noot noot

⁀➴ Bucky Barnes

✗♡ your divorce is my birthday present by @aquaticmercy summary: Bucky’s birthday just happens to be the same day your divorce becomes official. +blue: this fic played out like a movie in the best way, the buildup of their relationship is just sooo perfect! it has all the yearning and slow burn that just makes you absolutely melt! also sassy bucky for the win!

✗♡ you're married?! by @astronautlawliet summary: Bucky and reader are secretly married. Stolen moments and private nights filled with softness Bucky shows no one else, until Yelena starts becoming suspicious. +blue: this fic just has the sweetest domestic fluff, and all the fun dynamics of a secret relationship. it's everything Bucky deserves and more. ✗♡ house call by @heldbybarnes summary: you’ve been setting off your smoke alarm on purpose just to get sergeant barnes at your door — broad shoulders, wet gear, and all. but tonight, the game catches up to you. +blue: this broke my brain in the best way possible. every line just pulls you into the next until you're in deep. I will never look at firefighters the same way again. ✗♡ the winter between us by @/heldbybarnes summary: he doesn’t remember you — not your face, not your name, not the life you built together. but when you cry, something in him aches. so you stay. and you make him fall in love with you twice. +blue: I don’t have words to explain all the things I felt about this. Truly the most incredible writing. Kennedy has a way with angst that hits me right in the chest every single time. ✗♡ no one sees by @/heldbybarnes +blue: this one broke my heart into tiny little pieces. It's also one of the most realistic depictions of Bucky’s trauma and PTSD that I have read and captures the pain and loneliness of loving someone you can’t reach in the most beautiful way… ✗♡ the house on haviland street by @/heldbybarnes +blue: this is one of the most heartwarming beautiful fics i've read. ✗♡ like he means it by @marvelstoriesepic summary: you can’t take another night of hearing Bucky fuck a girl who isn’t you. +blue: this made my heart acheee, the angst of longing for someone who’s right there but also out of reach was just so perfect ✗♡ if there's a letter in your bag for me by @pinksplace summary: you find a box of long forgotten love letters all addressed to the same man, Bucky Barnes. +blue: this one has stuck with me ever since i read it, it’s such a creative interpretation of a prompt on “love letters” and is written so so beautifully. i just love the idea of bucky knowing he’s so loved and being reminded of who he is ✗♡ feeling kinda freaky (maybe it's the club lights) by @/pinksplace +blue: this one in particular has me in a chokehold and is one i revisit (the fact that it's inspired by chappell roan just makes me love it all the more), but i implore you to check out the full pinktober masterlist because it's one of the sexiest things i've read. ✗♡ show me again by @artficlly summary: you were born a mutant, gifted with the power to manipulate bodily sensations. until now, you've only ever used it to cause pain. but now, stuck in a remote safehouse with bucky for the next few months, tension crackles between you. when you finally confess that your ability can also bring pleasure, he looks at you differently, more than a little curious to experience it first-hand.  +blue: just 17k words of absolutely captivating writing. every part of reader's magic is written so beautifully and is so immersive that i could FEEL it as i was reading! highly highly recommend!

✗♡ please, please, please by @nonotwithoutu summary: You work at a high profile sex club, the kind where tastes are perfectly tailored and privacy is guaranteed...at the steep cost of the membership fee, that is. Working the glory hole is hardly the most glamorous part of the job. Most times such strict anonymity is less of a kink than it is a mask, a veneer of sensuality for assholes, unfaithful spouses, and people with something to hide. You don't know his name. You've never seen his face. Sometimes he's consistent like he can't stay away, and other times he disappears for weeks on end. So why can't you get him out of your head? +blue: i can't even count the amount of times i've re-read this fic. i've recommended this fic to everyone i know. the tension is built up so well and the writing is so immersive and intense in the best way that I had to just stare at the wall after reading as if i had just come back from an encounter with bucky. it is so so hotttt and also has the most perfect little angst easter eggs.

✗♡ snickerdoodles by @brnssldr summary: you bake bucky his favorite cookies even though you're allergic to the cinnamon in them. when he finds out, he's not letting it slide. +blue: oh my god the absolute fluff that is this fic. it is so cozy and warm and comforting and i just love bucky being so so loved!

✗♡ rewrite the narrative by @drabblesandsnippets +blue: bucky being so down bad for reader and knowing exactly how to bring you out of your head and be in the moment with him. this was so so incredibly hot but also felt so realistic in the best way?

✗♡ (i only came to this) party 4 u by @street-smarts00 summary: For the first few months you worked with the avengers, they barely knew you. Beyond what you were like during a mission, you were a mystery to them. It was truly marvelous how well you worked with the team and yet there was so little they knew about you.  You barely went to team bonding and you NEVER went to Tony Stark's parties. Well, not until last night. And you’re never going again.  Because of James Bucky Barnes. +blue: you know when you just want to yell at the characters because they're both so oblivious and it's sooo obvious they want each other?? this fic is that, the mutual pining is just so perfect!! also i fell in love with the idea of shy reader who only goes to the party for bucky!!

✗♡ operation: kiss by @queen-of-the-avengers summary: you have a weird way of communicating with your upstairs neighbor, and all of your friends start to plan on getting you two together. Operation Kiss is underway, even though there are a few hiccups on the way. +blue: i love love love a neighbour!bucky fic and this one is one of my absolute faves. it is so incredibly sweet and fluffy and had me squealing while reading.

✗♡ unauthorized response by @lolobeey summary: the experimental neurobond was an accident. Getting stuck with Bucky Barnes was just your luck. Now you’re linked—body, mind, and something worse: sexual tension. You’ve got 72 hours to resist him. And every hour, it gets harder to remember why you should... +blue: this fic genuinely was so immersive that i felt like I had a neurobond with bucky and felt every single intense emotion. enemies to lovers, forced proximity and feeling every bit of bucky's desire in your own body. ding ding ding ticks all my boxes!

✗♡ cabin fever by @blowingbarnes summary: Bucky and you have been sneaking around in secret for a while. Not for any particular reason aside from not wanting all of the questions from the team. But now, your schedules haven't been lining up. +blue: i'm gonna say it, this is the best smut i have ever read on this site. bbl is the smut queen fr fr. no but the relationship between reader and bucky is so perfect and this somehow made me so emotional while being completely soaked at the same time??

✗♡ substance F52.8 by @/blowingbarnes summary: How many times has Steve told you not to touch weird shit in old labs? +blue: bbl writes build up and desire in the most incredible way, this one will have you clawing at the walls, going absolutely feral (just like bucky in this fic) this was my first sex pollen fic i read and i am now hooked forever (seriously, i've re-read it more times than i can count)

✗♡ ya gotov otvechat' by @/blowingbarnes summary: The Soldat had been observing you for weeks. One day, looking at you from the rooftop one building over isn't enough anymore. +blue: after i read this, i genuinely just had to sit and stare at the wall (with my ruined panties) because my brain was so thoroughly gone after reading this.

⁀➴ series

✗♡ counting the red flags by @imnotjustreadingg-volume-two summary: Y/N has dates on dates but she’s unhappy, because she can’t find a good man. Maybe she should look elsewhere. +blue: one of the first series i read for bucky and it has stuck with me! gin writes slow burn so perfectly, the angsty plot twists will have you screaming and throwing your phone (in the best way).

✗♡ hold the line by @unificsation summary: he called on a whim and ended up thawing desires long lost. you thought it was just another routine, until your body showed you otherwise. lines tangle, cross, and blur—and not just on the phone. or: congressman james buchanan barnes finds a curious business card. +blue: i don't know how to explain how much i loved this series. the idea of bucky being so down bad for you even over the phone and you feeling something different to what you usually do to the point of breaking the rules for him. this series was so so hot and i love the dynamic so much.

✗♡ rodeo the red carpet (farmer bucky au) by @singulartoast summary: A storm blew you off course and into his bed leaving an invisible string tying you to rugged farmer Bucky Barnes. Can he rodeo the red carpet while you write melodies in meadows? +blue: farmer bucky oh how i love you! these fics just play out like the most perfect rom-coms and farmer bucky (and toast) will have you giggling, swooning and clawing at your sheets. I've said this before but this is my favourite AU I've read on here!

✗♡ o come all ye faithful by @/epiphanyrogers summary: you'd both agreed it was for the best. bucky's new role as congressman, yours as US ambassador in london, meant that time zones, distance, and duty had slowly, but inevitably, unravelled what had once been a passionate marriage. but a divorce would be “bad for optics”. so the decision was made - publicly married, privately not. it works. mostly. until bucky shows up unannounced to your embassy party, finding you very cosy with your lawyer. and it turns out bucky barnes doesn't share what's his. +blue: if you want a fic that will make you feel ALL the things, this is the one. Bucky is characterised so perfectly to the point where he is so infuriating, but you also just want to hold him and maybe push him against a wall. the smut in these are so so delicious and the absolute heartbreak of losing someone you thought you'd have forever had my chest achinggg. this is one of the best exploration's of bucky's character and sense of self after everything he's been through.

⁀➴ Steve Rogers

✗♡ a fever he can't sweat out by @epiphanyrogers summary: the HYDRA mission was successful. steve's a little off, sure, but medical cleared him forty minutes ago. it's just exhaustion. except his heart won't stop pounding, heat's crawling under his skin, and his jeans suddenly feel far too tight. and every cell in his body is screaming that the only cure is you. +blue: sex pollen is one of my favourite tropes and Maddie did this so so perfectly! sex pollen!steve has me in a chokehold. mads characterises steve so so perfectly, even when he's absolutely feral and not himself and muttering under his breath ahhhhh okay i'll shut up now because i could go on about this fic forever. READ IT!!

✗♡ repercussions by @love-stucky summary: you couldn't behave, now steve's making sure you face the consequences. +blue: this is one of the first steve fics I read and I swear it just got me hooked! oh my godsss this is so hot, i was biting my fist while reading. the way Jazz writes reader being so desperate for steve is incredible (and so relatable fr)

so i'll admit I haven't read too many steve fics yet, but trust me that's gonna change soon and I'll be adding my faves here as I go

and if he thinks you're a fool:

This happens every two months or so. You love the man, but he needs to stop trolling at this point. After this rewatch, you’ll probably regurgitate Val Kilmer’s lines while you brush your teeth in the morning.

Wanda rolls her eyes so hard you think they might get stuck like that forever.

“This is the last time, Sam!”

But Sam smiles through the crowd’s boos. Even while the team complains, they take their positions on and around the couch anyway. Yourself included.

Because everyone loves him, and it’s just your fucking luck he loves Top Gun.

Two: find a comfortable surface.

The common room couch? Real nice surface. Of course a government-funded cohabitation facility for their top operatives can afford Egyptian cotton-upholstered furniture.

Three: be extremely tired.

The most recent mission you completed just finished debriefing in the afternoon—a few hours before movie night. It was a track-and-extract of a trafficking ring, except you got assigned the track part, and that was a lot less fun. The stakeouts were long, and the car you sat in had aged leather seats that dampened the already stale air. No air conditioning—can’t risk turning on the engine. No activity around the building you watched, either.

Stretch that out for some days, and naturally, all you wanted upon touchdown was a hot shower and a bed with springs.

Top Gun, a soft couch, and fatigue. Those three variables are enough to force you asleep, but just to be as empirical as possible, you have to list down another.

Four:

Get Steve Rogers to sit next to you.

Technically you didn’t get him to. He sauntered in late, saw the only open spot, and helped himself.

Suspicious, come to think of it. Why did nobody sit next to you? Nat and you would whisper quipped commentaries at each other. Wanda and you are close enough friends to cuddle. Sam would take the opportunity to further grind your gears by manspreading—his hobby is grinding people’s gears.

“Comfy?”

Steve is dressed in gray sweats and a simple t-shirt, its deep blue bringing out his eyes.

He’s the one who looks comfortable, if anything. You’re tempted to thumb at his shirt sleeve and ask about the thread count, but like a normal human being, you nod your yes and watch the opening credits roll.

You can feel his blue eyes on the side of your cheek before he looks at the screen, too.

The moment the movie begins proper, you find yourself muttering the opening line.

“Ghost Rider, this is Strike. We have unknown contact. Inbound Mustang. Your vector zero nine zero for bogey.”

Steve chuckles next to you and the warm sound coaxes your eyes to meet.

What happens next is automatic: seeing him smile makes you do the same.

The movie continues on, but its familiarity begs your attentions to wander. They instead pay dues to the gravity of his forearm, which nearly brushes yours. In the dim, you catch a glimpse of a vein that runs down one side like a river, and file the image away as inappropriate.

That’s Steve Rogers. Captain America. Your boss, good friend, and the entire nation’s moral compass, who keeps a list of the best places to get apple pie. You will direct your gaze with the respect he deserves.

And you do. Except in schooling your vision, your other senses betray you.

He smells good.

That thought feels way more inappropriate than looking at his forearm—which, for the record, you have seen and touched, all in a professional capacity. So you chose to stare at his hand again and hold your brain back from cataloging the scent of his soap, shampoo, or whatever combination of product that has your heart kicking like it wants out of your chest.

Steve Rogers doesn’t cure insomnia. He worsens it—or so you think.

Sleepy is the last thing you are, until the minutes tick by and sleep claims you anyway. You remember yawning while watching the nightclub scene. Iceman wore a pair of aviators indoors.

By the time the flying part of Top Gun rolls around, you don’t get to watch it: you’re knocked out cold.

─ ·✶· ─

When you wake up, cold is the last thing you are. Partly because the common room is designed to bleed with sunlight.

It’s morning, just the top of—yellow rays cut through the windows, no cloud in the sky to block its path.

Your skin feels warm.

It’s really no surprise. Steve Rogers is lying next to you.

How he is lying next to you is a surprise. The man’s broad frame looks cramped on the inside part of the couch, but nothing on his face betrays discomfort. He’s sound asleep, one arm folded under his head, the other slung loosely on your waist—not quite encircling it, just resting. His chest rises and falls slow. You realize this because you have both hands on that exact part of him.

Oh, shit. You’re touching his chest.

It turns out you shifted your palms a little too quickly, because Steve begins to stir. His tendency for alertness quickly revealed blue eyes that blinked once, twice, thrice—before his gaze eventually focuses on you. He doesn’t yawn, perhaps as confused as you are.

“Morning,” you whisper, almost sheepish.

He hums back. “Morning.”

“Uh… What happened?”

It’s quiet for a bit. You’re not sure if his brain has caught up. He’s staring—not the kind of stare you see on the field. Softer. Blue eyes study your face, then the position you’re in, piecing together the scene.

“You fell asleep last night,” he finally says, running his fingers through his hair. They fall across his forehead like the most good-looking bad news you’ve ever laid your eyes on. “Guess I must’ve fallen asleep, too.”

The untangling happens slowly. He lifts his arm away from your waist, props himself up on one elbow. You take the chance to sit and stretch, pretending that a tight neck is your number one concern and not the growing warmth on your cheeks.

“Can’t believe none of them woke us up,” you murmur. “Sam should be banned from picking Top Gun ever again.”

He chuckles. The sound still hits you like it did last night, amplified now by the lack of distance between you. But Steve finally stands up, folds his arms behind his head, then extends them. He repeats the motion a few times. You feel bad—his circulation must be damn near cut off after sleeping weird the entire night on a couch far too small for two.

“Well… at least we’re well-rested.”

You blink, taken aback.

“You slept well?” you ask.

“Yeah,” he nods, “you?”

Now that the question ricocheted back, you realize you don’t feel shitty where you should. Your limbs aren’t particularly sore. Your head feels clear after the initial fog.

Well-rested. Is this what it feels like?

“I think so,” you reply. There’s a smile on his face when you look back at him: small and slightly lopsided. He looks handsome.

Then he extends a hand, as if he knew that smile would make your knees buckle.

“C’mon, I’ll make you coffee.”

The second time happens two weeks later.

The Quinjet’s hum was almost an alien silence after the fight.

It was tough. Only three operatives were deployed: you, Nat, and Steve—top operatives, yes, but still only three. You went up against a swarm of mercenaries, their guns blazing, while the team’s equipment was mostly stealth gear not even half the enemy’s firepower.

You managed by the skin of the edge of your teeth. The word barely doesn’t quite cover it.

After putting the jet on autopilot and complaining about rancid intel with adrenaline-flooded veins, the three of you fall quiet.

Fatigue creeps in.

Last part of the mission: get through a five-hour flight back to New York.

Natasha sits in front of you, rebuilding her usual mask of nonchalance—you can see it in her sigh as she buckles up. The earlier combat chipped at her cool, and reasonably so: being in this line of work for most of her life doesn’t change the fact that it only takes one bullet to end it.

And boy, were there quite the number of bullets.

Steve chose the spot next to you, despite all the empty space in the cabin. You thought maybe he wanted to huddle, talk about the mission, see how you held up. You were the only non-Avenger in this assignment—it was reasonable to assume you wouldn’t be as used to this as they are.

But it’s been a good ten minutes and he hasn’t said a word.

A moment of uncertainty grips you. Post-mission, he’s usually corralling the team, checking morale, doing a small debrief of his own. Granted, there’s only you and Nat, so maybe there’s no need for that, but…

…is he alright?

Just as you look over to your side, concerned, you feel warmth, weight, and a brush of something soft.

You can no longer move.

Because Steve is asleep, and his head was on your shoulder.

His seat isn’t exactly glued next to yours, but close enough for him to bridge the gap. You watch the blonde strands of his hair press against the black of your tac suit and think about all the times you felt his weight on you—the most recent being his back glued to your chest while he shielded you from a bullet hail, just before you managed a rocky takeoff.

Aside from that? Fingers around your wrist during training. “Nice try,” he said once, as if your uppercut wasn’t the most predictable move ever. A friendly hand patting your shoulder after.

But never like this.

It takes a lot of effort for you to stare at something else that isn’t him.

Your gaze unfortunately lands on Nat, less than five feet in front of you.

She’s already smirking.

You look down on your lap, slightly embarrassed and left with nothing you can do. A little less than five hours to go on this flight.

Might as well get some shut-eye.

─ ·✶· ─

“Hey.”

You blink awake, nearly jumping upright. Natasha chuckles, patting her hand on your shoulder.

“Easy, there,” she nods towards the cockpit. You see a familiar sight.

“We arrived. Get some real rest after the debrief.”

You rub the sleep away from your eyes. “Thanks.”

You glance at Steve. He’s already in the middle of getting out of his seat.

You wonder if his head on your shoulder was part of a dream.

At least the third time happens somewhere with a bed, which of course you argue over.

Steve starts it.

“I’ll take the couch.”

You thumb the hem of your tank top. “You know, I was going to say that.”

“That’s kind of you,” he smiles, “but please.”

He gestures to the bed the both of you are ever-so-politely “no, you”-ing over: it’s rickety and is clothed in the thinnest sheets ever, sure, but there’s only one of it, so naturally this battle of politeness has to be fought.

You raise a brow challengingly. “If you take the couch, I’ll take the floor.”

Steve’s expression hardens like he took that personally. “No way am I gonna let you.”

“Then take the bed.”

“Where will you sleep?”

“The couch.”

“But it’ll be uncomfortable.”

“Aha,” your lips curl into a smile, “so you admit that the couch is uncomfortable.”

He looks away. You can tell he’s holding back his face from breaking out into a disbelieving grin.

Eventually, like an overly-used television trope, the inevitable consensus is that you are going to share instead.

Funny how—even during the back-and-forth—it felt like it was always going to come to this. Like you’d surrendered sharing the bed as an eventuality rather than a possibility.

Funny how you could feel him thinking the same.

Which leads you to this point in time:

Two hours past midnight, T-minus five hours before your mission starts. Nothing high stakes—it’s just the two of you—but still, at this rate, you’ll be running on fumes tomorrow.

The night coats the safehouse in darkness, bedroom included: the curtains are drawn and the night light is off to hide you better.

Even in the dim, you can glimpse the outline of him. He’s in a t-shirt and sweats again.

His weight on the bed next to you is unmistakable. You try to recall the last time you didn’t sleep alone—except for the times you fell asleep with him.

You can’t remember.

He breaks the silence thirty minutes after you said your good nights.

You’re counting.

“Can’t sleep?”

You shift from your side to your back.

“You caught me. You?”

He’s seated instead of lying down, spine pressed against the brittle headboard.

“Same.”

You pause. Look at him from your spot on the pillow. His profile is sharp where the dark should dull it, or maybe you’ve just memorized it so well. Still, there’s something unreadable about him.

“Does it happen often?” you ask.

He looks down at you, blue eyes soft. “Sometimes. Often enough.”

You let the answer sink in—Steve Rogers, super soldier, can’t sleep—and shoot him a wry smile.

“Maybe you ought to lie down, if you want to try and sleep?”

He let out a quiet, humorous huff. “Yeah, you’re right.”

Then he makes himself comfortable next to you, head finally touching the pillow. You feel the cotton of his shirt brush against your bare shoulder. His weight is more prominent now, and there’s a faint smell that reminds you of a forest after the rain. The blonde of his hair brings you back to the Quinjet—weeks ago at this point, but your eyes remember.

He’s so close. If your fingers even so much as twitch, they’ll probably kiss his.

“Why can’t you sleep?” he asks, voice low.

You stare at him. The last time you saw him sideways like this was after movie night.

Why can’t you sleep? It’s been such a big part of your life, you forget why.

“It’s just difficult for me,” you start, “but these days… I’m not sure.”

He lets you find the thread, shifting so he’s facing you. You begin to face him, too—like your shoulder blades and his are long lost twins.

You finally tell him.

“I get a feeling that something is going to happen, and I need to be ready for it.”

Something in his eyes shines just then: a mosaic mix of regret and recognition.

Thirty-three minutes since ‘good night’, and in this nocturnal darkness, you see a kind of light.

On the surface, Steve couldn’t be more unlike you. Yet you find that the two of you are more similar than you initially thought.

You’re both soldiers who are good at your job, partly because of this: the alertness in your souls that demands one eye ever-watchful. The spirit of a sentinel that doesn’t know what peace is because it’s never learned.

They say there’s no rest for the wicked. Here he is, the truest heart of them all, not even sleepy.

In his wordless glance is an understanding. You have no need to explain.

But then his eyes start to wander and you wish he would say more, because the trace of his gaze feels too intimate for teammates.

Yet it tastes familiar.

Has he looked at you like this before? Ocean blues drag a path down your face, brushing past your lips in a swoop so secret you’d miss it if you blinked. His gaze veers off the side, but not away from you. Is he studying your cheek? The shell of your ear?

What on earth does he see in you?

You speak because the space between your ribcage hurts.

“We’re gonna be so fucked tomorrow morning.”

His laugh is quiet, more apparent in his face instead of the volume of his voice. There it is, the distraction you needed—except the sensation in your chest tugs stronger. Just once, but enough for you to notice.

Of course you’d fallen for him. There’s no way you wouldn’t.

But you’re a soldier, and so is he, and there’s work to do tomorrow.

To your mild surprise—and his, in the small shine in his eyes—you yawn.

It’s strange. It should keep you up, this proximity with him. Though your relationship with Steve is comfortable, the context around this situation should make you feel more uptight rather than relax.

You think about the man in the meeting room and the man you spar with. He advocates for calm decision-making, but eggs you on with a cheeky “that all you got, agent?” on the training mat. Both versions of him are here with you. In bed. A decision he made calmly.

How is it possible to be nervous and unwind at the same time?

A few seconds pass, and you yawn again.

“That’s your cue,” he smiles wryly. It shoots an arrow through you.

“Yeah. Try to get some sleep,” you smile back, turning to face away from him before he sees the crack in it. “Good night, Steve.”

“Good night.” He says your name, and that’s the last thing you hear.

Your lullaby.

You don’t know he falls asleep right after.

─ ·✶· ─

Steve wakes up first—he has a tendency of doing that. It means he’s the first witness to a softness that wrecks him.

Somewhere in the night, your bodies turned to face each other.

It reminds him of sunflowers.

Unlike that time after movie night, there’s more space between you. A part of him mourns the distance, though sharing a bed already signals a lack of.

Another part of him is happy he gets to see your face.

You look peaceful like this. Not that you look troubled when you’re awake. Just… something about your eyes closed, the space between your brows completely relaxed, your lips ever-so-slightly parted—it’s not a sight he gets to see often, especially not in this sort of terrain.

You might be in a safehouse, and the bed springs might be rusted by age, but the thin line between consciousness and sleep encourages the mind to wander—and for a man of discipline, wandering is dangerous. It tempts him with thoughts that taste more like dreams.

What if you weren’t in a safehouse? What if this was your bed—yours and his—and sharing it wasn’t birthed out of politeness?

What if this is just something he gets to see every morning?

You stir gently. A stray strand of hair falls on your face. He lifts his hand up to tuck it back.

Stubbornly, it slips back to where it landed before. He smiles.

This dream will soon end, he realizes. In a matter of minutes, he feels the sun rising behind his back, a treacherous thing that beckons another fight for someone else’s future.

When you open your eyes, you’ll go back to being soldiers. You’ll call him Cap on the field.

Last night’s memory surfaces. He holds on to the shape of his name in your voice.

The bright morning erases long shadows. For once, he wishes it didn’t.

He allows himself one final thing.

Fingers cradle your cheek, thumb brushing the soft of it. In your sleep, you lean into his touch. His breath snags, and so does his heartbeat.

Then, after the pang’s echoes die down, Steve rests a hand on your shoulder to wake you.

The fourth time happens because you ask for it.

He’s been up reading by the lamplight, only one chapter in when he started, now halfway through—a sign that the hour is later than he thinks it is. The book isn’t a particularly riveting one, either: time passed in a crawling pace with each page. Where he thought his ambivalence towards the subject matter would put him to sleep, here he is.

Wide awake on page 257.

Awake to hear the knock on his door. Three times. Soft, almost imperceptible.

Steve stares like he knows who it is already. The book is placed on the nightstand.

He opens the door to see you.

The sight tears him two ways.

You’re in short shorts and an oversized tee that has seen better days. He would see the print on the front if you weren’t hugging a folded-up blanket against your chest. There’s a sting on his sternum—from how you trust him enough to appear at his doorstep halfway through dawn, and from the look on your face.

It’s the look of someone who’s trying their best to sleep, but can’t.

“I didn’t think you’d be up, I’m so sorry,” you breathe, surprised.

He’s aware of the concern bleeding through his every gesture. You haven’t told him what you needed and he’s already holding the door wide open.

“Hey, no, don’t be. What’s wrong?”

You part your lips, deliberating.

“I can’t sleep.”

It’s as simple as that, but he knows exactly how difficult the battle is.

He nods, feeling his jaw clench. He hides his hands in his pockets—if they had their way, you’d be in his arms by now, but that’d be selfish of him.

Because clearly there’s something you want to tell him. Something more. He watches as you seem to debate for and against yourself: the toll of sleeplessness on you renders your expressions crystalline.

He waits patiently in the doorway. A quiet encouragement that yearns to surround you in louder ways.

You finally find the words.

“The last time I had a good night’s sleep was at that safehouse.”

He remembers. It was the night he wished you weren’t just agents on a mission. It was the night he got to stare at your back, wishing for a world where pulling you against his chest won’t make things complicated.

He swallows. “Me, too.”

In time’s desert, it’s these little memories he shares with you that dot the landscape like oases. You discovered these sacred places together, where you may fix what the journey broke.

But they’re still few and far between. The rest of life is a white noise: all those mission briefs and debriefs used to mean something, now they just chip away at the memory of what sanctuary feels like.

And yet he recalls the details perfectly. Enough to conjure a balm that is his own imagination. He pretends you’re next to him, weight sinking on the bed, hair splayed on his pillow. He pretends some nights. Most nights.

Every night.

“Can I please sleep with you?”

You ask before he can offer, then cut in before he responds.

“Not like that,” you stammer, distraught, “I mean—”

“No, I know what you mean, it’s okay.”

You laugh weakly, gesturing at your blanket. “I don’t want to seem presumptuous, it’s just that my room is—”

“Four floors down, yeah,” he knows the way there because he’s considered it more than a few times.

Steve’s hand lands gently on your shoulder, guiding you inside.

“Don’t worry about it. Come on.”

You cross that hallowed threshold into his room. Steve clicks the door closed before leading you towards the bed. It’s much too dark—and too late—for a room tour, anyway.

He unfurls his comforter, and in doing so notices the way you watch him. In another time and place, he’d be more amused at the way you looked: like you were standing at attention.

You don’t climb into the bed until he does.

“So you brought your own blankie?” There was a hint of a tease in his question, though not at all unkind.

You pout, sitting on the bed. Said blanket is still in your arms.

“It’s not a blankie.”

“Then why’d you bring it?”

“I don’t know,” you shrug, “didn’t want to steal yours from you.”

He smiles, lifting his comforter as if telling you to make yourself at home in it.

“I don’t mind.”

“You sure?”

“Of course. We’ve slept in worse conditions, haven’t we?”

That pulls a smile out of you, and it scares him how pleased he is with himself.

But you settling underneath his blanket and onto the bed pleases him more. He watches on a propped elbow as you adjust your head on his pillow, and he’s grateful that you’re here—in more ways than one.

That you’re here is something he’s always thankful for. That you’re here in his room instead of the other way around is a special occasion to be grateful. Being in your bedroom—in your bed—would mean enveloping himself in you, and there was no way he’d survive that.

The thought alone already makes him want. He’s not accustomed to it.

Soon, the two of you are lying face to face. He catalogs the way you fit into his space: perfectly.

“You okay?” he asks.

You answer with a nod and a quiet “yeah, better now.”

There’s a moment where all you do is look at each other. It suspends the very thing you came looking for, eyes open, expectant.

“Steve?”

“Mm?”

Then you do that thing again when you hesitate with your words, before finally stringing them together.

Like earlier, it’s a request. As if he’d ever refuse you anything.

“Can I hold you?”

He breathes through a sudden wave of emotion, like a dislodged splinter in a dam.

You’re asking him for permission, but in doing so, he feels like he’s been given it—you want the very thing he’s longed to give you since that night on the couch.

So he doesn’t answer with words.

His arm circles around your waist while the other cradles your nape, both pulling you closer. Your legs brush. You let out a sigh of capitulation.

There’s a thrum in his spine as you move, too—you nestle your face in the crook of his neck, both hands resting against his chest. He wonders if you can feel his heartbeat.

How many lines have he crossed by doing this? The list of his transgressions runs long.

For once, he doesn’t give a damn.

He holds you tight. You bury yourself in him. The warmth that has soothed him many times seems to bleed like an open wound—there was no need to hide behind stations or the guise of propriety.

Together, the two of you are broken pieces of different things, laid in a perfect fit. Breathing. Craving the rest only the other can bring.

A hard life melting into a soft place, where he doesn’t have to choose between love and rest.

You bring him both.

“Steve?”

“Mm?”

He likes this refrain: you calling his name, him answering.

You look up at him from the hug. He dips his chin down to meet your gaze.

“Thank you.”

I should be the one saying that, he thinks to himself, but this is no time for emotional revelations. Not yet—you’re too tired for it.

So he pulls you in closer like closer was ever possible. You find shelter in the hollow of his neck again, nose kissing his throat. He strokes a gentle hand down your hair, feeling you sigh warm air against his skin. Your t-shirt is soft against his. His other palm presses steady on your back.

“You’re welcome,” he says.

Soon enough, your breathing evens. You’re asleep.

He remembers the safehouse this time, the peaceful look on your face. He remembers clinging onto those last few minutes of closeness before the call of duty snuffs out peace. The light of day always makes the lines between you that much clearer.

Like tide, you’re further away from him when the sun is up.

For now, he allows himself one small thing.

He leans down and kisses your crown, breathing in your shampoo. His lips press one, two, three more times, wandering further down: your temple, your eyelid, your cheek—each breaching a boundary.

Each bearing a promise.

There’s no assignment come morning. No more reason to run.

Tomorrow, he’ll tell you how he feels.

A thumb brushes your lower lip, careful not to wake you.

That one will have to wait until tomorrow, if you’ll let him. The only thing he can do now is dream of it.

He hopes this is the last night he’ll dream of it.

taglist: @pinksplace @thceseus @theworstwolvie

Get Steve Rogers to sit next to you.

yes hello uni i am having trouble with step four i can’t seem to find a steve rogers to sit next to me :( instructions unclear i am once again sat steve rogers-less :(((

They say there’s no rest for the wicked. Here he is, the truest heart of them all, not even sleepy.

oh my goddddd the way this line made my heart pang. so so sooooo beautifully put URGHHHHHH stevie you deserve the world and you deserve to REST i’m so glad they have each other

Together, the two of you are broken pieces of different things, laid in a perfect fit. Breathing. Craving the rest only the other can bring.

what the fuckkk uni i’m gonna cry 😭 this is poetry!!!!

That one will have to wait until tomorrow, if you’ll let him. The only thing he can do now is dream of it. He hopes this is the last night he’ll dream of it.

STOP HES SOOOO 😭😭😭😭😭

it’s the smell that drives logan howlett crazy, subtle as it is even to his senses. you aren’t dripping, not yet, and that’s a thing he’d happily remedy.

he strips himself down to nothing and slips onto bed behind you, careful not to wake you.

the first thing he does is bury his nose in your hair and breathe you in—it’s enough to make him shiver.

then his hands move: fingers trace your exposed stomach, taking in the warmth of your skin. slow strokes, up and down, deceptively comforting. your chest rises and falls evenly, asleep and none the wiser.

“almost like you’re doing this on purpose,” he hums to himself when those same fingers snake south.

his face is in the crook of your neck now, because he wants to smell the change: a shift in your pheromones that only he can sense.

it hits him like a drug.

the catalyst? his fingers ghosting your hole above the fabric.

he moans .

you shift in his arms, the cleft of your ass rubbing against his already hard cock. logan’s fingers begin to circle, feeling the growing dampness of you, teasing the outline of your firm clit.

despite being a man of rough repute, he can be gentle, especially if being gentle means torturing you better.

“she’s dripping,” he’s talking to himself now, his own breath catching as he tugs your panties to the side, callused fingerpads rubbing your wet slit, “leaking, need to plug her full. yeah? you won’t mind? no, you won’t, you’re a good girl.”

when he sinks a finger in, you let out a hazy moan, spine arched into a large palm that’s busy groping your breast. the friction pulls you out of slumber, but only barely.

“l-logan—”

“sshh. go back to sleep, baby. let me have my fun with you.”

but you can’t—not when he’s fucking you with his fingers like you owe him, and not while he’s murmuring filth into your ear the whole time he plays with your clenching hole.

“need this pretty pussy to cum for me. she’s been wantin’ that, yeah? c’mon, sweetheart, let her cum for her old man.”

bucky barnes is hungry. and not for the dinner he willfully skipped.

the sight is the catalyst for this certain appetite: he finds himself kneeling on the bed just to watch your unconscious body and the gift between your legs, presented so beautifully in that pretty underwear.

“for me? you shouldn’t have,” he breathes, just as his face lowers to your inner thighs.

his hands spread you open just so he can see you better.

and that’s all he does. stares. amuses himself with the wet spot on the fabric that grows ever so slowly—must be because of his warm breath fanning your pussy. he swears he can taste you in the air, and the sensation makes him painfully aware of the tent in his pants.

so he rewards himself. his reward is you.

just a little bit, though: his lips kiss your pussy through the underwear, tongue pressing against the fabric for a taste.

your hips chafe against the air. his eyes look up, only to find yours still closed. still asleep. that pulls a grin out of him.

“i’d normally ask you to beg, but oh well,” before he slides your underwear down, throwing it somewhere on the floor.

his mouth on your cunt is designed to keep you asleep, and you do remain sleeping while he plants slow, open-mouthed kisses on your slit, nip your clit, dip his tongue teasingly into your hole—not enough to wake you.

some would argue he loves torturing himself just as much as he does torturing you.

but the goal is to get you unmistakably wet. and it’s working.

the evidence of his restraint pools near your ass on the bedsheets. he collects the slick with his finger and puts it in his mouth, moaning at your taste.

his meal is ready to be devoured.

and devour is exactly what he does to you. his mouth is no longer kind: lips move with hunger, kissing yours, then his tongue curls past your entrance to fuck you.

that wakes you up. he can tell through the strangled moan you let out.

hands pin your hips. you feel more than hear his voice, muffled against your sopping cunt:

“settle down, sweetheart. let me eat.”

the sight of you sleeping in his white button-down and little else shoots lust through clark kent’s veins.

he tries to be a good person and exercise restraint, despite the many conversations had with you about—in your own blunt words—using you when you’re asleep. and an agreement was reached. but still, a part of him can’t fathom the thought of just... taking you without you begging him to.

that part of him leads his feet to the bathroom. a cold shower is due.

except the running water doesn’t clean his dirty thoughts, instead exacerbate them—until he realizes he’s jerking himself off and that white stuff going down the drain isn’t soap.

okay. at least now he can go to bed without a raging hard-on.

wrong.

sleep doesn’t find him—mainly because he’s so aware of how easy it would be to take you the way you’ve consented to. how easy it would be to pull your underwear down. gosh, he can smell you from here. why are you so wet? are you having a really good dream?

clark gets hard again just laying next to you.

if you ask him, he doesn’t know how he got here. doesn’t know how he has your body atop his, doesn’t know who took your panties off.

doesn’t know why his thick cock is between your naked thighs.

he only knows how good it feels to rub himself against you.

“f-fu—ngh—”

his chin presses gently on the top of your head as he rocks, watching himself: the bulbous head poking out between your thighs, only to disappear and come back again, pearly bead at the red tip. he loves the feeling of it: your soaked panties wetting the length of his cock, the skin of your thighs rubbing against his veins...

somewhere along the way, he slips his cock into your panties and slides himself against your cunt.

your juices coating him makes him moan, the sound reverberating deep in his chest while his fingers play with yours, circling and tugging at your nipples.

“mmh...”

he freezes. that’s his cue. you’re waking up, he should stop, should ask you if you’re okay—

instead, a lie tumbles out his mouth so easily, he almost scared himself.

“’s okay, sweetheart, it’s just a dream. just lay back and feel good for me, m’kay?”

the next murmur that leaks out of you sounds sweet, sleepy and pliant. clark takes that as permission to continue ruining you.