Where Do I Get This Quilt And Coffee Table 👀

Stillness ~ steve rogers x f!reader

chapter one

series masterlist

A/N: It’s been a hectic weekend but I’ve finally got this wrapped up by 1am.

warnings: none necessary for this chapter other than nostalgia, parent loss due to the blip.

minors dni. i am not responsible for what you choose to consume.

do not copy, translate or claim any of my work as your own.

He doesn’t go back in time after Endgame. What would he even look for? Peggy’s gone. The world he knew is gone. What’s left is noise—war, medals, headlines, speeches that mean nothing. Steve’s tired of it. Tired of saving the world.

“I’m not going back in time,” he says. “There’s nothing there for me. I’m not meant to live in the past. But I can’t keep showing up for the future, either—not like this.”

“You earned peace, man,” Sam says, his voice steady. “You don’t owe the world any more.”

“I know,” Steve replies, quietly. “I just need to find something that’s mine. A place that’s quiet. A place that doesn’t need Captain America.”

He pulls Sam into a hug. Strong, warm, like a thank-you without the words. Sam claps his back, holding on a little longer than expected.

Bucky looks at him for a long moment. “You’ll come back?”

Steve nods.

“Yeah. I’ll come back.”

Steve squeezes Bucky’s shoulder. No shield, no speeches—just a man choosing peace for once.

Steve says his quiet goodbye, trying to leave with grace. But Bucky’s jaw is tight, his fists clenched, and when Steve turns to go, he can’t help himself. His voice cracks just a little.

“Don’t be stupid.”

Steve pauses, looks back.

“How can I?” Bucky mutters. “You’ll take the stupid with you.”

“You know where to find me.”

Bucky, scoffing bitterly: “Actually, I don’t.”

Steve’s face softens. “I’ll send you something once I’m settled. I promise.”

Sam just nods in the back, arms crossed—he gets it, even if it stings.

Then silence. The kind that weighs a ton.

It’s the quietest goodbye he’s ever given, and somehow the loudest in their hearts.

————

Steve packed a suitcase—just the essentials—and rides out on his bike. The open road is a blur of trees and hills and silence, and somewhere along the way, he finds it. Your place.

A big, old bed and breakfast nestled between the forest and the mountains, close enough to a lake you can smell the water when the wind shifts. You’d called it “The Pines” over the phone. Your voice was quiet. Kind. You didn’t ask questions. You just took the reservation.

He pulls up late in the afternoon. The sky’s beginning to shift—soft pinks and silver clouds—and the whole house glows like it belongs to another century.

Steve parks the bike, shuts off the engine. Everything is still.

The porch steps creak under his weight as he climbs. He’s not sure what he’s doing here anymore. Only that something inside him aches less the closer he gets to the front door.

The bell above the door rings, sharp against the hum of the old radiator. You glance up from your book, already expecting another lost trucker or maybe the couple that called and never showed.

But it’s not that.

He’s tall. Broad. Covered in road dust and tired silence. For a second, you don’t even register who he is—just the weight of him standing there, the way the room seems smaller now. He’s not in uniform, but there’s something unmistakable about him. That face. That history.

Steve Rogers.

You offer a polite, practiced smile anyway. “Hi. Welcome to The Pines.”

He nods once, quiet, a little stiff. “I called about a room.”

“Right,” you say, flipping open the reservation ledger. “One guest. No check-out date.”

There’s a brief pause. He shifts slightly on his feet. “Not sure how long I’ll be staying.”

“That’s fine,” you say, scribbling something down. “This time of year, you’ve got your pick of the rooms. Most people don’t think to come out this way in the off-season.”

You slide the key across the counter. “Room 4. Up the stairs, end of the hall on the left. Sheets are clean. Water pressure’s a little temperamental. House is old, like most things around here.”

He reaches for the key, his fingers brushing the counter. “Thanks.”

You nod again, and he turns toward the stairs. The floor creaks as he moves. You glance down at your book, pretending to keep reading, but your eyes don’t follow the words.

There’s a quiet in the air that wasn’t there before.

A few hours pass. The house hums with its usual quiet. You move through the familiar motions—tidying up the diner-style kitchen, prepping dough for tomorrow’s breakfast, wiping down the tables even though no one’s sat there all day.

This place has been yours for as long as you can remember. You grew up between these walls, watching your dad flip pancakes and charm guests, always with your mom’s music humming low in the background. They built it together. You kept it alive.

Since the Blip, it’s just been you.

You never considered leaving. Not really. There’s something comforting in routine, in knowing each creaky floorboard, each loose hinge. You like being your own boss. You like hearing the stories of the people who pass through, even if most of them are just trying to get somewhere else.

The stairs creak—soft, deliberate.

You glance up, wiping your hands on a towel. It’s him.

Steve Rogers.

You recognize him, of course. Everyone does. But you don’t look twice. Not in the way most would. You nod, a simple, silent acknowledgment as he walks past toward the common area, or maybe the porch. You're not sure. You don’t ask.

Because here’s the thing—he’s done great things. World-changing things. And yet... he's here. In your small corner of nowhere. Just a man now, not a symbol. And something tells you that’s exactly what he wants.

You don’t ask for stories. You don’t pry.

You figure he came here looking for peace. And peace, you can give him.

____

The kitchen is still. The clink of your spoon against the mug echoes faintly as you stir your tea, letting the warmth bloom in your chest. You’re halfway through the first sip when you hear it—three light knocks on the kitchen doorframe.

You glance up.

Steve stands there, hands in his pockets, gaze calm but intent.

“Yeah?” you ask, setting the mug down. “What can I help you with?”

“Do you have a toolbox?” he asks. “Something needs fixing.”

His voice is low, steady. That kind of voice people listen to without meaning to.

You blink, taken off guard. “Uh… yeah. I think.”

You lead him out toward the front. You disappear into the back storage room behind the desk, rummaging past boxes of supplies and seasonal decorations until—finally—you find it. Heavy, metal, probably untouched in a while.

You hand it over with a skeptical glance. “I don’t usually give guests access to these kinds of things. Liability and all. But you don’t strike me as the type to start a fire.”

He lets out a soft laugh—barely there—but enough to tug the corners of his mouth into a real smile.

“If anything’s missing, check the drawer in that room,” you nod toward the office.

Steve gives a grateful dip of his head, toolbox in hand, and heads outside.

You don’t ask what needs fixing. You assume it’s his bike.

But later—tea refilled, curiosity winning just a little—you find yourself near the window.

You glance outside, and there he is.

Not at the bike.

On the porch. Toolbox open, sleeves rolled up, working on the loose stair that’s been creaking for months.

You watch for a moment longer than you mean to.

Then, quietly, you look away.

You don’t want to seem like you’re staring.

Even if you are.

He finishes with the porch and puts the toolbox back exactly where he found it. No noise, no fuss. Just steady footsteps up the stairs again.

You go about your evening like always—dinner for one. Leftovers from lunch warmed in a pan. You carry your plate to the dining room and sit at the far end of the long wooden table, your usual spot.

You’re halfway through your meal when you hear the creak of the stairs again.

Steve appears in the doorway, sleeves rolled up, hands still a little dusty. He looks around like he’s touring a museum, eyes moving from the paintings on the wall to the old grandfather clock in the corner.

“Bon appétit,” he says with a small smile and a dip of his head.

You smile back, caught a little off guard.

“If you’re hungry, there’s some grilled chicken and potatoes over on the counter. I always make a little extra, just in case. Or I can point you to a place down by the pier—open late if you feel like going out.”

He glances at the plate—crispy roasted potatoes, a piece of grilled chicken still steaming, the kind of salad that says you didn’t just throw it together. He lingers like he might change his mind, but then shakes his head. “Thanks. I’m good.”

Still, he doesn’t leave. Keeps drifting around the room, like he’s taking stock. Or maybe... just looking for peace in the details.

It’s hard to eat with Captain America examining your crown molding.

But you keep your eyes on your plate, pretend not to notice when he runs his hand over a crooked picture frame. Pretend not to care that he’s clearly noticing the loose panel in the corner of the room, or the dining chair with a wobble.

He doesn’t say anything about them. But you can see it in his face. He’s already planning what to fix next.

So there goes the first chapter of this new series. I hope you enjoyed reading it! I love feedback, so feel free to comment.

tag list: @randomfangirlof @zaraomarrogers @metheexplorer @shortnsweet777 @evrydymia @kay18115 @alicetesser

Let me know if you would like to be added to the tag list!

Reblogs, likes and comments help this story grow! ✨🩵

“I can’t talk right now, I’m doin hot girl shit”

*reads fanfiction for 3 hours*

*daydreams about my favorite characters and actors*

*takes a nap*

I will never, ever get over that it’s a canon fact that Vegeta, prince of all Saiyans and destroyer of worlds, is a househusband.

I would be too scared to do that lol

I need to go into the forest and scream for an hour and a half

I wish someone could look at me the way the Doctor look at his/her companions. Like they're the most precious and the most important thing in the universe.

I just want cuddles :<<

The monster in your closet wants to FUCK. Don’t be scared of him, he respects consent.

phys.org

Scientists discover that water molecules define the materials around us

For decades, the fields of physics and chemistry have maintained that the atoms and molecules that make up the natural world define the char

OKAY THIS ARTICLE IS SO COOL

I'm going to try to explain this in a comprehensible way, because honestly it's wild to wrap your head around even for me, who has a degree in chemistry. But bear with me.

Okay, so. Solids, right? They are rigid enough to hold their shape, but aside from that they are quite variable. Some solids are hard, others are soft, some are brittle or rubbery or malleable. So what determines these qualities? And what creates the rigid structure that makes a solid a solid? Most people would tell you that it depends on the atoms that make up the solid, and the bonds between those atoms. Rubber is flexible because of the polymers it's made of, steel is strong because of the metallic bonds between its atoms. And this applies to all solids. Or so everybody thought.

A paper published in the journal Nature has discovered that biological materials such as wood, fungi, cotton, hair, and anything else that can respond to the humidity in the environment may be composed of a new class of matter dubbed "hydration solids". That's because the rigidity and solidness of the materials doesn't actually come from the atoms and bonds, but from the water molecules hanging out in between.

So basically, try to imagine a hydration solid as a bunch of balloons taped together to form a giant cube, with the actual balloon part representing the atoms and bonds of the material, and the air filling the balloons as the water in the pores of the solid. What makes this "solid" cube shaped? It's not because of the rubber at all, but the air inside. If you took out all the air from inside the balloons, the structure wouldn't be able to hold its shape.

Ozger Sahin, one of the paper's authors, said

"When we take a walk in the woods, we think of the trees and plants around us as typical solids. This research shows that we should really think of those trees and plants as towers of water holding sugars and proteins in place. It's really water's world."

And the great thing about this discovery (and one of the reasons to support its validity) is that thinking about hydration solids this way makes the math so so so much easier. Before this, if you wanted to calculate how water interacts with organic matter, you would need advanced computer simulations. Now, there are simple equations that you can do in your head. Being able to calculate a material's properties using basic physics principles is a really big deal, because so far we have only been able to do that with gasses (PV=nRT anyone?). Expanding that to a group that encompasses 50-90% of the biological world around us is huge.

January

cloudy skies, messy bed, pink satin flowy robe, glowy soft skin with a hint of blush and glossy lips, cozy sweathers, hot chocolate and baked goods

On Camera

Batfam X Batmom!Reader

Summary: Things the Batfamily has said or done - caught on camera. By the Media and Press. That’s now on the internet for all to see. Sometimes got on the News. 

Listening to: N/A

Series Masterlist

Masterlist  

“I think we should do something about Dick putting small things in his mouth. He’s a kid and kids aren’t supposed to - oh, hello.” - Bruce, a week after he adopted Richard, to Batmom, and then noticed a waiting interviewer. On a red carpet. 

“- No Jason, you can’t keep taking all my toilet rolls ‘cause the supermarket is out. You left home so you gotta be responsible for yourself now… Don’t you dare ask Mom! -” - Dick, caught and posted on a Instagram story, with the caption ‘isn’t jason dead?’. 

“My grandfather says everyone who eats meat will die horrible and painful deaths.” - “He did not say that!” - Damian, when asked why he’s vegan, and Bruce once he overhead what the conversation was about. 

*An almost fifteen minuet long clip of Bruce and Dick walking up a boardwalk* - Bruce is holding two ice creams, and Dick (age 12) walks on his hands the whole way. 

Keep reading