littlestinferno



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  1. Rec *

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    "It's his damn ratings, man," Sam says. "It's weird 'cause when you read the reviews, he seems to like our food and all. Nothing but praise for days. And then you get to the rating, and it's always the same. Three goddamn stars."

    Bucky tips his beer bottle from side to side, lips pursing slightly. "I see. And that's… a bad thing?"

    "We are not a three-star joint," Sam says flatly.

     

     

    Or, the one where food truck owner Sam gets caught up in his quest to unmask an anonymous food blogger. Falling for one of his regulars was never on the menu.

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    19 Jun 2025

    Bookmarker's Notes

    god bless this fic

  2. Rec 18

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    The rest of the evening went by quietly, but when they were ready to leave, Steve tried to convince them to just spend the night.

    “And where exactly would we sleep? You don't have a guest room, Steve.”

    “Oh, the couch is a pull-out. There's plenty of room for the both of you.”

    Steve walked over and chucked off the couch cushions. He unfolded the mattress with a flourish. “See?”

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    19 Jun 2025

  3. Rec *

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    When Bucky's libido shows back up, it's basically proof that his life is cursed.

    Like, obviously, hooray that his dick works again, it's been a long fuckin’ road (and a long road of no fucking, his brain helpfully adds) but—Jesus, fuck, Hydra really are just dedicated to making his life a misery in every possible way, even years down the track, because it turns out there's some operant conditioning Bucky did not know about until now.

    Specifically: he can't fuckin’ come unless someone's giving him the order.

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    10 Jun 2025

    Bookmarker's Notes

    a favorite for TFATWS

  4. Rec *

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    Bucky used to have a word on his forearm, before he was the Winter Soldier.

    Sam's forearm says, "Can you move your seat up?"

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    08 Jun 2025

    Bookmarker's Notes

    sickly sweet

  5. Rec *

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    You needle him because you don’t know how to not. You push him and you keep pushing, and, to your entirely hidden delight, he pushes you right back. He pushes you so hard that your head is spinning, and for the first time in your life you’re scrambling to keep up. It’s never happened to you before, this push-pull of constant snarling, and you love it, you’re drunk on it, you never want it to stop. He hates your tattoos, your t-shirts, that you play The Clash at 3am and that you leave dogeared William Gibson novels all over the lab, regardless of what is beneath them or whether you’re even reading them at the time. He hates you, so thoroughly, so viscerally, that it almost hurts, but he sees you, and when he hates you his hate encompasses all that you are and have the potential to be.

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    05 Jun 2025

    Bookmarker's Notes

    one of the best from the fandom