across the bedding, feet hovering over the floor. You grab his hand.

“Damnit, Steve,” you say, and then you pull his face down towards yours and kiss him.

You kiss him, and it feels like climbing a tree as a child. It feels like sunlight on your face. It feels like all those things you never had; safety and warmth and arms that reach for you only to offer comfort.

Steve brings his arms up around you, and he feels like he’s holding the whole world. He has always been Atlas with the world on his shoulders. But now he’s discovering that when the world shifts from his shoulders to his arms and takes your shape, its weight is bearable. Its weight is glorious.

The kissing goes on for a while, slow and soft and achingly tender in that way he does things. You don’t realize you’re crying until Steve’s elated smile falls from his face.

“This isn’t easy for me,” you say. A confession, or maybe an apology.

“This,” you sigh, “emotions… thing.”

“What can I do to make this easier on you?” Steve whispers to you.

Your face heats. You bury your gaze in the smooth muscle of his chest.

You want to make a joke, something to diffuse the tension and remove that painfully earnest expression from his face. But you’ve got the human embodiment of afternoon sunlight and cookies fresh from the oven engulfing you in his protective embrace. But you just almost died, and you’re tired of begging him not to love you. But the best man in the world loves you despite how hard you tried to get him not to. The least you can give him is the truth.

“Say that you’ll hold me forever,” you say instead, and it sounds like a prayer as it leaves your lips. “Say that nothing’s gonna change. Say we’ll stay together and it’ll always be like this.”

Steve takes a gentle finger to your chin, lifting it so you’re looking directly into those baby blue eyes. His smile is teasing, but earnest and gentle.

You can see it in his eyes, a whole future for the both of you sketching itself out in his head. A better world that no one else can see.

“I’m gonna hold you forever. Nothing will ever change for us. As long as we stay together, it will always be like this.”

And damn, you, you believe him. Despite knowing that he couldn’t possibly make that promise, you believe him. You want to live in a world where you look like the woman from his sketches, and he wants to construct it. He looks at you like you’re the whole world wrapped up in his arms, and you believe him.

When you wake up the next morning, Steve’s asleep, an armed looped over your waist. You smile, pull him closer, and drift off to sleep again.