buckrogers

[buckrogers]

if anyone needs me. i will be in the corner. contemplating the characters

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Cannot get enough of those desperate tight stucky hugs because they keep almost losing each other

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They killed my father. This isn't done until they're dead.

ANA DE ARMAS as EVE MACARRO

From the World of John Wick: Ballerina (2025) dir. Len Wiseman

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let me in the ring, I’ll show you what that big word means

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*

ursula k. le guin, leaves

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��

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WIPs word search

Tagged by the gorgeous @bromcommie!

I’m not sure if this is cheating or not but since a large part of my writing recently is stemming from RP, I decided to include a few of my personal favorite snippets as well as a bonus I just liked for how it came out after I had to wrestle with it for a while. These are from all kinds of interactions Steve has had and I’ve included with whom (two guesses who most are with).

Space (and also home w/Bucky):

Home but not quite home. Home looked at through a cracked mirror. Looking around, even as close as it gets in places, it isn't a hard push to see why it isn't the place Steve draws in that sketchbook of his. Why it's other places, warmer ones, that he prefers spending his time in. The apartment. Wakanda. He never had talked much about the way his body had its own memories for it. Being in the ice, being cold that way, down to his bones. Maybe because it had seemed such a touchy subject to begin with, maybe because it would have seemed like he was comparing somehow, what Bucky had endured all those years to his subconscious physical recall. For all his hesitations, about diving into bodies of water (he never had learned how to swim before the serum and it took time after to muster the courage to learn and overcome his first body’s hesitations), about confined spaces that felt a little too similar to the groaning fuselage of a plane as it sank, it hadn't come close to the things he'd read in those files, pressed into his hands by Natasha years ago. (you're going after him aren't you)

Sharp (w/Tony):

He'd had hope, when Tony hadn't fought him on staying behind to help with the clean up. Hope for what, he wasn't entirely sure, but there had been enough give in Stark's expression for Steve to recognize it as something. A step forward. The potential for some kind of meaningful conversation, when they weren't both in dire need of sleep and a hot shower. This, though, right here, wasn't a version of Tony ready to make any kind of peace. Judging from the brittle smile he was wearing, he was about as far from it as Steve had known him. Listing a little too heavily for comfort on the side that had forced him into bodily intervention to stop his pursuit of Bucky. Guilt curled inside him all over again. Steve's mouth pinched on one side. His jaw clenching beneath the beard he'd been sorely neglecting to shave for months now, long before he'd been recruited as an exile. "They aren't," he agrees, quiet. "I assigned myself." He was looking at Tony with the same face he used to make when they were trading verbal barbs on the helicarrier, eyes sharp. Brow furrowed. Concerned, despite everything, with the way his eyes dragged up and down his body, mentally cataloging any sign of obvious distress in the other man.

Sweet (w/Bucky):

Getting to set his hands gently on Bucky's hips, to use this new body of his, for something tender and sweet and the right side of aggressive. The good kind of pent up and wanting. There were so many landmines buried in their bodies, trigger words and old memories and the ghosts of other lovers that navigating the terrain was an act of belief, itself, the trust to be put somewhere, on a bed, against a wall, rolled over and on top of - it was knowing where that line was.

Home (w/Bucky):

It was all Steve wanted for the longest time. That idea of - that memory of - two sets of dishes in the sink. A life that rose and fell; that breathed to the rhythm the two of them set. It was what he'd longed for, once, to be impossibly closer; to somehow climb inside Bucky's chest and find his home there; snug against his heart. Cradled by the cage of his ribs. Safety had always been that muscle, beating steadily against his knobby spine at night; had been those arms curled around him. The funny part was - the funniest thing still was - that dream hadn't changed much, for the ways they had. Gotten bigger, grown older. Sometimes he'd look at Steve, part his lips and flash his teeth just like he was now and it was all he could do to breathe properly. He very nearly forgot how the way he would back then, stutter on a breath and erupt into a coughing fit, turn a watery eye on him accusingly as if somehow it was all his fault, the fact Steve's body had never quite worked right. That dream of having something real, that belonged only to the two of them that the rest of the world didn't get to touch - yeah, it was still there. It still kept time somewhere in his chest. His old, creaking heart still remembered how that beat went.

+ Bonus

Burden (w/Peggy):

He's been in rooms hushed by death, before. None of this is new, none of it should feel any different to the times that have come before it, the steps he's climbed; the doors he's walked through, the glass he's stood on one side of and stared past his own grim reflection into, to bodies, covered in sheets. It's been a hospital, it's been laid out on a stretcher, it's been suspended above a city. Steve Rogers isn't any stranger to loss, he's known it. Fought it, battled with it, inside a tenement in Brooklyn; for himself. For his mother. Even, once, not so long ago, for the woman in this room. The version he'd known the longest, who gave him comfort when by rights she should have kept her strength for herself; should have been beyond reaching for his hand; squeezing his fingers and hoarsely, gently, chastising him for keeping things to himself. (not every burden is yours to carry alone, my darling) The way he misses her is profound; longing seeped in acceptance. It's an old wound, one that's long since healed but still easily knocked, bruised; pressed on hard enough til it reinstates itself. It still flares like a struck match, when he stands in that doorway for a long moment before announcing himself. His hands empty of anything that seems remotely useful in a moment like this.

I'm not sure who hasn't done this one or would be interested, so if you're intrigued, here are some prompt words and go forth and write, my loves: ache, lost, belief, taste.

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KRISTEN STEWART photographed by Zoey Grossman for Porter Magazine

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Sh2-184, Stardust

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SEBASTIAN STAN I’m Dying Up Here (2017)

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when you leave my colors fade to gray hey little love, stay or all my colors fade away

STEVE HOLDING BUCK’S HAND IS REALLY IMPORTANT TO ME

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-AVENGERS: ENDGAME (2019) -WANDAVISION 1.07 (2021) -THE FALCON AND THE WINTER SOLDIER 1.03 (2021) Bonus:

[buckrogers]

oh I would 100% be lured by a vampire entirely too easy

[buckrogers]

"The longer I live, the more deeply I learn that love — whether we call it friendship or family or romance — is the work of mirroring and magnifying each other’s light. Gentle work. Steadfast work. Life-saving work in those moments when life and shame and sorrow occlude our own light from our view, but there is still a clear-eyed loving person to beam it back. In our best moments, we are that person for another."   ~ James Baldwin

[buckrogers]

of course he don’t need doors😏

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I feel like the biggest mischaracterization I see of Steve Rogers is that he is this rule following conservative guy. Like no, did we watch the same movies? This man breaks every rule he can. He hates the government. He also is not a bigot at all. He has his own moral code and does everything based on it.