ronearoundlightly

[ronearoundlightly]

2468 we appreciate YOU Ro!

3+1 for my space husband Mace. 3 times he didn't say 'I love you' and the one time he did. I give you complete freedom, except please don't send him to his movie fate🙏

*I don't think there are any warnings for this one. Please let me know if you find something I missed!

Not During The Storm

The group of friends out that night ballooned the more clubs they hit. You're a friend-three-times-removed, and Mace honestly couldn't make a chart of how he should know you. You make a hell of a first impression though when the power goes out on the metro and your section grinds to a halt mid-tunnel.

You all are stuck, and no one knows for how long.

Everyone else panics. A couple of people start crying, spouting the worst case scenario. One poor kid--the younger brother of his friend's favorite cousin, Mace thinks--actually throws up in the corner and won't stop apologizing.

Mace has a handkerchief (because it's a very useful thing to have for all sorts of situations) and you have a water bottle (because you're having a night out drinking and that's a useful thing to have), so together, you two make the kid a cloth to wipe his mouth and lay over his neck.

You are composed and practical. Mace thinks to say he loves you as a joke, but really, he's impressed. Instead, he just chats with you while Lord of the Flies begins ten feet away, then the power comes back on. The moment passes. He has a friend.

2. Not After The Meal

He cooks for the group--a potluck actually--and what he brings doesn't get touched for an entire hour. Mace is stressed. He didn't necessarily have time to cook something properly, but he did his best.

Somehow his food is being overlooked and avoided, so he gives up. He plays a game in the other room until he needs a drink refill, and there you are, going hog on his offering.

One of your favorite comfort foods, you say. He should really try it.

You don't even know he made it, so the hyping and gushing is genuine. After such an isolating day, that's everything to Mace, and he could tell you he loves you.

But he doesn't. He doesn't even tell you he can make your comfort food anytime you like.

3. Not During The Drive

You were stranded after a date went from bad to worse.

Technically, Mace wasn't the first person you called because he'd already told you the guy was crap, but none of that matters. Mace picked you up anyway.

You were so emotional and grateful, assuming it was a burden for him to help you at this hour, making some good progress to recognize the self-destructive behaviors in relationships that had gotten you to this point. He sees you trying so hard to get it all done, professionally and personally, and he knows that feeling.

He loves to see you making the right choices, he loves your vulnerability and honesty, and he loves how comfortable you are with him. James Mace, however, has never told any woman he loves her, ever (save his own mother).

That would make the night about him, not just you, too, so he can't say it now.

4. After The Party

You host him a birthday dinner at your place because you know he feels invaded when too many people are at his small home. Under the guise of staying to help you clean up, he hesitates till he's got his bag of gifts, poised at the door.

"Get everything you wanted?" you quip with a smile.

What he wants is to stop stalling. He wants a kiss.

"Was hoping for something...from you," he barely gets out.

"Spoiled!" You poke at him playfully. "Greedy! Mace, I just threw you a whole party with cake and cookies and everything!"

He puts down the tote of gags, gift cards, and two nice bottles of whisky, muttering more, "I know, I know. It's fine." He leans in innocently, goes for your cheek softly, sweetly, and licks his lips as he returns to stance.

His favorite thing is to see you smile, and he'll admit he's been spoiled by that tonight thoroughly.

"Oh, okay--" your hand latches to the door handle, turning "--I guess you can have that, birthday boy."

Mace takes a deep breath.

"I love you," he says with assurance, complete confidence that he means the words and that you need to hear them. "I love you, and...and I want to know what you feel...for me...as a present."

You bite your tongue a moment.

"As in do I feel you are a good present or you wish to know my feelings in lieu of a present?"

You're really going to pull the semantics shit on him now???

Mace turns hot all over instantly, flinging the back back over his shoulder, and moving to leave.

"Forget it," he all but growls.

"Hang on." You push against the door and wedge yourself in his path. "Not so fast. I... Give me a sec, okay? We aren't all astronauts and engineers."

He's close enough that the big sigh Mace lets out has his chest brushing yours. There's an excruciating silence where he deliberately avoids your eyes.

"Hey," you purr to get his attention. "I have a present for ya."

One of your fingers raises to tap your lips, and his body moves much faster than his brain.

The bottles in the bag clank together loud enough to drown out what you whisper into his mouth.

Mace breaks away to swallow and shift the back back to the floor. "What?"

"I said--" your hands bracket his face, thumbs rubbing along the stubble on his cheeks "--I love you, too."

[Main Masterlist; Sleepover Masterlist]

A/N: Thank you for asking, nonnie! 💜😘

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[ronearoundlightly]

Codename: Agent Alpine

platonic Bucky Barnes x Alpine!Reader Steve Rogers x shapeshifter!Reader

part of Companion Animal (see previous or series)

Summary: You finally get an outfit that can transform with you between cat and human whenever you wish.

Warnings for mentions of nudity but nothing overtly sexual. Steve's got the hots for ya 😉 that's about the size of things... WC ~600

“It looks…like leather,” Steve marvels, seeing the collar turned over and over in Bucky’s hands, a blue strip with red stars.

“It looks a little obvious,” Bucky balks.

“What’d’ya want?” Tony snatches it back and starts attaching it gently—but securely—around your neck. “Plain Jane black? Nah. She deserves something special.”

“Something gaudy and on-brand,” Natasha offers helpfully. 

“Exactly…” Tony steps away from you so you have space to shift.

“Pretty sure that wasn’t a compliment,” Steve mutters before turning to you. “Would you like us to turn around? Just in case it doesn’t work quite right?”

The idea is simple: like Tony Stark’s nano suit, a coverall dress of sorts will spring from the collar when activated by your transformation. When your neck expands, so does the collar and the garment. When your neck shrinks, the clothing retracts.

At least you had the forethought to request your ‘uniform’ not be skin-tight and shiny because that may flatter Nat but would be more embarrassing than nudity for you. It’s taken so long to get good at shifting that this group has seen you naked on what might be categorized as ‘many’ occasions: Bucky the most, because you live together; Steve the least, because he’s kind enough to shut or cover his eyes; Tony and Nat…equal, because they’ve been taking the measurements, readings, and scans to build the functioning collar.

You? You try not to think about that and focus on doing a Big-Girl-Task.

The gist is that if you feel that being a human benefits you, your body turns, and if you feel being a cat benefits you, your body turns. Fear is just easier to handle in a smaller body that can go unnoticed, hide, and run away more easily, and since you were never sure that being human around Bucky wouldn’t land you out on the street or worse, you weren’t convinced it would benefit you until you needed more weight, size, and strength to take down Duplicate. Controlling those base emotions has proved difficult. You’re ready now, though, totally ready.

Steve nods in acknowledgment when you shake you head, whiskers flat against your face in determination.

This is it, the moment of truth.

So you step up onto your back paws, think about how you could reach between these two workbenchs with your human armspan, and shift.

The nano tech doesn’t feel like microscopic metal robots—it’s like real gauzy panels that drape from your neck to your ankles, a flowing dress with breezy bell sleeves, all in snow white, sheer in some places, opaque in all the right ones. In all fairness, Tony Stark does know a thing or two about fashion. You should never have doubted him.

“Hot damn, pretty lady,” Bucky cheers. “Looking good!”

Tony cocks his head to the side. “Do we think it needs a belt?”

Nat slaps his hip.

Steve, however…oh poor Steve, he’s dumbstruck with a goofy smile. The affectionate awe makes you preen, giving a quick spin in your new ensemble, the skirts wafting like you’re Marilyn Monroe except you’re not hit by a gust of wind from below. Steve seems to be.

He huffs out all the air in his lungs and forgets to inhale again. He crosses his arms over his broad chest and covers his mouth briefly, collecting his thoughts before locking eyes with you through blond lashes. Those eyes, they are dark and adoring.

“How about it, Cap?” You ask with perfect innocence.

Steve chuckles, clearing his throat and licking his lips.

“That’ll do, babygirl. That will definitely do.”

[Next Part: Lineage]

[Main Masterlist; Steve Rogers Series List; Bucky Barnes Masterlist]

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[ronearoundlightly]

Outing

platonic Bucky Barnes x Alpine!Reader Steve Rogers x shapeshifter!Reader

Summary: Brought to HQ by Bucky, you betray your own disguise when Natasha immediately sees right through the act.

part of Companion Animal (see previous or series)

No warnings. Just puns and cuteness. WC 1k

Bucky has been taking you out with him to all sorts of places—walks, shopping, even a field workout where you trotted the center of the track and mostly stared at his running mate, Steve,— always traveling by motorcycle which took a little adjustment. He has to wear the buckle across the bottom of his jacket tighter than usual to create a secure pouch for you. Once you’re feeling bold enough, you peak over the opening of the zipper, eyes squinting in the racing wind, paws curled to grip the leather.

Today is new, though. Today, you’re at HQ for the first time, and lots of people are around. The whole lot of these people seem to know you as ‘Alpine’ and wave hello. No one, of course, bothers to introduce themselves. You are a cat to them. Most of them don’t even speak. Some of them immediately shy away from Bucky whose face carries a grim shadow you rarely see at home.

He’s focused and professional, quiet and brooding even when he sets up by a sparring mat and pats the bench for you to sit on.

As Bucky stretches and warms up his muscles, your have an itch. You miss the redhead’s arrival entirely during a quick cleaning. Where the hell did she come from? You only rolled an arm over your ear and face a few times, fifteen seconds maximum, and yet the woman is already heaving a leg around Bucky’s neck and throwing him to the ground.

He rolls the pair of them over and slams his metal elbow down to check her hip.

They are a blurry, tangled ball for a while, strikingly fast without a single word shared between them. It seems…almost fun to the redhead.

You watch, engrossed for who knows how long, until a familiar, deep voice wafts over from the doors to the far left.

Steve.

You purr, turn your body, and stand a bit straighter, licking some stray hair back into place on your chest. You don’t even realize your tail, dangling forgotten over the bench, swishes back and forth steadily, but Steve hasn’t noticed you yet.

He talks to one of the nameless people in all black. He talks forever, and the rhythm of your tail becomes a slow flick of just the end until it pauses.

Suddenly, Steve turns to the mats, his glorious, golden glow shining on you, but the rest of the room, too.

“Barnes,” he calls, “can I get a minute?”

The drone of other sparring partners huffing and grunting, the repeated slap of skin to the plastic, and the air conditioning are loud in the huge space. Steve doesn’t notice you while he waits for Bucky and the redhead to finish.

The woman is sure to sweep a leg under Bucky the instant he turns to walk toward Steve, smiling coyly as Steve scolds, “really, Natasha?”

The redhead says a long phrase you can’t understand, Russian maybe, and whatever it means, it makes Bucky laugh.

He picks himself up, flashing you a wink, that shadow lifted for now.

That’s when Steve finally looks over to you, but he’s not as enthusiastic as you hoped. “What’s…what’s the cat doing here?”

Hey, you meow.

“She’s fine,” Bucky shrugs, and those two jerk wads just keep talking.

You’re floored, shifting in annoyance and embarrassment. Sure, they’re at work basically, required to be a certain level of efficient, perhaps even indifferent, but still…

Your eyes dart between them, convinced they’ll notice you soon. You try to chirp a few times, like clearing your throat, but to no avail.

Then you jump.

She did it again. Natasha moved so quickly and quietly you failed to see her come sit beside you.

“Hey.” She’s very simple and direct. “You like getting out, huh?”

You blink.

“And you like seeing Rogers apparently.” This is not a question.

Your gaze falters in his direction before you reset your stance and meet her eye again.

“Shall I bring him over?”

Involuntarily, your tail starts swishing happily.

Natasha’s head cocks to the side, a corner of her lips following.

“First things first,” she says, leaning forward to gently pick through your fur, “checking you for bugs…” She pulls back and holds up her hand. “Do you swear to protect them with your life?”

Without thinking, you nod, a distinct tilt of your head, deliberate, unmistakable.

Natasha ponders that quickly. “You are not a cat, are you?”

She doesn’t say ‘not just a cat’ or ‘not your typical cat.’ She outright determines you are a liar. She does, however, do it with a vague respect. No scene made or alarm in her tone.

So you shake your head, side to side.

“You’re not a little traitor, are you?” The absolute seriousness and sincerity thickens the words.

So you shake your head, left to right, once.

“Good.”

It’s a very threatening, positive statement from the skilled fighter.

Faster than you can blink your appreciation, Natasha scoops you up and struts over to the men. She waits for Steve’s shocked expression to relax before she neatly shoves you against his chest. His arms automatically support you.

“Hi,” Steve blunders. “Hi, babygirl. Hey.” His voice gets softer and sweeter with each syllable. His shoulders relax forward as you wriggle to comfortably prop yourself up, adjusting until you have a nice view of his beautiful face. “How are you?” he whispers.

You offer a tiny, satisfied cry and blink as slow as molasses.

“If you boys are done with shoptalk—“ Natasha puts her hand on Bucky’s metal arm “—we’ve got trainees to handle…and I think this young lady would love a tour.”

Bucky smiles. “Great idea,” he beams, “but don’t carry her the whole time, punk. She’s getting spoiled.”

Steve’s arms show no sign of releasing you. “Too late for that.” He looks down at you with those clear, blue eyes. “What’d’ya say?”

Yeah, you chirp, teeth bared while you breathe heavy, purring, and off you both go.

[Next Part: Love Bites]

[Main Masterlist; Steve Rogers Series List; Bucky Barnes Masterlist]

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[ronearoundlightly]

'Babygirl'

Steve Rogers x shapeshifter!Reader (platonic Bucky Barnes x Alpine!Reader)

part of Companion Animal (see previous or series)

Summary: You get possessive while watching Sharon flirt with Steve.

Warnings for being short, bit of teasing Steve, but nothing else. WC 638

He’s not into you. Move on.

Steve arrived at Bucky’s with a ‘friend’ tonight. She was sweet enough, at first, but now she’s really making you mad. ‘Sharon’ won’t stop flirting with Steve, who seems especially uncomfortable when her hand brushes down the length of his back.

Steve’s neck tenses slightly as she whispers something in his ear. His body stiffens each time she laughs and rests her head on his shoulder. He does not move his hand over hers once she lays hers on his thigh to lean forward in conversation.

She leaves it there.

Her hand, just sitting there, on Steve’s lap, and he’s clearly not into it.

You hop onto the coffee table and swat at Sharon’s hand before she suddenly moves to touch you.

“Awww, Steve, look. I think she’s jealous of us,” she coos.

Sharon flips to scratch at your cheek, which feels good, then she says exactly the wrong thing.

“Don’t worry, babygirl. He’ll still be around to pet you.”

No one—no one—calls you that but Steve.

Your fangs are out instantly, claws spread on both front feet as one raises into the air, and both Steve and Bucky pounce to stop you. Sharon, however, is the fastest to grab the scruff behind your neck and lift you to arm’s length.

“No, Alpine, we don’t attack friends,” Bucky soothes.

“Bad kitty,” Steve bites from behind bared teeth. “Stop that.”

You fall limp in Agent 13’s hold, eyes wide and questioning to the handsome blond man whose honor you were protecting, but after a moment of silence, Bucky cracks up, doubled over with near tears in his eyes.

Sharon breaks next, gently placing you in Steve’s lap as he settles back onto the couch, a dejected look on his face.

You don’t understand. You think they are laughing at you, so you growl in annoyance.

“Well, at least somebody bought it,” Sharon chides Steve. “Can’t say your performance will work on anybody else.”

“The point is for the mark to believe you two are a couple, punk. I barely believe you’re friends. You look so uncomfortable.” Bucky shakes his head, sweeping over your haunches before returning to his seat.

Sharon scratches your butt, and your head whips around to give her the stink eye from behind the tucked forearm of Steve. She smiles, almost proud of your fighting spirit.

“Don’t worry,” she loudly whispers to you. “We’ve kissed before, and let me tell you, there is nothing there.”

“Hey,” Steve grumps, “it wasn’t that bad.”

Bucky makes a face. “He…tried. Gonna have to try a hell of a lot harder to convince a new gang in Madripoor—“

“I know, but it’s not really me, is it?” Steve pulls you a little closer, holds you a little tighter in his defense.

“The photostatic veil cannot make you a believable boyfriend just like it cannot make you a good dancer,” Bucky points out.

“Woah, now,” Sharon chuckles, “baby steps. Literally. Rogers has two left feet.”

Steve looks down at you gazing up at his handsome face. “Alpine has faith in me,” he mutters.

“We’ll have faith in you after you practice. Put down your real girlfriend and come dance with your fake girlfriend so we don’t all die in two days!”

He just buries his fingers in your fur, talking about how soft you are in hushed tones. You don’t like how stressed Steve looks, and you wedge your face into the crook of his elbow in an effort to console him.

Bucky clears his throat.

“No, you may not take my cat into a sting operation—” he stretches his arms toward you to take over “—not until she’s had some training at least.”

“Absolutely,” Sharon bursts. “Train her up! Bring her everywhere—that’s safe—because I like her. She’s feisty.”

[Next Part: Outing]

[Main Masterlist; Steve Rogers Series List; Bucky Barnes Masterlist]

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[ronearoundlightly]

Pampered

Steve Rogers x shapeshifter!Alpine!Reader (platonic Bucky Barnes x reader)

Summary: A stranger comes by while Bucky is stuck on a mission longer than expected. Your friend's friend is...uh...really hot.

part of Companion Animal (see previous or series)

Warning for shameless enjoyment of cat behavior designed to mess with Steve, probably puns (many, many puns), thirsty thots, and fluff. Steve's just a sorta-clueless good guy. So...no warnings. WC 992

The sound of the key wakes you from a nap in the sunny sliver on the bed.

Normally, Bucky says he’s home when he returns, but all that follows the door clicking shut is “what’s this mess?”

No more words after, only the crinkling of plastic, foil, and cardboard as whoever came in cleans up your mess. Bucky has been gone for almost three days, and since you can’t figure out how to make yourself change back, you chewed through various packaged foods and snacks. You’re fine because this little form needs very little sustenance, but the intruder…doesn’t agree.

“Rascal” rumbles deeply down the hall.

You jump down as quietly as you can and peek toward the kitchen.

Enormous, broad shoulders are visible over the island countertop, and a perky, round bum angles to and fro as he gathers the last bits of trash.

The man straightens after shoving it all into the bin. He’s…he’s…he’s really handsome.

“Hey, kitty—I mean, Alpine, right? Hi, Alpine,” his soft, unfamiliar voice calls down the length of the apartment, “I’m Steve.”

Who the hell is ‘Steve?’ 

You shift so that only one of your eyes is visible to the newcomer.

“Bucky’s friend,” he adds, immediately muttering, “which she can’t understand, you idiot…” Steve begins searching the lower cabinets and finds the crap cans of cat food Bucky squirreled away after you refused to eat them.

“You’re either very hungry—or perhaps not hungry at all based on the stuff you ruined.”

This ’Steve’ is not a cat person. The big, blond man, bigger than even Bucky, fills your bowl and walks it over to you.

With each step forward, you bend lower in suspicion, but he doesn’t really notice before unceremoniously placing it in the doorway and continuing to the bathroom.

You’re not eating that, so you follow until he turns, looks confused, and shuts you out.

Gross. Unacceptable. You miss having thumbs.

If he’s going to bother at all, he’s damn well going to use those meaty arms to open you a can of the human stuff—the real food Bucky learned to feed you on day one.

You slap your bowl until it upends, trot into the kitchenette, and hop on the counter beneath the correct cabinet.

“Alpine,” you hear Steve shout from the bathroom, “what was that?”

Despite his annoyed grunt once he finishes and sees the spill, you paw repeatedly at the cabinet, crying in urgency because it seems to be the only thing he’ll respond to: pathetic guilt. You also come face-to-face with not just a handsome man, but possibly the hottest man you’ve ever seen, and lose time staring into his sky blue eyes.

“No,” Steve says, knocking you out of your daze. “Get down.”

You growl when he shoos you off.

After a half-minute standoff, Steve caves, sighing in defeat.

“Buck always said he’d spoil a girl rotten…” 

Well, you, sir, are cute, distant, and awkward. So there.

He starts to leave the kitchen, so you plant yourself in front of him.

“Babygirl,” Steve snaps, making you preen slightly at his tone, “I gotta get your bowl, or you get nothing, okay?”

Oh, yeah. I guess he does, you think with an indignant chirp, sitting by your bone-dry water bowl while he shuffles around, griping about wiping up the floor yet again.

You lick at the food only as long as it takes him to refill the water, and then you run over to the first potted plant, screeching. He’s making his way to the front door without noticing.

He hisses at himself. “Good call. I almost forgot.”

No one knows you can pull the tap to drink out of it like a fountain, but you have no way of transferring some water to the plants. Watching them wither has been the most motivation so far to attempt transforming back to a human, a problem you no longer have to worry about now that Steve is here.

“Buck got delayed,” he explains, “probably just another day or so. He’s mentioned figuring out a doggy-door situation for you, but apparently that’s a non-starter for the building. I guess…Guess you’re stuck with me coming by on occasion.” Steve rambles as he moves from pot to pot.

You stay at his heel, craning your neck to watch him gently tip the watering can repeatedly, a few veins pulsing along his thick forearm as he does so.

When he’s done, you sit in the middle of the hall, watching him gather his stuff and slide on his shoes.

“Eat, babygirl,” Steve encourages as he leaves.

You simply stare and shift on your paws expectantly.

He frowns. “Buck is coming home. I promise. He’ll be back soon.”

But Steve doesn’t continue to shut the door. His hand is just frozen there while he eyes you.

Then he gives in, comes inside again, and bends down to pat your head. It’s the first time he’s touched you.

“You’re okay, sweetheart. It’s gonna be okay.” Steve squats down, a sad smile stretched over his face. “What do you want, huh? You want company? You been alone too long?”

Yes.

You press into his hand and slowly blink.

“Alright, alright—“ he stalks over to the couch and sits, relaxing finally “—I’ll stay a while.”

Steve waits for you to settle beside him, curling against his firm thigh before he rubs down your back in a steady rhythm. You’re sure to purr loudly and respond to his continued chatting with merps and meeps. You can tell he's stressed like Bucky was when you first met, but as the minutes become an hour or more, the tension melts away. Steve seems to forget about everything else until his phone rings.

When he’s almost closed the door, Steve peeks one of his eyes around to see you standing patiently.

“Be a good girl for me and eat, okay? I’ll see you soon.”

Yes, Steve, I will.

[Next Part: 'Babygirl']

[Main Masterlist; Light Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

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[ronearoundlightly]

All-Age Steve Rogers x Reader Asks

The Light Masterlist got to be too large for so many links, so here are the other fluff fics for Steve!

Romance 🔥 || Author Fave 🍀 || Angst ⛈️ || Fluff 🌼

In Sickness and In Health (longterm illness comfort) 🌼⛈🔥 Sweet Charity (drabble; Steve likes your laugh) 🌼 Mastery (Steve x artist!reader) 🌼 Steve x short male!reader (headcanon) 🌼🔥 Ties (long-haired!reader x Steve learning to braid) 🌼 Period Comfort 🌼 not-Baker!Steve (cake decorating) 🌼🔥 Not Today (Steve x workaholic!reader) ⛈🌼 Hit By Fate (life lesson gift fic) ⛈🌼 Midnight Kiss (New Year's Eve) On A Scar (Valentine's drabble) A Dark Day and A Bright Night (gn!reader kiss fic) ⛈🌼

Lease (Steve x best-friend!roommate!reader) 🌼🔥 Steve is tired (bday ask) ⛈️🌼 He Needs the Calories (crack fic) 🌼 Yield (hurt/comfort first kiss) ⛈️🌼🔥 To Tire Is Human (gif prompt) ⛈️🌼 Wide Open Future 1, 2, 3 (agoraphobic!reader) ⛈️🌼🔥 With Sugar On Top (esthetician!reader) 🌼 Domestic!Steve headcanons 🌼 Crash Closet (agent!reader with a steve!pillow) 🌼🔥

[ronearoundlightly]

hi :) idk if you’re open to writing right now, but if you are up to it, can you write something about any of steve and avenger/agent reader’s friends teasing the reader by getting her a pillow with steve’s face on it? everyone’s been teasing that they just get together already bc they’re super close, but they’re so shy lololol.

anyway, like steve walks in on her taking a nap either hugging the pillow or sleeping on it? thank u :,)

I fudged the setup a little, but I hope you still like it!

Warnings only for one mention of 'a**,' kissing, and some implied fantasizing, very vague. WC <2k...maybe, also not my greatest editing because there was none 🤫

Crash Closet, a Steve Rogers x agent!reader ficlet

It all started when a quinjet had to be emptied out in a hurry, and a bunch of jumpseats got shoved in a store room off the hangar bay.

They're seats, so people sat on them, laid across them, got comfy.

They brought in other pillows and blankets even after the seats themselves were reloaded in the jet. The purpose of the closet was established by then. No going back.

Since most of the time someone is trying to sleep, the lights are mainly off. The entire floor is littered with cushions of all textures, shapes, and sizes.

It's (going to be) glorious. All Steve can think about is falling face-first into the fluffy mess, but he can't get there yet. He regrets being himself today (tonight? what time is it?) because he had to be helpful, he had to supervise the off-loading of recovered weaponry, he had to do the full debriefing just to assure the newer agents that they handled themselves well.

Specifically, he was hoping to assure you, but he lost track of you somewhere between the containment lockers and labs an hour ago.

When Steve stops Nat and Sam outside the conference room to ask where you are, Natasha lets that too-friendly smile shine through and shrugs.

"Sent her to the crash closet," Sam offers. "Your girl looked rough--"

"She's not 'my girl," Steve quickly corrects while being ignored.

"--but I would too if I pulled my weight, and Perry's, and Cahill's."

"Real star power, that one." Nat taps the symbol in the middle of Steve's chest with sly smugness.

She's fishing, as she does repeatedly most days, and like most days, Steve's not falling for it.

"I'll...I'll let her sleep it off then."

Of course. Of course, you're already in the one place he wants to be. It's the chicken and the egg parable: if the comfortable room is where you usually crash, does Steve go to the room because it's comfortable or because you in the room makes it comfortable?

"Huh..." Sam scratches his head for a moment before turning to Nat. "Did you check her for a concussion? I plum forgot to have her eval-ed once we landed." He meets Steve's eye with admirably fake innocence. "She took that hit for Jeff Cahill, you know."

Steve blinks, looking back and forth between his extremely meddling friends.

Sam makes a good point. Steve should be helpful and check on you, just to be safe.

He carefully says goodnight while avoiding more suggestive jeering--not because he's fast enough to be out of earshot but because Steve refuses to listen.

He's sick of hearing it. He's sick of how he's acting even, but he can't seem to go any farther or do any more with you than he already does.

Steve loves your presence because his mind goes blank. He can relax around you. He can settle, mentally, which is problematic because his mind is blank and saying he can "settle with you" sends a thoroughly wrong message.

Most people make Steve Rogers feel he needs to be someone: a hero, a soldier, a symbol, and it's exhausting since Steve does try to live up to expectations as realistically as he can. You, however, have never made him feel there's some nebulous thing he need to live up to. You were respectful, polite, and kind, with light-hearted humor and mission seriousness in due balance.

You're refreshing. Of course Steve gravitates towards the refreshing.

Shoot.

He's walking weird.

He slows down, so it doesn't give the impression he's rushing, and Steve tries to casually acknowledge the few straggling employees along the way. He's deliberate to keep his hands neutral, not clenched or crossed, until reaching for the door handle, until the hallway light falls across your prone body, and then he forgets to spend subconscious energy on himself.

A hodgepodge of plush and padding surrounds you, as expected, but Steve is looking at his own 2-D face pressed to yours, your hand laying gently against his printed chest, and your leg thrown over his undivided legs.

You look like an angel when you sleep. He's never been so awake when seeing it though.

He stops breathing until a soft voice behind him says, "excellent. She found the surprise."

Steve quickly turns, pulling the door mostly closed without clicking the bolt, leaning to Natasha's level and whispering.

"Do you think she--"

Nat shakes her head, smiling. "All I mentioned was a new body pillow in there." She raises her hands defensively. "Do I think she knows it's got your body on it? No," Nat snorts, "pretty sure the pitch black obscured that fact."

"You put my--"

"Made one of her, too. If you're interested."

"You...put her on a life-size pillow?" Steve gets only a knowing tilt of the head. "Why?!"

"Equality," Nat snips, "and because I am great at presents. Oh, and because I got twenty percent off for ordering two."

Steve makes a point to flash a "you're insane" glare at long-time, self-appointed matchmaker.

Nat's face falls.

"Gosh, buddy, you look tired. You should take a load off. I know just the--"

She kicks the door, handle slipping unexpectedly from his grip, the other end slamming with a bang against the opposite wall.

You bolt upright, both palms braced on the star stitched over a padded uniform. "I'm ready," you shout. "What's the situation?"

Steve panics, frantically searching around him for the person to blame, but Nat is nowhere to be seen. While he does that, however, your eyes adjust to the splash of light.

"What the--shit!" You scramble backward only to fall on your ass, gaining zero traction in all the fabric.

You and Steve both point to the offending object. "I didn't do that" is shouted simultaneously.

"Is that a joke?!" you screech.

He hesitates. "Would it be...funnier knowing there's one of you somewhere around here?"

Steve's too busy staring at you staring at him to notice the door slowly shutting behind him until the room in plunged into darkness again.

You whisper, harsh with alarm, "there's a thing with my body on it, too?"

"Wow...that sounds much worse than I meant it to," he mumbles. "Didn't mean to wake you. Just--I just wanted to make sure you were--Sam said you got your bell rung pretty good?"

The pitch black proves thick in addition to all consuming.

"Yeah." There's a long pause. "I'm fine."

He'd believe you if Steve hadn't purposefully listened to everything you've ever said near him. A slight waver in your voice makes it very clear you are lying to him. He attempts to reach out, to assure you that injuries are not weaknesses, but in that single-minded focus, he forgets about the pile beneath his feet.

Steve tumbles forward, landing not a gesture of comfort but squarely on top of you.

Well, he did want to fall face first into the cushions, right? The you under him part is usually in the dreams he has after going to sleep though. He also has no practiced comment for this not being an...enthusiastically consensual position.

"Sorry" is the best Steve comes up with as he flounders and flails for solid ground.

Once he manages to push his weight off of you, your hands still rest on his chest, his real chest. He can't even see you, and yet you hold this power over him.

"You--" you breathe shakily "--aren't as soft as the other guy."

"Sorry," he repeats, accidentally perching on a knee which hitches at the apex of your legs.

"But just as comfy..."

God, he wishes he could see you.

"What?" He heard you. "I'm--you think I'm--"

"Yeah."

Steve's fist clenches in response, but that dislodges whatever props him up. Though he stays suspended above you, he shifts until his hand lands on your waist--he'd swear the move simply paints a picture of his bearings while his eyes fail him,--and his fingers spread greedily.

Aside from training and a handshake greeting, he's never gotten to touch you.

"Well, if I wasn't concussed before..." you drawl.

"No! Did you--?" Steve immediately cradles the back of your head, ignoring the climb of your hold to behind his neck, too.

You say his name a few times. "I'm joking. I'm just joking." Both thumbs sweep through his short hair. "You're easy to mess with, ya know."

It's easy to like you when you talk to him like that. Steve fights to keep his mind from slipping into that happy void, but more imagination is required than usual. He settles for the first retort to pop in.

"I think pillow-you might be nicer to me."

You laugh. "I'm not nice to you? You want me to be nicer to you, Steve?"

His hints are the drop in your voice as you tease him and the subtle lift of your head in his hand. Steve jumps to meet your lips halfway, filling the empty space in his mind with all his dreams come true. He doesn't need to see. He's pictured this so many times.

Your back arches. He slots to the right, so his nose isn't in the way. You let his tongue slide past, unimpeded. It's his dream.

He's lost in dreamland so long Steve hardly realizes you are losing steam, sighing and gasping in his arms, lazily groping around.

Shoot.

This often happens with the serum; he doesn't get tired like the average human, and though he would never describe you as 'average,' you have had a long day, a minor injury, and a vigorous session of...well, Steve's too gentlemanly to label it anything other than 'kissing,' perhaps 'necking.'

He ducks his head to break your lips apart (reluctantly), feeling the pounding of your heart through your ribcage. "You need sleep."

You absently nuzzle him. "Okay. You're right. Hand me my pillow, will you?"

Steve bristles even as he laughs, jabbed playful by your elbow.

He rolls onto his back, easily pulling you to his side, letting you settle against him in the same way as his light model decoy. It's a good settling. He's settling with you.

"I think I should stay here," he whispers, sinking into the pillows. "Keep an eye on your head."

You thank him, laying your palm over his sternum which he then pins with his own hand.

It's a start, a good settling, together.

"Sweet dreams, star. You'll see me when you wake."

[Main Masterlist; Light Masterlist; Steve Rogers One-Shots]

A/N: yes, I put in some cheeky easter eggs for the diehards 😏

[ronearoundlightly]

Forgot to add In our modern days please

So we've got: ☑️ relaxing ☑️ domestic ☑️ established relationship ☑️ with Steve

Since it's *me,* there's some deep feels in there... plus hearty laughs.

No warnings. It's just headcanon-style fluff!

He likes the warmth of the clothes right out of the dryer, so Steve always thunders over to the laundry room the instant the machine stops. There could be a no-holds-barred action sequence blaring from the TV. There could be real gunshots outside. Doesn't matter. He heard it. As long as you're not in immediate danger, he's going to run and plunge himself shoulder-deep into toasty fabric.

That wasn't a thing when he was a kid. Now, Steve would rather wear out sheets faster than dry them on low heat. He will pay the money. It's worth it.

For the holidays last year, you bought him a huge, fluffy, heated blanket, and he absolutely uses it--keeps himself tucked in until sweating then kicks it off in frustration--but the laundry addiction never stops.

Every time he showers with you at home, you warm his towel in the dryer for a few minutes.

There is nothing, nothing, quite as cute as Steve Rogers burying his face in a fresh towel and hugging it to leech out each extra degree Fahrenheit...or Celsius. He's not picky.

When it's a load of mixed clothing, he scoops it all up and carries it like a boulder over to the bed, bending at his Disney princess waist to press himself in.

Just a minute. Just give him a few deep breaths and a minute.

He likes to fold sheets with you taking one end and him taking the other, coming together in the middle, because no matter how long you two have been a couple, Steve still gets a thrill at his fingers grazing across yours as he takes a corner, as he hands you another. He's a simple man with simple pleasures.

Now, sweaters are a different story.

Steve will wash and dry those however keeps them softest for longest, even if it means putting them on that rack he constantly stubs his toe on. Worth it. Sure. Can we just always put that stupid thing away quickly? He's going to keel over one night trying to get to the bathroom in the dark. Seriously, it's a hazard!

Steve won't wear shoes in the house, which might seem obvious to a lot of people--he's a pretty clean and considerate man, of course he'd want to not bring crap inside, both physically and mentally--but Steve also likes to be barefoot in his home. He doesn't have slippers, but he insists on the floors being pristine.

He vacuums the rugs and carpet constantly because it feels best on his feet that way. Wiggling his toes is part of a grounding ritual he does once home.

Sometimes it's as simple as holding you for a while, savoring a long hug, methodically rubbing your back, and letting you lightly scratch at his.

He prays, in his own way, at that time. What he's grateful for. What he's hopeful for. Thanking whoever or whatever is out there for you.

He's a research fiend. As good as he is about keeping the floors clean, Steve will litter every other surface with books, newspapers, files, magazines, printed articles, and anything else necessary to get the answers he's looking for. He does not like to just search online. He's the weirdo who makes note of the citation online and finds that source at the library.

At some point, you have to put a moratorium on bringing books home when he's deep in that research phase. He's a fast reader; he can scan some there. Steve may be able to check out unlimited volumes, but your home has a finite volume.

You're not discouraging learning, though, just trying to keep it reasonable. No need for him to be possessed by the Ghost of Knowledge Past...

You can tell he's good and properly lost in an art project when supplies are everywhere. Unless it's going to stain/damage something, Steve does not clean-as-he-draws. The colors are out and they are accessible.

You love this; he's happy like this. You let him do it.

Steve gets really, really picky about what art hangs where in your home. He's knows you like his art, but it's nothing compared to the printed and canvased work of the masters. He pitches a fit if you try to display his as predominantly, but you refuse to stick them on the fridge like he's a child.

It's his hobby, he loves it, and he improves in different ways every time he picks up a pencil (or pen). He often has the most casual and fun conversations when he's splitting his brainpower. Steve doesn't particularly know he's doing it (how could he? he'd stop and overthink it if he did), but you can see the stress-thickened aura on him melt away if he's distracted for long enough.

Focusing on cooking with you has the same effect. These activities have become therapy for him--and you--and act as multitasking which is wonderful in the sometimes limited spans he gets to stay at home.

Once almost everything inside your home is setup nicely--there's always room for improvement or redecorating 🤗--Steve makes you two a nook outside to stargaze. He loves to stare and let his mind wander, but he especially loves to have you there in his arms. It's not limited to nighttime either. He's equally thrilled with watching clouds or, if you're under cover, watching storms roll in.

He likes to have you sit between his legs and lean against him. The pressure on his chest is soothing, but he can rest his cheek to yours. Steve gets to use a soft voice then, not his usual, commanding one. With you so close, he can whisper. It's just you two in the whole wide world.

Steve may not be much of a singer, but he uses that same, sweet whisper to share lullabies from his Ma as you fall asleep at night. Not every night, but still. It's magical.

He insists on trying something new every single time he goes to the grocery store. Doesn't matter if it's a condiment or a side dish or a little treat, a new cut of meat or fancy nut milk, Steve has to explore (safely).

He is, of course, still appalled at the price tags, but he also can't judge when something is too expensive since it all is to him. This is how he ended up with a single, $12 dipped pretzel, and you nearly fainted.

It was quite delicious, but never again!

There's a code, a safeword of sorts, for really bad days. Doesn't matter the reason, could be as simple as your brain just can't brain, but it means the user (you or Steve) get to call the shots. You might want to be alone, you might want him to hold you until the sun rises, you might want to watch the cringiest romcoms or ugly cry reading your 'stories.' No questions.

Shawarma.

It came from an early moment once Steve was out of the ice. The whole battle was a disaster from start to finish. He was so overwhelmed, but so was the makeshift team. They all sat in silence. Ate. Didn't eat. Fell asleep sitting up. Fell asleep in their food. No one cared. That's the idea. He needs that sometimes, as he figures everyone does.

Whatever the other wants.

Unsurprisingly, this often winds up mutually beneficial. Sometimes being quiet for the other's sake lets both just breathe. He looks at you and can see your pain, your strain, your fatigue. Steve always ends up smiling, though, because he loves you. There's a type of beauty in your sadness--this gravitational pull to bring him closer, to let him in, to let him lift you back up--that makes him feel needed. This home is where he shields you from the world. On his worst days, he still gets to protect you, to do good, and to make you happy. That is all he's ever wanted in his whole life

Also sometimes shawarma sounds good for dinner, but if that's the case, it's specified. No one is surprised when the whole night is spent just caring for each other. The 'code' means you're starting at an ultra-low place that day or night, but with understanding and respect, you always balance back out.

And finally, a freebie for shiggles: Steve finds flatulence hysterical. Not all potty humor, not jokes in bad taste, but he just cannot keep it together if he or someone else farts. I'm sorry, he can't. It's too funny. The noises???? He's dying laughing.

The team at some point figures this out, and at a dinner at your home--a perfectly reputable affair with proper china and all--the group proceeded to fake (or not fake) fart noises. Steve almost peed himself. Tears of joy were streaming down his face. It was adorable.

See, he doesn't care that it happens; the human body is the human body is the human body. Obviously, he can be concerned if there's like a medical issue, and he's allowed to poke a little fun if your toots (or his) smell, but mostly...he just finds them hilarious.

That is the most childish thing about Steve Rogers, a holdover from a bygone era, and that's kinda the best part. After all he's been through, Steve has an inner child. He just needs to let it rip! 🤭😂

Thank you for asking!

[Main Masterlist; Light Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

[ronearoundlightly]

for the title ask game, with sugar on top?

From this ask game. Steve Rogers x reader meet-cute

Absolute. Pure. Selfish. Indulgence. [This is my job.] Sorry not sorry. No warnings just fluff.

Steve Rogers doesn't do anything to relax or treat himself, and finally, FINALLY, Natasha convinces him and Bucky to take a vacation. City they've never been to. Fancy, tall hotel with a view. Giant beds everyone can starfish over or hog the covers from. She wants them to live the dream.

When they arrive, Steve announces he's starving and hands the menu to Nat, telling him to order whatever. He's not picky. She doesn't even flinch. She holds the menu up to Bucky, and his brows raise for a second. Steve would guess it's from the price of everything, but he's determined to relax and go with the flow.

Nat points at something, but Bucky shakes his head, says he'll take a #6.

While on the phone with the front desk, Nat yells back to Steve, asking if he wants sugar with his.

Weird, but okay. "Sure. Why not?"

Natasha is very pleased with that response.

Then she walks over to tell him they've all got to head downstairs.

Why would he need to go get food from room service? Steve doesn't complain though; he puts his shoes back on.

Natasha is...in soooo much trouble.

She and Bucky march Steve unknowingly to the entrance to the hotel's spa, where Steve has been booked a pedicure of all things--a pedicure with sugar scrub.

He thought he was about to eat brinner or something. Waffles or pancakes with syrup and whip cream. Something sweet and edible. In fact, he's opening his mouth to protest when the woman greets him and Nat, saying the chairs are ready. When Steve looks desperately to Bucky, he realizes his friend knew all along.

Bucky waves him off to wait patiently for his #6, hot stone massage.

Steve doesn't know whether to laugh or cry at someone washing his feet. He's not ticklish, but it's awkward. You have an easy smile and a kind touch.

He still doesn't know what to say. He tries to whisper to Natasha next to him that the hotel's kitchen better not be swamped or closed by the time this is done, and he sees you look over your shoulder to signal another woman behind a bar top covered in various water infusions.

Steve can order food--real food--delivered right to his chair.

Oh. Oh. He's in heaven.

After an hour of bliss drips by, he jokes with Nat by the end that you have magic fingers and he thinks he's in love.

"Well," Nat smirks, sure to make eye contact with you as you gather your tools and dirty towels, "you should have dessert with her then. Share something decadent...with sugar on top."

Steve swallows loudly, noticing he'd rather have a breath mint before speaking directly to you about, essentially, a date, but he's also promised to live the dream. Dessert with good company sure seems the right sort of relaxing treat to himself he came for...

[ronearoundlightly]

Fic title: Behind the Mask

Oh yeah!!!! This reeks of Ransom Drysdale. Just screams it (to me, at least, lol).

From this ask game. Gif by @loregifs. Warning for unbelievable softness. Wow.

There's definitely a world where Ran's everyday, bitchy attitude is too exhausting for him to maintain, and he comes home to you a different man. He stands in the foyer, slowly shrugs off his coat and scarf, toes off those fancy shoes, and takes several huge breaths. Ran shuts his eyes and flushes away the world outside his front door.

He smells dinner, and his shoulders drop three whole inches. The corners of his lips aren't pointing down anymore.

"Hey, I'm home," he calls out, relishing the clatter of whatever utensil you were holding and the resounding squeal that travels down the hall like a bellweather for your thumping footsteps.

Ransom is not submissive and he's not--strictly speaking--nice, but his home, your home, is a special bubble where he relax, he can enjoy peace, and he can be a better man than he actually is.

So he scoops you up into a hug when you jump into his arms, he says he missed you, and he asks about your day before mentioning anything about himself. He listens, attention wrapped around you, answering "yes, ma'am" when you check he brought what he promised from the grocery and that he'll go wash up.

He makes it to the kitchen and wonders what else you need with a two glasses of wine in hand.

Of course, Ransom asks that because you say the same thing 90% of the time:

"Just you."

The corners of his lips raise.

This home is the only place he can retell stories about his family and laugh about them. Somehow there's a separation. It's special. You've made it special, and Ran craves that.

He sets the table, brushes you off to let him serve your food, clears all the dishes--though he enjoys still chatting while rinsing them,--and makes you both tea (or dessert).

He prefers sharing desserts from one container, bowl or sleeve. He's actually chatty because he likes chatting with you.

See, when he met you, you wore the same mask: very sarcastic, very bitter, and a hearty dash of bullshit. He spent an hour trying to one-up you with the shittiest-true-story. Ran has no clue who won, and he never cared. He got the impression you--like him--could act mean and indifferent but didn't want to.

Neither of you wanted to be pushed to those extremes all day everyday.

You started by telling Ransom he was allowed to be quiet with you; he didn't need to entertain you in any way. Very quickly he started to drop the pretense. He hung his mask up on the wall next to yours.

Two masks on these four walls that are safe and happy inside.

A/N: whoops, got a little rambly, but I like it 💜 I guess I needed it??? Probably. 🤷🏻‍♀️

[Main Masterlist; Light Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

[ronearoundlightly]

Wide Open Future (1)

Steve Rogers x agoraphobic!Reader

Summary: Steve save you after the Battle of New York, but you don't want to be taken from your safe space.

Warnings for being self-indulgent, hurt/comfort that's not completed in this part, 'slow' burn (but it's not going to be super long in total), and none of those are actually warnings so much as content descriptions. Originally, this was a one-shot. Go figure. There are zero specification of male or female, ethnicity or size for this reader. WC ~2k

Life was fine until half of your apartment blew apart. In an instant, the whole outer wall evaporated, leaving you seven stories up, the floor (mostly) ripped out from under you.

Obviously, in the emergency, no one took the elevators, and through your front door to the hallway, you heard people run for the stairs. They passed you by, but that’s because you didn’t know any of your neighbors. You didn’t move though. You couldn’t.

The sound…the sounds got worse.

Unearthly shrieks from floating, flying whales. Explosions that rattled you to the bone. Human screams, outside and in. Rubble from the other two stories above you crashed down, chipping away chunks of your floor with it.

Your couch teetered for a while before it finally caved.

Your kitchen island peeled away in bits: countertop, dishwasher, and then the sink plumbing.

For some reason, the worst was your books cascading off the shelves like synchronized swimmers into a sparking pool of ash.

You didn’t move though. You couldn’t.

It grew dark. The sirens never stopped.

You got thirsty, then hungry, yet you stay so, so still.

This has gone on for hours now. Life as you know it is over, and you remain curled at the foot of your front door.

All the electricity is out. Your fridge is off and your food spoiling, but at least water stops shooting out of the destroyed sink. There are no working clocks. Your walls are bare, and your phone long since slid down the slanted rubble to god-knows-where. There’s no signal by then anyway.

You don’t make a single sound. You can’t. You’d rather die here than leave. The dusty air is taunting you. You’ve shifted from hyperventilating to holding your breath.

“I’ve got something. Hang on,” you hear just as a spotlight sweeps across your living room turned paper mache dollhouse.

“Jarvis, can you get me the tenant listing…yeah, looks like…apartment seven-four-three…oh.” The voice says your name. “I’m going to move this off of you, ok? Can you hear me?”

The gentle hand sweeps a thick layer of debris off of your head and back. You chance relaxing your hands to look at the face of your rescuer.

Him.

“No,” you dryly whisper. “I live here. ’S my home.”

“The building isn’t stable. We have to evacuate you.”

“No,” you try to scream, but it’s too hard to focus. You’re fighting to back up out of his reach, but rubble lies behind you. Your ankle slips into a crevice, stopped by strips of exposed rebar.

Captain America grabs your shaking arms. “I’m sorry,” he keeps saying, “I’m sorry. You can’t live here. It’s not safe.”

You repeat yourself, too. “I can’t leave. I can’t leave.”

He talks, but it’s not to you anymore. He checks that you’re the last they’ve found in the building. People got trapped in the stairwell beyond a point, and they’ve been handled. Cap announces he’s going to “see this one through and call it a night.”

You’d rather die than leave. Out there is not livable. Out there is unsafe.

“I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

You don’t believe him.

“I need you to trust me, just for a little while, alright?”

“I don’t want to go—“

“Close your eyes for me. Please? Just close your eyes until we get there.”

“No, please, no.”

He has to pry your body a little straighter to get ahold of you, and your shaking becomes so violent he adjusts, using sincere force to pin you to his chest before getting a running start.

He jumps across the chasm of your building to land on what sounds like a metal ramp and calls for the Jarvis person to take him home.

Home? It’s not your home. 

“It’ll be okay, I promise,” he says against your temple.

You’re frozen, shaking so badly words couldn’t form if you tried.

“I swear to you it will be okay.”

You haven’t spoken since.

He set you down on a bed, but you promptly crawled to the smallest, darkest space you could find, a closet full of Converses and jackets.

Cap, in his filthy suit, tossing the cowl onto the dresser, simply asks if you’re injured since he can’t get to you. You won’t let him see. The most he can do is hand you a bottle of water and a watch from his nightstand to hold.

Time is still going, still moving, even when you won’t.

Steve is…tired.

What he knows from J.A.R.V.I.S. is very little and very simple: you rented that one apartment for years, it has a magnetic keycard entry for the building, a regular key for your unit’s door, and there is no record of you ever entering since your move-in day. Your utilities are 35% higher than the average in the area. Because you are there all day. Because you never leave.

Because, as you yourself said, you can’t leave.

Steve sympathizes, he does, but he had to make the tough call. He wasn’t going to watch you die. He couldn’t live with himself if he left you there. This is the next-best and now only option.

He’s exhausted and starving. Shawarma only goes so far when vaulting across sheer drops to help find survivors in spots too dangerous for regular emergency crews. Steve alone found thirty-nine men, women, and children. Tony, with jet-pack feet and metal-armor biceps, rescued somewhere in the range of eighty people.

Great. Give Stark a medal. Steve couldn’t care less right now.

That’s not true, exactly, but after back-to-back-to-back calls with shelters all at-capacity or worse, he’s in need of sustenance, a shower, and clean clothes.

First, he chugs two of the protein shakes his fridge gets stocked with. It’s never been by his choice—and he never thought he’d be quite this grateful for modern packaging,—but today’s the day. Next, he chances a sweep through his room, snatching up sweats and then barricading himself in the bathroom. Despite wanting to stay beneath the hot spray forever, Steve rushes, concerned that you’re hurt in a way that wasn’t obvious.

He brings you another water and one of the shakes. He has no expectation of you wanting it. At the moment, however, there’s no other food ready to eat.

He grabs another washcloth, warming it under the tap, and slowly wipes at your face and hands. You certainly look terrible but luckily have nothing more than minor cuts.

Lucky.

He doesn’t feel lucky, and he imagines you don’t either.

“I’ll find you some place better in the morning,” he promises. “I’ll be out that door—“ he points “—on the couch if you need anything. I know you don’t want to,” Steve adds quietly, lacing his voice with as much reassurance as superhumanly possible, “but make yourself at home. You’re going to get through this.”

Before he can push himself off the floor, you grip his fingers in thanks, and he hopes, he wishes, he prays for that to be true.

It doesn’t feel like enough. It never feels like enough.

It’s small.

That’s good for your purposes of adjustment, and the fact that he’s never there (almost never) helps, too.

It’s all his stuff, not your stuff, but your whole life doesn’t exist anymore.

Jarvis, which is actually an AI wired through the walls or something, arranges for you to see your therapist via video chat on an enormous projection in the bedroom.

There’s a bedroom and bathroom. Theoretically, there is a grand common room just outside the door but you can’t.

“I’ve been told they won’t move you until a permanent place is found,” Dr. Lucien cuts in. You were staring at the door again, wondering. “Temporary shelters are so crowded right now people are getting transferred back and forth to wherever there’re beds. I’m told it’s no trouble to let you stay.”

Would Captain America kick you out?

“That’s good." You try to be brave. "I can do that.”

You work remotely—that’s always been easiest—and it’s a weird time where you have both less and more to do because the city is still in chaos, meaning you’re at your computer when Cap knocks before entering his own room.

“Hey,” he says carefully, “I just need to clean up.”

“Of course,” you reply automatically. In your mind, you shrink the world down to just the yard-long desk and this rolling chair. You focus on your screen and everything is fine.

Hearing the shower is no different here than that muted, rushing sound that came from your neighbor’s place before. You’ve had people you know in your space without much incident for a long time; the problem is mostly out there.

Cap leaves immediately. You almost don’t notice at all until a plate is plunked down on the desk.

“I’m gonna rest here for a bit if you don’t mind.”

“It’s…” You can hardly look up, knowing that he’s watching, knowing he can see inside this tiny bubble world you’ve managed to illusion yourself into. “It’s your room.”

“Turns out the couch is not very comfortable longterm.”

You nod and shrug. From the list of tasks left to complete, you’ll be working for a while yet.

“You got everything you need?”

He doesn’t lean in to make eye contact, you notice. He’s patient.

With twitching fingers, you pull away from the keyboard and slowly turn, controlling your breath to not seem panicked.

“I do, Captain Rogers. Thank you very much.”

His eyes are…not full of pity like you expected. He looks like a host eager to please a guest, but that’s ridiculous when you are indefinitely trapped here, constantly invading his home.

“Call me Steve, and I’m glad to help,” he replies softly.

In situations like this, it would be customary to say ‘no, I’ll get out of your hair,’ ‘I’ll just leave you to it,’ ‘please don’t put yourself out on my account,’ but that’s the thing: you cannot get out. You cannot leave. You don’t want to. You never, ever want to, and in this specific case, it’s actually Steve’s fault.

He raps his knuckles on the wood. “Little though it may be…”

Steve chugs a glass of water on his way to the bed—which you’ve made diligently every morning and changed the sheets twice now—and stretches across the half closer to the door. You’re comforted by the fact you didn’t steal the exact spot he sleeps in on top of bogarting his quarters.

You use his desk, you have clothes in the closet which Jarvis had someone bring you, and you etched out a corner of the bathtub rim for wash products. You’ve for sure done enough to invade already, so you stay silent and work while Steve falls asleep, snoring lightly.

You deep clean the bathroom one day when extremely restless, and although he insists you did not need to, Steve beams with gratitude.

You do a little more around the room, and a little more, and a little more.

The single room and en suite bathroom become your oasis, and—as promised—a safe space that you thoroughly dread leaving. The dread includes leaving Steve Rogers.

You know that all of those things will lead to another tragic episode once you have to move again. It makes you do more in hopes of being essential, of being needed to stay.

Steve pops his head in.

"Would you...would you want to watch a movie with me tonight? I checked out a few--well, I guess you'd call them 'classics' now--from the library, and I thought...maybe..."

With one flash of a smile, your oasis grows to two rooms. Life just might be fine again someday, just as he promised.

[Next Part]

A/N: I'm probably going to regret not just completing this before posting.

@supraveng @1950schick @patzammit @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @yiiiikesmish @bucky-fricking-barnes-reads @fallinallinmendes @deandreamernp @rogersideup (tagging you because this kinda reminded me of your series Late Night Talking which I love so much!) @rogersbarber @blogbog710 @yenzys-lucky-charm @thiquefunlover63 @ashesofblackroses @jaqui-has-a-conspiracy-theory @brandycranby @buckysprettybaby @ellethespaceunicorn @late-to-the-party-81 @bigtreefest @mistressmkay @astheskycries @veryprairieberry

[ronearoundlightly]

okey dokey, I've had *a day* and will use this glorious...🥴 idek which body part to reference 😮‍💨...and merge it with your previous ask about cooking or baking for Steve and giving him a nice, comforting, home cooked meal. And his response to that act of service and caring. Because this is me, I will obviously be starting with ::gasp:: an argument. Don't you love how predictable I am?!?!

To Tire Is Human

No warnings, uhhh, canon language (sh*t)? Written in drafts so no exact word count. It's not long (2k maybe, very much unedited)!

"The hustle? What does that even mean?" Steve gripes as he finishes up various chores around the property.

"It means I do the work."

Your boyfriend rips apart the wood log he was about to start chopping. "Do the work? Do the work? For nine hours? After leaving home early enough to be at work for an hour before the actual work starts? Then staying at least a half hour to clean?"

"Unless I also have to restock," you add quickly just to really turn the knife.

"You have got to be shitting me," he nearly snarls, eyes down toward the pile.

You don't blame him for not understanding. He's from an era where people worked to live, the point was the living. This...is not longer that era, and you are not of that generation.

Of course, it frustrates him, too, because your work makes living almost impossible. With all that he just mentioned, the commute, and attempting to offer yourself the basic self-care of eating and washing, you don't have the energy to do chores, and you've certainly struggled to find energy enough to show Steve love.

"That's the gig nowadays. That's how us super-average humans do it."

The thing is that you are also so tired of having this conversation. You are tired of the guilt for not magically considering yourself the center of your universe because, despite jokes about every kid receiving participation trophies, it is deeply engrained in you that you are replaceable.

If you don't perform above and beyond, fired. If you ask for too much and offer too little, gone. If you don't constantly learn how to outpace others, useless. It never ends.

And, finally, Steve Rogers might not get this but you age. You aren't powerful to begin with, but day after day, you get weaker and older, while someone else on Earth gets smarter and stronger.

You don't want to hear the spiel. You can see from his pinched face that Steve wants to give the spiel.

You sigh in exhaustion and prepare to hear the whole Cap speech before you two go pick up dinner in town.

One day later that week, your work schedule falls apart and lands you back at home hours before Steve is due to return. Antsy to accomplish something--and looking for a snack,--you notice the perfect combination of ingredients, something saucy and salty, hearty, just like Steve melts for, and a fruity baked good.

It's a lot of steps, there's a lot of mess to clean up as you go, and then there's still a lot left behind. You're hastily rushing around to set the oven timer and yank a skillet off the burner. Perhaps the whole endeavor has gotten you in over your head.

Steve appears out of nowhere.

Well. Not nowhere, but all the chaos in the kitchen is making enough noise, you didn't hear the door.

"I have everything under control," you automatically say.

His expression morphs from one of surprise and concern to utterly overwhelmed. His eyes look glassy as he approaches and scoops you into a quick hug, hands tucking themselves beneath the hem of your shirt so he can feel your skin as he breathes you in.

He quickly releases you at the sounds of oil popping and sniffs, reverting to Cap mode.

"What do you need? What can I do?"

All you can think is that the table hasn't been set.

Steve eats his whole meal--entree and dessert--with his non-dominant hand just so he can hold yours.

He had one of your days.

He spent the drive home listing all the things he needed to do in his head, more energy for each tick, more time for sitting still, more of him to give...

...and then he got to enjoy a lovely dinner with you.

You spent your energy on him, on you both. You spent energy specifically to spend time with him, and Steve could cry but he won't. He keeps smiling, making happy, pleased noises with each delicious bite.

An hour ago, he wasn't sure he could feed himself or wash up. He's simply too tired.

You start playing with his hand, drawing patterns in his palm, lightly dragging your nails on the sensitive inside of his wrist. It makes him shiver.

There were at least four things he was supposed to do outside before it got too dark, a load of towels and sheets needs done, a basket of clothes waits to be folded and put away. He does not want to do any of it.

His fingers close around yours.

"Thank you," he interjects softly, "I was so tired."

You lean forward and plant a sweet kiss on his cheek, whispering in his ear, "you wanna leave the dishes to soak and watch a movie instead?"

Steve chuckles, turns his head to quickly kiss your lips, and nuzzles his nose to yours.

"Oh, you're a naughty minx, aren't you?"

Playfully racing up the stairs, ignoring the plates and glasses still on the table, you call back to him.

"Show some hustle, big guy! We got a whole lot of nothing to do."

He twitches, just for an instant, before finally deciding that grabbing the spare pillows from the guest room will add more to the movie experience than doing the dishes.

You're both going to do the work tonight: the work of taking care of each other, enjoying each other, and being human together.

Thank you for asking!

[Main Masterlist; Light Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

[ronearoundlightly]

Yield

Steve Rogers x Avenger!Reader

a vague sequel to Warning Signs (not required to read before this)

Summary: Steve takes your mind off a recent tragedy for the team.

Fluff, hurt/comfort with emphasis on the comfort, references to death and trauma but not explicit, SEVERAL sweet kisses 😍. Adjusted (from its languishing, dusty doc) for @bigtreefest's Summer Lovin' Celebration using the elements: hand kink--although this work is for all-ages--and "ew gross, that's not what I thought would happen today"--except I fudged that a bit. You're welcome even though, yet again, no one asked for this! WC ~2.3k

It’s a dreamless sleep, the kind that feels like you blinked but hours passed. Awareness comes long before awakeness.

Your head aches. You feel as shriveled and puckered as you were laying in the bath tub, soaked but thirsty, letting water steadily drip between your paralyzed, parted lips for so long yesterday. Your eyelids are sandpaper, but they’ve not opened yet.

Minutes tick by—perhaps another hour—and you attempt to remember what’s happening or happened.

Two people died. Gone. Brought back in the belly of the same plane you arrived home in, they are now lost, lost somewhere dark like this, lost like you are for so long as you can stand to keep your sore eyes closed.

Well…you are home but not home all at once.

You’re in a bed, that’s clear, but the pillow isn’t your own. The scent is off. Heavy. Musky. Not unpleasant. Somehow still familiar.

You tick through snapshots of sullen faces trying to remember.

Over you lies a soft, thick blanket. Again not yours. Again pleasing. It has heft. It comforts without constraint.

The hardest sensation to figure out is your hands.

They are…sticky and weighted. You’ve sweat and clammed up upon yourself. Your hands are not clasped in each other. Why the feeling then?

It’s cold—or cool, rather—but not beneath the blanket. The contrast to the battlefield’s heat yesterday is stark though no less repressive. The external pressures of fighting have turned inward, pushing your emotions to the brink. Your won the fight, and after, you lost the war with yourself.

You remember losing that war alone, so what are you holding?

Finally, you look.

There’s someone else in this foreign bed, one of the faces from the sorrowful slideshow behind your eyes.

Steve Rogers sleeps beside you, recognizable only by his size and his crown of golden hair because his head is bent, his hands encasing yours. He’s pressed himself to the bundle of fists between you.

The numbness has yet to lift. That’s why it all reeks of distance and projected celluloid. Yesterday happened but only in that far away world playing on the back of your skull. All you can process as real is that he’s right there and you are right here, simultaneously.

You try harder.

You try to flood color and sound onto the memories until they come closer.

The mission, the deaths, the flailing sense of loss, the unending bewilderment of “what do I do now?”: they become…undeniably tangible. They happened, and they happened to you. You heard the captain promise to stay with you. You heard him…

He called you ‘sweetheart.’

That’s the first thought that stirs something soft among the sharp recollections. That’s when existence returns.

Rogers came to your room. He wouldn’t leave until you were safe. He took care of you, and he called you ‘sweetheart.’ In your months of working with the Avengers, the captain has never once casually assigned an endearment. He says ‘ma’am’ more often than not and barely has nicknames for the teammates he’s worked with for a decade. 

Everyone is Agent, Sir, or Miss. Your last name has always been enough.

You were none of those things last night. You survived a horrid battle, a crippling loss, and a solitude which almost drowned you; it’s silly to admit how he heals your wounds with one simple word.

Sweetheart. A warm cocoa hug to your chest. A gentle embrace. A guidance back toward the light.

Maybe he’ll never say it again. Maybe he meant nothing by it. He only tried to help you. He only wanted you to feel better. Since no one else was around, it’s an easy assumption that Steve simply—

Rogers.

He’s Captain Rogers to you. A coworker. A teammate. That’s all.

It’s difficult to even call him a friend because the man is so professional, so shy.

That shy professional probably saw you naked last night. Whoops.

You shimmy deeper under your covers, tilting your gaze down to the shirt and shorts Rogers dressed you in—his shirt and shorts—but those movements stir the man with your hands.

In a split second, you clamp your eyes shut again and wait in the dark, fighting not to twitch at the dry-sand prickle.

He shifts with a quiet scratching of the sheets, and he sighs, the hot air grazing your knuckles.

One traitorous eye gives a curious peek.

Rogers’s head cranes back to show his sleepy smirk.

“Morning,” he rasps, blinking slowly. He ducks away again to yawn, his face stretching to life, before softly continuing. “How you feeling? Can I getcha anything?”

You tuck your lip under and say nothing. Words have left you.

After allowing the pause, Rogers lets go of your hands, cold flooding your damp skin.

“I’ll get us some water then.”

He doesn’t rumple your blanket. He doesn’t hold eye contact. He just dutifully rolls out of his bed and gets two glasses.

The paralysis is making you quake slightly. What do you say? Will he take you out of the field for this? If not already, will he bench you from how you act next? How will you act next?

He leans a knee onto the still-warm spot he abandoned and tsks.

“Come on. Couple of sips and I’ll leave you alone. Sleep all day if you want, but first—“ He inches the offered water closer.

You rake your eyes up his arm until meeting baby blues.

“Do you mean—“

Rogers’s phone rings. “Shoot, sorry. One second.” He plunks both cups down on his bedside table and answers quickly. “Yeah, Sam, I—no, no run today, I think… Seen her? Um, yeah, she’s…she was—“ glancing back at you over his shoulder, he pulls his hand over his mouth in thought “—I’ll look in…okay, sure thing. Talk later.”

You’re offered another smile and chance at water. “Where were we?”

“So this is where you go to be—“

The failed observation echos in the garage while Captain Rogers kneels by his bike (one of half a dozen). You can’t say ‘alone’ since you’re here, too, so you awkwardly kick your feet over the edge of the steel table he told you to sit on.

Captain America is important enough to be assigned one of the coveted, private garages along one side of the jet hangar, and he assured you, no one bothers him as soon as he closes that door. Where else was he supposed to take you? It’s hot outside, just like yesterday, your room is still trashed, and his room is not exactly neutral territory.

Rogers simply smiles, ticking his head to one side. “Hand me that socket wrench?”

Quick as a rabbit, you hop down, and suddenly, as his fingers drag the cool metal handle from yours, you get it. You forgot all about everything for a split second.

“Thanks, sweetheart,” he whispers, smile still gentle, eyes still brilliant blue.

Your insides swoop more than the mid-air jump from your perch. You tuck your lip in your teeth to stifle the glow threatening to shine out. It feels wrong. You can’t be happy today. You shouldn’t. It’s not right.

Right?

Twice. Twice now he’s slipped. Maybe. Yesterday is mostly a blur. It’s hard to imagine he means to say that. It’s not like the captain to be kind. Well, of course Steve is kind, but in a professional way, a distant way. Instead, this is a tender sort of kind, tenderness like holding onto your hands while you sleep.

He’s watching your every reaction, probably to make sure you don’t fall apart again, probably to make sure you don’t shut down entirely, but you’ve a new focus: him.

“Help me?” Rogers asks, tongue swiping out, nervous. “If you want,” he adds with a shrug.

You shrug, too, but sit on the floor next to him.

He exudes unending patience, explaining the basics of what he’s working on, mentioning nothing when you clearly zone out. You lose whole minutes to either staring at him or staring at nothing. More flashes of yesterday overtake your vision from time to time, even though your eyes are open.

“Should have taken you to the infirmary,” he mutters as you shake off your latest blip.

You drop the tool dangling in your limp hand, and despite knowing there’s an object falling to the concrete floor, you jump violently at the clattering it makes.

You grip at your temples, shielding your face. “Perhaps you should have.”

A warm, steady hand lands on your knee.

“I can finish up here and take you.” He hurries to do something on the bike, and you’re sure he’s about to send you for a psych eval.

That’s the last thing you want. You have to convince him you are fine, better than fine, strong.

You grab for his wrist to get his attention back, but the move makes him twist a cap too hard and thick brown oil comes steaming out all over both of you. It drips from your forearms down and splashes from the drip pan up, the flow quickly tapering off with a thick glug from the pipe.

“Ew, GROSS,” you blurt without thinking. You resist the urge to shake it off. No need to cover more of the room in your shame. “Sorry, Cap. I—That was—“

“No, no.” He’s just laughing, thank goodness. “My fault. Was gonna change that anyway…in a couple months. You alright?” He waits for a nod. “Let’s get this mess off at the sink, yeah?”

Rogers carefully points to the corner. You maneuver onto your feet and alternate raising and lowering your arms, thick rivulets threatening to paint the floor if you let the oil run too far in one direction.

“Wipe what you can off with the towels first.”

You sort of knock the roll over and nudge it across the counter. A strategic elbow turns up the tap and depresses the soap dispenser.

“‘Steve’ is fine,” he says as he massages lather over your palms, “by the way.”

You’re damn right Steve is fine.

Your breath catches while he continues to work the oil off your skin, avoiding eye contact.

After a minute or so, rubbing around and down your fingers, specifically scrubbing along your nails, he clears his throat.

“I’m glad it wasn’t you—“ Steve concentrates on circling each knuckle “—horrible as that sounds.”

You take control of the hand helping you, applying pressure as you feel a small tremor rattle the fine bones, unable to see the clear truth of his words beneath righteously long lashes.

He lets you wash him for a while, rubbing between his fingers, scrubbing along his nails, lathering over his palms.

His voice is so quiet, a low breeze from the distant, retractable ceiling letting in the world.

“Not supposed to say that,” he rumbles, inches away at most, “diminishing as it is to the dead.” Steve halts you and slides his hands up your forearms. “But that’s the point, yeah?” He looks up finally. “Focus on the living…”

You’re frozen, hanging on every word you’re convinced he can’t be saying.

“Is that a quest—“

Steve’s long lashes descend to narrow his path, supple lips grazing yours for the briefest moment before a curt “no.” He moves in for a proper kiss then, head tilting to take full advantage of your shock. A new shock. A different kind of shock from the one you’ve barely recovered from since…

Twenty-four hours. Horror. Sweetheart. Limbo. Sweetheart. Bliss.

He’s right. The heat of him signals life and passion, desperation and spirit for the best kind of danger: a leap of faith from the heart.

A sweet heart.

It’s at this shocking and romantic turn that you realize, you’d follow him anywhere, just as he’s followed you onto a doomed battlefield, into your chaotic mind, into a cold and lonely shower. You had nothing but doubt; he offered nothing but hope.

Your weight leans into the clutch of devoted sinew and reverent tendons. Steve takes that as a welcome encouragement.

One day it might be him or it might be you, and as difficult and painful as that would be, it helps to focus on who is still here. Both of you. Together. Now.

He’s lavish and indulgent, intense because his wet hands can’t pull you closer. His tenderness and decency saturate every atom of connection between you. Each generous touch conveys something undying and pure.

Your hold on each other slips in the running tap when Steve get a little greedy, his body pinning yours to the rim of the sink.

Immediately, he apologizes, retracting into a shell of chivalry and sympathy.

You swallow to compose yourself, minimal effect achieved.

After a fair few thundering heartbeats pulse past you ears, you manage, “that’s not what I thought would happen today.”

The baby blue irises are the picture of horror. “Bad? No?”

Steve steps back only once before you follow.

“Why me?” you counter softly.

He huffs in his infinite patience with you and rolls his eyes in disappointment with himself. Steve hangs his head, propping his arm on either edge of counter nearest him. A dark, bitter chuckle escapes before he finally confesses.

“Because every other day I feel very little, but with you, I want so much more.”

Is this how you looked to him yesterday? A raw wound begging for help in blinding light? Did he have this fear that he couldn’t offer enough?

It is enough though. It has to be enough to try for what you want, to live even in kindness and duty. He’s taken a step, and so can you.

You smile, close the remaining distance, and whisper one word into Steve’s waiting mouth.

Promise—

Question or statement, it doesn’t matter, or perhaps, you’ll figure it out on any other day. Today it simply means you're both alive.

[Main Masterlist; Light Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

A/N: Hope this turned out okay and that you enjoyed the fluff! If not, don't worry. I've got a smutty lifeguard!Steve one-shot in the works, too!! Tags will be in a reblog since they've been so wonky lately.

[ronearoundlightly]

He Needs the Calories

It's just silly Steve Rogers fluff based on my favorite joke this holiday...

Summary: Steve has his own tradition the night before the Fourth.

Entirely, utterly stupid, and I don't care because it made me smile. Enjoy! WC ~1k

"What the hell is all this?" you screech at Steve, finding an eleventh gallon bag of cookies tucked in a basket at the bottom of the pantry. "Why do you have a metric ton of...what? Sugar cookies? Cutouts, snickerdoodles, thumbprints? My god, what are you doing? Running your own bake sale?"

Steve's eyes shift guiltily from where you stand to the fridge and back.

You drop the bag of peanut butter chocolate chip treats and step backward to open the french doors.

"What's in here, Steve?"

"Nothing," he rushes.

"What's in the fridge, Steve?!"

He jumps to push the door shut before you can peak in. "It's not a big deal, ok? You don't wanna see."

This is starting to feel like the end of the movie Seven. What's in the cold box?! What's in the box, man?

Steve might be clearly ashamed and hoping you give up, but he uses no force to stop you. His bright blue eyes simply plead for your understanding.

Crammed into the tallest shelf are five--count 'em, five giant pitchers of...milk.

It's not store containers though; they're the type you make your own drinks in.

"Wha...."

You look at Steve, confused.

"It's a joke," he starts to explain.

"Are you taking a milk bath for your supple skin?" you snip.

"No. In the compound," Steve tsks back. "You know, like Santa. Ha-ha, leave out milk and cookies for the patron saint of Independence Day, ha-ha...or whatever."

He looks at his feet.

"So they give you the milk and cookies on the Third."

"I--uh--I wait until the compound closes and people go home, and then I collect the stuff from all the little break rooms and waiting areas. Employees' children come in to specifically to set up the plates."

He rolls his hands around as if that settles things.

"It's cute."

"So you bag up hundreds of cookies from fifty rooms in the building, pour glass after glass of milk into pitchers, and then hoard them like the freaking Cookie Monster in the apartment...You know you don't have to consume all of this, right?"

Steve balks at the mere suggestion. He's appalled.

How. Dare.

"What? I'm not gonna throw them away. That's such a waste! The kids would be so disappointed."

"Then you share them, Steve. You put them somewhere the adults can help you finish them off. You do not eat twenty-five pounds of butter and sugar and flour in one single day."

He shrugs, defiant in his plucking of one full gallon bag back from the pantry and reaching past you for a pitcher.

"I'll run a little extra," he mutters with a pouting lip. "I need the calories."

That's the last, laughable thing the big guy says before shutting himself in a room, snacks in hand.

Well, you think, it's oddly fitting that the patron saint of America is a glutton.

A/N: Look. I warned you it was stupid. I also warned you that I did not care BWAHAHAHA

Happy Birthday, Steebie 😘

🍪🥛🍪

[ronearoundlightly]

Drabble Birthday Ask!

Reader finally 'catches' the thing Steve's been hiding... it's that he's tired. He's tired, and he thinks it's non-inspiring or embarrassing or a burden, and he has been acting weird to cover for that.

Steeeeeeb!!!! Yes of course some TLC for Stevie. Excellent. Would recommend. 11 out of 10. Always give him the peace and safety! (Don't hate me though; it's just a bit of established relationship fluff!)

I am uncharacteristically skipping the part where you confront Steve about this. Yes, that's right. Remain calm. Ro has passed up the opportunity to write an argument. Hold your applause. WC idk but probably 2k or less (bit of a surprise at the end, too 🤭)

It's so easy.

It's just so damn easy to lose track, to keep going, to repeat. One more conversation. One more chore. One more hour. One more day. One more.

More. Constantly more.

Steve is very good at giving more. He is consistent, constant, incessant, but you can see now that despite his unending strength, your husband can't hide that drawn, fragile look behind his eyes any longer.

Sometimes, that's life.

"Actually, scratch that shit," Tony says with a flagrant point to your face as you chat. "Life is always like that. I know what Big Guy needs, don't you worry. Consider it sorted."

This speed-date style convo tumbles through a ten-second-savoring of tea. You got one cryptic sentence about 'how you're doing' in before Tony perfectly translates your meaning.

For once, more is unnecessary. He knows.

Stark, however, doesn't even have a moment to finish the turn up of his lips in a smile before his watch is pinged.

His eyes focus to the inside of his glasses. "Go for the World's Most Fashionable Hero," he deadpans, wandering off with his mug clasped like a lifeline in his hands.

Yeah, you know that feeling. Wit's End must be as contagious as pinkeye 'round these parts.

Steve's been silent for the last hour of the car ride. He checks the address. He checks the map. He checks the road. That's it.

Music he usually hates has been playing for fifty-one minutes and counting. No reaction.

Clearly, you were right to ask Stark for help.

The gravel drive up to the cabin is bumpy, and Steve apologizes for having to go so slowly.

"Almost there. I think it's--yeah, there. Okay, we're here." Your husband flips the key back and out of the ignition, a stunted sigh forcing it's way past his tight shoulders, immediately opening the door and heading for the trunk. "I'll get the bags. You get the--"

"Steve? Will you come with me for a sec?"

He looks at you--really sets his eyes on you--for the first time since loading the car.

"What's wrong?"

You crunch up to the short staircase to the long porch. "Just come up here, please."

It takes another wave of your hand in encouragement before Steve abandons the small duffels and totes. He's not used to leaving a man behind. He's got a mission. He's supposed to finish the job. Always one more thing.

More. Constantly more. That's Steve's life, and he does it without complaint. Never, ever complaining, even when he should.

His heavy, tired feet fall hollowly on the wood.

"We're starting now," you chirp, excited to surprise him.

Steve tips his bodyweight to lean on the banister, crossing his ankles before crossing his arms, his head down while sneaking a squint-and-blink to try and bounce his energy back.

"Sure, what's first on the list?"

"Oh, no," you correct. "The list is mine. Those are my activities for the weekend. You are here."

His brow furrows. "What? You're gonna--"

"Steve." You gently hold onto his arms. "I mean, you have nothing to do. Not a single thing. And I don't care where you do it, but you will be doing nothing all weekend. Sleep in the bed, on the couch, on the dingy over there, hell, right here on the porch swing. It doesn't matter. It's your rest, but you must rest."

"What about--"

"Nope."

"Or if--"

"Uh-uh, definitely not."

Steve looks slightly panicked. "Dinner?" he tries in a last-ditch effort to be useful every minute of every day.

"There is a bag of stuff that I will be dumping into a crockpot and walking away from, so, no, you can't do that either."

He's still not sure, eyes glassy and flickering about.

"There's fruit for breakfast, veggies and dip for snacks, and we don't have to even turn on the stove unless we want to. Now--" you release him "--I'm putting stuff away and--"

Steve opens his mouth to argue.

"--and not one word out of you. Not one, sweets. Go. Be free. Sleep. Stare at the water, or a wall, or the ceiling for all I care, but you have nothing else to do today. Okay?"

His eye twitches, a half-hearted glare melting into a challenge in his tight jaw.

"Okay???" you prod.

His hands fling out in defeat. "You told me not to say a word," he whines, automatically making his way back down the stairs.

"No bags," you scold.

He whips around, almost muttering.

"No bags." You rush down and past him toward the car. "And I will bring you looser clothes to sleep in."

"You--"

"AH!"

"But--"

"What did I just say, Rogers?"

Now he just looks petulant, a familiar mood in your household.

You stubbornly point to the cabin. "Go on. Git!"

He watches you bring in the mindfully-light bags you packed up for the trip, pouting and scowling in equal measure.

Steve has to show off at least once by snatching up a bit of potato that rolled across the counter in the transfer of dinner.

Instead of thanking him, you shove a t-shirt and thin sweats at his chest.

He fakes an oof of surprise and traps you for a quick kiss before going to change. He does leave you alone for the rest of setting up.

Steve is dead asleep on the deep, two-seater porch swing when you head to the little work shed, his knees bent so he faces in, his forehead buried in cushion to block out daylight, already snoring softly.

You have to hold your hands to your chest so as not to touch him. Tears of joy prick your eyes seeing him relax so quickly.

Steve can follow orders when he wants to, you think with a smile.

In the garden shed, Pepper has all the cool crafting things, and you putz around with some wood pieces and paints for a couple of hours. You walk the perimeter of the cabin to find some nice wildflowers for a table centerpiece, mixing delicate stems of blue buds with expansive wisps of white and little pops of yellow. You attempt to figure out the dingy but decide against going on the water alone yet. Maybe tomorrow.

At no point does Steve move.

When you walk up to the house, fist full of flowers, he's out cold, softly swaying in the breeze as the gusts pick up in the afternoon.

You snack and listen to music in your headphones, doze in the bed after the sun warmed you a little too much, and then wake to the smell of stew.

The beep of the crockpot wakes him.

Bedhead and pillow mishmarks on his cheek look great on Steve Rogers.

Without argument, he washes his hands and sits at the reclaimed wood table.

Steve says only two things:

"Thank you" when you set a large bowl in front of him, and "can you pass the salt?" after he taste-tests the meal.

He reads a book until falling asleep for the night with you, curled with his knees bent again.

He does well.

He keeps resting, multiple times with his book open on his chest, barely to halfway after hours and hours of holding on to the browning paperback pages.

He rests in the bed. He rests on the couch. He rests (again) on the porch swing. Finally, he rests in your lap while you both float on the lake in the dingy.

He rests with you by his side. He rests with you in his arms. He rests even when you leave to do something else. It's exactly what you wanted, what he needed, and how it should be.

Steve mumbles a fair few things, but the most important thing is that none of it is important enough to articulate. He doesn't have to talk. He doesn't have to be heard. He doesn't have to be understood.

He only has to rest, and he's following orders well. He's completing his mission.

It is truly fascinating how close you can feel without words--okay, so you two aren't completely non-verbal for the weekend, but there are no long conversations. After being married for a while, those are not entirely necessary. You know each other too well for all that; Steve simply feels the stigma of being weak and tired from his youth.

He holds himself to a different, impossible standard. He thinks of it as pushing the limits of his serum, as offering everything he has to others, as respecting those he cares for by shouldering burdens. You think it's stupid.

It is the only stupid thing Steve Rogers does.

Now, after days of resting, you're pretty sure Steve knows he was being stupid.

You hope he knows he can ask for help or a break whenever he wants, before he needs it this badly.

To your great delight, Steve gathers up his things that were left around the house, but he leaves the actual packing to you. This is very helpful in keeping the final surprise.

He's watching the water, sitting up in the porch swing for once with an arm thrown over the back, an easy, calm smile stretched across his face, the first you've seen in months if you're being honest.

Steve gestures for you to join him, but you bite your lip and check the gravel drive.

Exactly on schedule, an engine revs and wheels crackle over the gravel.

You wink at your husband just as excited shouts ring out from Tony's fancy car.

"Papa! Papa! Look what Morgan and I found at the beach!"

"I made you a seashell necklace, Momma. You, too, Pops."

Your children race up the porch steps and jump into the space below Steve's arm.

His smile is still easy, but perhaps a little more excited than calm.

More. Constantly more.

But it's not all tiring...

[Main Masterlist; Light Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

@supraveng @1950schick @patzammit @whiskeytangofoxtrot555

@yiiiikesmish @ashesofblackroses @jaqui-has-a-conspiracy-theory

@brandycranby @buckysprettybaby @ellethespaceunicorn

@late-to-the-party-81 @bigtreefest @mistressmkay

@rogersbarber @bucky-fricking-barnes-reads @fallinallinmendes

[ronearoundlightly]

Lease

best-friend!roommate!reader x Steve Rogers

*This was a totally random and spontaneous idea. Not edited. Light language (so we can get *the joke*), pining, light angst, hurt/comfort, and fluff. This work is for all ages! WC ~2k

Sam Wilson introduces you. Both your parents were veterans and active at the VA, so you practically grew up there.

At first, you’re reserved, a little formal, but very nice. Oddly enough, Steve just likes that you don’t hound him with questions about his military service and how it was different based on the decade, etc. You are just…around to listen.

He finds himself filling any (comfortable) silence between you with stories. Stupid things. Things that don’t have to do with the VA or his past or even his present, which is entirely work as Captain America.

Steve gets to a point where he is itching to live off of Avengers Campus, but he doesn’t want to live alone.

One day he finds you hunched over a laptop and grumbling, “why is everything so fucking expensive?”

A sentiment which, of course, he frowns at.

“Sorry,” you shrug, a look of sincere apology on your distraught face. “I didn’t realize it, but apparently, I’m poor with my measly three-thousand-dollar-a-month budget for an apartment. Now I have to find a roommate, and—“ you start wagging a finger at him sarcastically “—I don’t know if you’ve noticed there’re some real weirdos out there. It’ll take me longer to find a safe, stable roomie than it takes to—“

“I can move in with you.”

Steve almost gasps at how fast the words fly out of his mouth.

“Well, not ‘move in’ to your current place. I mean. I can—I would be willing to live with you. Sorry! That sounds bad. You’re not bad. I meant…you know, anytime you want to chime in and stop me would be helpful.”

You remain silent and smirking.

“Right. Okay. So…think about it? Or not, that’s fine.”

“Let’s talk figures, Rogers. The square-footage just doubled, and I need to rework the budget.”

Moving in is shockingly uneventful. You’re easy to get along with, when not suddenly up on your high horse about something, and Steve is easy to get along with under the same circumstances. You push his militant rigidity to the brink on purpose, but never too far.

Things sit out in the wrong place, but it’s never dirty. Stuff doesn’t always get returned promptly, but if he asks, you’re on it.

There are two bathrooms, thank mercy.

He has random and odd hours. You work nine to five, mostly. It’s the perfect level of independence without loneliness for Steve.

Sam and Natasha stop by regularly or ask you both out for drinks or to fun, new places.

One time, when Nat is ribbing Steve to go talk to a cute girl ordering at the bar, he panics and takes your hand in his on the tabletop.

“How can I do that when my date is right here?” he grits playfully through his pearly white teeth. “Leave it alone.”

Each word is punctuated by a shift forward and a slight tilt of his head.

Natasha is unamused and instantly grabs your other hand (which was holding your drink) to pull you toward the dance floor.

It’s awkward for multiple reasons. You’d pay a whole month’s rent to know what Sam and Steve talked about after you left.

Sam takes a different approach, luring—or attempting to lure—Steve into setting up just one dating profile online.

“You don’t have to put photos,” Sam assures, “and you can stick with your first name only. I swear to you, man, this’ll be good for you. Get you out there more. Help me out here, Tagalong!”

He turns to you for support. To be fair, you did quite literally tag along with your parents for years to the VA, and it stuck. Why it sticks as a grown-ass adult? You’ll never know. You just don’t mind Sam Wilson saying it because he means well and never uses it in public.

“Uh, nooooo.”

Sam’s face falls. “What?”

You look at Steve and grimace, clicking your tongue. “He’s not ready for that,” you conclude.

Steve jumps out of the chair, arms wide with victory.

“THAT’S WHAT I’VE BEEN SAYING!”

“I know you told her to say that,” Sam shouts back.

“Did not,” Steve barks.

“He did not.” You lean against your bedroom doorframe. “I just think it’s obvious.”

That makes Steve deflate a little. “Wait, but…I’m not that bad.”

“Oh gosh,” you fake with a huge smile, “look at the time! Gotta be off to bed…”

The men keep fighting albeit muffled from your side of the wall. The only part you can make out before giving them privacy is Sam, whining, “but you actually like bubble baths and walks on the beach, dude. You’re gonna be money on there.”

“Hey, why do you not, ya know, date?”

You look up from your breakfast, stunned because that came out of nowhere. You’ve lived together over six months now, and Steve hasn’t asked for one iota of personal—well, romantically personal—information.

Twiddling your fork around, you think.

“I always imagine what my parents would think of him, any guy I’ve ever considered being with longterm, and…I was just never proud to say ‘here, here’s the one,’ I guess.”

Your parents have been gone for years. You value their opinion anyway.

“Mhm,” Steve hums, “the one?”

You take a bite of food, straightening your back, tossing a dismissive hand in the air. “Yeah, if you believe in that sort of thing.”

He’s quiet for a while.

“So you’re waiting for the right partner?” Steve finally mutters, and he watches your noncommittal gesturing intently.

That was a ‘yes.’

Natasha knows. Sam knows. Steve suspects but won’t admit to anything. You are kind and unreadable.

You’ve always been kind, so there’s no discernible difference to signal you have feelings for him in return. He can’t bring himself to be anything less than a gentleman at home and makes absolutely no moves to find out.

He stays out in the living room a lot more, all hours, hoping you’ll mention staying in for a movie, praying you’ll be tired enough to fall asleep on his lap on the couch.

He’s in way too deep.

What Steve suspects is that it would be too awkward to start anything while living together, but he doesn’t want to leave you in the lurch for rent or a roommate. He also desperately doesn’t want to move out. The status quo is comfortable.

He loves being comfortable with you.

The stress of not telling you, while needing to make some sort of arrangements should telling you blow up in his face, starts to wear on him.

Steve is a pro at compartmentalizing his life, so it’s when he’s stuck at the apartment without any missions, a handful of meetings, and a team that all have lives for two long months that he cracks…in the least attractive way.

He’s messed up his sleep schedule with worry and playing innocent, and out of the not-so-blue, a horrible, vivid nightmare hits him. Steve isn’t even on the mattress anymore by the time he figures out there wasn’t carpet like this in Germany and the desk chair he grips is not a motorcycle.

“Rogers,” he hears. “Rogers, can you look at me?”

The dark room is somehow hollow and stifling all at once. His head turns slower than his brain tells it to.

Steve blinks.

“Do you know where you are?”

“Hey, sweets,” he husks from a dry throat. “What…”

“Can you tell me where this is?” You step closer and pry one of his hands off the mesh to cradle in yours. “Where are we, Rogers?”

“Home.” He swallows. “Our home.”

Your smile doesn’t reach your eyes, but you nod like he’s done well.

“Okay, Steve, I’m going to get you some water. If you want—“ your fingers smooth over the back of his hand, nudging the other to release the chair “—you can sit on the bed.”

You don’t leave. You don’t even get up from the floor.

He doesn’t notice he’s clutching your hands, shaking slightly until long seconds go by.

“Yeah. Okay.” Steve lets go, otherwise unmoving, contemplating how he ever thought the semi-rough industrial carpet felt the same as mud.

You carefully hand him the water and rub his back, using your nails to trace invisible patterns. He can’t remember what he was so scared of a minute ago. He only knows he’s sweating that empty kind of confused.

“What’s that supposed to do?” he asks absently.

You shrug. “Eh. Back scratches just feel good.”

Steve’s mind remains blank as he sips his water.

: We need to renew the lease soon. Like this week.

Steve has stalled as long as humanly possible; he is officially not being a gentleman now. He is a coward.

: Talk about it when I get home?

: Could you at least tell me if this is a hard NO on staying here or just some concerns/questions? : I don’t get why you’re being like this.

Steve gets it, but he hates it.

: I’ll be back tonight. Should I pick up food?

: ffs : Fine. Whatever you want.

Steve also hates when you’re mad at him…which has been happening more and more.

He’s been distant, he refuses to let Sam or Nat come around for fear they’ll play match-maker and ruin the whole thing, and he is about to ruin the whole thing anyway.

Because he is not smooth. Because he is not prepared. Because he’s built up this perfect and amazing, sweep-you-off-your-feet moment.

And he bungles it.

“Out with it,” you command, haughtily yanking your portion of food from the countertop beside him, heading for the dinette.

“I want to be with you,” he blurts.

“Thank god,” you sigh, settling in your spot. “So we’ll go down to the office and sign in the morning. I don’t want there to be an issue if you’re off to wherever for who-the-hell-knows how long on the date the thing expires.”

“No, I…” but Steve’s voice is too quiet.

“There’s only a tiny window where they’re open before I have to head to work, so let me physically sign first, right? Then I gotta go.”

“Sure,” he slurs.

“Steve?” You turn to see him staring down at his food. He’s still across the room. “Are you okay?”

“I said I—I meant that—“ he huffs out his breath and taps his fist on the counter “—I meant that I’m an idiot,” he finishes softly.

Approaching with that beautiful, open-hearted kindness that haunts his days and soothes his night, you cross to him, scratching his back just the way he’s grown to crave.

“Think you might be hangry,” you chuckle.

He cannot do this. Steve is hanging on by a thread until the graze of your hand slides down his forearm to take his plate, and he spins.

He’s thought about kissing you so many times, he mapped out the angles he’d have to hold himself at, how far he needs to lean to get to you, the care to take wrangling in his strength and sheer excitement.

Steve Rogers is good at planning, at least, this part.

Gentle pecks of his plush lips to yours leave gaps in contact that let you whimper, and he fears you stopping him. He presses, wrapping his arms around you and molding your bodies together. The linoleum of the kitchen floor makes sticky sounds beneath your shuffling feet, squeaking once you hit the adjacent wall.

The force of that knocks your frozen arms into his chest, and painfully, Steve relents to step away, but not far. He bites his bottom lip and tastes the balm from yours, his head tilted in shame but fiery eyes watching you from beneath long lashes.

“Oh,” you breathe out. “Oh…you meant…”

Steve’s tongue darts out hungrily.

“Yeah.”

[Main Masterlist; Light Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

They're soooo cute!!!!!!

[ronearoundlightly]

The Stark Legacy (30)

Tony Stark's Daughter (OC) x Bucky Barnes epic slow burn

Furnace, part of Book III: Power (see previous or series)

Summary: When Tony tries to put Cloak in danger, Lil'Sam steps in, giving her father more to worry about. Later, Samantha realizes she's developed a crush on someone she shouldn't--her friend, Bucky.

Warnings for budding romantic attraction and feelings of insecurity about them. Mild language. Rated Teen/15+ ONLY. WC 4.2k

CHAPTER THIRTY—August-September 2039

Sam rubbed her eyes furiously. When she slept, she dreamt of staring at even more screens. It was hard to know when she really was awake and working.

Bruce usually blurted out the next question on his lengthy list for Sam to work out an answer to while he continued down the line. Today focused entirely on a problem the team had toyed with for months, but she didn’t know why it was so urgent now. No one told her what was going on…not on purpose, at least, and after months of pushing to be heard and included, to no avail, Sam’s mental investment whittled down to the size of pea. That tiny lump still kept her from sleeping well anyway. 

Sam yawned while Banner mumbled something under his breath before turning to her.

“I’m sending you a mock up for a containment casing. Run diagnostics for allowing sensory control of the Space Stone, will you?”

“No prob, Bob,” Sam said flatly, nearly cross-eyed from fatigue. She adjusted a few parameters in the model before getting up to stretch. “‘Bout time for a pick-me-up, I think.”

She didn’t get the chance to leave the lab.

An alert sounded on Bruce’s console, prompting the doctor to heatedly warn someone over comms that “we aren’t ready yet.” Whoever it was didn’t listen, and after removing his glasses, Banner’s frustrated pinch of the bridge of his nose told her it was her father. By now Sam recognized this as the universal symbol for: No, Tony, please don’t. Bruce pinched his nose often.

Tony burst through the double doors, ordering the men who followed him to clear the center of the room. “The idea is to not blow up the room, but no promises,” he shrugged. He pointed to several tables. “Goes, goes, be careful with that one—”

“It’s untested, Tony.” Bruce stood, shooing a lackey away from snatching the stool he sat on.

Tony stayed facing the door. “Doesn’t matter. Time’s up and we need to see what we are up against.”

“What’s happening?” Sam’s station was pulled over to a far corner. Unsurprisingly, Tony didn’t answer her.

Tyrone walked in, wearing one of the minimal space suits used for travel to the orbiting station. Tony clapped him on the shoulder.

“Good—” Tony held on to the helmet while Ty adjusted a glove “—they’ll be in with it shortly.”

Bruce stepped forward. “If the signal just went off that a ship is outside of the solar system, we have enough time to practice this.”

“Not really,” Tony snapped, “if that’s the main ship of Annihilus, we need to know right now and keep it from getting to Earth. If it’s a scout ship, we need to keep the fleet from getting bigger.”

Sam tried to get close to Ty. “You’re teleporting to space? Have you ever done that before?”

Ty’s dark eyes lowered to fiddle with a clasp.

Tandy raced in, bright red in fury. “Like hell you’re going, Ty.”

Sam turned to Dee. “Have you ever given him enough energy for that?”

“They don’t want me to do it,” Dee choked back, “they want him to use that thing.”

A man and woman carried in a heavily armored trunk. Sam knew what lay inside.

She gripped Ty’s arm. “You can’t touch that thing,” she warned. “Even without direct contact, the radiation exchange damages homosapien tissue, particularly blood vessels.” She turned to her father. “He can’t touch that, Tony.”

“Kid, this is not a negotiation. Cloak here is an Avenger in all but name—that’s next month, right?—so he knows the risk.”

“You can’t expose him to that without testing it,” Sam insisted.

“Sit back down, or leave,” Tony spat back. “This has nothing to do with you.”

Ty interrupted. “Actually, sir, so far I’ve only used Lightforce from Dee—Dagger…sir.”

“I’ve heard you like cereal, too,” Tony added, spinning a finger to speed up the pace of the two charged with the heavy trunk.

“—and he won’t just have a radiation burn from the damn stone. He could die.” Tandy stepped between Tyrone and Tony for good measure. One good grip of Tony without his armor and Dee could have him on his ass.

“Well, I hope not,” Tony said calmly, “but he’s a big boy. Energy is energy, and he’s gonna need a boatload. Move, Black Swan.”

The agents finished the security protocols, opening the trunk to reveal a glorious flash of blue light. Tucked in lead lining sat the Space Stone, a raw ingot of power from the Big Bang itself.

Sam rounded on Tony once again. “You want the info so bad, get it yourself. But Ty isn’t doing random interstellar teleport without practice.”

Tony looked at Tyrone, reaching around Dee to hand the helmet over. “He’s got the coordinates where the ship pinged.”

“Sam, you said it yourself,” Bruce added, “if an apparatus can aid in controlling the energy—”

“We aren’t even sure it’s the right type of energy,” Sam screamed, her anger rising in time with Tandy’s.

Ty coughed for attention. “I want to help, but that distance is going to take a lot out of me. I’m not gonna drain Dee to—”

“No,” Sam and Dee screeched in unison. Fists white with rage as she glared at Tony Stark, Tandy concentrated her power towards her fingers, but before the girl could spray the room with daggers, Sam grabbed her arm, syphoning the Lightforce into herself. 

The light rippled and magnified beneath her skin until a hum was audible across the whole room. “You want your recon so bad,” Sam asked, “you got it.”

Sam smacked her hand down across Tyrone’s forearm, and the two disappeared in an eerie cloud of inky thick fog.

One-hundred and four seconds later, the pair reappeared in the midst of an explosion of yelling between Tony, Bruce, and Tandy. Sam’s frozen body clanked onto the floor. Ty detached his helmet, mid-apology. 

“I didn’t know she was doing it,” he murmured, shaking.

As Tony stood, terror blocking any movement he made, Bruce flung himself forward to check Samantha. Tandy moved Ty away to comfort him, watching the rest intently.

Frostbite receded as the pink returned to Sam’s skin, and in a lengthy, frightful gasp that howled through the room, she started to breath again.

Hoarse still, Sam sat up to look at Ty. “You saw it, right?”

“Yeah,” Ty breathed, “I saw them.”

“Nevermind, I fixed it now,” Sam burst at Tony while rushing away.

He followed, pissed. “Oh, you fixed it? And we’re supposed to take your teenage word for it?” The reverberation in the open Wakandan halls echoed their angry words.

Sam spun around. “Then don’t take my word for it. Take all that oh-so-precious Earth-saving time to check my math. You can help me with my homework.” He felt spit hit his neck Sam was so close. “I’d be so grateful!” She mocked him with a bow.

“You don’t think I’m doing all this for you, so you can be safe here? Pay attention, Sam, I’m afraid of what being around me would do to you.” Tony grabbed her arm, clutching the delicate connection with his daughter. “People hunt me down. They torture. They kidnap. They kill.”

“You’re hurting me.”

“I just want you to—” He heard it again. The snap. The bone under his hand collapsed, making the same hollow sound as Thanos’s fingers on Titan.

Sam’s face sank faster than her body. Her sunken cheeks, the deep grey under her flat brown eyes, the almost plastic gloss of her skin. The sickly face of his daughter morphed with a devious grin. The short hair darkened and pulled back from her face, revealing a sharp peak and crazed eyes. The nose pointed above an equally sharp goatee, and there beneath Tony, arm in his hand, kneeled Lemuel Dorcas.

The grin parted. “How’s our girl doing?”

Tony punched the sweat-soaked sheet off in the dark. Another nightmare. One of hundreds to plaque his life. At least this time Sam didn’t become Pepper, he thought. He could never shake Pepper crying while her arm hung mangled, but nowadays Dorcas crept into these dreams more frequently. He knew it wasn’t real.

The evil doctor’s lingering question echoed in Tony’s mind. Our girl. Who was Sam now? Who did she belong to?

She’d laid cold and unmoving on the lab floor, all to prove him reckless and hotheaded.

Four ships. 

Not a scout, the start of a gathering. They were scanning the system. Tony’s longshot chance was to keep Satellite Station cloaking how advanced their planet was and hope the ships passed them by. Earth needed to go dark immediately.

Tony would never tell her, but Sam may actually have saved them by stopping the use of the stone; that was the exact energy signature they needed to avoid Annihilus detecting. For the first time since the Stone War, he was grateful Vision had never been restored to use the Mind Stone. Perhaps that was the only good thing to come out of its destruction in the facility explosion that killed his wife.

He could use more recon on how the ships were scanning and how much they already knew about Earth. However, after the stunt she pulled, Sam wasn’t allowed near Ty, and even if Ty teleported out there again, how long would it take to find answers? Could they even understand what he’d find?

Four hours of sleep, Tony thought, good enough. He dressed and left for the lab.

Your brain goes to strange places when you’re bored. Sam’s fresh appreciation for life without direction framed the sentiment in gaudy, bright gold in her mind. You’re so far down the rabbit hole…

She’d been banned from her “job” since teleporting. Unable to see Tandy and Tyrone while they took on further Avengers’ duties, Sam lived without interaction most days, lonelier than her basement in Wakanda. She was allowed no tech devices either, seeing as she her proficiency was known and highly suspect by Bruce and Tony.

Bucky suggested keeping a journal. He explained over another homemade lunch that he used to keep notebooks while hiding in Romania. “Helps collect my thoughts, practice what I want to say. Sometimes, when I write out my version of what happened in a confusing situation, I can see it from a different perspective,” he’d explained over tomato soup. Sam had offered her grilled cheese sandwich expertise to compliment the meal. Bucky had even let her use her hands to cook them, though she knew he thought it a little unsanitary.

In her lengthy entries in Composition books, Sam wrote directly to Missy, as if her long gone friend could respond to the new dramas of life with Tony Stark. After a while, her thoughts answered her in Missy’s monotone: flat yet sarcastic, and somehow loving, too.

Nothing distracted her from overthinking one very particular thing Sam noticed: Bucky was always around. Not everyday because he’s got shit to do. He went out of his way to get her out of her room. If Wilson were here, he would too, so would Dee and Ty. When Bucky said goodnight, he hugged her tighter than necessary. Didn’t he? 

It wasn’t meant to be anything more than comforting. Right? Couldn’t be. 

Sam ate like an animal and bowled like an old woman. She’d yelled at him, and she made him angry enough to yell at her. So…Can I be trusted to think this out logically? I’ve died twice this year so far.

He’d woken up to stop her and Tony from fighting…after Big Sam saw them in the atrium. Because he protects people. That’s the job. He protects everyone in the building, everyone in the world. That’s it. Bucky simply saved the day, again…and then kissed my head and smelled my hair…

You think, you don’t know that.

He taught her to cook, multiple meals now. He bowled with her. Like a date, but definitely not a date. He…

Does he smile more? Sam swore Bucky smiled more, but he’d been on other dates. He could like one of them. 

But he touched her shoulder or arm when asking what she was up to or how her day was going. He wanted to talk to her. That’s stupid. He did that before, even on the ship to Wakanda, even at the wedding; I’m only noticing now that I’m bored. 

And you smelled him first. 

Sam sighed. Bucky’s scent was a mix of warm linen, citrus soap, and musk…paired with her daddy-issue tears smudged onto his pectoral. Sam acknowledged that was a little perverted, especially since that olfactory memory eclipsed any part of the accompanying arguments she had with Tony, a relationship that drained her entirely. 

Her emptiness refilled with a wholly different feeling, an antsy excitement, an uncertainty, a deep shame. That’s not normal. Right? He’s simply a good hugger. Oh my god, just shut up!

Her brain warred with her now, as it did everyday recently. Nights were the worst. Sam could keep it together when Tony called her Sass. She could block out some of it while working but pushed aside with no other distraction… 

How does anyone get anything done? Hormones are stupid. 

You’re better than this. Buck up—

GODDAMMIT.

Her discomfort radiated to every cell. Sam wished to scream the tightness in her throat loose, blow apart the pressure crushing her chest with an inferno. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Sam couldn’t do it. She avoided the root of the feeling for weeks. She had a relationship with her father, albeit rocky, one of the only things she had ever truly wanted, but Tony alone wasn’t enough. Dee and Ty weren’t enough. 

The guilt of wanting this, however, him in particular, it threatened to suffocate her soul for a greedy child.

Yet still, each little thought haunted her. Bucky Barnes haunted her. 

Tonight in particular, her room became a stifling prison. In the open air of the grounds, in the dark, the rolling chirp of insects harped a symphony of company. At least this was a cool, breezy prison. She was still alone though, and the heat turned over and over in her gut, growing.

The steely blue halo surrounding the moon became an eye, and the dark, wispy shadows of clouds became long, soft hair. It’s not real. She could feel it between her fingers, and the heat grew. Stupid. The low bass of echoing water spoke to her gently, calling Sam from her screen-dreams to food down the hall, and the heat grew. Quit thinking. Her hand met the button of her jeans to push the blaze back, but then the cool metal slid over her fingers as a familiar military jacket. 

You’ve got to be kidding. 

Sam released her hand, almost crying out in frustration, instead letting a few tears fall in trade for silence.

No, she repeated. No, no, no, no. He’s not yours to want. He’s never going to be yours. Let it go now. Let this die now and move on. But how does something fed by absence, fed by nothing real or logical, die? Nothing encouraged this feeling except fantasy and hormones. Sam was smart enough to know that. Intelligence changed nothing. Intelligence killed no emotion, stifled no threatening bursts of flame. Control was a joke. 

Before she could stop, the tears became soft sobs, broken by uncontrolled heaving breaths. The bugs were loud; the ringing in her ears was louder. The reverberation of warring forces inside her grew violent, the yellow hue under her skin guaranteeing an unhappy resolution. Raising her left arm in anticipation, Sam could feel something inside about to snap.

Arms wove around her chest and waist from behind, gripping her sides with a solid clutch. “I’ve got you. It’s ok,” a beloved voice sounded, “you’re alright.” 

Without permission, her body melted and drained of fight. Where the hell did he come from?

Do you even care?

The void left by her sudden loss of heat was sickening. Sam’s tears flew out as the dam broke. The body so betraying her seemed to double down on its own vulnerability towards Bucky Barnes. Stupid.

Sam collapsed her weight against him, crying like a baby unable to speak. 

“I’ve got you,” he repeated. Bucky slowly released her to sink to the soft grass and sat beside, face to face, his hand calmly resting on her leg. 

Oh, great, watch me cry. Sam struggled to make herself quiet, but the delicious discomfort radiating across her leg slowed her progress to regain equilibrium. She was trying to smother freshly lit kindling.

“Here,” Bucky started, holding out a pair of earbuds, “I find music helps.”

Sam didn’t move. “Helps with what?”

“Sleeping,” he replied. “Nights have always been hard for me.”

Sam tried to swallow, hearing herself gulp to rid her throat of an immovable rock. She settled the headphones in without looking up.

Even with a slow, steady hum of gentle jazz, the lump remained and her tears fell. After a few bars, his hand left her thigh to wipe her cheek, and whether in relish or disbelief, Sam’s eyes closed to push the last salty drops loose. His thumb swept over her cheek one more time.

Sam felt tortured by his presence. She spat at herself internally. 

That is a gross exaggeration. He actually was tortured for years, decades even, and you, little idiot girl, who hasn’t even lived for two decades, have no right. 

She forced her eyes open, sniffing dramatically to move her head away. He returned to clasping his hands around his knees.

Sam braved a peek up. “Oh my god.” She raised her head entirely. “Where’s your hair?”

Bucky laughed, clean shaven and cropped. “I have that effect sometimes.” Sam kept staring. “Captain America needs to be PR ready for November. Nat’s orders.”

The ceremony was set to induct Cloak and Dagger, her best friends if she ever got to see them again, into the Avengers’ team proper. New blood. Fighters. They deserved the honor, but Sam hid her frustration. She was just as powerful, if untrained. 

Whose fault is that?

Sam pulled out an earbud. Her mind went blank, staring. He was a whole different person. Sam had to take in all the new details. Pieces of his face she’d never seen in person before, the ghost of his military portraits from the 40s, like the old footage Sharon had showed her of their unit were brought to life in front of her. She fumbled for words. 

“It’s not always…pain,” Sam finally admitted, eyes darting across his calm face then retreating to the shadowed tree line behind him.

Bucky nodded with a knowing look. His relaxed, pristine face made Sam more uncomfortable. He had no idea. He listened to her nonsense as if it were important, as if she was even intelligible in this blubbering state. She gulped again. Her mouth opened and closed like a gasping, stupid fish. She wiped her face with a shaky hand to break his gaze.

Oh yeah, you’re doing great. Really seductive.

With him sitting right beside her, everything overwhelmed her. The breeze became suffocating with the addition of his musk and a new element, aftershave. She just knew it was there; it was the same air that brushed across his face. The moon that so reminded her of his eyes shone down on them both, and those eyes could see it, too, could see her, too. His soft hair and rough hands were within reach, and Sam’s chest felt crunched between the 18-wheeler of her desire and the pavement of reality.

Bucky remained calm, oblivious, lazily rolling his eyes over the training field and Sam alike. He let the next song play. Sam thought he might be able to hear her pounding heart without his own cover of headphones. Instead, the intoxicating man with dark hair checked his small device and leaned back onto his own bent arms, stretching out like a feral cat beneath the moon. 

She pushed the earbuds back. Sam’s arm twitched involuntarily, clenching against her shirt. You’re killing me here. What’s your next smooth line? ‘I like the way the moonlight hits your crotch?’ Oh, damn it, stop. 

In her mind, she was crawling all over him in a dozen different ways, but then she caught the change in her breathing and slapped a hand violently against her mouth and nose, hard enough to feel a twinge against the nerve running to her eyes. Don’t break your own nose. He didn’t see, did he?

His face is less than four feet away. It’s safe to say he sees you.

Sam was totally unqualified to handle this. Lila had been too old to talk to her about boys. Laura had thrown in a few vague phrases about ‘the right time’ and ‘when you’re ready.’ Nat allowed herself a few crude jokes around Sam before she stopped calling or coming to visit, but not even a mild reference to sex during training. Annie had encouraged her to ‘have fun’ with Lucas because he was a ‘nice guy.’ Meanwhile, her best friend in the whole world was a computer program which could quote anatomically correct articles on the science of attraction and physical intimacy. Sam thought she might throw up just thinking about it. Tandy would know what to tell her if she were here.

You need to let this go. You need to let it die now and move on. The voice in her head was starting to sound like Missy, clinical and objective, unsympathetic.

Bucky had known her since she was a baby. His most vivid memory of her was probably still a four year old screaming at him, calling him a monster while he tried to help her. 

Ungrateful, spoiled brat. That’s all you are to him. End of story. Sam had to tip her hat to the voice of Missy; she sure knew how to quash an argument. The diminishing cracks were soothing in this instance, distracting.

Sam snapped to alert when a hand broke her dead stare at her own crossed arms. Bucky looked down at her with an outstretched arm, waiting. She plucked out an earbud.

“You ready for bed?”

The hell? 

Bucky half-retracted his arm, seeing her shocked face. “You don’t have to,” he corrected, “if you don’t want to.”

Oh, god, shut up! Trying to suppress a firework show under her skin,Sam repeated her imitation of a fish out of water.

“Keep the music if you want,” he added, holding out the control.

That’s not exactly what she wanted, but Sam supposed that was the less awkward of her options. Before she answered, Bucky glanced the song detail on the tiny screen of his player, taking the earbud Sam removed and putting it in his own ear with a smile.

“This is a good one,” he said, grabbing her hand to pull her off the cool ground. “You’ll like this one.” Without warning, playful Bucky pulled her close as if to dance.

His smell assaulted her, muting all thought. The linen and soap wrapped in something sweet she couldn’t place. He was right though; the smooth instrumentals were like a lullaby with the soft swaying movement in his arms.

Words sprang to life mid-song.

“I can’t believe that you’re not here with me, to have a laugh or share a tea with me…”

Sam let herself breath deeply. He smelled like grass, that was the new sweet note. She kept her face away from his chest, but he’d taken one of her hands in his, Bucky’s right hand against her waist. It was a terrible test she was bound to fail.

Her brain gave up, and the music filled her head.

“To never look into those eyes again, the sun might just as well not rise again…”

Sam looked up as the song rang out in one ear, and a falling star caught her eye. She almost thought about how romantic this all was until the fiery streak continued to approach. 

The spot grew, headed straight for the compound. What the hell is that? More alarming still: it turned in the air above the trees to aim at her and Bucky on the lawn.

“Get behind me, Buck.” Sam pushed past him, stirring what she could in her arm, forcing the pressure of her anxiety forward. Fireworks might be necessary.

A silver suit landed twenty meters away. Tony? It looks too small—

Bucky tried to grab Sam’s shoulders to pull her out of the way. “Who are you? Why are you here?” He stepped to the side, a palm on Sam’s stomach, holding her back.

The surface of the humanoid suit rippled into a mimicked body and a face. 

Sam’s face.

“I’m finally able to return to you,” it intoned.

Holy shit, Sam froze. “Missy?”

[Chapter 31: Miss]

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