Midnight Snacks (reader feels anxious about snacking late at night, spencer finds a way to make you feel less alone)
Mourning (spencer is all too familiar with mourning, so when you encounter it yourself, he's there every step of the way)
Useful (reader is anxious, and spencer offers himself up in order to help)
Nightmare (reader has a nightmare that spencer is in love with someone else. he comforts you)
The Needle (it's time for spencer's annual physical. drawing blood doesn't go as planned.)
Unwavering (it's been a year since spencer has been out of millburn. your love is one of the only unwavering constants.)
Held (being held isn't something you've ever felt you had the right to ask for. but with spencer, you don't have to)
Detox (while in withdrawal, spencer begins to fear that maybe you're a figment of his imagination.)
Grateful (in the middle of the night, it hits you just how close you got to losing spencer forever)
The 15 Minute Rule (sometimes spencer needs to decompress, you establish the fifteen minute rule to let him know you don't take his need for solitude personally)
Even If You're Never Ready (spencer assures you that even if you're never ready for physical intimacy, he will always love you)
Feel it (slipping into his traumatic memories leaves him near catatonic, but you're there so support him through it, not to fix it, but to sit with him, and remind him of the safety he has when it's all said and done.)
Desire, Not Consolation (spencer has been incredibly busy at work. reader starts to feel unimportant)
Worst In You (something has been eating at spencer, and he's not keen to share. it's driving a wedge between you, and you can't help but wonder if he regrets choosing you. he doesn't.)
Waging Wars Behind my Face and Above my Throat (spencers unexplained migraines set in, but you're determined not to let him suffer alone)
It Sparks Across Flesh (going to the movies causes you acute distress, but spencer knows one way to bring your mind back to the present)
Attacking, Defending, Until There's Nothing Left Worth Winning (a badly timed conversation leads to a rough patch with spencer, and both of you are still learning how to regain your balance.)
Twisted Truth And Half The News (spencer reid is not a liar. he just... doesn't always tell you everything. especially not when he's across the country in a hospital and there's nothing you can do about it)
I'm Fightin' the Flame, I'm Gasping for Air (spencer has an off day. when it all comes crashing down, you're there to help pick up the pieces.)
Like The Holding of Hands, Like The Breaking of Glass (you come to visit spencer in Millburn. you bring with you a solace he hasn't known in months, and the promise of freedom, of a life to be lived.)
To Come Home (reader has a bad day. they're left emotional, and grateful to have spencer to come home to.)
FLUFF
In My Nightmares (reader is startled awake by the horrors of a nightmare. spencer is more than ready to comfort you)
Maybe It's Crashing Down (Baby Can You Save It Now) (a week of space after a fight is more than enough time for both of you to realize the fighting isn't worth it. title from half mast by empire of the sun)
Christmas Morning (reader and spencer spend a warm christmas morning together)
Casting A Spell (reader can't sleep, so spencer casts a spell)
Pretty Boy (he's just so pretty.)
Physical Affection (neither you or spencer specialize in physical affection, but it only makes the moments you do share so much sweeter)
Sleepover (spending the night was planned. your first kiss wasn't.)
Victrola (you come home to a rare sight, spencer sleeping peacefully with a classical record on in the background)
Misread (sometimes spencer misreads a situation, but this time it worked in his favor)
Cycle (gn!reader but reader has a menstrual cycle, you get your period, and spencer has excellent timing.)
Unintended (you never intended to fall in love with spencer. the thing about that is that it happened without you even realizing.)
Lucky (you wonder if it's bad to be grateful that everything that has happened in spencers life has lead him to you)
To Grin At You Once More (you braid spencers hair)
I Told You I'll Be Waiting (Hiding From The Rainfall) (spencer had been cold for years. luckily, you radiate a warmth that is easy to love, and as natural as breathing.)
Reunion (you return to virginia after years apart. youre different people now, but maybe what you had was waiting for you the whole time)
Sleepyhead (a cozy early morning where spencer wakes up way before his alarm. with you in his arms, he prefers to stay awake.)
Watching The Stars (spencer comes home to you, watching the sunset. title based on watching the stars by øneheart)
PRIDE Collection '25
As this collection grows I'll create a separate master list for it that will be linked on here :)
Testosterone (spencer receives testosterone for the first time, and you're with him every step of the way. trans!spence ftm)
And If I Tell You, What Will Happen? (when confronted with the potential for physical intimacy, spencer panics. asexual!spence)
And I, I Had a Feeling That I Belonged (you take bisexual!spencer to his first pride parade. he reflects on the importance of pride, and finds for once in his life he belongs to something bigger than himself)
Summary: Bucky is the young CEO of his family’s publishing house. A year into the role and working his ass off, he’s finally taking a much needed vacation (upon the advice of his well-meaning family and friends).
Solo and feeling a little lost, Bucky finds himself getting a little attached to the front desk receptionist, a local who grew up on the islands and dreams of bigger things.
A/N: I'm still figuring some things out (including how many total chapters there will be) so please see individual chapters for warnings. This is a slow burn so I can guarantee there will be fluff and some angst. This isn't exactly an enemies-to-lovers fic, but they're more of acquaintances-to-friends-to-lovers. Additionally, I don't usually give specific ages for the reader or Bucky, but given where these two are in their lives, Bucky is 27 and the reader is similar in age, give or take a little. Finally, the islands were this is set are fictional and are not made to resemble any one specific place. The Bienville is named after a hotel in NOLA that I stayed at as a kid and fell in love with. If you'd like to be tagged as I release chapters, please let me know!
Summary: “You all know how it is, the one constant in this hellish life: you have a soulmate. No idea who it is, no clues whatsoever, only 25 years to find them. In 364 days, my time’s up. It sounds like a lot, but so does 25 years, and look where that got me. So, for better or for worse, I’ll try. I’ve got twelve months to find whoever my soul is knit together with.”
Synopsis: After only three days of dealing with the annoying specter haunting you, you break the rules and accidently give a ghost a body. So what do you do when you find out the man you’re now sharing your your apartment with isn’t really a ghost and that haunted touch is a little warmer than you realized?
Synopsis: After ignoring the irritating ghost in your apartment for three days you can’t stand it any longer. Snapping at the spectral man and vowing to get rid of him once and for all. Only you give him a body instead, oops.
Part Two
Synopsis: Things are getting domestic between you and your personal ghost. Searching for who he is is proving to be a chore and after a reluctant trip out of the apartment and an unfortunate incident memories start to come back.
Part Three
Synopsis: Matters of the heart are tricky business for witches and even more so when a ghost captures yours. Being in love with a specter isn’t all that bad, but when Bucky’s arm disappears briefly one day it sends you into a panic. Forcing your hand into calling for help in finding a solution. Regardless of your own feelings.
Part Four
Synopsis: It’s the end of the line for you and your ghost. Struggling with what has to be done and what you want it’s easy to think that Bucky feels the same way. After Hattie brings you the potion set to send James back to his real body you give into your desires with dire consequences.
Epilogue
Synopsis: All good things come to an end in the epilogue. Five years later your life has changed a lot. But good things always come to those who wait.
salt the earth | bucky barnes x reader masterlist 🗺
brock rumlow is a slick, charming, wise-cracking businessman that you are lucky to have a claim to. brock rumlow is your fiance. brock rumlow is going to suffocate you.
brock rumlow is going to be surprised when you disappear, nothing left behind but a note.
but once you’ve gone through with steps 1-4 of your 5 step escape plan, you find out that the ‘friend’ nat told you to meet - the ‘friend’ who is going to drive you across the country to the utopia of safety that is new york - just had to be bucky fucking barnes.
“If you’re so annoyed with the music, you can drive.”
Series summary: You’ve been assigned to write a column for your school paper on the team’s spectacular running back. You don’t care very much for your university’s football team; you just can’t understand the hype, okay? Turns out your distaste for football bigheads was exactly on point: James Barnes is insufferable.
MAIN MASTERLIST | Follow my notification blog @sanguine-marvel for fic updates!
Hello lovelies!! Today is March 31st which is the International Transgender Day of Visibility. While I am not trans, many loved ones in my life are. I decided to make a recommendation list full of trans characters and trans!readers. They’re separated by character and I list the summary and/or pairing for each fic. For the fics without a title, they’ll just be listed as N/A. While I urge everyone to celebrate diversity every day, today is especially important. As always, all the credit goes to the lovely creators.
Disclaimer - These are all ftm trans recs. I’m not sure if it’s just the fandoms that I’m a part of, but I was unable to find many mtf fics. The ones that I did find simply weren’t my favorite and my fic recommendations are only fics that I’ve enjoyed and want to recommend. Please drop some mtf fics in the comments!!
Key: 💗 = smut, 🌷 = angst, 🎀 = fluff
Dennis Whitaker
N/A by @fashnik3 → On Valentine’s Day, Whitaker shaves for Robby. 💗
N/A by @theratfather → Whitaker has an autistic meltdown and Robby and Jack care for him. 🌷🎀
N/A by @laceoddity → Tummy kink. 💗
N/A by @little-mouse-dennis → Whitaker tells Trinity that he’s trans. 🎀
NSFW Hucklerobby by @ellwood-sidney → Trans!Dennis just started T. 💗
Trans!Dennis headcanons by @alexisneverokay → A bunch of headcanons. 🎀
Michael ‘Robby’ Robinavitch
N/A by @purplepaladinsworld→ Hucklerabbot x reader. 💗
N/A by @emrysmerlinambrose → Elder trans!robby headcanons.🌷🎀
Doctor Robby coaxing you through taking your t shots. by @chronicgaywizard → Robby x trans!reader. 🎀💗
Bedside Table Rotisserie Chicken by @drlickitysplitty → Rabbot x trans!reader. 🎀
N/A by @codisfishher → Unspecified trans!character x Robby. 🌷
N/A by @male-hedonism-and-acting-cool → Whitaker x trans!robby headcanon. 💗
Bucky Barnes
About a boy by @sheriff-bodecker → tboy!bucky barnes x reader. 💗
“Pretty Boy” by @fallen-w1ngs → Bucky x ftm!husband!reader. 🎀
My good boy by @kortsitron → Your interest in Bucky's metal arm didn't go unnoticed and Bucky invites you to explore your fantasies in a safe environment of his apartment. 💗
N/A by @liquid-void → Bucky x FtM!reader. 🎀
Red rope by @kortsitron → Bucky's tied up and at your mercy. 💗
You’re still a man by @crinern → When training with Bucky, Bucky finds out that you’ve been binding for too long and gets you to rest. 🌷
Misc. Characters (mainly Spencer Reid)
Distract him by @golden1u5t → Spencer looks amazing reading his book, his lip tucked between his teeth and his hands trailing across the page. You can't help but pull him onto your lap and distract him. 💗
Helping Spencer Reid recover from top surgery by @bau-thoughts → Trans!spencer x reader. 🎀
N/A by @blluesiide → Trans!spencer x reader. 🎀
N/A by @calcitecaterpie → s1 Spencer Reid with his post op boyfriend headcanons. 🎀
Doesn’t change a thing by @kissesfordaryl → Daryl Dixon x trans!reader 🎀
I’ll Be Home For Christmas by @nonbinairyboi → After coming home for Christmas, a run in at Miller’s changes everything. 🎀🌷 (Joel Miller)
BUCKY BARNES with a sensitive reader he can always see through
implied fem reader, but no descriptions are given. thought of this the other week when I drove past two dairy farms and nearly bawled my eyes out. then couple days later drove past a bunch of dead animals on the motorway. am I setting myself up for failure by writing about a man that can see me... uh yeah, you fucking bet I am. 663 words
Bucky's a good man, no matter how much he may believe otherwise. He listens, he adapts, he cares. And he knows that to be something you deserve and appreciate.
Your soul is sensitive, mind and body attune with your feelings. Like you wear your heart on your sleeve, emotions clear and visible for all to see. To some, it drains people — no fault to you, just that some simply don't care about things in the way you do. They never seem to see what you see.
Bucky's not like you, he's not someone that can show he cares as easily as you; it doesn't come naturally to him. But still, he can comprehend the way in which you think — coordinating himself with you to better the ways in which he responds to your sensitivities.
Like when he's driving and you're on the road together, going down back roads or along the highway, he'll tap his cheek with his forefinger, the act a wordless direction for a kiss. It would aide as a distraction, as a way to get you to look away from the road ahead. He knew the sight of roadkill weighs heavy in your heart, so whenever he spots an animal —no matter it's 'importance' or size— curled up on the side of the road, he gives his cheek a tap. And without fail, you'd take him up on such request; planting a couple kisses to his face without ever knowing the reason behind just an instruction.
Bucky also knows you to be someone that values independence and alone time, and he knows especially how much you love a night walk. Or the idea of a night walk. But the world is simply not that safe. And while you value independence, Bucky values safety — your safety. Though he deems it wrong for his wants of your protection to be portrayed as oppressive, so he found a solution: tail behind you on his motorbike. It was a compromise, he believes. Simply a precaution. He knows men won't mess with another man in the same way they do a woman, so he'll follow after you, leaving a notable distance in case you may ever need him.
He knows you to be someone that doesn't like to be perceived, you're shy in that regard. He knows watchful eyes are unnerving to you and that you find discomfort in questions from people you don't much know, so he acts as a big scary dog at your side when you're at functions; family or work related. He'll deter people with his stares, eyes forcibly harsh and cold so as to discourage the need for people to converse with you. Not because he's controlling or domineering and is keen to hide you, rather he knows you. Know how you like your circle small. But when he meets your eyes, they soften almost immediately — that look of judgement and unease vanishing upon contact with you. Like they always seem to do.
And when you go out to eat at a restaurant, he knows that sometimes, it may simply just be too much. It can all sort of feel just… overwhelming. So for him, when he can sense disquietude within you — he often finds it best just to lie. He knows you to be someone to stick things out, even if it may not be something you particular like just for the sake of him. Maybe you're just too proud, perhaps you don't like to admit to such weakness. So he'll find an excuse, calling out dirtied cutlery, poor service, or lack of food variation as a way to leave the restaurant for another. You eventually caught on, there can only be so many times where he says "the food looks bad" before it stops being believable. Though you don't question it, nor do you bring it up, but you know.
You will always know the extends he goes to just to ensure your days are a little easier.
He wakes up 6 am sharp. Every day. And not by choice. Some things that were programmed into him in his darkest times have stayed put, and his sleep schedule seemed to be one. He found comfort, though, in his ability to choose to stay in bed with you. Usually, he does.
You woke a few hours later to Bucky staring at you, his face immediately what you see when you open your eyes. You smile a little. He holds back his own smile, scooping his arms around you and burying his nose into the junction between your neck and shoulder.
“Mmph..” He huffs into you. He might have said actual words, but they’re mumbled. You reach back and stroke your hand through his hair. “You in a mood?” Your voice is sleepy and sweet. He shakes his head no, just because he doesn’t want you to always assume he’s a grump in the mornings. You know better though.
Soon he found a way to be completely on top of you, legs on either side of your hips and arms wrapped under your armpits. He’s a big baby, he just wants to be held.
summary: steve insists he doesn’t need to be babied. but... he never pulls away when you fuss, never says no when you hold him, and never admits how much it means to be taken care of ᢉ𐭩 .ᐟ
↳ fluffy hcs┊steve harrington┊wc: 650┊tw: none
steve harrington pretends he hates being babied.
he rolls his eyes when you fuss, makes a show of sighing when you remind him to eat, groans when you tuck a blanket around his shoulders like he’s not a grown man. he’ll mutter things like “i can do it myself, y’know” while very pointedly not moving an inch.
but, he never actually stops you. because, secretly — quietly — steve loves it.
he loves the way you guide him by the wrist through crowds, thumb rubbing small circles into his skin like you’re grounding him.
he loves when you straighten his jacket collar before he even realizes it’s crooked, when you brush imaginary lint off his shoulders with a fond little smile.
he complains, but he leans into it. he especially loves it at home. he sprawls out on the couch, long limbs everywhere, pretending he’s just resting his eyes while you bring him water, snacks, whatever you think he might need.
every time you ask, “you okay?” he answers immediately.
“yeah,” he says. “i mean — yeah. ‘m good.”
he looks proud of himself for it, too. like being checked on is something he earned.
you fix his hair without asking. push it back from his forehead, smooth it into place when it falls into his eyes. he goes very still every time, breath catching just slightly, lashes fluttering like he doesn’t want to miss it.
“you don’t have to do that,” he says, voice softer than the words suggest.
you do it anyway.
he loves being reminded to eat.
loves when you slide a plate toward him and give him that look until he takes a bite. he’ll tease you for it — “what, you think i’ll forget?” — but then he eats everything you give him, even the parts he doesn’t love, because you made it.
he melts when you praise him.
not in an obvious way. it’s subtle. the way his shoulders relax when you say “good job,” the way his mouth tips up when you tell him you’re proud of him. he’ll duck his head, rub the back of his neck, suddenly shy.
“it wasn’t a big deal,” he mumbles.
it was.
steve never asks outright to be held.
but, he hovers. sits just close enough that your knees touch, leans just slightly into your space, lets his arm brush against yours again and again until you pull him in. the second you do, he relaxes fully, like that’s what he was waiting for.
he sighs — deep and content — tucking his face into your neck.
“just tired,” he murmurs. always that excuse.
he loves when you talk him through things.
soft reminders. gentle instructions. “hey, breathe.” “slow down.” “sit with me for a second.” he listens every time, even when he pretends not to.
especially when you call him baby.
it catches him off guard every single time. his ears go pink, his grip tightens just a little, and his voice drops when he answers you.
“yeah?” he says, like it’s just between the two of you.
at night, he’s the clingiest.
he pretends he’s just warm, just comfortable, just already there — but, he scoots closer inch by inch until he’s wrapped around you, arm heavy across your waist, chin resting on your shoulder.
when you run your fingers through his hair, slow and gentle, he’s gone.
completely undone.
he doesn’t say it out loud, but steve harrington spent a long time taking care of himself. being responsible. being strong. being the one who had it handled.
so, when you baby him — even a little — when you soften the edges, when you let him rest in your care without making him feel small…
he holds onto it. he holds onto you.
because, secretly? being babied by you feels like being loved. steve harrington loves that more than he’ll ever admit.
thank you sm for reading .ᐟ submit me a request, i'm new & active ᢉ𐭩
Summary: Steve Harrington survives the end of the world, but his memory doesn’t [8.1k]
Warnings: memory loss, angsty, insecure reader, fluff, a sobfest really
♡
The hospital room smells like antiseptic and the ghost of his cologne.
There’s a mug of coffee gone cold on the windowsill, wilting carnations Robin brought in, and your own shampoo clinging to the collar of his gown because you leaned over him for too long and cried into his shoulder.
The beeping is steady.
So is the rise and fall of his chest.
You sit curled in the hard plastic chair they shoved into the corner, one knee up to your chest, fingers worrying the hem of your sweatshirt until the threads fray. Your eyes burn—too many sleepless nights, too much crying—and the clock above the door ticks loud enough that it feels like it’s inside your skull.
You stare at him.
You never get tired of looking at Steve Harrington. Even like this.
His hair is flattened in places from the pillow, but still curls at the ends, brushing his forehead. A bandage wraps around the side of his head, white against warm skin. Purple bruises bloom along his jaw. Scratches arc down his throat like something tried to claw him back.
You swallow around the ache in your chest and reach for his hand—careful of the IV lines, careful of everything—and lace your fingers with his.
They fit the same as always.
You squeeze gently. “Hey,” you whisper. “It’s me.”
You bring his hand toward your lips, your thumb brushing lightly over his knuckles.
“They say your scans look better,” you tell him quietly. “So that’s… that’s good. I know you probably don’t care about medical stuff, but I thought you’d like to know you’re still uh, still fighting.”
Your throat tightens.
You lean forward, foreheads nearly touching. “And you’re not getting out of putting together that stupid bookshelf, you know,” you murmur. “I’m not doing it by myself. You promised. So. Wake up.”
Your breath shakes as you let it out.
You don’t let go of his hand.
“Robin says she’s going to read to you later,” you add, sniffing softly, “but I told her if she picks anything other than a magazine you’re gonna wake up just to tell her to shut up.”
There’s no response—not a twitch, not a sigh—but the beeping stays steady, so you count it as a victory.
The door opens softly.
Robin steps inside, rubbing at tired eyes with the sleeve of her sweatshirt. Her face is drawn, but she still musters a crooked half-smile.
“Hey,” she whispers. “Any change?”
You shake your head. “Just me talking his ear off.”
“Good,” she says, pulling a chair up on the opposite side of the bed. “Someone has to. He hates being left out of conversations.”
She tries to joke, but her voice cracks on it.
A moment later, Dustin appears in the doorway—hands shoved deep into his pockets, chin trembling before he swallows hard and steels himself. He comes to stand at Steve’s other side, staring down at him with wide, glassy eyes.
“Hey, Steve,” Dustin says, voice cracking and pretending it isn’t. He clears his throat. “I brought you the new issue of that car magazine you pretend you only read for the articles. Also, if you don’t wake up before I start explaining my next campaign to you, I’ll consider it a personal insult.”
Robin huffs a tiny laugh. You manage a small one, too.
It feels like a warm hand pressing over a wound—doesn’t fix anything, but keeps you from falling apart.
Dustin sits. Robin sits. You all watch him breathe.
The beeping stays steady.
The room stays quiet.
You keep holding his hand.
You keep waiting.
–
It’s two a.m when you feel his fingers twitch.
At first you think you imagined it—your eyes sting from exhaustion, and you’ve had too many false alarms, too many times you thought the monitors jumped because of something you did.
But then his brow pinches.
And his hand moves again.
“Steve?” You sit forward so fast the chair squeaks. “Steve—hey—can you hear me?”
Robin is on her feet instantly shouting for the doctor.
Dustin scrambles backward, “I’m gonna call the others.”
Your heart leaps into your throat.
His lashes flutter, jaw clenching around a grimace.
“Steve?” you whisper, terrified and hopeful at the same time. “I’m right here—just breathe, okay? Just—”
His eyes open.
Not all the way. Barely a squint. Hazel and unfocused, pupils blown wide. He stares at the ceiling first, then the bright light the doctor swings over him, then Robin and Dustin hovering anxiously at his sides.
And then…finally at you.
His gaze lands on your face.
You expect something, a smile, a blink of recognition, a sarcastic comment about how bad your hair must look at two in the morning.
Instead, his expression shifts into confusion. Deep. Sharp. Like you’re a puzzle piece he’s holding the wrong way.
“Wh—where…” His voice rasps, raw and hoarse. “What happened?”
The doctor steps in. “Mr. Harrington, you’re at Hawkins General. You’ve been unconscious for several days. You took a hard hit during the collapse of the chemical plant at the old Creel house.”
Chemical plant. The official government line.
Steve frowns like the word doesn’t match the picture in his head. “How long?” he asks.
“Ten days,” Robin says too quickly, trying to sound encouraging. “You—you scared the crap out of us, dingus.”
He tries to laugh, but it comes out as a muffled cough.
Dr. Patel continues gently, “Steve, I need to ask you a few questions. Just to check how your brain is doing.”
He nods stiffly.
“What’s your full name?”
“Steven Harrington.”
“And your birthday?”
He answers.
“And the year?”
He hesitates. You see the panic begin to creep in around the edges of his expression.
“Uh… ‘86?” he guesses. “Summer? We just—we just dealt with—” His breath shakes. “Vec—” He stops abruptly, brow furrowing, correcting himself to fit the “earthquake” explanation he’s been given. “The, uh… the tremors, from the earthquake?”
Robin and Dustin trade looks.
Dr. Patel hums thoughtfully. “Steve, tell me the last thing you remember before waking up here.”
He swallows, throat bobbing. His eyes dart across the room, searching for something that isn’t there.
“I was talking to Nancy,” he finally says. “In the RV. We were… I don’t know. Catching up, I guess.” His voice softens in confusion. “She was scared. We all were. And then… then the ground started to shake. And… nothing.”
Your pulse pounds.
Because that was a year and half ago. Before he met you. Before your first apartment together and late-night confessions and soft I love yous whispered into your hair. Before everything you built with him.
The doctor finishes the test, as the door bursts open. Jonathan is first inside, breathless, eyes wide. “We came as soon as Dustin called.” Eddie and Nancy trailing behind him equally as breathless and relieved.
Eddie leans on the foot of the bed like his legs might give out. “Jesus H. Christ, dude—you scared the shit out of us.”
Steve blinks at all of them, overwhelmed.
“Could I speak with you all,” Dr. Patel says quietly, “out in the hall?”
Robin squeezes Steve’s shoulder. “We’ll be right back, okay?”
He nods, breaths coming uneven.
Dustin stays behind as Steve’s shakingly pleads, “Don’t—don’t leave me alone yet.”
Dr. Patel closes the door gently behind him. His expression is gentle, but serious. “Steve shows signs of retrograde amnesia,” he explains. “The memories leading up to his injury—months, possibly more than a year—are currently inaccessible.”
“Like… gone?” Eddie asks, eyes wide.
“Not gone,” the doctor corrects. “Think of memory as a file drawer. The files are there, but the drawer won’t open.”
“And when does it open?” Robin presses.
There’s a heavy silence.“It could be days,” the doctor says. “Or weeks. Or years. Or… never.”
Your lungs stop working.
“Can we… tell him?” Eddie asks, voice pitching higher. “Like, fill in the gaps? Show him photos, talk him through it?”
Dr. Patel shakes his head. “Not yet,” he says firmly. “Forcing memories can be damaging in cases like this. The brain is in a vulnerable state. If you bombard him with information, try to ‘make’ him remember, it can cause severe anxiety, confusion, even setbacks in his recovery.”
“And—and we’re supposed to just pretend he didn’t lose the last 18 months of his life?” Nancy whispers.
“Pretend? No. Avoid triggering details? Yes,” Dr. Patel says. “Keep him grounded in what he does remember. Familiar routines. Familiar places. Familiar people.”
Your heart splinters. Because you…you are none of those things to him anymore.
Eddie clears his throat awkwardly. “So uh… where’s he supposed to stay? ‘Cause he sure as hell can’t go back to the house he doesn’t remember living in.”
Jonathan nods toward you. “He was staying with—”
“No,” you interrupt immediately. Too fast. Too sharp. “He can’t… he doesn’t know me. That would freak him out.”
Robin winces sympathetically.
Nancy adds, “And staying with me and Jonathan would confuse him even more. He doesn’t remember patching things up.”
“I’ll take him,” Eddie says without hesitation. “My place is basically a cave of familiar smells and poor hygiene. Should feel like home.”
It draws a strained, grateful laugh from the others.
You nod numbly, “Yeah. That’s… that’s good.”
The door opens again, Dustin peeking out, “He’s asking for you guys,” he says softly. “He’s… um… kinda scared.”
Steve is sitting up more, breathing hard like he’s trying not to panic.
His eyes scan each face—Dustin, Robin, Nancy, Eddie, Jonathan—landing on each with some level of recognition.
Then he looks at you. And his brows pull together in apologetic confusion.
“Um,” he says, voice hoarse, “sorry but… do I… know you?”
For a second, no one breathes. You force a small smile. Force your voice to work.
“I’m just… a friend,” you whisper. “One of the people who came to see you.”
His shoulders relax, but he still looks guilty. “Sorry. I’m just—everything’s blurry.”
You swallow the burn in your throat. “It’s okay,” you tell him. “You’re okay. That’s all that matters.”
–
The day Steve is discharged is strangely bright.
One of those Hawkins afternoons where the sun feels performative, like it’s trying too hard to pretend everything is normal. The hospital lobby hums with murmured conversations and the low squeal of wheelchairs against polished floors. Families gather with flowers and get-well balloons; nurses laugh at inside jokes you’re not part of.
You’re not there.
Instead, you stand in the middle of the apartment you once shared, drowning in the silence that used to feel comforting and now feels impossibly loud. It still smells like him—laundry detergent, cheap coffee, the cologne he always applies too generously in the morning because he insists it “fades by noon.” The couch cushions hold the shape of his favorite spot. His sneakers lie abandoned in the corner, one toe pointing toward the door like he left in a hurry. His jacket hangs over the back of a chair the same way it always does, never quite making it to the hook he installed and promptly stopped using.
On the fridge, the Polaroids watch you as you move. You, in his old Scoops hat, smiling like an idiot, while he flips off Eddie behind the camera. And the one Eddie took where Steve isn’t looking at the lens—just at you. Eyes crinkled. Mouth mid-laugh. A moment caught in the exact shape of adoration.
He doesn’t remember any of it.
You walk through the apartment like you’re trespassing in your own life, touching objects that feel suddenly foreign. You kneel beside the bed and pull out a duffel bag, spreading it open like a wound you’re trying not to look directly at.
T-shirts first. Sweatpants. Socks—even though he never matches them, insisting that the washing machine “eats the good pairs out of spite.”
Robin kneels beside an open duffel bag on the bed, her expression tight with concentration as you hand her his favorite mug with the stupid cartoon shark on it, wrapped carefully in an old sweatshirt you stole from him months ago. “This sucks,” she says conversationally, yanking a hanger free. “Like, in case you were wondering, this sucks. Ten out of ten, do not recommend.”
The cassette box sits by the stereo, full of tapes you made together—his messy handwriting, your neat labels. You pick it up gently, thumb brushing over the one marked simply: YOUR STUFF.
You snort weakly, “You don’t say.”
“You sure you don’t want to come to the discharge? We could go with Joyce and Hopper, then straight to the trailer. Like a whole welcome-home parade. Balloons, confetti, you bursting dramatically out of the cake.”
You make a face, “Absolutely not.”
She sobers, “Okay, but for real. You don’t have to hide.”
“I’m not hiding,” you lie. “I’m just… doing this instead. If he woke up and they told him he had to move back to a house he doesn’t remember packing for, that’s weird. At least this way when he gets there, he has his stuff. That’s… useful.”
“And you?” she presses softly. “What’s useful for you?”
You shrug one shoulder, eyes on the socks you’re shoving into the side pocket of the bag. “I’ll be fine.”
“You don’t have to be. Not with me.”
You blow out a shaky breath. “If I go,” you say quietly, “if I stand there and watch him walk out of that hospital and into… not our home… I’m gonna fall apart. And I really… really don’t want to do that in front of him.”
“Okay,” she accepts. “Then I’ll go. I’ll take this—” She gestures to the duffel. “I’ll say it’s from his parents’ place, or something. But now he’ll probably think I raided his underwear drawer.”
Meanwhile, Eddie guides Steve out of the hospital, one hand hovering near his elbow like he expects Steve to topple over at any moment. Steve insists he’s fine—“For the fifteenth time, Munson, I can walk”—but the stiffness in his movements betrays how exhausted he really is. “My parents aren’t here?” he asks, tone attempting casual but landing closer to wounded curiosity.
Eddie adjusts his grip on Steve's arm and shakes his head. “Business trip. Overseas. They got the messages, though. Said to tell you they’ll call once they’re back in the country.”
Steve nods in a way that tells Eddie he expected nothing else.
Eddie jogs ahead, swinging the van door open with an exaggerated bow “Your ride, sir.”
Steve rolls his eyes but can’t quite smother the smile. “Did the royal chariot break down?”
“This is the royal chariot,” Eddie retorts. “She’s got character.”
“She smells like Cheetos,” Steve says, hoisting himself up into the passenger seat, “And maybe… weed.”
When they pull up outside the trailer, Steve goes quiet. The place is the same and not. The cracks in the ground nearby have been filled, the damage patched badly. There are still scorch marks on the grass where things fell from the sky that “didn’t happen.”
The trailer is cluttered but clean. There’s a blanket thrown over the back of the couch. Two mugs in the sink. A stack of tapes by the TV—some horror, some metal concerts, some romcoms Robin smuggled in “for balance.”
“That’s your room,” Eddie says, gesturing toward the small door off the hallway. “I mean, technically it’s my room and that’s technically my bed, but I’m feeling generous.”
Steve steps inside like he’s expecting the floor to shift under his feet. There are posters on the wall he half-remembers. A pile of laundry in the corner. The bat—the bat—leans against the wall, grip worn. He runs his fingers over the bedspread, the edge of the nightstand, the window frame. His head hurts. He sinks onto the mattress, elbows on his knees, palms pressed to his face.
Eddie watches him carefully. “You alright? You look like you swallowed a brick.”
“Just… trying to make it all match up,” Steve mutters. “Doc says about ‘one year,’ but it feels like someone ripped pages out of a book and kept the ending. I’m assuming we won. And that Vecna’s… gone. But I don’t know how. I don’t know what we did. Are the gates closed? I don’t know when Max…” He trails off, swallowing hard. “When did she wake up? How bad did it get? What did I… do?” There’s a jagged frustration under the questions. A helpless anger at his own brain.
Eddie sees it. Hears the edge in his voice. “That’s a story for another time, pal,” he says gently. “All you need to know is that Vecna is gone for good, Hawkins is still miserable, and all you need to worry about is your flat hair.”
Steve huffs out a startled laugh, the tension in his shoulders loosening a fraction. “That’s, like, three things.”
“I believe in your ability to multitask,” Eddie says.
Robin appears in the doorway, hair windblown, cheeks flushed from the cold. The duffel bag you packed hangs from her shoulder, heavier now with everything you folded so carefully. “Special delivery!” she announces, stepping inside with exaggerated flourish. “Straight from Casa Harrington.”
Steve brightens a little. “My parents’ place?”
“Yup,” Robin lies smoothly. “They, uh… left the key taped under the mat. Super secure. Very responsible.”
“Thanks,” he says, soft. “Really.”
Robin’s smile falters for a second—just a second—before she recovers. “Yeah, dingus. That’s what friends do.”
Eddie catches her eye. She gives the smallest shake of her head. Steve doesn’t see that either.
They spend the next twenty minutes unpacking shirts and socks and the hoodie he doesn’t remember buying. Robin chatters about mundane things—Joyce’s attempt at making bread that could double as a weapon, Lucas’s new videogame obsession, Dustin’s twelve-step plan to introduce Steve to every campaign he missed. Steve tries to laugh in the right places. He tries to feel grounded in the little stories of a life he doesn’t remember living. Still, every few minutes, his gaze drifts to the door.
To the empty space beyond it.
To the missed presence he can’t name.
He doesn’t know who’s missing.
He doesn’t know why.
He only knows that something important isn’t here—
and that the absence feels wrong.
–
Movie nights, dinners, and game nights stop being weekly and start happening every other day, now. Not just for Steve, but for everyone. Staying alone feels worse than crowding into too-small spaces, so they choose noise.
You skip the first movie night because you’re scheduled for a late shift at work. The second because you tell yourself you’re tired. By the third, you don’t even bother coming up with an excuse.
But the invites never stop.
Robin calls you while you’re sitting cross-legged on the bed, a half-unpacked box of Steve’s things open in front of you—things you didn’t have the heart to finish putting away. His sweatshirt is folded on top, soft from too many washes, still faintly smelling like him.
“We miss you,” she says into the receiver, voice light but tired. “He misses you.”
Your chest tightens.
“He doesn’t know me,” you reply quietly.
There’s a pause on the other end. You can hear the low hum of voices behind her, the sound of a life continuing just out of reach.
“That doesn’t mean—”
“It does,” you interrupt gently. “It does mean something, Robin. He doesn’t need… complications. He needs to feel normal.”
You hang up before she can argue, the silence feeling louder than the conversations you’re avoiding.
At the next get-together, Steve volunteers for the snack run.
He comes back with grocery bags filled with a specific brand of chips none of them remember him liking, a box of cookies no one else reaches for, and a candy bar that makes Eddie wrinkle his nose.
“Since when do you eat those?” Robin asks, watching him unload everything onto the counter.
Steve shrugs, unconcerned. “I don’t know. Just… grabbed them.”
“For who?” Dustin presses, crouched on a chair to see over the counter.
Steve pauses. He feels it — that moment when his brain stalls out mid-thought. A faint pressure builds behind his eyes, like trying to remember how a dream ends after you’ve already woken up.
“No idea,” he laughs, the shrug coming a second too late. “Must’ve looked good.”
It’s a few gatherings later when he finally brings it up.
It’s late. The kids are swallowed by a board game, voices raised in mock outrage. Eddie stands at the sink, washing dishes. Jonathan leans against the counter, arms crossed, watching soap bubbles drift down the drain.
“Can I ask you something?” Steve says.
Jonathan glances over and nods. “Sure.”
“The girl from the hospital,” Steve continues carefully. “She said she was a friend.”
“Yeah,” Jonathan says. “She is.” He hesitates, then adds, “She doesn’t come around much anymore.”
Steve frowns. “Why not?”
Jonathan exhales slowly. “She’s trying to deal with all of this on her own. Everything that happened. Losing people. Almost losing people.” His gaze flicks briefly toward the living room. “Being around all of this can feel like reopening a wound.”
Steve absorbs that, jaw tightening. “That seems backwards,” he mutters. “Wouldn’t it help? Being around people who actually get it?”
Jonathan looks at him — really looks.
“Sometimes,” he says quietly, “people think staying away is easier. That it hurts less in the long run.”
Steve frowns deeper. “That still doesn’t make sense.”
Jonathan gives him a small, sad smile. “No. It usually doesn’t.” After a beat, he adds, “Next time you see her, you should invite her. Maybe she’ll listen to you.”
–
The grocery store smells like overripe fruit and burned coffee.
You’ve been standing in the cereal aisle for too long, staring down two different boxes like one of them might solve something bigger than breakfast. Your cart has the basics — bread, milk, eggs — and the coffee you swore you wouldn’t keep buying anymore because it still feels like buying it for him.
You tell yourself this is normal. That it’s fine. That you’re doing fine.
You reach for the box on the left.
At the exact same time, someone else reaches for the one on the right.
“Sorry—”
The voice stops you cold.
You don’t look up right away. Your fingers stay curled around cardboard. Your heart slams painfully against your ribs, the sound of it loud enough that you’re convinced he must hear it.
You already know.
Steve Harrington stands in front of you in a worn Tigers hoodie and faded jeans, hair doing that familiar floppy thing that makes your chest ache. He looks healthier now — less pale, steadier on his feet — but there’s a faint scar at his temple that your eyes go to automatically.
His eyes widen.
“Oh,” he exhales. “It’s— it’s you.”
You swallow. “Hi.”
You don’t mean to smile. It happens anyway, small and brittle, like your face remembers before the rest of you can stop it.
He shifts his weight, suddenly unsure of where to put his hands. One of them rests on the red plastic handle of his cart; the other hovers, then drops awkwardly at his side.
“I was hoping I’d run into you,” he says, then winces immediately. “That sounded weird. Not like— I mean—”
“It’s okay,” you say quickly, because it always used to be your job to make things less hard for him. You almost laugh at that thought. “I just… yeah. Hi.”
He nods, once, then twice, like he’s confirming something invisible. “Hi.”
There’s a beat where neither of you move. The store hums around you — carts rattling, a kid crying somewhere near produce, the muffled sound of a radio playing something forgettable overhead.
Steve clears his throat. “Jonathan said you might… might be doing this whole ‘handling everything by yourself’ thing.”
Your mouth tilts faintly. “That sounds like him.”
“Yeah,” he huffs. “He’s annoyingly perceptive.”
He glances down at your cart without thinking and freezes.
Coffee.
The exact one.
His brow furrows, confusion flickering across his face. “Huh.”
“What?” you ask, too quickly.
“Nothing,” he says, then pauses. “I just— I keep buying that.” He gestures vaguely. “And I don’t even like it. It tastes burnt.”
Your fingers curl tighter around the edge of the cart. “Then why do you buy it?”
His eyes go distant for half a second, frustration tightening his jaw. “No idea,” he admits. “I just… felt like I needed to.”
Silence stretches between you, fragile and heavy.
He breaks it first. “So,” he says, forcing casual into his tone. “Uh. There’s… there’s stuff happening. Movie nights. Dinner. Game nights. A lot of… togetherness.”
You nod. “Robin’s told me.”
“Yeah, well,” he rubs at the back of his neck, sheepish. “Robin tells everyone everything, so.”
You smile despite yourself. There’s a pause. Long enough for the hum of the lights to fill the space between you.
Steve clears his throat. “So, uh—” He rubs the back of his neck, suddenly unsure. “There’s another movie night coming up. Dinner too, probably. People crammed onto couches. A lot of noise.”
You wait.
He gestures vaguely. “You don’t have to stay the whole time. Or talk about anything. Or— you know— do anything, really.” He winces, clearly aware he’s rambling. “This sounded smoother in my head.”
“Okay,” you say finally. “I’ll… come. Next time.”
His face lights up so fast it’s almost embarrassing. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Great,” he says, then catches himself. “I mean— cool. No pressure. Totally casual.”
You smile, real this time. “You’re terrible at casual.”
“You should see me try flirting,” he replies before thinking.
You both freeze.
He flushes immediately. “Not— not flirting with you! I mean— not that I—” He groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Wow. I’m just gonna shut up now.”
You laugh.
It slips out unexpectedly, warm and sharp and painfully familiar.
His eyes soften when he hears it.
“Guess I’ll see you,” he says, backing toward his cart.
“Guess you will,” you answer.
He pauses, then adds, quieter, “I’m really glad I ran into you.”
“So am I,” you say, and you mean it — even though it scares you.
–
The next movie night is at Hopper’s cabin.
You stand in the driveway for a long second before you knock, keys cool and solid in your palm like an anchor. The windows glow warm against the dark, voices overlapping inside—too loud, too alive. Laughter punches through the wood of the door, Dustin’s unmistakable cackle cutting loudest.
You almost leave.
Almost.
Before you can talk yourself out of it, the door swings open.
“Hey!” Robin says, already grinning—and then she’s hugging you. Tight. Arms locked around your shoulders like she’s afraid if she lets go you’ll disappear. “You actually came.”
“Careful,” you mutter into her shoulder. “You’re gonna break a rib.”
She ignores that and squeezes once more before pulling back. “Worth it.”
The cabin smells like popcorn and woodsmoke and something questionable Eddie brought in a foil tray. The couch is already half-full—Lucas and Max twisted together at one end, Dustin sprawled on the floor with a blanket, Eddie perched on the armrest like furniture is more of a suggestion than a rule. Nancy looks up from where she’s setting drinks on the table and offers you a soft, relieved smile.
You step farther inside, shrugging off your jacket, trying to remember how to occupy space like this again.
And Steve—
Steve is in the kitchen.
He’s got his back to you, sleeves pushed up, hair a little wild like he forgot the mirror existed today. He’s holding a mug beneath the coffee pot, focused in a way that suggests he’s taking the task far too seriously.
“Okay,” he mutters to himself, barely audible over the noise. “Not boiling. That’s… probably important.”
You pause. For a second, it feels like stepping into a room you used to know by heart. Not rushed. Not heavy. Just him half-awake in your apartment kitchen, hair sticking up, leaning in to press a kiss to your temple while the coffee brewed.
You shake the memory loose and move farther into the room.
When he sees you, his expression shifts—subtle but unmistakable. Like tension easing from his shoulders, like something unknots behind his eyes before he can stop it. “You came,” he says, surprised enough that it doesn’t sound casual.
“I said I would.”
“Right,” he says, nodding once, then glancing down at the mug like he’s suddenly remembered it exists. “Uh— drink? Coffee, soda, whatever. Eddie tried to make punch again but I’m pretty sure it violates some kind of health code.”
“I’ll take coffee,” you say before you can stop yourself.
Your fingers brush his when you take the mug from his hand. The contact is brief. Barely anything. But still sparks something sharp and familiar, a lightning-bolt jolt that runs straight through you.
You retreat to the far end of the couch, heart beating a little too fast, mug warm in your hands. The taste is right. Warm. Familiar in a way you don’t examine too closely.
The movie ends sometime after midnight.
You don’t know exactly when it happens—only that at some point the room gets quieter, the sugar rush burns off, and the easy noise settles into something softer. Dustin is half-asleep on the floor, Lucas and Max murmuring to each other beneath a blanket. Eddie’s fallen into an argument with Robin about whether the movie counts as “cinema,” and Hopper has retreated to the doorway with a beer and a headache.
You stand to grab your jacket quietly, trying not to draw attention to yourself, almost making it to the door.
“Hey.” Steve’s voice isn’t loud. It’s careful, like he’s testing it out before committing. He’s standing near the couch, hands shoved in his pockets, the easy sprawl he usually carries himself with dialed back into something smaller. There’s a moment where it looks like he might say something else—but then he straightens, decision made.
“Are you heading out?”
“Yeah,” you say. “It’s late.”
He nods. “Right. Yeah. Makes sense.”
There’s a pause. The kind that asks for something without saying what.
“Do you want me to—” He cuts himself off, clears his throat. “I mean. I can walk you out if you want. It’s dark.”
You consider it. The driveway. The woods. The quiet that will follow once the door closes behind you.
“Okay,” you say.
The word seems to surprise him.
Outside, the night air is cool and sharp, the kind that seeps under your sleeves and wakes you up a little. Gravel crunches underfoot as you step down from the porch. The cabin behind you hums faintly with muted laughter, the sound softened by walls and distance.
Steve walks beside you, not too close. Just enough to be there.
They've filled the cracks in the ground near the treeline, patched the scars as best they can. It’s obvious where things broke anyway. Hawkins wears it quietly now.
“You good?” he asks after a moment.
“Yeah,” you say. “I think so.”
He hums, not convinced but not pushing.
“Thanks for coming,” he adds. “I know it probably wasn’t… easy.”
You glance at him. His gaze is fixed ahead, jaw set, like he’s afraid if he looks at you he’ll read too much into whatever expression he finds.
“I’m glad I did,” you say.
That earns you a quick look. Something warm flickers there before he reins it in. Steve stops a few steps back, rocking on his heels. “So. Uh. Next time—if you don’t feel like staying long, that’s okay. Or if you don’t come. Or if you—” He exhales, frustrated with himself. “I’m bad at this.”
“At what?”
He hesitates. “Inviting people without making it weird.”
You smile softly. “You’re doing okay.”
He studies that answer like he’s checking it for cracks. “Good,” he says. “Then… next time?”
You nod. “Next time.”
A beat passes. Another.
“Night,” he says.
“Night, Steve.”
You get in the car, shut the door, and don’t pull away right away. Through the windshield, you see him still standing there, hands in his pockets, watching until your headlights come on.
And for the first time in a while, the quiet that follows doesn’t feel empty.
It feels… anticipatory.
–
You never say it out loud.
You barely admit it to yourself.
But some small, stubborn part of you still hopes that one day he’ll remember.
And on the days when that feels like tempting fate — like asking the universe for something it’s already taken — you hope instead that time will do what it always promises to do.
Soften things.
Sand the edges.
Turn this ache into something survivable.
Because loving him like this feels less like healing and more like erosion. A slow wearing-down. A thing you can’t stop without walking away completely — so, you learn how to exist in this strange in-between.
Movie nights blur into sleepovers. Dinners turn into late evenings where no one wants to be the first to leave, because empty houses feel louder now. You show up, linger, and leave early. But Steve keeps finding his way to you.
Not pointedly.
Not obviously.
Just… naturally.
He doesn’t remember you — not in the way that matters — but his attention keeps skidding in your direction all the same. Catching on little things he can’t explain.
The way you tuck your hair behind your ear when you’re thinking.
The sound of your laugh, which seems to echo oddly in his chest, like he’s heard it before in a dream.
It starts small.
At a crowded diner table, he ends up across from you, shoulder tipped just slightly in your direction. He asks what you’re getting and then orders something new from the menu. When the food comes, you trade plates without discussing why, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
At the arcade, he drifts closer as the place fills, not invading your space so much as silently claiming it. He leans in over the din of machines to say something stupid about high scores, his mouth near your ear, his voice pitched only for you. When you laugh, he smiles like he forgot what he was going to say next, eyes lingering a beat too long before he looks away. Later, when you step back to grab tokens, he follows without realizing — like you pulled him there with an invisible thread.
Sometimes it’s quieter than that.
You sit on the hood of someone’s car after a long night, the air cool and damp, everyone else talking in loose clusters behind you. Steve leans beside you, forearms braced on the metal, eyes on the stars like he’s trying to map something familiar.
“You ever think Hawkins feels… smaller?” he asks.
You hum. “Yeah.”
He smiles at that. “Good. Thought it was just me.”
He asks questions.
Small ones. Safe ones.
“What do you order at diners?”
“Have you always lived around here?”
“Were you always into that music, or did it just… happen?”
He listens when you answer. Really listens. And every time, something in you tightens — because it would be easier if he didn’t.
He saves you a seat. Hands you his jacket without comment when the night cools. Walks you home after group dinners even though his place is in the opposite direction. He says it’s late. That it’s dark. That it’s not a big deal. He keeps pace with you anyway, close enough that your arms brush when the sidewalk narrows.
Sometimes you talk about everything.
Sometimes you don’t talk at all.
Either way, it feels dangerously close to intimacy — the kind you’re no longer sure you’re allowed to have.
That’s when you start to think of it as a slow death.
Because leaving always hurts.
And staying close somehow hurts worse.
–
Of course you notice Nancy.
You always have.
She’s impossible not to notice — all sharp edges and sharper mind, fearless in a way that feels deliberate. You respect her. You always have. That almost makes this harder to stomach.
You notice the way Steve looks at her sometimes. Like he’s lining up memory against reality and trying to see where they overlap.
You know what the last clear thing he remembers feeling is. You heard about the conversation in the back of the vehicle — whispered hopes about kids and road trips and growing old. A future shaped in the middle of chaos.
Not with you.
If his memories never circle back to you… why wouldn’t they land on her instead? Why wouldn’t that path feel safer? Simpler?
So when you step out onto the cabin porch for air and find them there, your chest sinks before either of them even speaks.
They aren’t standing close. They aren’t touching. But they’re angled toward each other, voices low and serious, framed by the soft glow spilling out from the cabin behind them. You don’t hear the words.
You don’t have to.
You see Steve lean back against the railing, hand rubbing the back of his neck. A gesture you know by heart — the one that means something matters.
Nancy’s posture is steady. Arms crossed. Expression soft but intent. Like she’s anchoring him through something delicate. Personal.
Your stomach drops.
The screen door creaks behind you before you can stop it.
Both of them turn.
“I was just—” Nancy starts.
“I’m—” you say at the same time, already stepping back. “Sorry. It’s getting late.”
Steve takes a half step forward. “You don’t have to—”
“It’s fine,” you interrupt, forcing a small smile that feels brittle on your face. “Really. I need to head home anyway.”
You don’t wait for a response. But by the time you reach your car, your hands are shaking. You don’t tell yourself not to cry, just let the thought settle, heavy and unkind in your chest:
Maybe he doesn’t remember you because he wasn’t meant to.
–
The porch is quiet, washed in the soft hum of insects and the distant noise from inside the cabin.
Steve leans back against the railing, elbows locked, gaze drifting out toward the dark tree line.
“I mean… you and Jonathan seem good,” he says, glancing over at Nancy. “Like you figured things out.”
Nancy hesitates. It’s subtle — just a slight shift of her shoulders — but it’s there.
“And how does that make you feel?” she asks carefully.
Steve lets out a breath. Not heavy. Not shaky. Thoughtful.
“I remember what I said before,” he admits. “What I wanted. Or what I thought I wanted.” He rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “And I know that mattered. It mattered a lot.”
“But?” Nancy prompts gently.
“But it doesn’t feel like that anymore,” Steve says, frustration edging into his voice. “That’s the part that’s messing with me.”
She doesn’t interrupt.
He gestures vaguely, like he can’t quite grab onto the thought, “I remember loving you,“I remember being so sure. But when I picture my life now…” he continues, a faint frown pulling at his brow, “it doesn’t land there. I keep waiting for that feeling to come back. Like I’m supposed to want that future again. And I don’t.”
Nancy studies him for a long moment. Then she smiles — small, soft, and understanding.
“That means you’re healing,” she says quietly. “Even if it doesn’t feel like it yet.”
Steve exhales, shoulders easing just a little, then adds, “I am happy for you, though. For you and Jonathan.” A corner of his mouth lifts. “I’m… actually glad we’re friends now. All of us. That part feels right.”
–
Eddie’s trailer is quiet in a way Steve still isn’t used to.
Not peaceful — just empty between sounds.
He lies awake on the mattress, staring up at a crack in the ceiling he’s been tracking for the past ten minutes. It vaguely resembles Indiana. Or a boot. Or nothing at all. His brain won’t settle on it.
His chest feels… off.
Not tight. Not panicked. Just restless — like something is vibrating just underneath his ribs, an irritant he can’t scratch.
He rolls onto his side. Then his other side. Then onto his back again.
“Come on,” he mutters under his breath, pressing his palms flat against his stomach like that might help. “You’re exhausted.”
He is. He knows he is.
But every time his eyes start to drift closed, something tugs him back.
A sense of… unfinishedness.
He exhales and lets his gaze drift, unfocused, toward the dim outline of the wall. He doesn’t fight the thought when it comes this time.
You - like a gravity point.
The way you listen. The way you pause before laughing, like you’re deciding whether to let yourself. The quiet steadiness of you, the way being around you makes his shoulders drop without him noticing until afterward.
His mouth curves slightly, fond despite himself.
He drags a hand down his face. “This is ridiculous,” he mutters, though there’s no heat in it. “I don’t even—”
The thought stalls.
Because that’s not true.
It’s not just liking you. It hasn’t been for a while now. Not the way his chest reacts when you walk into a room. Not the way he keeps finding reasons to stand near you, talk to you, walk you home like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
The realization settles, heavy and unmistakable.
I’m in love with her.
The word doesn’t scare him.
If anything, it feels like relief — like finally naming something that’s been quietly demanding his attention for weeks.
He stares up at the ceiling, breathing slow and even.
“Okay,” he whispers to the dark. “Okay.”
Tomorrow, then.
He’ll ask you out. Nothing big. Just honest — just the feeling in his chest that hasn’t been wrong yet.
The restless pull eases, finally dulling into something warm.
Sleep comes softly, catching him mid-thought.
–
He wakes with a sharp gasp.
For a disorienting second, all he knows is pain — bright and sudden behind his eyes, like someone just switched on a light inside his skull. He fumbles blindly, squinting at the dim red numbers on the clock.
3:07 a.m.
He sucks in a sharp breath, hand flying to his face as he squeezes his eyes shut. The room feels wrong. Too unfamiliar. Too small. His heart is pounding hard enough that he can hear it in his ears.
“Shit,” he mutters hoarsely.
He sits up too fast and the world tilts. For half a second, he doesn’t know where he is — doesn’t know whose blanket he’s holding, why the air smells like cigarettes and old flannel instead of detergent and burnt coffee.
Then it hits him.
He’s on his feet before the thought finishes forming, bare chest goosebumping in the cold air, the floor icy under his soles. He stumbles into Eddie’s chair, sends it clattering, doesn’t even slow down.
Eddie jerks awake with a startled noise. “What the—?”
Steve yanks the door open, cold air slamming into him.
“I gotta go,” he blurts over his shoulder, voice hoarse and urgent. “I—I gotta go right now.”
Eddie blinks. Then smiles, tired and knowing and soft at the edges. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Figured.”
The night air burns his lungs, sharp and unforgiving. Asphalt bites into his feet, each step a jolt of pain he registers distantly, like it’s happening to someone else. Streetlights streak past as he sprints, chest heaving, breath puffing white.
By the time he reaches your building, his heart is trying to beat its way out of his ribs. He takes the steps two at a time, slips at the landing, catches himself on the railing.
He pounds on the door with both fists.
Once. Twice. Again.
“Please,” he breathes, forehead pressed to the wood. “Please.”
The door opens.
You’re standing there in an oversized sleep shirt, hair a mess, confusion still clinging to your expression.
Steve can’t speak. For a split second, he just stares — at your eyes, wide and alarmed; at the familiar hallway behind you; at the sad, wilted spider plant hanging near the keys.
“Steve?” you ask, voice thick with sleep. “What—are you okay? Why are you—”
Your gaze drops.
Bare feet. Red and scraped. His chest rising and falling too fast. No jacket. No shoes.
“Did you run here?” you start, alarm bleeding into your voice. “Steve, you’re barefoot—”
He doesn’t let you finish.
He steps forward, hands coming up to your face like muscle memory finally given permission, and kisses you.
It’s not careful.
It’s not slow.
It’s desperate and grounding all at once, like he needs the contact to convince himself you’re real. His mouth crashes into yours, breath shaky, lips cold from the night, kissing you like he’s been holding this in for weeks without knowing why.
You freeze for half a heartbeat.
Then you melt into it.
Your hands fist into his shoulders, pulling him closer, anchoring him as his breath stutters against your mouth. When you finally pull back, you’re both breathing hard.
“I remember,” he says, voice breaking on the word.
You still.
“What?” you breathe.
“I remember everything,” he says again, softer this time. “You. Us. The apartment. The fights and the good parts and the stupid plant you kept forgetting to water.” A shaky laugh escapes him. “I fell asleep thinking about you and the next thing I knew, I woke up and it was just… there. Like my brain finally caught up.”
Your breath stutters. “Steve—”
His hands are still caressing your face when the words start to tumble out of you, messy and panicked now that he’s really here.
“Steve, I— I’m sorry,” you stammer, tears already blurring everything. “The doctor… he said we couldn’t force it. Said it could hurt you, and I— I,” Your voice breaks. “… wondered if maybe this was your chance to go back. To something easier. Someone…” You swallow hard. “Maybe Nancy. Maybe someone better than me.”
He makes a broken sound in his throat and shakes his head, eyes shining, completely undone.
“No,” he says hoarsely, shaking his head against your skin. “No, no— don’t do that.”.
You keep going anyway, breath hitching. “I thought if you never remembered me.. You could go back to-”
He cuts you off by kissing you.
Not your mouth this time, but your forehead. Your temple. The corner of your eye, where tears are still spilling over. Your cheek. Everywhere he can reach, like he’s trying to erase the words before they can carve permanent scars into you.
“Hey,” he whispers, voice shaking. “Hey. Look at me. You really thought forgetting you would make me want someone else?”
You meet his eyes and lose the fight to stay composed altogether, you sob, nodding helplessly.
He’s crying now too — tears slipping down unchecked, mouth trembling as he cups your face tighter, like you might break if he doesn’t hold you together.
“There is no someone better,” he says, voice rough and earnest and wrecked. “There never was. Not even when I didn’t remember. Not even then.”
He presses his forehead to yours, breathing hard, thumbs brushing desperately over your cheeks.
“Even when I didn’t remember you,” he continues, tears falling freely now, breath uneven, “I still wanted you. And I still couldn’t stop wanting to be near you. Couldn’t stop looking for you in rooms. Couldn’t stop feeling wrong when you weren’t there. Every instinct in me knew something was missing, and it was always you.”
A sob shakes through him, “I fell asleep thinking about you, wondering how to ask you out without screwing it up. Wondering why not being near you made my chest hurt. I fell in love with you all over again,” he says shakily.
You press your hands to his chest, feeling his heart racing under your palms.
“My sweet silly girl,” he breathes, voice cracking wide open. He kisses your mouth then — soft, aching, sure. “I’d find you in every lifetime.”
steve who loves to nuzzle his nose into the crook of your neck whenever he asks for something because he knows it'll make you say yes. steve who likes to absently roll himself over you like a ragdoll when you aren't giving him enough attention because he now craves it. steve who for so long was deprived of touch and affection now knowing what it's like because of you and realising it's his love language. steve who slips his hands into the back pockets of your pants or wraps his arms around your waist constantly because he can't stand to not have you near. steve who finally feels loved and seen because of you and wants the whole world to know it.
please please do a Steve x reader where they are parents to four girls!!!!!
Hello! I'm so sorry I never saw this! Thank you for your request and I hope that this is satisfactory :) I'm going to try and keep it as gender neutral as possible, which might include some blanks for parental titles on readers behalf :)
~~~
You held back a smile, the brownies you picked up fresh from the bakery sitting safely in a paper bag in your hand.
You'd gotten off of work early and decided to pick up the Harrington household favorite to surprise everyone.
You unlocked the front door, taking your shoes off as quietly as possible before setting down your work bag, making sure to keep a tight grip on the brownies.
It was suspiciously quiet upon entry, prompting you to tip toe through to the kitchen, where dirty plates sat in the sink to soak. Everyone must have just eaten lunch. It only took a little snooping around to work out that they'd had pasta for lunch, which... if you knew anything about your family (and you did) meant that you'd find them all asleep somewhere-
You stop in your tracks as your eyes land across a heartwarming scene. Steve, sprawled out across the futon, Jessie, your eldest daughter tucked under his arm, his chin resting against the top of her head where its tucked into his neck. You remember when she could fit on a pillow, and now she was growing at a rapid speed, she was going to be tall, but like you've told her a million times before bed, she'd never be too big to hold.
Underneath his other arm, your twin jades, the middle girls, the spitting images of Steve, with freckles in all the same places, Willow and Olivia (affectionately dubbed Olive) and finally, laying between his legs, her little head resting on his tummy, Rory. She was almost four now, and she loved Steve more than anything.
You lean against the door frame, warmth filling your heart. You didn't always think you'd end up here, with such a beautiful family. When you and Steve first got together, you weren't even sure about having kids. You knew he'd wanted them, and had quietly expressed that you were what was most important to him, and if you didn't want kids, then he'd manage. It wasn't that you'd never wanted any, you just didn't want to feel like a kid raising kids.
Steve made it easy. He made it so easy it was ridiculous. There were so many nights of chaos and crying and not being able to get anyone into bed until 1 am, but in the quiet of the night, when you were both almost too exhausted to sleep, staring at the ceiling if only to appreciate the rare quiet moments... He'd roll over, brush his fingers across your cheek and tell you that he'd have as many as you were willing to give him. He'd assure you that this is everything he's ever dreamed of.
He was a phenomenal dad. He was patient, loving, and so, so safe. There was nothing that could get to your girls as long as he was around. There was nothing to worry about, not really. With his love and yours, your children shone bright. They were clever, and goofy and had inherited all of Steve's best traits.
Before you cry tears of joy, you quietly step away, wrapping up the bag of brownies safely before washing the dirty dishes. When that's done, you make your way back out into the living room, where Steve's eyes are barely open, his hand brushing through Jessies hair affectionately. He struggles sometimes, with the idea that one day, she won't need him anymore. That one day, she might not want to be held or cuddled, that she might decide that she doesn't want to be his little girl anymore.
You round the sofa, and his eyes widen a little at the sight of you.
"Hey," he whispers, tilting his head upward.
"Hi." you whisper back, leaning down to meet him in a soft kiss.
"Post pasta nap?" you ask softly, hand coming up to brush some of his hair back.
He smiles, easy, loving and nods. You smile down at him. He rests his head back against the sofa, letting himself gaze you over. It's a quiet minute later when his eyes widen a little, as he whispers, "Don't worry about the dishes, I'll get them-"
You shake your head, leaning down to press a kiss to his warm temple. "I took care of it."
He turns his head, nose brushing yours, tempted to lean in and capture another kiss as he goes, "There's leftovers. I could make you a plate,"
You smile, letting out a breathy chuckle, pressing a kiss to his lips that isn't near long enough before backing up.
"I'll grab some."
He gives you the sheepish smile that you know all too well, and you pad softly back into the kitchen, opening the fridge to find the left overs.
You eat quietly at the kitchen isle, and it isn't long before Jessie pads in quietly, pausing as she sees you in the kitchen.
She glances up at the clock on the wall, then back at you, blinking a few times as if she might be dreaming.
"Hi pretty girl." you call softly, setting down your bowl.
She smiles, bright and beautiful, skipping once as she makes her way over to you and right into your arms. She squeezes you as you rock her back and forth.
"_____, you're home early." she says, backing up to look at you, as much as she can with her arms still wrapped around your neck.
"Yes I am." you smile, pressing a kiss to her cheek.
She laughs, and it makes your heart ache for a moment, with how much she sounds like you.
You pull her in, and she sets herself in your lap, looking into your bowl.
"Can I have a bite?" She asks.
"Of course you can."
"Even though I already had some?"
You chuckle softly, "Yes."
She opens her mouth, and you feed her a bite.
"Dad made it really good today."
"He did! It tastes really yummy."
"Is that what I think it is?" Jessie asks suddenly, spotting the paper bag on the counter.
"It might be." Her grin widens, eyes going a little wild as she clambers out of your lap, heading to the other side of the counter to grab the bag.
She pauses just before she reaches it, looking at you before going, "Can I?"
You pretend to mull it over, "I don't know, Jes. I think everyone would like to eat it together... But..." Her eyes widen even more, hanging on your every word. You smile and she mirrors it without even thinking. "You can have a little piece before everyone gets up."
She squeals, slaps her hand over her mouth and looks towards the doorway, then to you before you both laugh quietly. She brings the bag over to you and opens it, breaking off a piece of brownie. She pops it into her mouth and melts into your side. "Yummy," she drags out, holding herself up with your chair as she leans back.
~~~
It's Steve who enters the kitchen a little later, his hand warm against your lower back as he appears at your side, washing off the twins little plates for their brownies later.
"Finally awake?" you tease, leaning into him.
"Yes." he replies, wrapping his arm around your waist as he hooks his chin over your shoulder.
"I brought a treat for you."
"Oh?"
You gesture to the counter, where the bag stands.
"Are those what I think they are?"
"What do you think they are?" you ask.
"Brownies from Tollmans."
"Brownies from Tollmans." You repeat, laughing when he cups your cheeks, pressing a kiss that bends you backwards to your lips.
"Are the girls up?" You ask as he parts from you.
"They're waking up now."
"Should we bring them out?"
"In a minute." He replies, pressing another kiss to your lips.
You smile into it, wrapping an arm around his neck.
"Missed you today," he murmurs against your lips.
"I was gone for four hours." you reply, kissing him back.
"Too long." he says, tightening his grip around your waist.
No matter how long you've been together, you never get tired of moments like this with Steve. You'd heard so many nightmare stories of people getting married and their significant other just giving up, feeling like they no longer needed to put in any effort now that they got what they wanted, but that could never, in a million years be Steve. He loved you just as much if not more and reminded you of it daily.
"Okay," you speak in between pecks, "We should-" kiss "Dish up the-" kiss "Brownies."
"Bownies?" a soft voice calls out, and you part to see Rory standing in the kitchen doorway, swaying softly as she struggles to stay awake.
"Rory!" You call softly, squatting down to her level. Upon seeing this, she kicked into gear, propelling her tiny body towards you, her striped shirt all mussed up from napping.
She walks directly into your arms. "Hi, baby!" You coo softly, kissing her cheek.
She rubs her eye, focus entirely on the brownie bag that she's already familiar with.
"I missed you," you coo gently to her, bouncing her in your arms a couple times. Her focus is unwavering, so you lean in and blow a raspberry against her neck, causing her to erupt in giggles as she pushes your chin away with her hand.
You go to do it again and she squeals, reaching for Steve to save her. You turn her sideways in your arms and she laughs, "Daddy won't save you!" You lean down, blowing a raspberry against her tummy, and she shrieks, laughter bubbling from her wriggling body.
"Enough!" She squeals, and you immediately stop, turning her back upright. "Okay, okay. I will stop." you smile, pushing her hair back.
"Good job setting boundaries." you say, and she nods, smiling at you.
You bring your hand up for a high five, and she smacks it with all her might.
"Honey," you look at Steve, who immediately melts at the term of endearment like he always does. "Can you take care of the milk?"
He kisses your cheek, "I'm on it." then, just because he can, he kisses Rory's cheek.
~~~
By mid afternoon, you're seated on the sofa, Willow and Olive sitting on the floor at the coffee table, offering one another bites of their brownies to see which one tastes better though they're definitely the same. Occasionally they lean back against your legs, which you wiggle back and forth against their backs to shake them a little. They always make the same noise, a dramatic "Woahwoahwoah!" as if they were on a roller coaster.
Jessie is sitting next to you, eyes fixed to the tv as she takes bites of her brownie, and Rory is in Steves lap, a significant amount of the brownie on her face, and even against her shirt.
It's the ideal setting for all of you, until Willow flinches, her hand flying over her mouth. Olive stops what she's doing, dropping her fork as she turns and looks at her twin.
Steve perks up a little, leaning forward and gently moving Rory's hand from his chin as he tries to look at Willow.
Willow makes a scared sound, her shoulders tensing.
"Willow? Baby, what happened?" His voice comes out a little strained.
Olive raises her hand to Willows, prying it away from her mouth.
Willow makes another sound, and you tense.
"Sweetheart, are you okay?" You ask.
Suddenly, Willow spits into Olives hand, a tooth.
Olives eyes widen, "Ew! There was a tooth in her brownie!"
"No, there wasn't, sweetie, look at me, please." You comment, hand touching her shoulder.
Jessie drops to her knees on the floor, turning her sisters head and looking into her mouth.
"It's not her front tooth but the side one,"
"Her canine came out?" Steve asks. "Willow, can daddy see?" Steve asks, handing Rory off to you as he slips onto the floor too, having her open her mouth tentatively.
"Yup, it must have been loose." Steve observes.
Willow closes her mouth, the corners of her lips turning down as they do just before she cries.
"Hey, okay, deep breath," Steve speaks softly. "It's just a missing tooth."
She nods, her breath shaky. "Did it startle you?" he asks, and she nods, sniffling.
"Okay, that's valid." he softly consoles her.
"Is she crying?" Olive asks, her own voice a little watery as she peaks over Steve shoulder.
"Do you want a hug?" Steve asks her, and she nods, pushing herself into his chest. He wraps his arms around her warmly, rubbing her back gently.
"Don't cry," Olive says, climbing over Steve's leg as she hugs her twin.
Jessie scoots in, too. "Willow it's okay, I lost teeth before, too. The tooth fairy came."
"The tooth fairy?" She asks, voice small as she looks over at her big sister.
"Yea, she'll bring you a dollar for your tooth tonight."
"Really?" she asks, suddenly less upset.
You laugh, Steve turning to look at you, eyes wide in disbelief.
You shake your head, adjusting Rory in your lap as you watch the scene in front of you.
It's a chaotic household, but one that you wouldn't trade for the world. You know that one day you'll miss all of this, and you're determined to enjoy every moment of it while you have it here.
You know what I was thinking of all day? Comforting our sad baby Bucky who just wants a hug. He's tired from a bad mission. His body aches. He saw things he didn't want to. He could really just use something.
Even just a smile?
He doesn't have a lot of friends and most people around the compound outside of the team avoid him. Even those who'd worked with him for ages were still wary, scared he'd snap if they just asked how he's doing. He would have liked it, even just a hello in passing. When he walks by with a scowl on his face, no one meets his eye. If they did, they would have seen the storm that was brewing inside was not an angry one.
He just needed to be held.
When he continues to make his way towards his room, he's given a few nods from a couple of teammates but he knows they're doing it while holding their breath. He reaches his room and the damn is about to break, he hasn't been held in years, he feels so cold and empty, was he really so terrifying, no one would-
"Sergeant Barnes?"
A gentle voice calls for him, forcing him to swallow the lump in his throat. He knows that voice, mustering his best smile as he turns around to find Tony's lab assistant with a cup of chamomile tea in his mug and a file with the mission report he was supposed to fill out.
"Everyone's filling their reports in the conference room, I figured you'd rather have some privacy so I thought I'd bring it to you" You give him the same warm smile you grace everyone with, handing him the steaming cup, "and of course, your favourite"
It's too much. Normally it wouldn't be but he's never given such kindness but he always gets it from you. You're so unbelievably affectionate to everyone and he really doesn't feel worthy but today he needs it so he graciously accepts the tea and file with a soft thank you.
"and call me Bucky, doll"
You stiffen at the slight crack in his voice, frowning when he keeps his eyes trained to the floor. It wasn't unusual for Bucky to keep to himself but you catch his reddened nose and glassy baby blues and it breaks your heart.
He opens the door to enter his room ready to drown in a lonely storm when that voice calls again. Surely he was dreaming. He sets down his things, turning to find you still at his door.
"Bucky?" You enter his room, standing before him when he doesn't ask you to leave, "Are you okay?"
He doesn't trust himself, nodding and desperately blinking back tears. He wished you'd leave, he wished you'd stay, he wished he could just tell you what he needed, his hands fisted into balls by his side, he should just suck it up, what was he expecting-
"Come here" You whisper, your hand coming to cradle the back of his head, bringing it to rest into your neck where he can let go, your arms wrapping around his body.
Bucky doesn't get a chance to realize what's happening because as soon as he feels your touch the first sob escapes. He's hidden himself away in your hold, his tears wetting your skin with no remorse. He clings onto you like a lifeline while you coo and comfort him, playing with his hair and rubbing his back.
You don't let go, allowing him to cry for as long as he needs. Even after his cries turn into sniffles, you comfort him, pressing a kiss to his temple while he holds you extra tight.
When he's finally ready to let go, albeit reluctantly, he's instantly shused from trying to apologize. You don't ask questions asking what happened or why he was upset. It really didn't matter. You just knew. Bucky whispers a thank you, making a mental note to get you some flowers to properly showed you how much he appreciated it.
Of course you'd always just know when he needed it so he'd thank you again with coffee.
• tfatws!bucky who doesn't understand if these feelings are fleeting or a consequence of looking at you, because how can he look away now that he's seen you?
• tfatws!bucky who takes weeks to build up the courage to talk to you. you're a civillian, your average person. it shouldn't be this hard, yet every time he thinks he can do it, he doesn't. he can't.
• tfatws!bucky who finally found the instinct to walk up to you and strike a conversation at your workplace. bucky has no business being there but ever since he saw you that one time due to sam calling in a favor, he couldn't stop thinking about you.
he sauntered up to you and asked if he could borrow a pen. a pen! it’s not much but it's more than he's ever said to you so, progress!
• and it was smooth sailing from there.
• tfatws!bucky who comes in twice a week just to talk to you and pretend like he's there for something important (which in his opinion, talking to you is), but ditches it as soon as he sees your eyes poking out from behind your desk, anticipating his presence. he brings you something you like to sip on while you work every time.
• tfatws!bucky who takes his time to form this bond with you, real friends to lovers slow-burn shit. he doesn't want to rush into things because he fears that would trigger survival response(s). instead, he talks to you and in the time he spends with you, he gets to know you better. he gets to understand you.
• tfatws!bucky who asks you out on a date after his tenth meeting, knowing for sure that what he feels for you and what you feel for him is similar.
oh yeah, this ex-soldier was nervous, but it all went away when he saw your standing there looking like prettiest gal he’d ever seen (and you were). the flowers in his hand matched your outfit and you took them with a happy smile, smelling them. “they’re pretty.” you said. “sure, but you’re prettier.” a shy smile on his lips as you look at him flustered.
• tfatws!bucky who finds himself so drawn to you because of your emotional intelligence your mental age is older than your physical one but it happens to meet him perfectly.
you aren't like those people who unfortunately idolize him, nor do you romanticize his pain and history. you don't flinch when his eyes land on yours and you don't linger on his metal arm like it’ll grow a mind of its own. you simply listen and talk to him like the friends you are, and sometimes you just sit with him silently. you treat him like the human he is, and that’s all he wants.
• tfatws!bucky who doesn't warm to the idea of a boyfriend/girlfriend relationship at first because he doesn't trust he can offer you the stability you give him, but he's willing to try. he's dedicated to learn the ways of a relationship and being to you what you are to him.
• tfatws!bucky who asks you to be his girlfriend six months after seeing you. six months of being close friends that like each other romantically and know what the other thinks of them but choosing to take it at a slow pace has led to this.
he asks you the old-fashioned way— dinner and a show. he takes you to a diner that still maintains the 40's aesthetic and drives you to a drive-in movie theater afterwards to watch The Wizard of Oz, because that's one of the things his mind chose to keep as a reminder that he has a life before he was forced to become the winter soldier, and it was good.
• tfatws!bucky who decides to get back into therapy. albeit reluctant at first due to his last therapist, he finds one infinitely better— one who's as compassionate and empathetic as you. bucky knows that if he needs this to work, he's gonna have to do some serious work on himself, first.
• tfatws!bucky who drives a motorcycle and drives you around when you ask, but never on a highway or a busy road. he can handle himself if he were to get injured but your veins don't hold a super soldier serum. he'd never forgive himself if anything were to happen to you on his watch.
• tfatws!bucky who works out with you. if you weren't already, he'd make a routine that would fit into both of y'all's schedules and you'd hate him at first (but not really) but then you'd look forward to it because it meant to see him all sweaty and in those tight-compression shirts and those muscle-huggin' henleys he got from walmart in a pack for sale— ten for ten.
• tfatws!bucky who allows you to touch him. kissing, hugging, touching is expected in a relationship but it's different with him. unexpected, unwelcomed touches take him to place he never wants to go back to but wanted, welcoming touches take him somewhere he's never been but wants to continue going. head ruffles are an example of those touches.
he was cooking one night and you spotted some lint on his head. “there’s something in your hair.” you said. he nodded wordlessly as he put some salt in the pan and you knew that was permission to touch him and his hair. you reached up to grab it and playfully ruffled his hair a bit. “silly goose.” you said with that gorgeous smile. he almost burnt what was supposed to be dinner and the pan because he couldn’t stop thinking about the touch.
you'll find his hand reaching for yours when you're walking side by side at the park or a hand on your shoulder coaxing you to move away from the sidewalk so he can walk alongside there instead. sometimes he'll feel brave and ask you to dance with him at night with the radio playing music from his time because no offense, your generation's music sucks.
kissing isn't rare but it isn't uncommon, either. the first time you kissed him was about a few weeks into the relationship and it was a quick press of lips to his head as an act of cuteness aggression towards him. of course you'd asked and he nodded with that soft look in his eyes. he kissed your lips for the first time a few days after, asking you with his soft voice and gentle steely eyes and ready to move back in case you didn't want to (but you so wanted to and so you let him).
• tfatws!bucky who kisses with intention. it means something to him and he wants you to know that.
his hands slowly find their way to your face and they hover for a moment before allowing themselves to touch you, like he doesn't know if he should bring his metal arm anywhere near that pretty face.
• tfatws!bucky who prefers hugs as his favorite form of contact. he hugs sam, he's hugged steve, but it's different with you. everything is. there's three types of hugging with you; back hugs, bear hugs, and cuddle hugs.
you knock on his door to let him know you're there, because he spaces out when doing something sometimes. this time he's folding some laundry. he smiles at you and asks about your day to which you sigh exhaustedly and make your way to him, leaning on his back with your forehead resting below his nape and your hands meeting across his middle. he pauses his ministrations momentarily before asking softly, “you okay?”. “yeah, just tired. and you feel warm... and nice. i'm sorry, you want me to get off?” “no, no. it's okay, just... you've never done this before and i think i like it.”
• tfatws!bucky who loves listening to you talk. he'll hum to let you know he's listening and respond when you need him to but it's something about your voice that makes him feel so calm, grounded. your voice keeps him rooted in the present and silences his mind in a way no therapy can (though he still does the methods that work and follows up with his therapist all the time! consistency is key!) and don't let him catch you singing because he'll ask you to sing for him constantly (and you indulge him, obvi).
• tfatws!bucky who doesn't consider living together until you both make it to one year. that's three hundred, sixty-five days of choosing him.
he treats you to a fancy dinner with a view and slides a small blue box with a white ribbon wrapped nicely on top. you thought you’d already exchanged all the gifts so what was this? “open it.” he says with a bouncy knee and pounding heart. though, something tells him you’ll like what you see. you pull at the silky ribbons and open the lid to see a key. you look at him confused. he scratches the back of his neck, trying to appear nonchalant. “it's more convenient and efficient and… better with having you around all the time, officially. since you've already spent a whole year putting up with me.” your teary eyes and beaming smile say it all.
• tfatws!bucky who can't say no to you. come on, how is he supposed to deny you of anything? the simple pleasures of life come from you and he's just gonna tell you ‘no’, to what you ask? he doesn't think so. you wanna go get some food? let's go, he can eat. you're wondering which purse to buy? fuck it, you’ve got a package coming in with all three of the purses you couldn’t choose from in the colors you want.
• tfatws!bucky who brings home a cat because he knows how badly you’ve been wanting one. needless to say, he grows fond of the furry creature in no time.
• tfatws!bucky who isn't quite close to saying the L word yet but knows in his heart that what he feels for you is pretty damn close.
"james buchanan barnes, the white wolf, the most feared man this side of the city, has a very small issue. his wife says jump, he says how high and then rolls over with his paws in the air like an obedient puppy."
mildly bleeding, majorly whipped:
you'd think that a man would be able to bleed out on his own carpets in peace, right? oh no, not in bucky's world. (part i)
whipped for christmas:
you decide that the warehouse doesn't have enough festive joy, bucky disagrees because he's a grinch (part ii)
domestic disputes:
even in his own house, bucky isn't safe from being shouted out by his wife. jokes on you, though, because he enjoys it. (part iii)
When Spencer gets home, you’re asleep, arms and legs splayed across the bed. He knows you do it on purpose so he has to move you out of the way, waking you up in the process. The sight of your hand gripping the fabric of his side of the sheets makes him smile and laugh softly to himself as he passes by to the bathroom.
It doesn’t take him long to freshen up, washing his face and changing into soft pants before rejoining you in the room. He watches you for a moment, cataloguing how you breathe in deep sleep as if he’s ever going to forget. He’s never been afraid of not remembering something before, always so reliant on his memory, but your presence in his life has him grasping onto every moment, so scared of the thought that he might loose this.
He scoops his hand across your arm, cupping your shoulder to wake you gently. You’re smiling before your eyes open. When they do, blinking softly and heavily, you meet his face with a certain familiarity that makes him sigh.
“Hi angel,” he whispers, leaning over to readjust you with ease. You’re pliant in your sleepy state, humming a greeting. He’s got you piled into his arms in a matter of seconds, slipping under the warm covers and brushing his lips over your forehead. “Go back to bed, I’m home.”
The reassurance is all you need to slip your eyes closed again, fingers grasping at his waistband and keeping him pressed to you. He’s not going anywhere, not anytime soon, but the adamant way you clutch to him makes him feel so fond that he can hardly contain himself.
As you drift off, you say his name, so soft and sweet. He cups your cheek at the sound, holding you for a moment before pressing his lips to your forehead and shutting his eyes.
