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.)
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)
FLUFF
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
The Fourth (spencer loves fireworks and hot dogs. his headaches dont.)
Heatwave (you and spencer share a soft moment while trying to find reprieve from the heatwave)
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)
It's hot out. Hotter than hot, actually. Sweltering, Spencer would say. And he does, as he lays sprawled across the sofa, the fan in the corner moving at its highest speed, though its efforts are in vain against the heat swarming you both. Hes in shorts, a rarity, and you love him all the more for it. It's very endearing, the shorts, tank top combo that you remember being surprised that he even owned.
Youre sitting on the floor in front of him, as little clothing as possible adorning your own body.
You glance over at Spencer, his eyes closed, a cold rag on his forehead, and you let your eyes move over his features.
His sweat damp curls are sticking every which way, a result of him pushing them away from his forehead while grumbling about needing a haircut soon. Theres a light sheen of sweat covering his skin, one that makes him shine, even in the darkness of his living room. Your eyes trail down his arms, the soft circular scars in the crook of his elbow.
You glance down his long legs, the faint patches of hair, barely visible due to their lightness. You let out a soft chuckle at the sight of his mismatched socks, the ones he refuses to take off, even in the heat because he can't stand the way the floor feels on bare feet.
You swallow, mind turning back to the scars. Your eyes follow. You take a sip of water, swallow harshly and think about how far hes come. You blink, heat going to your brain as you lean forward and let your lips brush the scars there.
You press a few soft kisses there, backing away as more heat rushes to your cheeks when you look up and see Spencer peaking at you curiously.
You offer a small smile and his eyes watch you for a few seconds longer. You feel it as you stare back, the analysis of every micro expression you're not even aware youre making. You hope, in amongst the subconscious movements, he finds love.
It takes a few minutes, but he does relent, exhaling softly as he tugs at your shoulder. "C'mere."
You scoot yourself closer, leaning in as you pet down his messy hair.
His hand comes up to cup your jaw, movement gentle, almost like hes coaxing the muscle to loosen before he leans up, pressing his lips to yours gently.
It goes on for a few seconds, before he parts, leaving one peck at the corner of your mouth before he says, "I wish it weren't so hot. Otherwise I might keep going."
You feel the heat rise to your cheeks once again, and you pick up your hand fan, turning away as you try to bring cooler air to your face. You don't see him smirk at you, but you do hear his breathy chuckle, full of affection, and most certainly, love.
Masterlist
Please stay safe in this heatwave, yall. It's brutal. wanted to put photos on this, but couldn't decide on which ones to pick!
Blind profiling by @shadowww-bunny
No case in BAU history had ever felt as complex or baffling as the one Morgan suddenly overheard developing behind the closed doors of the conference room.
Fun Fact by @indecisivemuch
You came in to work every day with a fun fact, determined to catch the BAU's genius with one that he wouldn't know
His Hoodie by @22marie16
Hard launching to the team by accident. You wear his hoodie on the jet plane back after an exhausting mission, and everyone notices.
The Fourth | s.r. by @blluesiide
Domestic fluff
Attention by @reidspurpleescarf
3 times you touch Spencer's hair, and 1 time he gets to enjoy it.
Sweet Storms by @sweet-t33a
Domestic fluff
SMUT
Playing Dirty: pt.1 / pt.2 by @reidloverr
I wonder what would happen if you decide to cheat in a chess game against Spencer..
Dead dove do not eat
HEADLOCK: ch. 1 / ch. 2 by @h0lym01y
You're on the hunt for an unsub who's forcing his victims to perform carnal acts or die. What you don't know is that he's set his sights on you and your colleague, Dr. Spencer Reid.
"I like fireworks." Spencer murmurs against your thigh, his head resting in your lap miserably.
"I know you do, pumpkin." You work your fingertips delicately through his curls, massaging as gently as you could against his scalp.
His hand comes up to your thigh, as he messes with the fabric of your pants. With his recent increased sensitivity to loud noises and frequent migraines (and trauma) you didn't know if it was a good idea to go out to a celebration, tonight. Already there had been some neighborhood kids setting off illegal fireworks in the streets, and each time it happened, Spencer flinched. The tension was bringing on a minor headache, not bad enough to be a migraine thankfully, but bad enough that he felt a little woozy.
He sighs through his nose, closing his eyes as your fingers work gentle circles against his neck at the base of his skull.
"How about this," you begin, and idea sparking in your mind. He peels his eyes open, just to look at you.
Hes a dream like this, his curls spread, dancing across your skin, tickling where they touch. "We take a nap," his face perks up a little "and then we get the noise canceling headphones, and if they don't put too much pressure on your head, we can pop over to Emily's celebration for some hot dogs. How does that sound? We don't have to stay for fireworks if youre not feeling up for it."
He sighs. "I love you." You smile. "I love you. Bed?" He nods, "Please."
"I'll go set it up. Just a sec." You carefully manuver your way off the sofa, leaving a whining Spencer to lay while you go close the curtains, and turn up the AC in the bedroom.
When its perfectly dim and comfortably chilly, you make your way back into the living room, where Spencer has his arm bent over his eyes.
"Okay, handsome. All ready."
He inhales and you make your way over, rubbing his back as he sits up, a slow motion catapult into your midriff. It takes some prying to get him up but you do, leading him into the bedroom.
He breathes a sigh of relief when you both lay down, and he melts quickly as you pull him into your arms, his face seeking shelter in the crook of your neck.
He presses a soft kiss to the skin, pauses a moment, and places another. "Sleep." You say, a little chastising. He chuckles, wrapping his arm around you.
Moments like these are nice. But so are moments like you experience that evening, where Spencer scarfs down a hot dog, posture faltering as he slouches back into the outdoor sofa.
The headphones covering his ears make it a little hard to converse, but he laughs along with jokes anyways, smile seemingly permananet on his face as he watches JJ steal fries off of Emily's plate, as he watches Hotch section off a portion of the grill for Penelope's veggie dogs and for corn on the cob.
And when the fireworks begin that night, he doesnt flinch. His eyes go wide in excitement, his hand finding yours as the colors spread across his face.
Moments like these remind you why its all worth it. And you wouldn't trade them for the world.
Masterlist
Just a little somethin' somethin' for those of you who observe the fourth of July. I don't particularly observe it (shout out to my fellow indigenous peeps who also don't particularly observe this day) but I do enjoy a good hot dog, and I do enjoy a firework.
"I like fireworks." Spencer murmurs against your thigh, his head resting in your lap miserably.
"I know you do, pumpkin." You work your fingertips delicately through his curls, massaging as gently as you could against his scalp.
His hand comes up to your thigh, as he messes with the fabric of your pants. With his recent increased sensitivity to loud noises and frequent migraines (and trauma) you didn't know if it was a good idea to go out to a celebration, tonight. Already there had been some neighborhood kids setting off illegal fireworks in the streets, and each time it happened, Spencer flinched. The tension was bringing on a minor headache, not bad enough to be a migraine thankfully, but bad enough that he felt a little woozy.
He sighs through his nose, closing his eyes as your fingers work gentle circles against his neck at the base of his skull.
"How about this," you begin, and idea sparking in your mind. He peels his eyes open, just to look at you.
Hes a dream like this, his curls spread, dancing across your skin, tickling where they touch. "We take a nap," his face perks up a little "and then we get the noise canceling headphones, and if they don't put too much pressure on your head, we can pop over to Emily's celebration for some hot dogs. How does that sound? We don't have to stay for fireworks if youre not feeling up for it."
He sighs. "I love you." You smile. "I love you. Bed?" He nods, "Please."
"I'll go set it up. Just a sec." You carefully manuver your way off the sofa, leaving a whining Spencer to lay while you go close the curtains, and turn up the AC in the bedroom.
When its perfectly dim and comfortably chilly, you make your way back into the living room, where Spencer has his arm bent over his eyes.
"Okay, handsome. All ready."
He inhales and you make your way over, rubbing his back as he sits up, a slow motion catapult into your midriff. It takes some prying to get him up but you do, leading him into the bedroom.
He breathes a sigh of relief when you both lay down, and he melts quickly as you pull him into your arms, his face seeking shelter in the crook of your neck.
He presses a soft kiss to the skin, pauses a moment, and places another. "Sleep." You say, a little chastising. He chuckles, wrapping his arm around you.
Moments like these are nice. But so are moments like you experience that evening, where Spencer scarfs down a hot dog, posture faltering as he slouches back into the outdoor sofa.
The headphones covering his ears make it a little hard to converse, but he laughs along with jokes anyways, smile seemingly permananet on his face as he watches JJ steal fries off of Emily's plate, as he watches Hotch section off a portion of the grill for Penelope's veggie dogs and for corn on the cob.
And when the fireworks begin that night, he doesnt flinch. His eyes go wide in excitement, his hand finding yours as the colors spread across his face.
Moments like these remind you why its all worth it. And you wouldn't trade them for the world.
Masterlist
Just a little somethin' somethin' for those of you who observe the fourth of July. I don't particularly observe it (shout out to my fellow indigenous peeps who also don't particularly observe this day) but I do enjoy a good hot dog, and I do enjoy a firework.
summary: Steve's getting married, and as much as it thrills you that one-third of your 'to the end of the line' trio is getting hitched, it also fills you with dread at the prospect of your ex-fiance also being on the guest list. Luckily for you, the other third of your trio (who you are most certainly, absolutely not in love with) has a plan. A childhood friends-to-lovers, fake dating AU fic.
author's note: This is my first commissioned fic, written for @/pham-tastical! Anna, thank you so much for entrusting me with your vision! I hope you love it. (The title comes from the beautiful poem Oranges by Roisin Kelly.)
warning(s): cursing, alcohol consumption, mutual pining/oblivious idiots in love
word count: 6.4k
( masterlist // ko-fi // library blog )
The save-the-date arrives on a Tuesday morning, tucked away inside a baby blue envelope.
It matches the gleam in Steve’s eyes—all cotton candy, mid-afternoon skies blue—in the photo that falls out from it. He beams up at you so hard from the picture that you have to blink back the image of him decades younger, backwards baseball cap on his head and dirt caked in the hollows under his eyes and lips split so wide around those missing baby teeth that his cheeks look pinched, like his ma’s fingers had just caught him there, drawing all the red blood to the apples.
“He looks happy, doesn’t he?” Bucky’s expression mimics that of Steve’s in the photograph when you tack it to your refrigerator, an easy, white-toothed smile at his lips.
The look must be contagious—or maybe it’s the fact that one-third of your childhood trio would be getting married come spring—because your own mouth slides up into a relaxed smile, teeth not quite making their appearance yet.
“Yeah,” you nod, hopping up on the counter to peel the last orange from the fruit basket. A hint of citrus hits your nose as your fingers dig into the ream. “He does.”
Bucky doesn’t look away yet, crepey skin of his eyes still crinkling as he looks between Steve and Peggy’s inked faces. “Looks kinda dopey.”
“‘Course he does,” you laugh around an orange slice, tart juice sugaring your tongue. “He’s in love. He always looks like that when he’s in love.”
It’s the sweet smell of the orange that finally draws his attention away from the card stuck to the fridge, long limbs seeming to move towards you on their own accord. He leans back against the quartz island countertop, elbow brushing your waist.
Placing the flesh palm of his hand in your lap, the backs of his fingers tickling the bare and dimpled skin of your thigh, he awaits the offering. “Please tell me I don’t look so damned goofed up when I’m in love.”
“Never seen you in love,” you shrug, dissecting the little orange between your fingers, your nails collecting remnants of its peel beneath them. His fingers curl around the slice you’ve given him, pink lips enveloping it, even as his brows furrow. Another slice settles against your tongue as you continue, “Tara? Evie? Claire? You think it was love with any of them?”
He chews, jaw sliding back and forth, lips pursing against the slightly soured sweetness. “Guess not.”
He’s licking his fingers, droplets of juice or the flavorings of food never allowed to go to waste from James Barnes’ tongue. How many times had his ma smacked him upside the head for that? Given him that silent warning with her eyes, just as steely blue as her boy’s, just as scary when sharpened with reproach?
It’s rude, James, she’d tell him. Go wash your hands, son, for Christ’s sake.
But you’re not his ma.
“Last one,” you tell him, holding the final, near-translucent fruit slice up to the light streaming in from the kitchen window. “Wanna split it?”
“Nah,” he shakes his head, a strand of hair falling in his eyes. “You have it.”
He knocks his elbow against your knee—the heat of his touch still looming there—pushing away from the counter to go dig in your refrigerator, the sound of drawers opening and bottles rattling in his wake.
“Wanna beer?”
“From my own fridge?”
“Yeah.”
You swallow down the last of the orange, tossing the peel into the bin. The scent of citrus is soaked deep into the skin of your palms, deep into the skin of his fingers. You smell like the juice that he’s licked from those long, flesh and bone digits—your shared scent tangy on his tongue—and the thought sends you clearing your throat before answering him.
“Yeah, hand me one.”
The glass bottle clinks against the silver ring on your middle finger as he tucks it into your hand. Bucky’s eyebrow raises at the sound, eyes flickering to where the band glitters beneath the fluorescent kitchen lights before meeting your gaze again.
“He’s gonna be there, ya know,” he says instead of asking the unuttered question that’s already been swallowed down with the first barley-tinged swig of his beer. It’s probably swimming around deep in his belly by now, but you know him better than he knows himself, know the words dissolving in his stomach acid: Why are you still wearing that thing?
“It’s pathetic, isn’t it?” You twist the band around your finger, watching the sapphire twinkle blue in the light as it slides up and down past the knuckle. It never did fit your ring finger.
He shrugs, another swallow of the beer. “A little.”
There’s the tilting up of his right mouth corner, white-squared teeth playing peek-a-boo from the window his lips create.
“Wanna hear something even more pathetic?” You offer to the sliver of cornflower blue in his eyes, the color darkening to harbor belittlement or shame in your direction.
“Always,” he says, eyes lightening—always lightening, only ever lightening towards you—in amusement.
“I ran into him at Sam’s work thing last weekend,” you begin, Bucky’s eyelids narrowing slightly now, looking at you down the neck of the amber bottle. “He was with her—Jo—and he asked how I was doing, and I panicked, and I might’ve told him I was seeing someone.”
“Might have?”
“What was I supposed to say to him?”
“I don’t know,” he huffs, annoyance not directed at you but still grazing your cheeks as he sets the bottle aside to rest his hand against his hip. “Tell him to kiss your ass? That he owes me about fifty bucks for all the ice cream it took to get you out of bed that first week?”
“Bucky—,”
“No, come on,” he says seriously now, grabbing your left hand up in his, fingers wet from the condensation as they rub at the place where the ring’s left an impression in your skin. “You gotta pawn this thing, alright?”
“I’m not going to—,”
“Jesus, your hand’s freezing,” he ignores your protest, frowning at the chilled flesh of your digits that rivals the coolness of the Heineken abandoned against your thigh. “Remember when you used to chase me and Stevie around in the winter with those cold ass hands of yours, trying to press ‘em up against our cheeks?”
You laugh then, watching as he tries to melt away the ice in your skin with the familiar flint of his thumb. “Yeah—and I always caught you.”
His tongue pokes out, swiping around his bottom lip like he wants to say something and he’s got to slicken up the runway for the words to slide out just right. At the last moment, he just chuckles instead, shaking something from his head like a swimmer shakes the water from their ears.
“Steve and those skinny little legs of his—outran every last one of us.”
“And then he’d have to come to my rescue, hauling you off me when you’d wrestle me to the ground, shoving my hands in your jacket pockets,” you shake your head like you’re developing the memories like film in your mind, a Polaroid of a pre-teen Bucky, all dark hair and a dimpled chin, holding you down in the snow, his breath hot and stuttering with laughter against your neck, grows clearer. “You were such an asshole.”
But even then, you were harboring the secret, the one you hadn’t dared spoken into the air lest it became real—you liked the way the furnace of his skin, the smoke of his breath, reduced the glacier in yours to ice water in your chest each time.
“Hey, I was doing you a favor,” he argues, pulling your palm up to rest flat against his chest like he used to back then, shoulders broader and sternum stronger all these years later. His heart still beats the same beneath the lifelines. “Your ma sending you out without mittens—you know Steve’s ma used to threaten to knit you a pair every Christmas?”
You nod, grin at your lips softening at the memory of Mrs. Rogers, thick Irish accent wrapping around your name as she called out to you from their apartment stoop, warning that she’d better not see you at St. Andrew’s after dinner with frostbitten fingers or she’d lob ‘em off herself.
Something shifts in the conversation with the mention of Steve’s ma.
Bucky’s sweatshirt is soft and well-worn against your fingers as you grab up the material and gather it up inside your fist, pulling him back into the present—back to this version of you with time-marked skin and furnace-heated cheeks—by the collar. “What am I gonna do?”
“About the wedding?”
“I’m going to look so stupid when I show up without a date, and he’s sitting there with Jo, smiling like an idiot because she looks so perfect and—,”
“I’ll go with you,” he says, fingers curling around your grip on his shirt.
“Well, yeah, I figured we’d go together—,”
“No,” he shakes his head. “I mean I’ll go with you—be your date. Pretend to be your boyfriend, or whatever the hell will get his eye twitchin’.”
And now your eye might begin to twitch, eyelid jumping in beat with the sudden quickening of your heart, a Morse code of fluttering eyelashes betraying you at the prospect of Bucky being your date, your romantic partner—even if just for a night, even if just in pretending.
You say his name like a hiccup against the obtuse feel of your heart in your throat. “You don’t have to do that.”
“Come on, it’ll be fun,” he insists, eyes so light now that crystalline. “You, me, a little dancin’, too much champagne? Don’t tell me you don’t want to see the way Steve’s eyes will bug out when we tell ‘em we’re together.”
You can’t help but laugh at the thought of how your friends would react, even as your mind can hardly think of anything but the warmth of Bucky’s fingers still wrapped around your own, the ice in them long melted by his touch.
“Nat’ll know,” you tell him in a breathy giggle. “Nat always knows.”
It’s your attempt at giving him an out—giving yourself an out before this goes too far, before you get a taste of what it would be like to call Bucky yours, enough of him on your tongue that you’d have to admit that it’s what you’d been craving all along, a hunger in your belly all these years you could never let yourself sate.
He shrugs, and there’s a cerulean glint of mischief in his eyes—and something almost indigo in shade that you can’t quite place—when he says, “We’ll just have to make it believable then… if we’re gonna fool Romanoff.”
Your stomach is somersaulting, all acidic and light from the orange still lingering beneath your fingernails, as you swallow down the fleshy red organ of your heart enough to tease, “Let’s see how much you remember from drama club.”
His heart flutters strongly beneath your palm, teeth glittering white like snow, in reply.
“You comin’ or what?”
His knuckles tap against the hotel room door, exasperated tone of his voice muffled by the thick wooden barrier.
“I’m coming,” you call out from in front of the mirror, neck angled uncomfortably to peer at the back of your dress. A huff of irritation blows past your painted lips. “Can’t get this fucking zipper to zip up.”
“Steve’s gonna have my ass,” he groans against the wood, voice a little clearer now. The shadow of his loafers peeks in from underneath the gap between carpet and door. “Kinda fuckin’ important that the Best Man isn’t late.”
“Co-Best Man,” you remind him through another huffy sigh, dropping the material between your fingers and shuffling over to the door in your heels. “Sam can cover for you for a second,” you say as you start to unlock the bolt, “Just get in here and help me with the damn thing.”
When you swing the door open on its hinges, Bucky stumbles forward a bit, righting himself from where he’d been leaning up against it.
“Jesus, couldn’t give me a warning—?” he begins to complain, scowl marring his features, before his neck snaps and he’s blinking at the sight of you in the doorway, jaw slackening as the words catch in his throat. “Uh, hey.”
The way he’s looking at you, as if he’s never truly seen you before, makes you shift uncomfortably in your heels.
“Hi,” you test, a nervous smile creeping up on your lips. You’re suddenly second-guessing the extra swipe of blush to your cheeks. “Everything okay?”
His fingers fiddle with the bow tie at his collar, blue eyes blinking back that strange indigo tint again, before he’s correcting his face, placing a familiar half-cocked smile at his mouth that puts you more at ease. “Yeah, it’s fine—I’m great. Uh, you needed help with your dress?”
“Yeah,” you nod, turning your back to him to allow him to trail you into the room. As you retreat, two pairs of feet padding against the carpet, it’s impossible to not feel the burn of his eyes at the bare skin of your back. “It won’t zip up.”
He grunts, nodding, as you stop in front of the mirror, watching the eyes of his reflection flicker from where the zipper rests just above the curve of your backside up to your own reflection in the glass.
You offer him a soft smile, lips not quite parting to display a flash of teeth, to coax him on. His Adam's apple bobs beneath the milky skin of his neck as his left hand hovers for just a moment at your waist before he gingerly leverages it above the swell of your hip.
The feel of those firm, metal fingertips pressed into the material of your dress sends your heart hammering away inside your chest. Your pulse is a deafening thunder in your ears that follows the lightning strike of his touch.
How many times had he touched you before, hooked a casual arm around your waist, without calling the thunder to your rib cage like some Norse god? This was a new power over you.
His right hand finds the zipper, mouth flattening into a straight line as he tugs at it, fingers digging a little less featherlight into the bunched material of your gown for purchase.
“Damn thing,” he mutters under his breath, and you feel the curse hot on your shoulder. His lips are so close to the blade of your back that he could lean forward, just less than an inch, and press a kiss into—
There’s a little puff of relief that fans across your neck when the zipper pulls upward on its track, Bucky smoothing the material of your dress at your back before taking a step back, eyeing you with a raised eyebrow in the mirror. Pink dusts his cheeks like windburn.
“Alright,” he rubs a large palm down his face. “You ready? Steve’s gonna kill me.”
“Let’s go,” you nod, grabbing your clutch up in your hand as Bucky opens the door for you to step out into the hallway in front of him. “You can tell Steve it’s my fault you’re running late.”
“Still don’t think he’s buying that we’re seeing each other.” He presses the white button for the elevator, and it glows yellow beneath his fingertip, beckoning the lift to your floor.
The elevator doors open with a ding. “Nat’s not buying it, either,” you tell him as you step inside, leaning up against the stainless steel wall opposite from him. “Sam’s the only one convinced.”
“Yeah?” Bucky’s lip twitches amusedly, ghost of a laugh rolling off his tongue. “What’d he say?”
“‘Finally,’” you parrot Sam’s voice from earlier in the day when you’d told him that you and Bucky had started seeing each other.
Bucky laughs at your impression of the man, running a hand through his hair as the elevator doors close. “Well, at least we’ve got one down. Three more to go.”
Your bottom lip works its way between your teeth, the waxy taste of lipstick in your mouth preparing your tongue to speak a name you’d forbidden from it months ago. “Nate’ll probably be quick to believe it. He was always jealous of you.”
A surprised little chuckle catches in his throat, nose scrunching into itself. “Of me?”
“Yeah,” you laugh a little awkwardly, a little ungracefully. “Always thought that maybe there was something between us.”
Bucky doesn’t respond outside of a grunt, head nodding back against the metal wall of the lift before a smirk begins to transform his features. He’s shaking his head a bit incredulously, shoulders shivering with a silent laugh.
“What’s so funny?”
He drags his shoulders up into a nonchalant shrug. “Guess I just like the idea of making the prick jealous.”
“Bucky—,” you begin to warn.
“No, I’m serious,” he shakes the air of fun from his voice, picking up a sharper, more serious quality as he crosses the lift to stand next to you. “He’s a prick—he was a prick for leaving you, and he’s gonna feel like a prick when he walks in tonight and sees you with me.”
He’s so close, face just inches from yours, that you can smell the mint of his toothpaste still on his breath.
Your mouth parts in time with the parting of the elevator doors, an image of a guest in a maroon wrap dress coming together on the other side. Before you can speak, Bucky’s already leaning, lips nearly brushing the hot skin of your cheek in their path to your ear.
To anyone else, it would appear he’s placed a gentle kiss on your temple. “Follow my lead.”
You nod, words lacking the air needed to produce sound, and then he’s pulling you by the hand, fingers interlaced with yours, off the elevator and towards the reception hall.
The sound of your heels clicking against the floor reverberates in your mind, colliding with the constant stream of thoughts bouncing against your cranium.
Bucky’s held your hand a hundred times before—guiding you through the crowds at the fall fairgrounds, pulling you to your feet after Kat McNamara knocked you down at Sam’s twenty-first birthday party, bracing you against the clergyman’s words at Ms. Roger’s funeral—but it had never felt like this. Never had it felt so tender, so warm with affection, and yet so electric.
The feel of fingers interlocked with yours, his thumb pad rubbing circles into the underside of your hand, sends white hot bolts of lightning into your veins, the energy following the path-of-least-resistance straight to your heart. Underneath your dress, away from prying eyes, you’re certain there’s a tree-branch marking of his lightning strike branded into your skin.
He’s motioning for you to sit on the end of a row of chairs, the aisles still mostly empty save for a handful of guests. Ahead, Steve is talking to the officiant, hands in his pockets and head bowed slightly. When he catches sight of you and Bucky, he waves a little exasperatedly, but the annoyance doesn’t reach the edges of his face. Instead, he wears a broad smile, gesturing for Bucky to join him and the rest of the groomsmen.
“Better go,” he tells you, hand unlacing from yours. “I’ll be right up there the whole time—I’ll find you after the ceremony, okay?”
“Okay, go,” you smile up at him, raising your hand to swat him away. He catches your open palm, delicately closing your fingers into a fist and pressing his lips to your knuckles before dropping your hand and bounding down the aisle without another word, seemingly entirely unaware of the state he’s left you in.
Watching him while you try to steady your heartbeat again, you take in the sight of him, muscular shoulders cloaked in his navy suit.
He’s all sharp cheekbones and angular jawline and dark hair as he laughs with Steve and Sam, eyes crinkling so familiarly. He looks the same as ever—still your Bucky with the flattened nose bridge and the round eyes and the two parallel lines between his eyebrows—but none of this feels familiar.
You’re absent-mindedly rubbing at the joints where he’d pressed his lips, soft and pink and warm, when someone clears their throat beside you.
He’s smiling when you angle your neck up to get a glimpse of him, a beautiful woman you’ve met only one other time before on his arm. “Mind if Jo and I sit with you? Everyone we know’s in the bridal party.”
“Oh, uh,” you flicker your eyes towards the flower-covered arbor that Bucky stands beside, drawing strength from his side profile. “Sure.”
They both nod their thanks, bright smiles plastered against their cheeks, as they scoot past you into their chairs. Your left middle finger burns, the indent from Nate’s ring long disappeared, as he leans closer to ask, “So, where’s this lucky guy of yours? Been dying to meet him.”
Bucky’s already looking at you when your eyes flit up from your hand to find him, concern etched into those two parallel lines at his forehead.
“You’ve already met him,” you smile sweetly, nodding in Bucky’s direction. He waves, the worry dissolving in the wrinkles in the center of his face, melting them down to the lines that form around those cornflower blues instead.
Nate doesn’t try, or maybe isn’t able, to hide the note of surprise in his voice. “Barnes? I didn’t know you two were—uh, when did that happen?”
“It was still pretty new when I saw you at that Christmas party, the one at Steeple & Chase?”
The lie rolls off your tongue easily, and you’re a bit surprised by it, by how easily you’re allowing yourself to slip into this fabricated reality where you and Bucky are some happy couple.
“Right,” he nods slowly, fingers drumming in his lap as they always did when the gears in his mind were overworking. He glances down at your left hand, finding the fingers bare. “Well, I’m happy for you. Guess you and Barnes were always meant to be.”
And just like that, the runaway train of your heart hits a solid brick wall. That little red caboose stills in your chest, one last push of red hot blood to your cheeks before the engine sputters out, dark steam practically billowing from your ears.
“Thanks,” you force out against the sudden, smokey thickness in your throat.
You paint a smile at your lips, one that Bucky returns from across the room, unable to see the wreckage of your heart, ribs a splintered mess like uprooted tracks and twisted turnstiles.
And when the ceremony begins—when everyone rises as Peggy walks down the aisle looking like an angel in white and with lips of red, when Steve’s a little teary-eyed and Sam’s clapping him on the back with a smile that shows that little gap between his teeth—that matrimonial march is the work song singing in your chest as Bucky winks at you. A vision in a navy suit, he untangles the railings, refastens the crossties, and welds the pieces of you together with a single gesture.
“Be honest, is my mascara everywhere?”
Bucky’s holding you close, arms wrapped around your waist as the two of you sway to the soft rhythm set by the live band, the bright white lights of the banquet hall acting like the heat lamp of an incubator. Sweat clings to your hairline, and you swear you feel your makeup beginning to slide off around the edges of your temples.
“Nah,” he shakes his head, toothy smile on his face that hasn’t managed to make a disappearance all night. “Still looks good… you look good.”
Even as the blood rushes to your face, dizzying you a little, you grin. “Steve did you a real favor, picking out navy for the suits.”
“Yeah?” There’s a gleam in his eyes, irises impossibly blue.
“Yeah,” you nod, hands leaving the back of his neck to straighten the bow tie at his throat. He peeks down at you beneath a fan of dark lashes. “My date just so happens to look good in blue… something he should have heeded when picking out his tux for prom.”
“Now that’s low,” he shakes his head, the motion doing little to dislodge the reflection of string lights, like little white stars, in his eyes. “You know my ma picked it out for me.”
“I think she was trying to deter Krista Levens from meeting you under the bleachers.”
He laughs out her name, nostalgia blanketing the syllables. “Krista—ma never did like her.”
“No,” you mimic the airy noise. “She did not.”
When you finish smoothing the wrinkles in his bow, more pop up around the corners of his eyes as your fingers find the warm skin of his neck again. He leans in close, lips hovering millimeters from your cheek.
Just barely over the thundering of your pulse in your eardrum, you hear him say: “Always liked you, though.”
Warm lips climb the highest peak of your cheek—the place where flesh is most scant over angled bone—and deposit a kiss so gentle that it would be easy to believe that you’ve imagined it.
But it’s not a figmentation; that much is clear when Natasha catches your attention from across the dance floor, her own arms draped around Sam’s shoulders. Her lips, plum in color and plumped in satisfaction, draw up into a smile. Those eyes, green and so often dangerous, glint brightly.
They’re filled with belief.
Suddenly, the temperature beneath the lights—beneath Natasha’s approving gaze and Bucky’s false attentions—has risen to become unbearable.
“I’m dying in here,” you mumble, pulling away from his grip. You already feel cooler, familiar chill returning to your skin, as his hands drop from your waist. “I think I’m gonna get some air.”
You’re already several steps towards the French doors marked by the glowing red exit sign when his fingers catch you around the wrist, spinning you on your heels to face him. His eyebrows are drawn together, eyes rounded in concern.
“You feeling okay?”
You force a smile, and he notices. “Yeah—just burnin’ up in here.”
He nods. This time, the motion does seem to shake some of the glittering from his eyes.
“Okay,” he drawls out a bit. When he slows his cadence down like that, he sounds like Brooklyn. Sounds like home. It makes you suck in a breath as he says, “I’ll come check on you in a bit, yeah?”
“Yeah,” you exhale, feeling his grip on your wrist falter, releasing you to scurry towards the exit, heart beating in time with the clacking of your heels.
The sun had set hours ago, stealing away the April warmth with it.
Dogwood trees and neatly-pruned hedges and just-bloomed lilies meet you in the courtyard, the rustling of their branches and leaves and petals in the wind a hushed greeting. There’s an iron-wrought bench beneath a particularly lonely looking tree, and as you sit down on it, the chilled metal digs into the exposed flesh at the underside of your thighs.
The sensation sends goosebumps rising on your forearms, your teeth gritting against the coolness of the evening, but you don’t move to return to the reception yet.
It’s too hot in there.
Nat’s in there, lips stained like merlot, pulled up at the edges in an undeserved, misplaced blessing of a lie. Nate’s in there, too, swirling Jo around, skirt of her dress spiraling pink across the dance floor like his words in your mind: Guess you and Barnes were always meant to be.
Bucky’s in there, too—the blazing hot sun at the very center of this solar system. If you orbit him again, his arms wrapped around your waist like solar flares from a red hot star, it’d surely mean an extinction-level event for your little blue planet.
It seems you’re meant to orbit one another, gravity working like fate, when he eventually comes hurtling through the door like an asteroid.
He searches the ill-lit garden, eyes like sad, demoted-to-dwarf-planet Plutos until they land on your face. He crosses the courtyard silently to sit beside you on the bench, leaning casually into the intricate iron details of its back.
There’s a beat of silence between you, the most uncomfortable pause there’s ever been in the twenty-year expanse of your friendship, before he’s clearing his throat. “Cold out here,” he says without turning towards you.
“A little,” you lie. Before the night is through, maybe you’d actually grow to be good at weaving fabrications and falsehoods, as good as him.
He’s watching you out of the corner of his eye, you can feel it. “Your hands cold?”
You pause the absent-minded rubbing of your hands together you’d been doing. “No.”
“You’ve always been shit at lying,” he laughs, though the noise lacks its usual lightness.
His hands reach forward and gather yours up in them, gently guiding your freezing fists to the pocket of his suit jacket. Almost immediately, the ice that’d set into the long bones of your fingers begins to melt.
“Better?”
When you look up to meet his face, his eyes are so warm—ever warm, always warm in your direction—that they boil the blood in the capillaries of your cheeks. It feels like anger, something easier to acknowledge in its regard of Bucky than this other burning, all-consuming fire that threatens to eat up every bit of oxygen in your lungs.
Your tongue sharpens the words like a whittle. “How is this so easy for you?”
“What?”
“This,” you nod down to your hands resting in his pocket, avoiding that irksome, unplaceable shade of indigo in his eyes. “Lying. Lying to our friends. To Steve, to Nat, to Sam. Making them think that we’re together.”
He blinks, and you can’t look at the surfaces of those dwarf planets. The coloring of them looks too much like pity.
“How is it so easy for you to touch me like that?” And even as your voice begins to break, like hot magma oozing from the crater he’s dug in your exterior, you don’t have the strength to fall out of his orbit. “To lie about—to pretend like you could love me?”
There it is.
Extinction.
You shut your eyes against the sight of it, decades of friendship imploding because you couldn’t take the heat of him, couldn’t force the molten, ugly truth of your feelings back down into your core.
“Wanna show you something.”
You pry your eyes open, expecting to see unfamiliar blue planets on the horizon. It’s still two Plutos that greet you, welcome you back with reddened rust on their surfaces.
Cool, metal fingers brush away tears from the hollows under your eyes. “Come with me to my car?”
It takes you a moment to collect your voice. “Where are we going?”
“Nowhere,” he chuckles like he’s tired, pulling you to your feet. He loops his arm around your shoulders, and it feels nothing like a lie. “Just something I’ve been meaning to show you in my trunk.”
Your heels are scuffing against the asphalt of the parking lot. “Your trunk? The last time you showed me something in your trunk, it was that box of pizza that’d been in there for—,”
“It’s not old pizza, alright?”
“Better not be.”
“It’s not,” he insists, palming his pocket for his keys. He presses his thumb against a button on the fob, and the car unlocks, tail lights flashing red as the trunk pops open.
There’s a little silver paper bag inside with silver handles, a card taped to its front. Your name is written across it in his neat, blocky handwriting. When you look at him with a question in your eyes, he nods, gesturing for you to open it.
“Your birthday present,” he says sheepishly, palms spread flat and fingers flexing nervously against his thighs. When you raise your eyebrow at him, he says, Uh, last year’s.”
“I thought you forgot.” He’s put enough tissue paper in here to completely obscure whatever’s lying in wait at the bottom from view, but you begin to make out something fuzzy and maroon. “You paid for mine and Nate’s drinks—I thought that was you making up for forgetting.”
He shakes his head. “Since when have I forgotten your birthday?”
But you don’t answer him—can’t answer him when you fish the hand-knitted, maroon mittens out from the bottom of the bag. They look just like the ones Steve and Bucky used to wear, woven on the end of Mrs. Roger’s needle, every winter.
“Bucky,” his name is a choked sound in your throat, coated in disbelief. “Did you… did you knit these?”
“Fuck no,” he laughs now, and it’s a sound that’s familiar. “Got ‘em on Etsy.”
“They’re—,”
“Read the card.”
He nods towards where the envelope flaps against silver, wind picking it up before the tape tethering it to the bag brings it back down. It rips as you glide your index finger between its flap, revealing the little yellow card inside.
On the front of the card is the image of a dog wearing a party hat, blowing out the candles on his birthday cake. Happy Doggone Birthday!
You laugh, splitting the card open to read the message he’s undoubtedly scrawled inside—every year, he’d wish you a happy birthday in that comic book lettering font of his. To your surprise, a lengthy letter in blue ink, blocked letters even smaller than usual to fit within the space, is dashed into the paper.
Your eyes flit up to his again, and he simply nods, spurning you on.
Mittens.
You have any idea how long I spent on Etsy, searching for the perfect pair of mittens? I’ll tell you how long. Three months, every night before bed, I’d be scrolling and searching and reading reviews before I finally found a real nice lady, lives in Michigan, to custom knit a pair just like the ones Mrs. Sarah always threatened to knit for you.
Still, three months is nothing. Nothing compared to how long I’ve been wanting to write this letter—hell, needing to write this—and chickening out. I always was the chicken, wasn’t I?
You and Steve, you were the brave ones. Brave but so damn tiny. I was just the one with the height, the one that followed the two of you into whatever trouble there was to find.
Jesus, my stomach hurts just writing this, telling you about the damned mittens, and I haven’t even gotten to the hard part yet.
Truth is, my stomach’s been upset for a long-time now. All twisted up.
Thought I was gonna puke, when you called me that night, telling me you were engaged. Even went to the toilet bowl, clingin’ on for dear life, but nothing would come up. You sounded so damn happy. Couldn’t even get sick, couldn’t push that happy laugh of yours out of my stomach if I tried.
Even if it’s killing me, seeing you smiling with that damned ring on your finger, too damn small to fit the way it should—the way it would, had someone who cared enough about you been the one to ask you that question.
And really, it’s nothing personal against Nate. He’s a prick, but you seem happy. Real happy.
Fuck, I’m running out of space. Alright. Here goes nothing.
I wish it was me. God, I wish it was me who’d asked you. I always thought it’d be me and you. Believed it so bad that I guess I never realized I’d have to come clean with it, tell you the truth, for that to happen.
I got you these mittens—took them six weeks to come in the mail, mind you—because I know your hands stay so cold all the damn time. Doesn’t matter if it’s summer and the AC’s out, your hands are freezing, and I can see now that I won’t always be there to hold them, warm them up against my chest or in my pockets or in my own hands, like when we were kids. I bought them because I know you, and, dammit, I love you.
So, happy birthday.
I hope these keep your hands warm, but there’s a bigger part of me still hoping that you’ll never stop letting me do it.
Love always,
Bucky
The card wavers between your fingertips, but it’s not the wind that sends it fluttering now. It’s the tremor in your hand, the same tremor at your bottom lip, when you breathe out his name.
“Couldn’t give it to you,” he shrugs weakly, his voice sounding choked and wet. “Not last year.”
“Chicken,” you tease, but it comes out softer, affectionate like a pet name.
His face splits open in a smile, area around his eyes wrinkling, and you realize that you’d never want to do anything that’d risk ironing them out from the silk of his skin.
“It was easy.” He doesn’t dare move, allows you to orbit always closer to him, as he watches. “So damn easy today, ‘cause it was the first time all these years that I wasn’t pretending, not for even one second.”
It’s a gentle collision—a satellite docking into a space station always expecting its arrival, built to welcome it home—when your body meets his. There’s nothing between you now, nothing but the little silver bag and the card and the mittens.
His hand finds your face, cups your cheek. There’s that indigo in his eyes again when he leans down to close the gap between your features and his, and you finally understand.
Before, when Bucky asked you what he looked like when he was in love, you didn’t have an answer for him. You thought you’d never seen how it might’ve impossibly widened his smile, like Steve, or heard how it would honey his voice like Sam.
It never occurred to you, not until now, with his lips so close to yours that you can already feel their warmth, that you’d been seeing what it looked like for Bucky to be in love every day. Same angular cheekbones, same hardened jawline and pink lips and parallel lines between his brows. Same round, blue eyes.
Just a tint of indigo to color them.
“Been wanting to do this for a long time,” he says against your lips, thumbpad stroking your cheek. “Dreamed about it.”
“Feels like I’m dreaming,” you whisper.
He kisses you then, lips smothering any doubt that this could be anything but real, and his tongue tastes like the mimosas they’d passed around on little white trays earlier. Champagne and orange juice.
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.
