#avengers fluff

[biglychee]

Put In Your Notice

$ log - you tell the avengers you've accepted a summer internship. somewhere else, not with them. steve rogers begins a formal inquiry into his own leadership! $ warn --sfw --younger!recruit!reader --dramatic!avengers --protective!avengers! $ wc -w 2k $ cd masterlist

You pick dinner because it's neutral ground. In retrospect, a catastrophic error in judgement.

"I got a placement," you say. "For the summer. It's with a strong firm in the city, three months, it's good for my degree and—"

"Wonderful," Bruce says. "Which firm?"

You blink. "Meridian."

He nods, reaches for the salad bowl. "Good reputation. Strong mentorship programme, if I remember right. You'll want to get ahead of the modules before you start, their work skews heavily toward infrastructure." He pauses. "Do you want me to send you some reading?"

"Yes, actually, that would be great!"

"I can put a list together tonight," Natasha says, from across the table. She says it the way she says most things, which is without looking up, like it's already decided. "The team lead on their east coast division trained under Kovač. Technically excellent. A little rigid, but you'll manage."

"You know their team lead?"

"I know most people."

"Thank you. Both of you. That's —"

"That's three months," Tony says.

The table turns, as Tony has put his phone down. That should’ve been the first sign of disaster.

"Three months with a — what did you say, firm—"

"Meridian, yes —"

"Never heard of them."

"You've heard of them," Bruce says mildly. "They did the DOD infrastructure audit in 2019."

"I choose not to have heard of them," Tony says. "Here's what I'm offering: full lab access, your own project, no supervision unless you want it, and—" he pauses for what you can tell is a dramatic effect, "—four hundred a week."

You stare at him. "Tony —"

"Five hundred."

"I haven't said anything —"

"The face you made said something. Six fifty, and I'll throw in the good coffee. Not the compound coffee. My coffee."

"Steven," Thor says.

Steve doesn't respond. He's been quiet since the word placement left your mouth. The quality of his quiet has been getting heavier and it’s started to affect the atmospheric pressure of the room.

"Steven," Thor says again, gentler.

"I heard her," Steve says. He has both hands flat on the table. He's looking at his plate. He has not touched his plate.

"It is only three months," Thor offers. He means it kindly, but it lands like a eulogy. "A short time. A blink. I have waited longer for ships." A pause. "Though the ships came back." He frowns. "Most of them."

Steve closes his eyes.

"Thor," Sam says.

"I am helping," Thor says.

"I think," Sam says, turning to you with the careful tone of a man building a bridge over active water, "that this is a genuinely good opportunity and you should absolutely pursue it."

You exhale. "Thank you —"

"I also think," he continues, "and I'm just raising this, I'm not making it a thing, I'm just raising it —" he pauses. "Did you look at other options?"

"Sam —"

"Before you applied, were there other options on the table?"

"It's a competitive placement, there wasn't exactly a —"

"Were we an option?" he says. "On the table, that you looked at and considered and then decided against."

"You can't be an option, you're not a —"

"We have infrastructure," he says, gesturing broadly at the compound around them. "We have resources, we have personnel —"

"Eight fifty," Tony says.

"— we have a training programme," Sam continues, "that Natasha and Steve spent —"

"Forty hours," Natasha says.

"Forty hours building, and I just want to know, academically, whether that came up at any point during your decision-making process."

"It's not that kind of decision —"

"Were we on the list?" he says, very evenly.

The table awaits the grand conclusion.

"...there wasn't a list."

Sam leans back in his chair, and just looks at his plate. "Okay," he says.

Steve makes a sound, that wasn’t exactly a word.

More like the sound a man makes when he's been doing quiet maths and has arrived at an answer he doesn't like. Everyone at the table hears it. Nobody addresses it directly; nobody wants to be the one to open that particular door.

You look at him.

He has moved from hands-flat-on-table to one hand over his mouth, elbow on the table. He was staring at the middle distance with the expression of a man conducting a full internal audit of every decision he's made in the last eight months.

"Steve," you say carefully. "Are you okay?"

"Fine," he says, into his hand.

"You don't look —"

"I'm just thinking."

"About what?"

A pause.

"About whether I've been a good captain," he says, simply, and the simplicity of it is somehow worse than if he'd said it dramatically. There's no angle on it, and no play for sympathy.

Just Steve Rogers, sitting at a dinner table, genuinely asking himself the question.

The room goes very quiet, even Tony stops typing.

"Steve," you start, "that's not —"

"No, I —" He takes his hand away from his mouth, and straightens up. There's something resolved in his face that you distrust immediately. He seems to have made a decision without enough information and intends to see it through. "I want to know what I did wrong. That's fair, isn't it. You deserve to be heard."

"You didn't do anything—"

"Because I've been thinking about the Patterson debrief," he says.

"The Patterson — that was six months ago —"

"I was hard on you."

"You were accurate —"

"I could've been more —" he pauses, picking the word carefully, "— constructive."

"Steve, I learned from that debrief, it was fine —"

"And the rotation scheduling in March," he continues, with the momentum of a man who has opened a file he's been keeping closed, "I had you on doubles for two weeks running. That wasn't — that was too much, and I should've —"

"Steve."

"— and the equipment issue. You flagged it twice and I didn't move it up the chain fast enough, that was on me, I should've —"

"Steve."

He stops.

"I like working with you," you say. "That's not what this is."

He looks at you for a long moment. Something in his expression does something complicated. Then, very quietly, he puts his face in his hands.

Not dramatically, Steve doesn’t do dramatics, he’s a man of dignity. Just — his elbows go to the table and his palms go to his forehead and he sits there. So does the table, with nobody saying anything for a full four seconds.

"It's a three month internship," Bruce says gently, into the silence.

"I know what it is," Steve says, muffled.

He clearly does not fully know what it is.

"I'll do a thousand," Tony says. "Week. Flat."

"Tony —"

"No strings, no deliverables. You can consult on whatever Meridian's got you on, I don't care, I just —" he pauses. For just a second, something more emotional underneath the bidding war flickers. But, he covers it immediately. "I have better coffee."

"You keep saying the coffee."

"The coffee is exceptional."

"Eleven hundred," he says, before you can finish. "And I'll get you a better chair. You've been complaining about the chair in the east lab for —"

"I haven't said yes to any of this."

"Twelve hundred and the chair and I'll put your name on the lab door —"

"Tony —"

"A plaque," he says. "Engraved. Nice font."

Bucky hasn't spoken.

He's been sitting at the far end of the table since you made the announcement. He has a look on his face that you've learned to read as the specific register of Bucky feeling something he has no modern vocabulary for. So he’s simply sitting inside it like a very unhappy building.

"Buck," you try.

He looks at you.

"Say something."

A long pause.

"I taught you the Bucharest cover protocol," he says.

"I — yes —"

"It took me three weeks," he says. "Three weeks. We run it every Tuesday."

"I know, I was there —"

"You're the only other person who knows the Bucharest cover protocol."

You stare at him. "Bucky, that's —"

"Fine," he says. He picks up his glass, and takes a drink. He sets it down with a precise, final click that communicates everything he has decided not to say.

You look at Sam, who mouths: give him a minute.

"Here's my thinking," Clint says.

Everyone turns. He’s been sitting on a theory and has decided the time has come.

"You want normal," he says. "That's what this is. You want regular. Office job and commute. Colleagues who don't know how to dismantle a perimeter. Normal-person stuff."

"Clint —"

"I have that," he says, leaning forward. "I have a farm. I have kids. I coach little league on a completely voluntary basis, I do not have to do that, I choose to do that because I am a normal person with normal hobbies who happens to also —" he gestures vaguely at himself, at the compound, at the general situation.

"The point is, if you want normal, I am right here. You could come to the farm. Help Laura with the garden. It's very —" he searches for the word. "Regulatory."

You open your mouth.

"I have chickens," he adds, as a closing argument.

"Clint, I don't want to work on your farm —"

"I'm not offering you a job, I'm offering you a vibe," he says. "The chickens are incidental."

Thor has been quiet since the ship comment. But quiet for the Asgardian has a texture to it, a specific density, and you've noticed it building for the last ten minutes.

"I do not pretend to understand the customs of this era," he says, finally, with great dignity. "But in Asgard, when a warrior of your standing sought training elsewhere, it was —" he pauses. "It was considered."

"Considered what?" Sam asks.

Thor looks at you. "A message," he says simply. "To the one who trained them."

Steve makes a sound (a wail? sob?) from behind his hands.

"Thor," Natasha says.

"I speak only of custom —"

"Different custom," Bruce says. "Very different. Completely inapplicable."

"I am simply providing context —"

"The context is making it worse."

"I don't see how —"

"Steve's had his face in his hands for four minutes."

Thor looks at Steve, then looks at you. Something crosses his face — the big, open guilt of someone who has genuinely tried to help and has made things measurably worse.

"I'm sure your captain has been excellent," he tells you, earnestly, which lands on Steve like a small additional weight.

"I know he has," you say. "That's what I keep —"

"Thirteen hundred," Tony says.

"I didn't fail you," Steve says, from behind his hands. He says it like he's trying to convince himself. "I just — I want to make sure I didn't fail you."

"You didn't."

"The Patterson debrief —"

"Was six months ago and I learned from it."

"March rotations —"

"Were fine."

"The equipment —"

"Steve." You wait until he lowers his hands. He looks exhausted in the specific way of someone who has been their own harshest critic for so long it's become reflex.

"Listen to me. You're a good captain. You've been — you're a good captain. I'm going because I want to learn something new, not because I want to get away from you. Do you understand that?"

He holds your gaze for a moment.

"Three months," he says.

"Three months."

A long breath, then he picks his fork back up. Steve starts eating with the air of a man who has not resolved anything but has decided to table it. For him, it’s roughly equivalent to waving a white flag.

You find a sticky note on your kit bag the next morning.

Make sure they know what they have. — N

Underneath, in different handwriting - blunt, slightly too much pressure on the pen, like someone who learned to write when paper was expensive:

Tuesday cover protocol debrief before you go. You're not leaving until you can run it in your sleep. — B

And at the bottom, in the handwriting you'd know anywhere, neat and deliberate and with slightly too much space between the letters because he still isn't used to ballpoints:

Locker's yours when you're back. Don't let them work you too hard. — Steve

You stand in the corridor for a moment. Three months, you think, It’ll be absolutely fine.

(You're going to miss them so much it's embarrassing.)

$ tag @twentytomidnight @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger

$ cd masterlist

[biglychee]

scenario: avengers absolutely adoring younger!recruit!reader and feeling utter betrayal at the announcement of your summer internship in a different firm. not with them or even shield. some completely random name. just for 3 months, simple.

you're excited, as you want to try new things and explore different roles.

steve is so fucking devastated, hands to his head. he isn't aware of what an "internship" is so he correlates it to you don't want to work with him anymore. has he been a horrible captain? are you sick of his lead?

tony keeps offering a higher stipend. sam's trying to keep a voice of reason. bucky is equally as betrayed, he's just brooding. nat and bruce are actually taking it well, giving you tips. thor is also hurt. clint's theory is you want something normal - which he is, so why the hell are you going somewhere else??

i wrote it out.

[biglychee]

Still Water

$ log - tony stark builds you, his dear crush, a pool. you’re a siren with an obvious seafood diet - gotta get that protein in! $ warn --sfw --gn!reader --fluff --silly-steve-included $ wc -w 2.6k $ cd masterlist $ echo "is he in love with you? yes. will he confess? no. but he'll build you a pool!" > authors-note.txt $ vi still-resonance still-in-love-with-you (related fic)

The first time it happens, Steve thinks he's seeing something that shouldn't exist.

Not a threat — his threat instincts are faster than thought and they don't fire. This is the 3 a.m. version, the one that reaches back past the serum and the war and the ice and finds the kid from Brooklyn who used to lie awake listening to the building settle and imagine what might be listening back.

The elevator opens. The kitchen is dark except for the city coming through the window. And there, crouched on the counter in the grey light, hunched over something, completely still, wet hair hanging in ropes around a face tilted down —

It's eating. He can hear it. Small wet sounds, almost methodical .His whole body goes cold.

He's read this, is the unhinged thought that surfaces. He's read exactly this. The cave. The fish. The lost ring. The thing in the dark that used to be-

You look up, and your eyes catch the light.

Steve makes a sound that he will never, as long as he lives, describe to another human being.

You blink at him, while holding a tin of sardines. Your hair is dripping onto the counter in slow intervals and you have the expression of someone who has been minding their own business and would like to continue doing so.

"Hey, Steve."

His hand is on the wall, for structural support. "Hey," he says, and his voice comes out completely normal, which is the one victory available to him right now.

"Couldn't sleep?"

"Apparently not." He breathes in through his nose, then out. "You're wet."

"Lake," you say, like that's a full answer. You look back down at your sardines. "About forty minutes out. Good one."

"It's three in the morning."

"Mm." You peel back another sardine. "Water's better at night."

He moves to the kitchen because standing in the doorway like he's been nailed there is worse. He sits at the counter. He folds his hands on the surface and looks at them and thinks, very clearly: I thought you were Gollum.

He does not say this. He is a polite person.

"Does Tony know you leave?" The question comes out more carefully than he means it to. You consider him over the tin.

"Does Tony know a lot of things?"

"That's not a no."

"No," you agree. "It isn't."

You slide off the counter. Silent — feet hitting tile without a sound — and you're already moving toward the hallway, sardine tin in hand, hair leaving a dotted trail on the floor. Small, somehow smaller than you were on the counter.

"Night, Steve. Sorry I scared you."

The sorry lands soft. You're not being arch about it. You mean it and you know you did and you're —

You've already gone. He sits in the dark for a long moment.

Sorry I scared you. Like you were the problem. Like you'd done something wrong by existing in your own kitchen at 3 a.m., eating iron-rich food after a swim, and he's the one who made a face like he was considering his exit options.

He puts his elbows on the counter. Good work, Rogers.

He tells Natasha because this is above his pay grade and Natasha doesn't flinch at anything. Natasha tells Sam because she finds it funny. Sam tells Rhodey because he also finds it funny. Rhodey mentions it to Bruce while Tony is in the lab, because Rhodey loves Tony and also because Rhodey is only human and the story is genuinely very good.

Tony says nothing.

He also doesn't move for about four seconds, which is long for him. Then he picks up his coffee, takes a sip, sets it down, and says "the filtration in the communal pool is chlorine-based, right?" to nobody in particular.

Bruce looks up. "...Yes?"

"Right." Tony picks up a wrench, and places it back down. "Just checking."

FRIDAY logs forty-seven separate searches between 2 a.m. and 6 a.m.

Freshwater mineral composition, natural lake bodies northeast United States.

Acoustic propagation over open water surfaces.

Thermal stratification lake depth summer.

Circadian behaviour patterns aquatic-

She doesn't finish cataloguing. She knows the difference between Tony researching and Tony deciding, and that second thing happened somewhere around search eleven. She files it under the folder she has quietly labelled, with no commentary whatsoever: Ongoing.

The construction takes three weeks. Tony tells Pepper it's a facility upgrade. Pepper looks at the blueprints for approximately four seconds and says "uh huh" in the tone she reserves for when she knows exactly what's happening and has decided it's not her business today.

Happy asks no questions. Rhodes asks one, "is this about—", and Tony says "facility upgrade" and Rhodes nods very slowly and lets it go.

Three weeks later he appears at your door with his hands in his pockets and says "come look at something" and walks off, and you've known him long enough to know that's as close to please as he gets, so you follow him to the elevator, down four floors you've never been on, and the doors open and, wow.

You stop.

The word pool doesn't reach it. Pool is chlorine and lane ropes and that particular echo of a leisure centre. This is — the light comes from under the water, low and warm, and the surface moves like it's breathing. The edges are uneven. Stone, or built to look like it — something uncovered rather than constructed. Along the far wall there are plants, actual living ones, trailing green toward the water.

You look up at the ceiling. Something about the shape of it is wrong in the right way.

"Mineral filtration," Tony says, from behind you and slightly to the left, which is where he stands when he's watching your face and not admitting to it.

"No chlorine. Temperature drops as you go deeper, the gradient's mapped to approximate —" he stops, recalibrates, "— it's cold at the bottom. The lighting replicates overcast conditions, direct UV in artificial spaces causes irritation so the spectrum is adjusted, and the acoustics —" he gestures up at the ceiling, very casual, very this is just an engineering note, "— the geometry accounts for how sound carries over open water. There's a frequency range that—"

You're not listening to the words anymore. You're looking at the water.

It moves the way lake water moves. Not pool water, not the flat mechanical surface of something contained. It moves like there's weather somewhere, like there's a sky above it, like it's connected to something larger than the room it's in.

And it's pulling at you, the way water always pulls, that low persistent want that you've had your whole life, and you've been in this room for forty seconds and you're already eager.

"— recalibrates every eight days, there's a two-hour window in the cycle where you shouldn't be —"

You are already pulling your shirt over your head, making Tony stop talking.

"— in the —" he starts again, and stops again, because you're stepping out of your shoes and the shirt is on the floor and you're reaching for–

"Sorry, keep going," you say, not looking at him, "the eight days thing, what happens in the window?"

"The —" Tony's voice has done something. He clears his throat. "The mineral balance resets. If you're in the water during the recalibration it'll —" you've dropped your jeans, "— it'll —"

You look back at him over your shoulder. He is looking at the ceiling.

Specifically, he is looking at the acoustic geometry of the ceiling with the intense focus of a man reading very important structural data, his jaw set and a blush colour in his face that has absolutely nothing to do with the ambient lighting.

"It'll what?" you ask.

"Irritate," he says, to the ceiling. "Skin. Probably. The compound ratios are off during the cycle. It's in the notes."

"Okay." You turn back to the water. "Thanks."

There is silence. In that silence, Tony Stark — who has stood in front of the United States Senate and lied smoothly about weapons technology, who has talked his way out of at least three international incidents, who once told a god of mischief to his face that he wasn't impressed — is having what can only be described as a brief internal crisis.

Get it together, he tells himself. You are a grown adult. You have a doctorate. Two doctorates. You built this room. You are a professional. They’re just your teammate.

You step to the edge of the pool.

"It's perfect," you say, and your voice has gone soft in a way he doesn't hear often, and he's still looking at the ceiling but he hears it, he always hears you, he has some kind of pathetic you-specific radar that he's been trying to dismantle for eight months with zero success.

You dive in.

The sound of it fills the room exactly the way it would outdoors. The splash and then the quality of the quiet after that particular acoustic openness of water under sky.

He built it to sound like that. He spent four hours on the ceiling geometry alone. Finally, he looks down from the ceiling.

You surface in the deep end, hair slicked back, face tipped up, and you look — you look like you're home, that's the word for it, there's no other word, and something in Tony's chest does something he doesn't have the engineering vocabulary to describe because he's never needed it before, he's never built something and had the person it was for look like that about it.

"Tony."

He makes himself meet your eyes. "Yeah."

"Thank you," you say.

Just that straight, with no angle. His mouth opens, but nothing comes out, which is a new experience.

"The chlorine," he starts, and his voice is admirably level, he's going to be proud of this later, "was a liability. You were leaving the building at three in the morning to swim in unmonitored —"

"I know why you built it," you say.

Quiet and easy. Like you're just saying a true thing.

The room holds the sound of it.

Tony looks at a point approximately four inches left of your face. He is aware that his ears are warm. He is aware that this is visible. He is thirty-nine percent certain FRIDAY is logging this and she absolutely is but she loves him so she won't bring it up unless he asks.

"I'm going to —" he starts.

"It's perfect," you say, and you're looking at him the way nobody looks at him, the way that bypasses every layer he has and goes straight to the part underneath that he doesn't let people near, and your voice is full of something easy and warm and real, "it's exactly — Tony, the ceiling. You did the ceiling for the sound."

"Acoustic geometry is a —"

"You mapped what a lake sounds like." You're almost smiling, just genuinely, uncomplicatedly happy, about something he made for you. "And then you built it."

His face is doing something. He can feel it doing something and he cannot stop it, which is intolerable.

He is a man who has control over his face, it is one of his better features, he has deployed it against foreign dignitaries and congressional committees and it is currently losing a fight with his own feelings like a complete amateur —

"FRIDAY has the specs," he says, and turns toward the elevator, because moving is better than standing here being looked at, "if you want to adjust anything. The door code is your birthday. The cycle resets every eight days, the notes are on the panel, there's a —"

"Tony."

The elevator is right there.

"Thank you," you say again. Softer, like you know exactly what you're doing to him and you're being kind about it. "Really."

Facing forwards, he steps in. "Don't mention it," he says.

The doors close, as he stands very still as the elevator moves up.

FRIDAY, after a respectful four seconds of silence, says: "Your heart rate is-"

"Don't," he says.

She doesn't. He just stares at the elevator doors and thinks, with the clarity of a man who has just had something confirmed that he spent eight months pretending wasn't true: I am in so much trouble.

You float on your back in the deep end, ears below the surface, watching the ceiling curve above you.

He built the acoustic geometry to carry sound like open air. He sourced the mineral compounds specifically. He mapped the thermal gradient of a lake by depth.

Tony did all of that.

And then he stood at the edge of the pool and looked at the ceiling like a teenager while you got changed. You pressed your lips together - you're going to be thinking about for a while.

You already knew you were keeping him. You just hadn't told him yet. 

Soon, you think, watching the light move through the water he built. Soon.

You're on your back in the deep end three days later, ears under, when the door opens.

You know it's Steve before you surface. You know everyone's footsteps. His are the most deliberate in the building.

He stands at the edge with his hands clasped in front of him and the expression he wears when he's decided to do something uncomfortable because it's right and he's going to see it through. Civilian clothes. The posture of a man prepared to give testimony.

You right yourself, treading water. "Steve."

"I owe you an apology," he says. No preamble.

You wait.

"The night in the kitchen." He takes a breath. "I reacted badly. You knew I was scared and you apologised for it, and you shouldn't have. That was the wrong way around."

"It's fine," you say. "I know I'm unsettling at night."

"That's not —" something moves across his face. "You weren't unsettling. I startled myself. There's a difference." He looks at his hands, back up. "I don't want you thinking you frightened me. Not the way you mean."

You look at him for a moment. The water moves.

"Bucky sent you," you say.

Steve's jaw shifts. "Bucky suggested —"

"Steve."

"He strongly recommended," Steve says, with great dignity, "that I —"

"What exactly did he say?"

A pause.

"He said," Steve begins, carefully, "that if I'd made you feel like something to be afraid of, in your own home, after a swim, eating your —" a shorter pause, "— dinner, then I needed to come down here and fix it. And that he'd read the same books I had and I should be —" he stops.

You tilt your head. "He should be what?"

Steve looks like a man completing a sentence he would prefer not to complete. "Ashamed of myself."

The word lands, while you stare at him.

"What books…" you say slowly.

"It's not —"

"Rogers."

"It was three in the morning," he says, and his voice has gone slightly desperate around the edges in that minimal Steve Rogers way that means he's genuinely suffering, "and you were on the counter and you were crouched and your hair was —" he stops, and tries again. "I couldn't see your face yet. And the sounds —"

The sounds, the eating sounds, and the methodical small wet sounds of you eating sardines out of a tin at 3 a.m. on a kitchen counter.

"Steve," you say slowly. "Did you think I was Gollum?"

The silence that follows is the loudest thing that has ever happened in this room, which Tony spent four hours acoustically optimising.

"I thought," Steve says, with the stiff precision of a man selecting every word for minimum further damage, "that you were something I'd read about."

"In The Lord of the Rings."

"I hadn't seen your face yet."

"I was eating sardines."

"The sounds were —"

"Out of a tin, Steve."

"It was dark," he says. He sounds genuinely pained. He is genuinely pained, which is the worst part, there's no performance in it. "It was dark and you were wet and your eyes —" he stops himself closing his mouth, then he opens it again. "Yes. For approximately three seconds. Before I saw it was you."

You look at him standing there at the edge of the pool — hands clasped, jaw set, the most earnest man alive — and you understand completely why Bucky sent him in person. Because Steve would carry I mentally compared my teammate to a cave creature and she apologised to me for it quietly and indefinitely, and Bucky knows him, and Bucky wasn't going to let that happen.

"Okay," you say.

Steve blinks. "Okay?"

"Apology accepted." You drift back toward the deeper end. "For the record — I have been told I'm unsettling in low light. I don't mind."

"You shouldn't have to not mind."

"Steve." You look back at him over your shoulder. "I was crouched on a counter eating fish in the dark with my eyes reflecting the light. You get three seconds."

Something in his face settles. That particular stillness he gets when something wrong has been made right and he can put it down now. He nods once, the small formal nod.

Then he looks at the pool. He really looks at it, for the first time, taking in the stone edges and the light from beneath the water and the plants along the wall and the curve of the ceiling. His face does something quiet.

"Tony built this," he says.

"He did."

"For you."

"For me."

Steve looks at the water moving. At the ceiling, and how the light comes up through it, warm and low.

You can see him putting something together that he's not going to say out loud, and you let him have it, and eventually he looks back at you with the expression of a man who has decided something privately.

"Goodnight," he says.

"Night, Steve."

He goes with the door closed softly.

You float on your back, ears below the surface, ceiling curved just right above you.

Somewhere upstairs Bucky is sitting in the dark saying well? Did you do it? . And Steve is saying yes in the tone of a man who has done his penance and would like to move on.

The water carries everything down here. You close your eyes.

He mapped the acoustics of a lake, you think. Confess, soon.

$ tag @twentytomidnight

$ vi still-resonance still-in-love-with-you (related fic)

$ cd masterlist

[biglychee]

$ ls

bucky-barnes misc-characters natasha-romanov steve-rogers tony-stark

-- duties-and-debauchery.txt

[nsfw][dubcon][gn] a sultry reunion at the bar with your childhood best friends, cpt. rogers and sgt. barnes. 1940s era, post-serum steve is so sensitive, it's delicious! all of you work somewhere on the base, but steve planned to catchup tonight with his two best people.

-- last-night-of-freedom.txt

[nsfw][dark][afab] during his bachelor's party, cpt rogers is pushed to his limits by manipulative teasing of his two best friends: you and sgt. barnes. he always knew you liked to dance, and that bucky loves to rough-hous with him — so he can't really blame you two for planning this special night!

-- put-in-your-notice.txt

[sfw][gn] you tell the avengers you've accepted a summer internship. somewhere else, not with them. steve rogers begins a formal inquiry into his own leadership.

-- you-shaved-your-bush.txt

[sfw][suggestive][gn] varying reactions of the avengers to your new, shaved look.

$ ls --summary

04 characters | 04 files

$ cd masterlist

$ cd home

[written-smitten]

Fave Cake Flavor Headcanons 🍰

(in honor of my bday weekend)

Tony - Chocolate with cookies and cream frosting. Refuses to call it “Oreo”

Natasha - Red velvet cake. Decadent and always a reliable sweet treat.

Clint - Sticky date cake. Toffee bits optional. He just likes to be pretentious about his food sometimes.

Steve - Vanilla with italian icing. He tried it during the war in Europe and really liked it.

Bruce - Chocolate cake with chocolate frosting. Gets it all over his mouth but it’s cute. Tony shakes his head.

Thor - Carrot cake. Must include the little frosting carrot decor on top.

[heldbybarnes]

bucky and steve with their best friend wives who by some weird fucking coincidence end up pregnant and due literally days apart.

i just know those boys are TIREDz.

- 😼

nonny they are EXHAUSTEDDDD

---------

It was funny at first.

Cute, even.

Two best friends. Two wives who adored each other. Two positive pregnancy tests showing up within four days of each other.

Nat had declared it “cosmic comedy.” Sam had laughed himself sick. Tony had sworn it was the universe speed-running chaos.

And Bucky and Steve—two grown super soldiers with enhanced healing, super strength, and absolutely zero immunity to pregnancy hormones—were one frayed nerve away from crawling under the bed and never coming out again.

Bucky used to be a soldier. A feared assassin. A man who had fought aliens, monsters, and two separate world wars.

Now he was a man who carried three kinds of flavored electrolyte packets in his pockets like it was ammo.

He stood at the kitchen counter, shaking them into a cup because “she said the grape one suddenly tastes like poison, but the strawberry lemonade is apparently the only thing she doesn’t want to fight.” He didn’t even blink anymore when you demanded you wanted something right now, only to change your mind twelve seconds later.

He’d adapted.

What he was struggling with… was Steve.

Because Steve—God love him—was one semester into his “I Googled pregnancy symptoms for my wife at 3am” degree and thought he was a medical professional.

“Buck,” Steve said, leaning around the doorway as his own wife sat on the couch with a pregnancy pillow that looked like it weighed more than she did, “how dilated do you think she is?”

Bucky actually dropped his electrolyte cup.

“STEVE. She’s thirty-four weeks.”

“So… like a little dilated?”

“How would you know?!”

Steve made a helpless gesture with both hands. “She’s walking slower today! Google says—”

From the couch, Steve’s wife threw a muffin at him. “GOOGLE ALSO SAYS CRAZY THINGS ABOUT ORANGES. STOP DIAGNOSING ME.”

Bucky picked up his fallen cup. “You see what you’ve done?”

But his tone wasn’t really angry. Because Bucky—poor, tired Bucky—was dealing with his own wife on the loveseat, curled sideways, glaring at the TV.

“I swear that cartoon horse is mocking me,” you grumbled.

Bucky kissed your forehead. “Baby, it’s a cartoon.”

“It KNOWS.”

He didn’t question it.

That was growth.

Nights were the worst.

Not because anyone was mean or dramatic—no. Nights were hard because neither super soldier had slept past 3am since the six-month mark.

At 2:14am, Bucky was rubbing your lower back while you glared at the ceiling because your hip “felt haunted.” At 2:16am, Steve was outside on the balcony, holding his wife’s hair while she threw up for the third time that night. At 2:20am, the two men made exhausted eye contact like veterans of a war no one talked about.

“My girl says she’s sweating but she’s freezing,” Bucky whispered.

Steve nodded painfully. “Mine says her skin hurts but also the blanket feels too heavy.”

They stood in mutual, silent suffering.

Then—

“Steven Grant Rogers, I swear on your mother’s grave if you don’t come rub this knot in my back I’m Googling chiropractors right now.”

“JAMES BUCHANAN BARNES, IF YOU DON’T BRING ME THE PICKLES I HID IN THE OVEN I WILL CRY DIRECTLY ON YOUR SHIRT.”

The men jumped.

The men obeyed.

The men did not question.

Around week 38, things got worse. Not medically—no. Medically everything was fine.

Emotionally?

The wives were feral.

Pure chaos.

You and Steve’s wife had synced hormones in a way scientists would’ve written papers about. You cried at TikToks. She cried because she couldn’t remember the plot of a movie she’d watched thousands of times. Then you both cried because the other was crying.

Bucky and Steve sat on opposite sides of the room one afternoon, each holding a tissue box like it was a life vest.

“Did we… do something?” Steve whispered.

“No,” Bucky murmured. “They’re just… like that now.”

Your lip wobbled. “I don’t know why I’m sad.”

Steve’s wife sniffled. “Me either.”

Bucky tossed a tissue. You caught it against your cheek and cried harder because “IT WAS SUCH A GOOD THROW.”

Steve rubbed his face. “Buck, I’m too old for this.”

“You’re literally 106.”

“You’re 109.”

“You’re FINE.”

“And YOU’RE fine!”

They glared—exhausted, broken, united.

When labor finally started—three days apart, because the universe loves drama—the men snapped into terrifying battle mode.

Steve carried his wife to the car like she weighed nothing. Bucky grabbed your go-bag, three backup go-bags, and for reasons unclear—your houseplant. Steve ran every red light like it was legally required. Bucky glared down an entire group of nurses until they gave you the “special room” with the good pillows.

And they held hands in the hallway.

Held hands.

Two super soldiers pacing back and forth, whispering affirmations to themselves.

“We survived Hydra. We can survive this.” “She’s strong. She’s got this.” “I brought the snacks.” “We’re good dads.” “We will not pass out.” “We’ve got this.”

And they did. They were incredible. They were supportive, calm, steady.

Steve nearly fainted once but only a little.

Bucky cried before you even pushed.

You called him embarrassing but you also told him you loved him, so he took the win.

Two days later, both babies were here.

Tiny. Squishy. Loud.

Steve was holding his newborn daughter like she was made of stardust, smiling with that soft, awestruck expression that made nurses swoon. His wife slept on his shoulder, exhausted but glowing.

You were sitting upright in your hospital bed, your newborn son asleep on your chest, Bucky pressed against your side like he might fuse into you if given the chance.

And between the two beds, in one of the plastic hospital visitor chairs, Steve and Bucky had both fallen asleep.

Together.

Heads tipped back. Mouths open. Completely dead to the world.

Matching dark circles. Matching bruised, soft smiles.

Matching exhaustion.

Two super soldiers who had fought armies, destroyed empires, survived impossible things… undone by synchronized pregnancy.

A nurse walked in and froze. “Oh my God,” she whispered. “Are they—are they okay?”

You nodded proudly. “Yeah. They’re just best friends and they’re tired.”

Steve’s wife added sleepily, “They’ve been through… a lot.”

The nurse tiptoed out.

You looked at your son. At your husband. At Steve’s daughter. At her mother. At the two men slumped in the middle of the room.

And you smiled.

Because the universe may have been a menace, but it really did know what it was doing.

Two best friends. Two wives who were practically sisters. Two babies who would grow up together.

And two super soldiers—battle-tested, enhanced, terrified, devoted—who would absolutely not survive the next few months of newborn life without forming a support group.

It was chaos.

It was exhausting.

It was perfect.

[starksrealdaughter]

She's mine? Nah. I am hers.

ship; Bucky Barnes x f!stark'sdaughter!reader

plot; when everyone thinks you and Bucky are dating, Tony, your father finds out one morning...

warnings; Tony finds out about y'all's relationship, Bucky being protective, Natasha trying to get you two to go public, fluff, Bucky cooking (pancakes?!).

timeline; everyone's alive. nothing else is needed.

location; avengers tower.

a/n; soooo this slip up of Bucky and [reader]? Count me in for the chaos.

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

Life is weird.

Like, lately, it's been the Bucky-is-so-husband-material weird, and not the Bucky-is-so-much-older-than-me-but-I-want-him-anyway. It's probably because you're now a couple.

You have the privilege to wake up next to him, cuddle, pet Alpine, go on with your day, but always, always you return in his arms.

Your relationship is probably the only thing people aspire to have. Domesticity and love were the highlights of it, and neither of you could imagine their life without eachother in it.

A situation which has led to Natasha and Steve - your best friends - to constantly try to push you into revealing your well-kept secret.

"But, cmon! Don't you just want to hold his hand in public? Go out with him on dates without fearing for secrecy?" Natasha asked you for what was probably the 100th time today. It was you and Bucky's one year anniversary.

"It probably isn't the best time now, Nat. We haven't discussed it with Buck either way." The glare she gave you could burn through stone. "Well, we might have discussed it but-" I enter the kitchen, where Bucky is shirtless, flipping pancakes.

"Hi, doll." The smile he gives you is downright sinful, resembling more of a deadly smirk than a smile of some sorts. Forgetting about where, with who, and the possibility of someone entering, your hands go around his very bare waist, earning a groan of contentment from the man who just turned putty into your arms.

"What is going on in here?!" Tony enters, his eyes immediately going to the sight in front of him - his daughter cuddled up with the Winter Soldier. His tone was desperately trying to be angry, mad, but the laughter in his voice, and the crinkle of the corners of his eyes betray him. "I thought you'd have better taste in men, sweetheart." The growl that escapes Bucky is enough to scare your father, who just laughs.

"I don't have a problem with you two. Just don't get distracted. And...Take care of her, Barnes..."

[roze-latte-zz]

Operation: Puppy Rescue

James Buchanan Barnes x Reader

('';) On a mission gone sideways, Sam, Bucky, and you rescue a box of puppies — and somehow, the chaos brings unexpected warmth, comfort, and maybe even love Main masterlist || Navigation

The mission was supposed to be simple. In and out, no complications.

At least, that’s what Sam had promised.

You should have known better.

The three of you—Sam, Bucky, and you—were supposed to sweep an old Hydra storage facility tucked away in a quiet European village. Intelligence said there might be weapons left behind, or data Hydra hadn’t cleared out when they abandoned it. But after two hours of searching, all you had was dust, empty crates, and Bucky muttering under his breath about wasted time.

Until you heard it.

A sound, faint at first—so soft you almost thought you imagined it. A whimper.

You froze mid-step, holding up a hand. “Wait. Did you guys hear that?”

Sam frowned, glancing around. “Hear what? All I hear is Barnes complaining.”

Bucky glared. “I wasn’t—”

There it was again. Higher-pitched this time. A chorus of tiny yips.

Your heart squeezed. “That’s… that’s not a weapon. That’s a puppy.”

Bucky sighed, exasperated. “No, it’s probably a raccoon. Or some kind of—”

But when you pushed open the door to a small side room, there it was: a cardboard box. And inside? Four wriggling, squeaky, absolutely adorable puppies.

“Oh my god,” you breathed, kneeling down. They were tiny—maybe six weeks old, their fur patchy in places but their tails wagging furiously. One tried to climb out of the box and toppled right into your lap.

Sam let out a low whistle. “Well. That’s not what I expected to find.”

Bucky stared like he couldn’t quite process what he was seeing. “This is a mission site, not a pet store.”

“Yeah, and these guys are hungry,” you shot back, stroking the little escape artist in your lap. The puppy immediately tried to chew your zipper. “Who just leaves them here?”

Sam crouched down, softer now. “Looks like someone dumped them. Poor things.”

The smallest puppy barked at him, stubby tail wagging, and Sam’s whole expression melted. “Okay, fine. He’s cute.”

Bucky crossed his arms. “We can’t take them with us. They’re loud. They’ll be a distraction.”

The second puppy barked right at him like it understood the insult. You snorted. “Looks like they disagree with you.”

Bucky pinched the bridge of his nose. “This is ridiculous.”

But twenty minutes later, ridiculous or not, you were walking out of the facility with Sam carrying the box, you carrying one particularly stubborn pup in your arms, and Bucky trailing behind, grumbling.

The quinjet was chaos.

You’d tried to set the puppies up with a blanket and a bowl of water, but they had other plans. One fell asleep on the pilot seat (Sam panicked when he almost sat on it). Another tried to chew through the seatbelt. The smallest decided Bucky’s metal arm was its new favorite toy, gnawing at the vibranium with tiny milk teeth.

Bucky just stared at it. “Why me?”

“Because he knows you’re the soft one,” you teased, nudging his shoulder.

“I am not—” The puppy yawned and licked his hand. Bucky froze. His jaw clenched, but he didn’t move it away.

Sam smirked. “Oh yeah. You’re definitely the soft one.”

The ride home was filled with puppy squeaks, your laughter, and Sam recording Bucky’s reluctant bonding for blackmail.

Back at the compound, it only got worse.

Natasha raised an eyebrow when she saw you walk in with the box. “Please tell me this is not a new mission recruit.”

Tony groaned. “Are you kidding me? You brought home puppies? This is not a daycare!”

But then one climbed out and waddled straight to him, pawing at his shoe. Tony sighed dramatically, but when he thought no one was looking, he picked it up.

By the end of the night, everyone had a favorite. Natasha claimed the feisty one. Wanda cuddled the shyest. Sam kept insisting he wasn’t attached but always had one following him. And Bucky?

You found him sitting on the couch with the smallest curled up in his lap, snoring softly. He was stroking its fur absentmindedly, his expression unusually peaceful.

“Soft one,” you whispered from the doorway.

He shot you a look, but it lacked heat. “Don’t start.”

You just grinned.

Weeks passed, and the compound turned into puppy paradise. Training schedules were adjusted for feeding times. Puppy-proofing became a full-team effort. You laughed more in those weeks than you had in months.

And Bucky? For all his protests, he was the worst offender. He built them a playpen. He researched the best food. He even let one nap on his chest during team briefings.

You couldn’t help but notice how gentle he was—how his whole face softened when he thought no one was watching. And how often that “no one” included you.

One night, you were sprawled on the couch, utterly exhausted. The puppies had been wild all day, and you’d finally gotten them to sleep in a pile of blankets. One, though—the smallest, your favorite—had wriggled out and nestled into your arms. You stroked its tiny head, eyelids drooping.

You didn’t realize you’d drifted off until you woke to warmth. A weight around your shoulders. A steady heartbeat under your cheek.

Bucky.

He was sitting beside you, the pup curled between you both, his arm draped protectively around you. He wasn’t asleep—he was watching you, eyes softer than you’d ever seen them.

You blinked groggily. “You stayed.”

“Someone had to make sure you didn’t drop him,” he murmured, voice low.

The little pup snuffled in its sleep, and you smiled. “You like this, don’t you? Pretending you don’t care, but really…”

Bucky didn’t answer right away. His hand shifted, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “Maybe I don’t mind it as much as I thought.”

Your chest warmed. You leaned into him, the comfort of his arm and the puppy between you making the world feel lighter than it had in years.

And as you drifted back to sleep, you heard him whisper—so soft you almost missed it—

“Maybe I don’t mind you, either.”

The mission that started with weapons ended with wagging tails, puppy kisses, and something new blossoming between you and Bucky. Something soft. Something safe.

Something that felt like home.