Aspen: she/her, elder millennial of forty years. writings, musings, fandom flailing, and smut. I DO NOT INTERACT WITH USERS UNDER 18 YEARS OF AGE. MINORS AND SERIAL LIKERS WILL BE BLOCKED.
Here's the official guide to who I am, what you'll find around here, and the guidelines for being a good visitor to the forest...
UPDATED DECEMBER 2024
CHIEF FORESTER: ASPEN
Elder Millennial/40 years of age, she/her
THINGS ASPEN KNOWS WAY TOO MUCH ABOUT
Trader Joe's, Disney Parks, Great British Bake Off, CBS Survivor, Plants
IN THIS FIELD GUIDE YOU WILL FIND:
↠ Maps & Masterlists: my writing
↠ Forest Rules & Regulations: my guidelines and boundaries
↠ Visitors to the Forest: my approach to asks, requests, and tagging
↠ Upcoming Expeditions: projects I'm working on
↠ Tree Classification: my current tags
↠ Tales of the Teller: more about me and my writing
↠ THE FOREST OF FICS
latest & greatest, challenges and events I've done, links to my specific fandom areas
↠ Bucky Barnes Boreal Forest
↠ Steve Rogers Streamside
↠ Orchard of Other Marvel Characters
↠ Sebastian Stan Savanna
↠ Chris Evans Coppice
↠ I do not interact with minors. It's not safe for anyone under 18 in these woods, and I'm honestly more comfortable knowing folks are over 21 because of the nature of things around here.
↠ I do not consent to having my works translated or posted to other platforms. If I wanted to, I would.
↠ I will block at my own discretion. This is my forest, and I set the boundaries. Underage? Blocked. Pornbot pigeon? Blocked. Bigotted? Blocked. Rude? Blocked. Comments of only "more" or "part two" etc? Blocked. Serial/succession of empty likes? Blocked. Just be a reasonable human over the age of 18, and you'll be free to roam the woods.
↠ ASKS
Always open. I adore asks! Send thoughts, thots, questions, gifs, pics... Asks are NEVER a bother and you can ask about anything - questions about my existing works, stuff I'm working on, fandom things, my life... I'll answer within reason (no spoilers, I'm semi-open about my life but do keep some things private, etc). FULL DISCLOSURE: I'm not always prompt with answering them. Some have inspired fic or drabble ideas, and sometimes that writing goes fast, sometimes it goes slow, and there are a few that are sitting in my box that are "future" parts of current WIPs. But the hope is to always get to everything eventually.
↠ REQUESTS
Closed. Periodically I may host a request fest (as I did for my 300 follower celebration or for other occasions in the future).
↠ TAGLIST
As the forest of fandom is exceedingly vast, I do not maintain an official taglist. HOWEVER, you can follow @buckets-and-stories and turn on notifications to know when I post new writing. On this secondary blog, I reblog ONLY the initial posting of my stories (and not the reblogs).
↠ THE GREAT BUCKY BAKE OFF: a Bucky x Reader episodic story with a Great British Bake Off format (coming fall 2026)
↠ FOREST NAVIGATION: field guide, masterlists, story collections
↠ AN ASPEN THING: when I post something more to do with me than anything fandom
↠ ASPEN MILESTONES: ONLY YOU CAN CREATE THESE FOREST FIRES
↠ ASKpen: responses to things from my ask box
↠ ASPEN IS WRITING: any commentary, sneak peaks, progress posts
↠ ASPEN WROTE SOMETHING: new writing post (fic, drabble, chapter)
↠ WRITER COMMENTARY: commentary either as a response to an ask or in a reblog
↠ OMG REBLOGGED THANK YOU: responding to or thanking people for reblogging my fics
↠ READING: my reblogs of other people's fics
↠ MY MOOTS: flailing about or responding to one of my mutual friends
↠ HISTORY OF ASPEN
I grew up in a family that was steeped in all things stories: grandparents, aunts and uncles always telling stories at family gatherings; parents read to me before bed; watching too many movies and cartoons; staying up way past my bedtime trying to sneakily keep the light on to read and read and read; playing elaborate imagination games after school with my best friends (house, princesses, orphans, dance coaches, etc). I wrote my first story in my eighth grade English class where one day in the computer lab we were assigned to write a mystery that was at least one page. I loved it. My teacher said it was good...
That summer our family moved - mere days before I started my freshman year of high school - so that fall before I made friend friends, I read a lot and I started writing. I was desperate for the next Harry Potter book to come out, so I started writing my own... the next year I learned about fan fiction on the internet and that it was a thing. I was drawn into Lord of the Rings fanfic, then I wrote a Pirates of the Caribbean fanfic, and then I went back to Harry Potter and actively wrote in that fandom for around six years.
In college I majored in English with an emphasis in Creative Writing because while I was writing fan fiction, I was also occasionally dabbling with original fiction... the dream was to be a famous writer.
↠ WHY BUCKETS-AND-TREES
Buckets because I thought I'd be writing almost exclusively Bucky and Trees because Aspen. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
↠ ASPEN NOW
In summer of 2022 I aggressively reclaimed HAVING hobbies in an effort to re-establish Aspen having a life outside of work. I love my career and I've worked incredibly hard to establish myself in the professional world, but... I needed to be more than just my work again.
So, again I write.
Throughout 2023 I started venturing out and participated in A LOT of challenges, which was so much fun in pushing my creative boat out into new waters. In 2024 I wrote nearly 300k and explored many tropes and themes that stretched what I thought I was capable of. So now with few to no excuses left, in 2025 I plan to DO THE DAMN THING and write a novel. I've always intended to, and I've got about five solid ideas I've been stewing on for years, but 2025 will be the year. Maybe 2026 will be the year. I maintain that writing is my hobby, so I won't force it or do it unhappily whether it's fan fiction or original fiction.
↠ MY WORK
Primarily I'm writing MCU fan fiction - typically Bucky Barnes or Steve Rogers; I have written some pieces with Sam, Natasha, Matt Murdock, Namor, and Wanda; I have some ideas for Thor, Carol, and M'Baku that I may or may not ever get around to. I also routinely write for a slew of Sebastian Stan and Chris Evans characters and that's mostly where my muse lives.
I write a range of fluff, smut, soft-dark and dark. Nearly all of my work has mature elements whether that's stronger language, sexual situations, or mature themes. HEED THE WARNINGS FOR EACH WORK AND DO NOT READ IT IF IT'S SOMETHING YOU DON'T LIKE. If I miss tagging something properly in the content warnings, please send me a message or an anonymous ask and let me know.
Nearly all of my stories feature a reader insert. Reader is typically female, but when the reader is gender neutral I will designate accordingly! The majority of my readers are also plus-sized, though their size is rarely a plot point - just that I'm going to write the men they're with appreciating their rolls and curves and not pretend like they're waifs. Striving to write an inclusive reader as much as possible, but if I stumble, please send me a message or an anonymous ask and let me know how I can grow.
Maladaptive daydreaming as a child was like "what if I was in the digimon universe" and now it's like "what if someone genuinely loved me even though I'm flawed"
warnings: dub-con; breeding kink; breeding program; drugging; semi-dystopian universe; dark universe if we look at the details of non-consensual body monitoring; restraints; dirty talk; power imbalance
It's a Who is he? type of thot (so choose your own babe)
✨️ ✨️ ✨️
Falling asleep in your warm, safe bed, you didn't expect to wake up more drowsy than usually. The realisation of being somewhere completely else comes to you slowly, without an immediate alert.
The colors surrounding you are light, soothing, but some deep recognition in your brain still whispers that something is very wrong.
Female voices address you. They reassure and coo at you as they move around you. Your body is pleasantly heavy, pliant to their ministrations as they bathe you in warms, scented bath, shave you, then rub lotion into your skin.
As time passes, your mind starts getting clearer. Though your body remains somewhat softened. You can move, but each step is slower, each gesture lighter and lacking power. You can't fight when they drape a sheer robe around you and make you move across the space.
Words become more comprehensible, sentences make more sense, and the terrifying realisation finally settles in.
You've been chosen for breeding.
Your life approved to be taken into ownership and primal purposes.
You were nearing your forties, your fertility had to be much lower than that of younger females. Besides, your appearance or special talents weren't noticeable either.
Those atrocious practices are generally known, and unfortunately condoned, but you never imagined it would happen to you.
It was a comforting thought, really, to know you don't fit the profile of most wanted women for the breeding program.
"It has to be a mistake," you say as the door to another bright chamber opens and you're led inside.
There's more color among soothing creams, more personality and comfort to what you suspect os about to become a gilded cage to defile you in.
"No mistake, Miss." One of the women pats your hand. "He chose you. Out of all the profiles in the base, he decided on you."
"Lucky you," adds the younger woman, "he's one of the most eligible bachelors who's decided on a permanent, monogamous ownership."
You know how warped the society is, so it shouldn't surprise you the woman betrays envy for something that you see as entrapment.
"Be good to him." She adds, this time with a hint of compassionate advice.
"As you can see-" she makes a broad gesture inviting you to take a proper look at the room you're about to be locked in-
"Or he'll break you in first-" she points at the other side of the room.
"It can be very pleasant-"
There's a huge bed, with exquisite looking sheets and pillows; as well a scattering of fluffy rugs and bigger pillows around the floor in that area.
There's a tall, sturdy table - height perfect to place your ass on level with a man's hips - with a frame to which your legs could be cuffed, held up and spread, tilting your ass up for proper fucking.
Next, there's also a padded bench, over which you could be bent to be filled from behind. Constructed with a slope that would secure seed following gravity's pull deep into your womb, instead of dripping out.
White, open cabinets may provide a cosy, warm interior detail, but they're filled with toys and implements that would bring you pleasurable torment (and more orgasms than you'd dare to imagine).
"No, no," you shake your head, while in your mind flashes of depraved acts mix with despair.
Cold and hot waves wash over you rapidly. Dread chased by natural desire.
Having your fantasies in the safety of your home was one thing, but reality of what doom fell upon you was completely different. Though it appears that the base instincts of your body don't differentiate between, considering how heat pools low in your belly.
Or maybe it's the drugs they used on you.
"It's really a mistake. I'm unfit for it-"
"Quite the contrary."
A deep, velvety voice snaps your attention to the entrance.
Both the voice and the man it belongs to seem to dim the brightness of the room a bit, yet enhance its atmosphere at the same time.
You make half a step back as you take him in.
He's taller than you. Bigger all over. Definitely tronger. He wouldn't need any restraints, if he really wanted you pinned in place.
His blue eyes are focused on you, taking in your nude state. His gaze is not exactly soft, nor is it cruel. But it lacks the kind of newfound astonisment one might expect. It's rather possessiveness that was already installed. As if he saw you naked before.
The women courtsy to him then quickly leave the room. The door locks.
"It's not a mistake." The man slowly walks towards you. "I've made a conscious decision."
"I'm almost forty!" You blurt out.
"You still have regular periods, kitten." He calmly counters back.
It doesn't shock you that he knows it. With the whole construct of breeding programs, gynecologists' data is registered. So cycles and health issues are filtered through the system, and available to the men searching for a woman to own and breed.
"Doesn't mean I'm fertile," you argue.
Your breath hitches slightly as he stops right in front of you. He unties the sash on your gauzy robe then slides a hand onto your waist; a hot brand that rouses your body with sudden interest.
With a light, yet unyielding tug, he pulls you back when you try to inch away from him.
"No, I don't- Wait!" You pause, staring up at him as shocking realisation hits you.
"Your ovulation the past six months was exceptionally high rated." Corner of his mouth twitches in a smirk when you shift your gaze down in embarrassment.
"You get so wet and aroused for the entirety of the phase." His mouth lowers to the shell of your ear as he purrs in delight. "Especially a day or two before the egg is released. Then straight six days after."
Reports on general health and the fact your cycles were regular would come from visits to your gynecologist. But to know exactly how your phases looked?
Not even you pay so much attention to that!
To know about your wetness, spikes in arousal, exact days?
"I know that you're on day second into the phase." He hums, nudging your legs apart with his knee.
There would have to be some sort of constant monitoring of your body functions. Hour by hour. Like an attached device or... an implanted chip.
There aren't even any rumours about that kind of privacy breach!
You don't know if all supposedly fertile women have such implants, or if it's somehow installed during a regular visit to your doctor after you're claimed.
The hand on your waist moves across your back, his arm wrapping around you to hold you pressed to him.
His other hand drifts boldly between your thighs. Unapologetic. Like he has all the right to touch you as he wishes.
"Already nicely wet." His gaze holds yours as his fingers part your folds.
"It starts with your body's natural, eager preparation for cock and seed. Then it ignites those needy thoughts."
"No-" you gasp.
You plant your hands on his clothed chest, but your body still lacks any strength to really fight him off.
"It's because they gave me something!" You snarl, but it's followed by a choked moan when he pushes a thick finger in.
"The medication was only to transport you safely and prepare you without a fuss. It doesn't interfere with your natural responses."
"This-" he pumps his finger in and out of your pussy- "is all you, readying to be bred."
It's a small victory for you, that you manage to stifle a disapointed whine when he withdraws his finger.
But you feel the pulsing between your thigs. That growing craving for more. So much more. Deep and hard, and over and over again.
Like it comes every ovulation. As well with every period-related hormonal rollercoaster.
Just like the fucking bastard noticed.
"So, kitten, your breedability was never in question." He chuckles. "I find you very breedable. And I will love every fucking second of stretching you on my cock and filling that belly."
"I got so hard every time I thought of sinking myself to the root in your sweet cunt and spilling deep. I couldn'twait for all the formalities to be finished, so I could bring you here and breed you over and over again."
"But I chose you because you tick other boxes for me. Intelligence, reliability, soft heart."
He traces his wet finger around your breast before cupping it fully in his big palm. He squeezes and your nipple pebbles instantly.
Between your thighs, your clit pulses in sync. Your pussy clenches, even as your independence claws at your brain to stop it from being aroused by hos filthy words.
Indication that he had to have studied you to come to such conclusions scares you even more. Yet a part of you blooms knowing that someone noticed and appreciated these parts of you.
"And the kinks you get off to when you're dripping and aching to be filled-" his voice lowers and he pinches your bud- "I know the videos you watch then, what you read."
Your heart hammers in your chest. Terror and arousal mixing into a haze.
Not only he monitored your body, observed you, but also hacked into your phone and laptop, and learned the most private things about you.
"You may fight it verbally, but the truth is that's your deepest craving. To be fucked full. Obscenely. Until it takes and your belly rounds."
You shake your head, but no protest spill from your mouth. Because your breath is quickening, and you fear if you allowed words to roll on your tongue, it would come out as begging or moans.
"So until you surrender to it completely and admit you want me to breed you, I'm going to keep you restrained and open for my cock. Until you accept your role as mine to own and breed full."
Suddenly, he lifts you up into his arms. With a satisfied grunt at the feeling of your weight in his hands, but showing no extra strain in carrying you.
He places you on the raised table. With ease, he pushes you flat on your back. Keeps you down with one hand, while he grabs your wrist with the other and places it in a padded handcuff next to your head. He repeats the same with your other wrist.
You punch his chest and shoulders with your fists, to no avail. You fear that even when the medication wears off, you won't be able to fight him.
Or he'll already break you in, so you won't resist anymore.
Next, he cuffs your ankles to the frame above, slightly bending your legs and keeping them wide apart. In that position your pussy is on full display and your ass tilted perfectly to take a cock deep.
"I'm going to make your dreams come true," he says with a wicked smirk. "Fuck you mercilessly all through your ovulation, and beyond. Turn you into a mess. Fill you. Force you to take it. Train your holes to miss my cock every second it's not lodged deep inside you."
"You have a beautiful cunt, kitten." He praises, stroking your thighs. "And it's already so wet and puffy, just begging to be stretched open and flooded with cum."
He bends over you, placing one hand on the table. His other palm settles in the juncture of your thigh, thumb rubbing so close to where you're hot, wet, and clenching.
"And doing all of this to you? And having you grow with my child? Owning you completely?Kitten, that's making all my dreams come true."
I don't know that it's fair for you to have written this.
Quite rude, actually.
To make me want this?
But that inner yearning to be valued and seen and sought by a man who has gone out of his way to get to know me and who I am?
The rudest thing you could do.
This pulled at my soul so hard.
And... the man I pictured?
Don't get me wrong! Many of our typical favorites flitted in and out of my imagination as I read... but then I just got fixated over how big this man is, and August Walker in particular would have the sort of committed belief in this kind of system, be so rigid in breaking you in. Brain and pussy go brrrrrrr.
Red, White & True: Election Day in New York, Pt. 3 [17/17]
Characters/Pairings: Steve Rogers x curvy Millennial Female!Reader
Word Count: 5.8k
Summary: Everything draws to an end, and results are coming in.
Content/Warnings: political/campaign discussions, marriage of political convenience, slow burn, really the slowest burn, strangers to friends to true love
Notes: This takes place in a post-Endgame scenario where Steve stays and generally most of TFATWS happened.
Previous Chapter | Series
↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest
[NOVEMBER 3 - 7:52PM - FIFTEENTH FLOOR SUITE, THE PLAZA HOTEL]
A handful of states close their polls at 6pm, and so as you sit up in the suite eating dinner with staffers and your parents, you’re starting to see a few spots on the map change from grey to red or blue. Kentucky and South Carolina have gone red; Vermont, Virginia, and North Carolina are in the blue; and nothing has been projected or called for Steve yet - who will show up in green on the map. The campaign spent a lot of time jumping in and out of Georgia since it would be a key swing state for everyone, and their polls closed at seven, but it will likely be hours before things are definitively called there.
With three major contenders, a candidate only needs a minimum of 34% of the ballots to take their votes in the electoral college in forty-eight of the fifty states.
Your father passes you a plate of appetizers from the elaborate spread catering has set out. In true Plaza fashion, every morsel looks like a miniature work of art, but your appetite is fickle as you watch the electoral map with one eye while trying to maintain conversation with the others in the room.
"You've barely touched your food," your mother observes, her voice low with concern. "You need to keep your strength up. It's going to be a long night."
"I know, I'm just nervous." You gesture vaguely toward the television where Anderson Cooper and Jake Tapper are holding court with a robust cohort of political analysts and thought leaders, debating and analyzing all the developments so far. In addition to the presidential race, there are Senate and House races that will determine how things will stack up in Congress.
She puts a hand over yours with a knowing smile. "I remember your father before his first big promotion decision. Couldn't eat for two days."
"That was different," your father protests mildly, though his eyes twinkle with amusement. “Nothing close to a presidential race.”
On the television screens throughout the suite, CNN's John King stands at his "Magic Wall," the giant interactive electoral map that has become a fixture of election night coverage. The camera catches him mid-sentence as he zooms in on the Midwest.
"—and we're just getting the first results from Indiana now," his voice carries over the ambient conversation in the room. "With sixty-two percent of precincts reporting, we can now project that Indiana will go to Independent candidate Steve Rogers."
The room falls silent, all eyes turning to the screens as a section of the map flashes and then fills with green—the color the networks have designated for your campaign.
"Indiana," King continues, tapping the state with practiced precision, "with its eleven electoral votes, becomes the first state to be called for the Rogers-Young ticket tonight. This is significant, folks. Indiana has traditionally been a Republican stronghold in presidential elections. The last time it went Democratic was for Barack Obama in 2008, and that was considered a major upset at the time. For Rogers to take Indiana suggests that the independent campaign has successfully carved into traditional Republican territory."
A cheer erupts from the campaign staff, high-fives and hugs exchanged across the room. Jake punches the air, his face alight with vindication.
"I told you the ground game there was working!" he exclaims to no one in particular. "Those extra rallies in Fort Wayne and Evansville paid off!"
Your father wraps an arm around your shoulders, giving you a squeeze. "First one on the board," he says, his voice thick with pride.
"It's just one state," you remind him, though you can't help the flutter of excitement in your chest.
"But it's a sign," your mother adds, her eyes bright. "People are listening."
Steve makes his way over to you, navigating through the celebrating staffers. When he reaches you, he leans down to kiss your cheek, his eyes bright with cautious optimism.
"One green state on the board," he murmurs against your ear.
"Eleven electoral votes closer to two-seventy," you reply, referencing the magic number needed to win the presidency. "Only two hundred and fifty-nine to go."
With the first green state on the board, it’s no longer a pipe dream that Steve could win states. But the question is will he - or Monroe or Peterson - earn the two hundred and seventy needed to win the presidency outright?
The network cuts to a commercial break, and you take the opportunity to check your phone. Messages have been pouring in all night—from friends, former colleagues, even a few celebrities who've publicly supported the campaign. But one text catches your eye—from Oprah.
Indiana's just the beginning. Keep watching Ohio. I've got a feeling.
Ohio would be an incredible get. But so was landing an interview with Oprah, who’s now optimistically texting you on election night.
You glance across the room at your husband - former Captain America - speaking to the current Captain America and shake your head ever so slightly.
How is this your life?
The evening progresses in a blur of projections and anticipation. Ohio, Pennsylvania, and Governor Peterson’s home state of Michigan remain too close to call, but Florida's thirty electoral votes flash red at 9:15 PM, sending a wave of grumbling and groaning through the room. Connecticut and Delaware come in as green to give Steve ten more votes between them.
Maine - one of the two states that can allocate votes - doles out three blue to Monroe, but Steve takes one green from their share. Missouri, New Jersey, and Rhode Island come in for Steve, but it’s still only 50 votes with Peterson at 36 and Monroe taking most of Democratic New England to sit at 63.
Steve paces, he stands in quiet consternation by the window, dives into data with Jake, and cycles back through it all again and again. Jake is adamant that Steve shouldn’t appear in public again until it’s time for his speech - that visits to the crowd in Central Park or in the Grand Ballroom downstairs should only come from his VP candidate Charlie Young, Charlie’s wife Zoey, or you.
You find yourself drifting to Steve's side as he stands alone by the window, looking out at the Manhattan skyline glittering against the night. His reflection in the glass shows a man deep in thought, shoulders tense despite his attempt to appear composed.
"Penny for your thoughts?" you ask softly, sliding your arm through his.
He turns slightly, offering you a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Just wondering what the Founding Fathers would think of all this. Three viable candidates, a former Avenger on the ballot..."
"I think they'd be impressed by how far we've come," you reply, leaning into his warmth. "Democracy evolving, adapting."
"Or they'd be horrified that a super soldier could potentially be president."
You squeeze his arm. "They'd see what I see—a good man trying to do what he can for his country."
Before Steve can respond, there’s another joyous uproar when Illinois and its nineteen votes go green for Steve, bringing him up to 69 votes and surpassing Monroe for the first time tonight.
The energy in the room spikes with each new state called. Aides rush back and forth with updated numbers, tablets displaying real-time data from key precincts. The clink of glasses and nervous laughter punctuate the tension as everyone watches the map slowly fill with colors.
Sophia weaves through the crowd toward you, tablet clutched in one hand and a Diet Coke in the other. Her face is flushed with excitement, eyes bright with the adrenaline that's keeping everyone going.
"We just got word from our team in Ohio," she says breathlessly, leaning in close so you can hear over the chatter. "The numbers from Cleveland and Columbus are stronger than we projected. If the trend holds—"
Just then, Jake calls out from across the room, "Pennsylvania's been called by AP! We took those nineteen, baby!”
The room erupts at Steve taking his first swing state off the board from red or blue, with people jumping and hugging, including yourself and Sophia.
In your excitement, you don't notice Sophia's drink tilting precariously until it's too late. Cold liquid splashes across your silk blouse, the dark cola creating an instant stain that spreads down your front. The icy sensation makes you gasp, jumping back reflexively as the room continues celebrating around you.
"Oh my God!" Sophia's eyes widen in horror, her hand flying to her mouth. "I'm so sorry! I can't believe I just did that." Her face flushes crimson, mortification replacing her previous excitement. "I'm never this clumsy!"
"It's just a Diet Coke," you assure her, grabbing a nearby napkin to try and dab away at the liquid - but it’s reflex more than anything. You know it won’t help in this case. “I’ll go change, it’s fine.”
Sophia grimaces in sympathy. “I think there’s a change of clothes already laid out for you in case something like this happened.”
You laugh. “It’ll be good to stretch my legs anyway. I’ll be right back.”
You slip out of the suite without drawing any attention to yourself - except for your Secret Service agent, who falls in step with you - and head down the hallway.
With Pennsylvania in the pile with Kansas, Louisiana, and Iowa that came in just before, Steve’s up at 108 electoral votes.
Peterson’s red has surged up to 90, but Monroe’s blue have held steady at only 63.
So a little Diet Coke spill cannot dampen the buzz of impossible excitement you’re feeling in your bones.
The agent remains in the hallway once you key in the door. The Secret Service has had this floor on lockdown all day, precluding a need to check your room.
You kick off your heels immediately, then step in front of the mirror to survey the damage and laugh to yourself. It’s bad. But months on the campaign trail mean your team has extra clothes ready to swap out for you or Steve at any given moment. And, sure enough, when you step through the small sitting room into the bedroom of the suite there’s a garment bag laid across the king size bed. You begin to unbutton your blouse, then blink and turn back to look at the bag again.
“No…” you say out loud to no one, as you step closer to the foot of the bed. “What…?”
Why is your wedding dress here? Surely it’s not some symbolic nod they want you and Steve to make about your arranged marriage… That would be insane.
There’s a click of the lock at the door, and then Steve’s voice. “Sweetheart?”
Your heart rockets all a-flutter in your chest at the way the endearment rolls so naturally off his tongue.
“In here,” you call, your voice wavering slightly as you stare at the wedding dress.
Steve appears in the doorway, and you immediately notice he's changed out of his navy suit into a crisp white shirt and dark slacks. His eyes find yours, then follow your gaze to the garment bag on the bed.
You note that he doesn’t look surprised at all.
Instead there is a curious mix of determination and vulnerability in his expression that makes your breath catch.
"Steve, why is my wedding dress here?"
"Because I was hoping you might wear it again," he says, his voice low and steady despite the emotion you can see flickering in his eyes.
"Wear it again?" you repeat, confusion clouding your thoughts. "Tonight? For what?"
Steve crosses the room slowly, his movements deliberate as he comes to stand before you. The soft light of the bedroom casts shadows across his face, highlighting the strong line of his jaw, the earnestness in his eyes. He takes your hands in his, and you're surprised to find them slightly trembling.
Or is that you?
"Sophia's drink was no accident," he says with a half-smile, and suddenly everything clicks into place—the furtive conversation with Bucky and Sam, the meaningful glances, Sophia's uncharacteristic clumsiness. "I needed a moment alone with you."
You shake your head in disbelief, but warmth is spreading through your chest as realization dawns. "In the middle of election night?"
Steve's thumb traces gentle circles on the back of your hand, his touch grounding you as the world seems to tilt on its axis. "I couldn't think of a more perfect time."
Steve takes a deep breath, his eyes never leaving yours.
"These last months have been the most extraordinary of my life," he continues, his voice gaining strength. "Not because of the campaign or the people or the possibility of making a better future for the country, though all those pieces have been incredible in their own right, but because of you. Because I've had the privilege of falling in love with my wife—really falling in love with you—day by day, moment by moment."
Your heart swells at his words, eyes misting as you see the raw sincerity in his gaze. This is Steve Rogers—not Captain America, not the presidential candidate—just the man who has become your whole world.
“You were asked to be my wife,” Steve says, matter-of-fact, “and not even by me, but now I want to ask if I can be your husband?”
"Steve," you breathe, your voice barely audible over the pounding of your heart.
"Tonight, the country is deciding if they want me as their president, but I already know what I want. I want you, for the rest of my life, not because a strategy demanded it, but because I love you. Because I choose you. Because when I look at my future—whether it's in the White House or back at our brownstone in Brooklyn or anywhere on this earth—the only thing I know for certain is that I want you beside me."
Emotion makes your throat ache as you watch him gradually sink to one knee before you. The gesture is so achingly traditional, so sweetly earnest coming from a man who has lived through a century of change, that tears spring to your eyes.
"Steve Rogers," you whisper, cupping his face with your free hand, "are you proposing to me on election night?"
"We've done everything backwards," Steve continues, a gentle smile playing at his lips. "Had our wedding before our courtship, built a life together before we even knew if we wanted one. But I'm asking you now, marry me again tonight?"
“We’re a little busy!” you laugh breathlessly.
He cocks his head to the side. “No, we’re not. Polls are still open on the West Coast, and in Alaska and Hawaii. Unless you’re refusing me…”
You can hear the tone of sarcasm in the last part, but you’re still quick to exclaim, “No!” practically shouting. “I mean, yes, of course I want to marry you again," you say, your heart soaring. "But when you say tonight, you mean…"
"I mean right now." The smile that breaks across his face is radiant, making your heart flutter. He stands, pulling you against him in one smooth motion, his arms encircling your waist.
"But how? When?" you ask, your mind racing with logistics even as joy bubbles up inside you. "We can't just—"
"We can," he interrupts gently. "It's all arranged. The Terrace Room is ready for us. Your parents and our closest friends are here. Since technically we’re renewing vows, we don’t need an ordained officiant, but Sam knows a chaplain who works with the VA, and he’s waiting for us downstairs."
You blink in amazement. "You planned all this? During the most important night of the campaign?"
"This is the most important night of our lives," Steve corrects you, his hands warm and steady at your waist. "Not because of the election, but because it's another beginning for us. Our real beginning."
Your eyes search his face, finding nothing but absolute certainty there. This man who has faced down armies and aliens and impossible odds is looking at you like you're his greatest adventure yet.
"What if you win?" you ask, your practical side making one last attempt at reason.
"Then we celebrate twice," he says simply. "And if we lose, we still have something beautiful to mark this night."
The logic of it strikes you suddenly—the perfect symmetry. Your marriage began as a political calculation, a strategy to win an election. Now, on election night itself, you have the chance to transform it into something chosen freely, with full hearts and clear eyes.
"Yes," you say finally, your voice strong and sure. "Yes!”
Your mind is spinning, overwhelmed by the sheer audacity and romance of his gesture. "But what about—"
"The campaign? Jake has it under control. The results? They'll come in whether we're watching or not. Speeches? It’s still anybody’s game. We have at least an hour." His hands cup your face tenderly. "This is our moment. Everything else can wait a little while."
A laugh bubbles up from your chest, half disbelief, half pure joy. "You're impossible, you know that? Planning a surprise vow renewal ceremony on election night."
"I prefer the term 'strategic,'" he counters with a grin.
You shake your head, marveling at this man who you imagine will continually find ways to surprise you for the rest of your lives together.
You lean in, wrapping your arms around his neck. "I love you, Steve Rogers."
"I love you," he echoes, his lips brushing against yours in a tender kiss that promises forever.
You're about to deepen the kiss when a furious pounding on the door startles you both. The hammering is so intense it seems to rattle the entire door in its frame.
"Steve!" Bucky's voice booms from the hallway, urgent and breathless. "Open the damn door!"
"Coming!" Steve calls, releasing you reluctantly.
The romantic bubble has been pierced by whatever emergency has Bucky sounding so frantic. Steve strides quickly to the door, yanking it open to reveal Bucky standing there, chest heaving as if he's just sprinted the length of the corridor.
"Georgia, Texas, and Ohio," Bucky announces, his eyes bright with something between disbelief and triumph. "All three just came in green. Within five minutes of each other."
Steve's face goes blank with shock. "What?"
"Texas?" you whisper, the impossibility of it making your voice falter. "Texas went green?"
Bucky nods vigorously, his metal hand gripping the doorframe so tightly you can hear it creak. "Forty electoral votes from Texas. Santos practically went door-to-door for us the past five days.”
"How?" Steve breathes. "Texas has only failed to go red with Carter in the seventies, Bartlet with Hoynes as his VP, and Santos in ‘06 and ‘10.”
“Wait,” you interject. “Georgia and Ohio, too? Georgia and Ohio?”
Bucky beams. “Another big swing state in the South and the state that almost never gets it wrong when it comes down to who ultimately wins the presidency.”
“Republicans never win without taking Ohio,” you add, all of you knowing way more about electoral college lore at this point than many political operatives and politicians.
“And, like I said, forty from Texas. With seventeen from Ohio and sixteen from Georgia. That's seventy-three more in our column. We're at two-nineteen and counting."
Your jaw drops and Steve shakes his head in disbelief. “Did you just say two-nineteen?”
“Oh, you missed New York - but we banked hard that you’d take your home state - and Wisconsin came in after you left, too, giving you twenty-eight and ten respectively.”
Steve leans against the doorframe, his face a mixture of shock and dawning realization. "Two hundred and nineteen electoral votes?"
"Just fifty-one more to go," Bucky confirms, his eyes gleaming. "Jake's losing his mind up there. The networks are scrambling. No one saw Texas coming."
You grab Steve's arm, dizzy with the implications. "We're actually doing this," you whisper. "We're actually winning."
The enormity of it hits you both at once. What started as a long-shot campaign, an idealistic bid to change the nature of American politics, is now on the verge of making history. The independent candidate who many dismissed as a symbolic protest vote is now within striking distance of the presidency.
Bucky watches your faces with a mixture of joy and impatience. "So, are we still doing this thing or what? Because the window of free time has narrowed significantly if you’re still… wait, did you ask her?"
Steve nods, his eyes never leaving yours, a silent question there.
"Yes," you say firmly, squeezing his hand. "We're absolutely still doing this. I don't care if every state in the union turns green in the next twenty minutes—I'm marrying you again tonight, Steve Rogers."
Steve's face breaks into that radiant smile that still makes your heart skip, and he turns back to Bucky, who’s grinning almost as much as Steve. "Wedding's still on. Tell everyone to meet us downstairs in fifteen minutes."
Bucky grins, already backing away down the hall. "Better make it ten! And I'll keep Jake from having a coronary when he realizes you're still going through with this."
As he disappears around the corner, Steve closes the door and turns back to you, his expression a mixture of wonder and determination.
"Two hundred and nineteen electoral votes," you breathe, still processing it.
Steve laughs, pulling you into his arms and spinning you around once, the movement lifting you slightly off your feet. His joy is infectious, electrifying the air between you.
"I don't even know what to say," he admits, setting you down gently. "But right now, I care more about being your husband—your real husband—than I do about being president."
His words make your chest swell with emotion. In this moment of potential political triumph, his focus remains on you, on the relationship you've built from such unlikely beginnings.
"Two-seventy might happen tonight," you whisper, "but either way, we're happening right now." You run your hands up his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm.
Steve kisses you then, a kiss filled with promise and certainty. When he pulls away, his eyes are bright with determination. His fingers trail along your jawline, tender and reverent. "I should go change. Sam's got my suit in his room."
You nod, reluctant to let him go even for a few minutes. Steve takes the wedding band off your finger, promising to give it back to you next time he sees you. "Something borrowed," he murmurs.
"Ten minutes," you remind him, brushing your lips against his one more time before stepping back.
"Ten minutes," he confirms, his eyes lingering on you as he backs toward the door.
When he's gone, you turn to face the wedding dress, freeing it from the garment bag and running your fingers over the delicate fabric. It seems like a lifetime ago that you first wore this—a political arrangement between virtual strangers, both of you nervous and uncertain. Now, the thought of wearing it to marry the man you love fills you with a different kind of butterflies entirely.
There's another knock, and this time it's Sophia and your mom, coming to help you with your wedding dress.
"Thank God you're here," you say, relief flooding through you as you open the door. "I need to get ready in less than ten minutes."
Your mother brushes past you, already reaching for the dress. "Well, we can't have you late to your own wedding. Again." Her eyes twinkle with amusement.
Sophia follows her inside, the back up cosmetics bag she’s carried around ‘just in case’ for you during the campaign in hand, a determined expression on her face. "I still can't believe I had to feign clumsiness as part of a presidential conspiracy," she laughs, setting the bag down on the dresser. "Though I have to admit, spilling that drink on cue was harder than any campaign strategy I've had to execute."
"You were very convincing," you assure her, stepping out of your stained blouse as your mother holds up the wedding dress.
"I can't believe he planned this," your mother says, shaking her head in wonder. "And I’m so glad we get to really be here for you this time,” she adds.
You squeeze her hand, not wanting to relive the past. “It’s different for all of us this time.”
The three of you work quickly, and you do make it downstairs in ten minutes. Peterson takes his home state of Michigan and both Dakotahs for twenty-one more points in the red column.
But that doesn’t matter as your father meets you at the entrance of the Terrace Room, which has been transformed into an ethereal wedding-scape.
[11:18PM - THE TERRACE ROOM]
You assume there must be a couple getting ready to use the room for their own nuptials the next day because there are far too many chairs set up, and the hotel staff certainly couldn’t have pulled off decorations this elaborate in only a few hours. The crystal chandeliers are striking enough, but with creamy silks and lush cascades of white and blush of flowers hanging from the ceiling, it’s surreal and stunning—just one more unforgettable thing you catalogue in your memory for this incredible night.
Steve stands at the front of the room, his eyes finding yours immediately as you begin your walk. The small gathering of your closest friends and family—Sam, Bucky, Sophia, Jake, your mother, Pepper, Maria Hill, Peter Parker—all rise, but you barely notice them. Your entire world narrows to Steve's face, to the look of pure adoration that transforms his features as he watches you approach.
The music is soft, some classical piece you don't recognize but that feels perfect for this moment. Your father's arm is steady under your trembling hand, excitement and an eagerness surging through your veins.
"I'm so happy for you," he whispers, his voice rough with feeling. "Not because you might be First Lady, but because you found someone who will look at you like that for the rest of your life."
You squeeze his arm in silent thanks, unable to form words past the lump in your throat.
When you reach Steve, your father places your hand in his before stepping back. Steve's fingers curl around yours, warm and sure, grounding you amid the surreal beauty of this moment. The chaplain begins speaking, but his words fade into the background as you and Steve stand face to face, hands clasped, hearts open.
“You ready?” you whisper so only he can hear, the reassuring question you’ve asked each other a hundred times at key moments during this campaign - this marriage.
“Let’s do this,” he replies, no question.
And there’s no question in your heart either.
Everything this time is different. You can’t take your eyes off each other, you hold onto his hands desperately - earnestly - because you need to like you need to breathe. Steve slides your wedding band back onto your finger, and this time when he does it, your heart feels like it might burst from happiness.
The vows you speak aren't scripted or rehearsed. They flow naturally, honest declarations of the love that grew between you - from reluctant allies to acquaintances to partners to friends to lovers. Steve's voice catches when he promises to choose you every day for the rest of his life, and you don't bother hiding the tears that spill down your cheeks as you pledge yourself to him in return.
When the chaplain pronounces you husband and wife - again - Steve's kiss is nothing like the polite, chaste brush of lips at your first ceremony. This kiss is deep and passionate, a promise and a claiming all at once. The small group erupts in cheers and applause as you melt against him, your hands finding their way to his shoulders, his arms wrapping securely around your waist.
When you finally break apart, Steve keeps you close, his forehead resting against yours as you both catch your breath.
"Mrs. Rogers," he murmurs, his voice intimate despite the audience.
"Mr. Rogers," you reply with a smile, your heart so full it aches.
Jake clears his throat loudly. "Sorry to break up this moment, but we've got Montana and Colorado coming in green. That's fourteen more electoral votes."
Steve laughs, keeping his arm around your waist as you both turn to face your friends. "Two hundred and thirty-three," he says, shaking his head in wonder. He turns to look at Pepper. “You might not have been crazy about any of this after all.”
She beams. “I’ve been known to have an eye for people and possibilities - and I couldn’t be happier to be right about this.”
Your small wedding reception consists of champagne and a hastily assembled dessert bar courtesy of the Plaza's pastry chef who, upon learning Captain America was renewing his vows on election night, insisted on creating something special. The elegant room buzzes with conversation and laughter, an island of personal joy amid the political storm raging outside these walls.
Steve pulls you closer against his side, his thumb tracing circles on your hip. "How are you feeling, Mrs. Rogers?" he asks quietly, his breath warm against your ear.
"Like I'm living in a dream," you admit, tilting your face up to meet his gaze. "What about you? Still nervous about the results?"
"I'm exactly where I need to be," he answers, his eyes never leaving yours. The certainty in his voice makes your heart swell. "Everything else is just..." He trails off, searching for the right word.
Your moment is interrupted by Sam, who pops another bottle of champagne, the cork flying across the room as everyone laughs.
"To the newlyweds," he announces, refilling glasses for the small gathering. "Again!"
Everyone raises their glasses, but before you can take a sip, Jake’s phone rings. His expression shifts as he listens, eyes widening. He looks up at Steve and steps forward to hand him the phone.
Steve takes the phone with a questioning look at Jake, who mouths, "Monroe."
The room falls silent, all eyes on Steve as he puts the phone to his ear. You move closer, your hand finding his as he speaks.
"Senator Monroe," Steve says, his voice steady despite the surprise evident in his eyes. "Yes, sir."
You can't hear the other side of the conversation, but you watch the play of emotions across your husband's face—surprise, respect, and finally a humbled gratitude. His hand tightens around yours.
"Washington and Oregon both?" Steve asks, looking at Jake for confirmation. Jake nods vigorously.
"That's very generous of you, Senator," Steve continues. "But the math isn't certain yet. We're still shy of two-seventy, and you’ll surely take your home state of California. There's no need to—"
He pauses, listening intently. His eyebrows rise in surprise, and you can see a new emotion settle across his features—respect.
"I appreciate that, Senator, truly," Steve says, his voice softer now. "But with California's fifty-four votes and maybe Nevada still in play, you could potentially—"
He falls silent again, listening.
"That's... very gracious of you," Steve responds after a moment. "I've always respected your commitment to this country as well, sir."
The room has gone completely still, everyone holding their breath as they piece together what's happening. Jake's eyes are wide, his fingers frantically tapping on his tablet as he runs calculations.
"Yes, sir. I understand," Steve continues. "Thank you, Senator Monroe.” He pauses again. “Expect to hear from me soon. I mean it.”
When Steve ends the call, he stands motionless for a moment, his expression one of stunned disbelief. The room around you is utterly silent, everyone waiting with bated breath.
"Monroe just conceded," Steve says finally, his voice carrying across the suddenly silent room. "He just called to tell me he's about to make the announcement publicly."
The room erupts in gasps and exclamations. Jake is crunching numbers on his phone frantically. "With Washington and Oregon bring you twenty more, getting you to two hundred and fifty-three," he announces, voice cracking with excitement. "That's seventeen short of the magic number, but—"
"But even if he takes his home state, Monroe sees he can’t win anymore," Bucky interrupts, still looking stunned.
Sam steps forward, champagne forgotten in his hand. "What about Peterson?"
"Monroe thinks Peterson won't concede until all the votes are counted," Steve explains, running a hand over his beard. "But he won’t take California, and there aren’t enough big counts left to get him to two-seventy.”
Your heart is pounding so hard you can feel it in your ears. "So what does that mean exactly?"
Jake's face breaks into a wide grin, his eyes shining with emotion. "It means," he says slowly, savoring each word, holding up his phone with an electoral map, "even with California going blue, Monroe only gets to one hundred twenty-one electoral votes. Peterson can't possibly break two hundred at this point. Steve, we're looking at two-seventy plus."
"God," Steve whispers, turning to you with a look of wonder that makes your heart stutter. "This is actually happening."
You grasp his hands, speechless, as the enormity of the moment washes over you. Your husband—your real, chosen husband as of ten minutes ago—is about to become the President of the United States.
The room erupts again, this time in a cacophony of cheers and sobs. Sam wraps Steve in a bear hug, lifting him slightly off the ground. Bucky stands back, shaking his head in wonder before moving in for his own embrace. Your mother is crying openly now, your father's arm tight around her shoulders as they beam with pride.
But all you can see is Steve's face—the mixture of disbelief, humility, and determination that washes over his features as the reality sinks in. The man who woke up from the ice to find his country changed, who fought to protect it even when it turned against him, who stood up for what he believed in no matter the cost—that man is now going to lead the nation he has always served.
"We need to get you changed back from groom to presidential and then back downstairs," Jake says, already shifting into logistics mode. "They'll be expecting a victory speech soon in Central Park."
Steve nods, but his eyes never leave yours. In this whirlwind of history being made, he reaches for you. "Come with me?" he asks, and though it's phrased as a question, you both know there's only one answer.
"Always," you reply, taking his hand.
NEXT PART: Epilogue
Well, well, well. Looks like someone named Aspen finally brought this story to an end.
There will be an epilogue, yes, and I have some deleted scenes as well as a moment or two for future President and First Lady Rogers that I want to share with you still and maybe a spin-off series, but HERE WE ARE!
AND
I HAVE FINAL RESULTS FOR YOU VISUALLY!
I used the 270towin interactive map, and it doesn't have a green option, but here's how the votes officially shook out in the end.
A candidate only needed 34% in ANY given state in order to claim the majority and get the electoral votes for that state, and the more I thought about it, the more I felt like Steve could win. When I started the story, I thought it was more likely that there'd be no clear winner the night of elections, but with the unrest after the Blip and the Return, with Steve's ability to speak and connect with people, and with the photo scandal being exposed and exploited as a pretty cheap gimmick, I felt like any voters who were slightly on the fringes of still voting red or blue would be willing to say enough is enough and go for an inspiring figure like Steve. Tired of the system, but not voting for an option that wanted to burn the system and smash it to pieces, you know? Steve genuinely wants to do good.
And we get to have a happy ending in fiction. I felt like it was self-indulgent, but then @stargazingfangirl18 helped me NOT to feel guilty giving us a happy political future since we don't get to have one in real life.
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I do not do tag lists, but FOLLOW @buckets-and-stories and TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS to be updated any time I publish a new work!
That's a hard no. You want weddings, babies, dinner, etc. kept up with, you can do it your damn self Andy. I barely do that for my own family who I (usually) like, I don't give a flying fart in space about your associates. And I most certainly do not appreciate the assumption that this is my role because I have indoor plumbing😑
Hmmm....who can we get to swoop in and fix this... Steve Rogers, FBI, about to break the case and arrest everyone except reader? Rival mob boss Ari who doesn't need to resort to blackmail and truly wins us over? Psycho Lloyd coming in with a surprise stabby stab🔪 we hear about after the fact because we weren't there and we can quietly go home move on like this was all just some post book club chardonaay inhanced fever dream? I'm not picky.
I'm Your Man has been and will remain an Andy x reader story.
I’m not looking to negotiate my intended plot. I have an arc planned, and I haven’t given away much more than some vague overall direction in the two other anon asks I answered this week, and I’m not going to go into details because that will spoil plot points. When I post the chapters, you can opt to read the story or you can nope out, and that’s totally okay. It's fiction and should be enjoyed, and so if it's not something you enjoy, you don't have to read it.
As the author of this story, what I enjoy and what's fascinating to me with this dynamic and the whole relationship is the tension, the give and take, how the reader challenges some of what Andy has in his grand plans, and how he is or is not succeeding in winning over the reader. They're not meeting in the middle. She gains ground, and then he rolls back in like the tide. He makes progress, and then he does something infuriating. We're only coming up on close to halfway of what I have planned for the story's end game, so there's a lot that still will happen.
Characters/Pairings: Steve Rogers x curvy Millennial Female!Reader
Word Count: 9.1k (yes, another long one!)
Summary: On the eve of the election, nerves and emotions are high, but so are your hopes for the future as a tight race becomes impossibly tighter when so many people doubted a third candidate could make a deep run. Regardless of how things turn out, you're ready to face the fact that your life will never be the same again.
Content/Warnings: political/campaign policy and discussions, marriage of political convenience, slow burn, really the slowest burn, strangers to lovers, EXPLICIT SMUT finally (vaginal fingering, cock stroking, breast play, vaginal intercourse)
Notes: This takes place in a post-Endgame scenario where Steve stays and generally most of TFATWS happened.
Author Notes: I missed getting a Friday posting out, but that's because these two had a lot to do and say in this chapter. To be honest, if I cut out all of the side characters and political plot, we'd shave down significantly, but that's part of your story with Steve, too.
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[NOVEMBER 1 - LATE EVENING - COLUMBUS TO BOSTON]
The campaign plane hums around you, a cocoon of noise both soothing and maddening. You've been staring at the same paragraph in your briefing notes for ten minutes, the words blurring together as exhaustion tugs at the edges of your consciousness. Fourteen states in thirteen days. It shouldn't be possible, and yet here you are, somehow still standing—or rather, sitting—in the final stretch of the most grueling marathon of your life.
Two weeks. Two weeks of campaign schedules that have kept you and Steve apart more than together, crisscrossing the country like stars with intersecting orbits—occasionally aligning for campaign appearances together before spinning away again to cover more territory.
You glance at your watch for the fifth time in as many minutes. Your motorcade was delayed in traffic, so you didn’t make it to the tarmac to board the plane to see Steve before his intelligence briefing started, and now it has already run twenty minutes longer than scheduled. The private meeting area at the front of the plane has been sealed off, transformed into a temporary SCIF—Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility—for the classified briefing, with Secret Service agents positioned like sentinels outside the door.
You make a conscious effort not to glare at the agents - it’s not their fault, they’re only doing their job. But inside you feel very huffy, knowing the precious hours together before landing in Boston are dwindling by the second.
You return your gaze to the briefing book in your lap, silently mouthing the words to force your tired brain to absorb them. Tomorrow's schedule in Boston includes a visit to a community health center in Roxbury, followed by meetings with healthcare advocates—you need to know these statistics cold. But the numbers swim before your eyes as the plane encounters a pocket of turbulence, jostling you in your seat.
Across the aisle, Sam catches your eye. He's been watching you fidget for the past half hour, his expression knowing as always.
"He'll be out soon," Sam says, his voice low enough that only you can hear it over the drone of the engines.
You sigh, closing the briefing book. "How can you tell?"
“I can’t, I’m just trying to make you feel better,” he replies with a wink.
“It’s only working a little bit,” you say.
Sophia is on his other side, and you smile a little, seeing that she’s managed to nod off, her head resting on Sam’s shoulder. She’s worked herself to the bone every day of the campaign, and she’s become such a rock to you. A rock and a trusted friend.
So has Sam. So have so many of the campaign staff, the lot of you walking through fire day in and day out together for this brilliantly mad quest to try and get Steve elected.
"Speaking of making me feel better," you say, suddenly struck by something you've been meaning to say for weeks, "I never properly thanked you."
Sam raises an eyebrow. "For what?"
"For all the interference you ran with my mom while she was on the campaign trail with us a couple of weeks ago." You lean forward slightly, lowering your voice even more. "You and Sophia did a lot to make her feel comfortable in this whole scene. She adored you, but I know you also took advantage of opportunities to shift her perspective on Steve and our whole arrangement.”
Sam's expression softens, a smile warming his features. "Your mom's great. She cares about you a lot - her worries were normal."
You smile wider. “You did the same with me, too, the day before I married Steve. And you did it with Steve and Bucky for me back in September. You see people and you build bridges between people.”
Sam's smile turns slightly embarrassed, but his eyes hold yours steadily. "Just part of the service," he jokes, but then grows more serious. "Everyone deserves a chance to understand each other. Especially people who matter to each other."
"Well, thank you," you say simply.
"You're welcome." Sam shifts, careful not to disturb Sophia. "Besides, your mom was right about some things. This whole arrangement was crazy."
You laugh softly. "Was?"
"Is," he corrects with a grin. "But it's working out better than any of us could have predicted, isn't it?"
Before you can answer, the door at the front of the plane opens. Steve emerges, followed by a somber-looking woman in a dark suit whom you recognize as Maria Hill.
You straighten in your seat, drinking in the sight of Steve after three days apart. He looks tired—more than tired, something about his expression unsettles you immediately. There's a tightness around his eyes, a gravity to his movements that wasn't there when you spoke over FaceTime this morning.
Steve's gaze finds yours immediately. His expression softens, but the tension doesn't fully leave his features. He exchanges a few final words with Maria, their heads bent close together, her voice too low for you to hear over the drone of the engines.
You watch as Steve nods once, decisively, before Maria turns and heads toward the rear of the plane where some of the intelligence staff are seated. Steve makes his way down the aisle toward you, stopping briefly to speak with Jake and Elspeth.
When he finally reaches you, the knot of concern in your chest tightens. Up close, the strain around his eyes is more pronounced, the set of his jaw rigid.
"Hi," you say softly as he slides into the seat beside you.
"Hi," Steve replies, his voice low and slightly rough, as if he's been talking for hours. His hand finds yours immediately, fingers interlacing with a gentle pressure that feels almost desperate in its need for connection.
You search his face. "What's wrong?"
Most of the staff are either working, sleeping, or wearing noise-canceling headphones, but he still lowers his voice to a near whisper. "Nothing immediate. Just... concerning intelligence."
The muscles in your stomach tighten. Since Steve became a serious contender in the presidential race, he's been receiving regular intelligence briefings—a tradition for major party candidates to ensure a smooth transition should they win. You've grown accustomed to the routine, to the way he emerges from these meetings with a thoughtful, typically troubled expression. Most of the information he’s given in those meetings is also highly sensitive if not outright classified.
You take his hand in both of yours, bringing it to rest in your lap. "Is it something you can talk about?" you ask, keeping your voice equally low.
Steve lets out a long, slow breath, some of the tension leaving his shoulders as you hold his hand. His thumb traces gentle circles on your skin, a grounding gesture that seems as much for his benefit as for yours.
"I can't discuss the details," he says after a moment, his voice barely audible over the engines. "But there are situations developing that will need immediate attention after the election." His eyes meet yours, troubled and deep. "No matter who wins."
You nod, understanding the weight behind his words. Steve has always carried the burdens of leadership differently than others—not as opportunities or challenges, but as sacred obligations to the people counting on him.
"Is there anything I can do?" you ask, knowing there likely isn't but needing to offer anyway.
"There is," Steve says, his voice softening as he shifts closer to you. "Just be here."
He leans back in his seat, his eyes closing briefly as he draws a deep breath. When they open again, there's something vulnerable in his gaze that makes your chest ache.
"I've missed you," he admits quietly. "These past three days felt like three weeks."
"I know," you whisper, squeezing his hand. "The swing through Wisconsin, Illinois, and Indiana was productive, but every event I kept thinking of what you would say, how you would handle it."
A small smile touches his lips. "And how did hypothetical me do?"
"Not nearly as well as real me," you tease, drawing the laugh from him you'd hoped for. "But you would have been proud. Polling suggests we gained ground with suburban women in all three states."
Steve's smile broadens, some of the tension leaving his face. "I am proud. Especially of that interview you did in Indianapolis." His hand finds the nape of your neck, fingers gently massaging the tension there.
You lean into his touch, your eyes briefly closing at the relief his fingers bring to muscles knotted from days of campaign stress.
"I just answered honestly," you say, remembering the local news interview that had unexpectedly gone viral after you'd spoken candidly about healthcare access in rural communities.
"That's what made it powerful," Steve says. His voice drops even lower, meant only for you. "Two days left. Can you believe it?"
You shake your head, still processing the whirlwind that has been your life since that fateful meeting with Pepper Potts in May. "Sometimes it feels like we've been campaigning forever. Other times, I can't believe how quickly it's all happened."
Steve's eyes hold yours, something profound shifting in their blue depths. "I keep thinking about where we were six months ago. How impossible this all seemed." His voice is a gentle rumble that vibrates through you. "Now we're two days from potentially—"
"Don't," you whisper, pressing a finger lightly to his lips. "No jinxing it."
He smiles against your finger, then captures your hand and kisses your palm. "Superstitious now?"
"Cautiously optimistic," you correct, feeling the familiar flutter in your chest that his touch evokes.
The plane encounters another patch of turbulence, more pronounced this time. Steve's arm instinctively wraps around your shoulders, steadying you as the aircraft shudders. You lean into him, and the turbulence settles.
"That's what I like to hear," Steve murmurs, his arm remaining around you even after the turbulence passes. "Cautiously optimistic is exactly where we need to be."
You rest your head against his shoulder, inhaling the familiar scent of him—that perfect blend of clean cotton, subtle cologne, and something that is uniquely Steve. Despite the exhaustion dragging at your limbs, despite the worry you'd seen etched in his features moments ago, this closeness grounds you in a way nothing else can. And once again, as the two of you quietly converse, tucked comfortably into one another, you fight but are unable to keep from falling asleep in his arms.
You wake to gentle pressure against your temple—Steve's lips brushing a kiss there, his breath warm against your skin.
"We're starting our descent," he murmurs. "You've been out for about an hour."
Blinking away sleep, you straighten in your seat, embarrassed. "I didn't mean to—"
"You needed it," Steve says, his hand still resting comfortably on your knee. Through the window, you can see the scattered constellation of Boston's lights growing larger below.
"Did you sleep at all?" you ask, noting the lingering tension around his eyes.
He shakes his head. "Too much on my mind."
You reach up to smooth a strand of hair that's fallen across his forehead. "The briefing?"
"That. The polls. Tomorrow's schedule.”
"The usual campaign insomnia," you say with understanding, your fingers lingering at his temple where you can feel the tension gathered there.
"Something like that," he agrees, but there's a note in his voice that tells you it's more than just pre-election jitters.
The pilot’s voice crackles over the intercom, announcing your imminent arrival. Around you, the campaign staff begin to stir, gathering materials, checking phones that had been silenced during the flight. You deplane and the team piles into a dozen vehicles waiting on the tarmac to take you all directly to the hotel to catch the limited amount of sleep you’ll be afforded before things start back up in the morning.
[NOVEMBER 2 - BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS]
Morning arrives too soon, the pale November light filtering through the hotel curtains you forgot to fully close. For a moment, you lie perfectly still, orienting yourself in yet another unfamiliar room. Boston. The final day before the election.
The other side of the bed is empty. Though everything between you and Steve has changed, deepened, and grown, you are still dancing around sharing a room and a bed. After that night you asked him to stay with you in Tucson, your mom had come for those next few days on the campaign, and then your itineraries had split you up geographically, but even on the nights of overlap, there seemed to be this half-spoken avoidance. You have been hesitant of exploring the intimacy and domesticity of sleeping together routinely in this environment. There are so many things you and Steve have said to each other and about each other, but there are still things that have been left unsaid, and the endless circuit of the campaign cycle didn’t seem like the place to say any of it.
The digital clock reads 5:47, and though you’re annoyed you’ve woken up before your scheduled 6am start to the day, you are glad for the precious few minutes of sleepy solitude you still have. You allow yourself the luxury of stretching, muscles protesting after weeks of constant movement and too little rest. The sheets smell of hotel laundry—a scent that has become almost as familiar as your old home.
Your phone vibrates on the nightstand. A text from Steve: Good morning. Couldn't sleep, went for a run. Briefing and breakfast at 7?
You smile at his predictability—yo’ve heard about his runs, and even on the precipice of potentially becoming the next president, Steve Rogers seeks clarity in the rhythm of his feet against pavement. You don’t expect it to change, regardless of how the election results go. You type back: Yes to breakfast. Coffee already necessary. Be safe.
The three dots appear immediately, then: Always am. Sleep well?
Better than expected, but not long enough, you reply honestly. Hotel pillows are growing on me.
Dangerous adaptation, he responds with a laughing emoji. Then, a moment later: Going to catch sunrise over Boston Harbor. Wish you were here.
The simple sentiment warms you more than it should. Six months ago, such casual intimacy between you would have been unimaginable. Now it feels as natural as breathing.
Bed better than running, you send back.
His response is immediate: Debatable. Will bring you coffee when I get back.
You smile, setting your phone down and pulling yourself reluctantly from the warmth of the bed. The hotel room is elegant but impersonal, like all the others you've occupied during this campaign—luxury without personality, comfort without home. You've become an expert at navigating unfamiliar bathrooms in the dark, at finding the light switches and remembering which side of the bed you chose the night before.
The shower helps clear the fog of too little sleep. As the hot water cascades over your shoulders, you mentally rehearse today's schedule: the community health center visit, lunch with healthcare advocates, an afternoon rally at Boston University, and then the massive evening event at Faneuil Hall. The final push before Election Day.
By the time you emerge from the bathroom, wrapped in the hotel's plush robe, your phone is lighting up with notifications. Campaign updates, news alerts, text messages from Sam about last-minute scheduling changes. The bubble of morning solitude pops, reality rushing in with the force of a breaking dam.
You dress quickly in the outfit laid out the night before—a carefully selected ensemble that projects both approachability and professionalism. The campaign's messaging team has fine-tuned every visual element of these final appearances, down to the color of your scarf, which matches the campaign's signature blue.
A soft knock at the door comes just as you're fastening your watch. Through the peephole, you see Steve, looking refreshed despite the early hour, a cardboard tray holding two coffee cups in one hand.
"Morning," he says when you open the door, his smile warming his tired eyes. He's showered and changed since his run, dressed in a navy suit that makes his eyes even more blue. "Coffee as promised."
"You're a lifesaver," you murmur, accepting the cup he offers. "How was the harbor?" you ask, stepping out into the hall to walk down to breakfast with him.
"Peaceful. Water was like glass. Sun coming up behind the city." He pauses, something wistful crossing his features. "Made me wish I had my sketchbook."
You take a long sip of coffee, savoring the perfect blend—he remembers exactly how you like it. "When this is all over, we should come back. You can sketch all day if you want."
Steve's smile deepens, creating those little crinkles around his eyes that you've grown to love. "I'll hold you to that."
The two of you walk in comfortable silence down the rest of the hallway to the elevator, Secret Service agents quietly flanking you. Steve's presence beside you is solid, reassuring. In the mirrored walls of the elevator, you catch glimpses of yourselves—a little tired, a little worn, but standing tall. The potential First Couple. The thought still feels surreal.
"Sleep well?" he asks softly as the elevator descends.
"You already asked me that," you remind him with a smile.
"I know. Just checking if your answer changes in person." His hand finds the small of your back as the doors open, a gentle, protective gesture that's become second nature.
Another hotel conference room has been transformed into another campaign outpost, screens displaying polling data and schedules lining the walls. Campaign staff mill about, some already deep in conversation, others nursing coffee with the glazed look of people running on fumes and determination.
Sam spots you first, raising his coffee cup in greeting from where he's huddled with Sophia, Bucky and Jake. You're about to head their way when you notice a familiar figure standing near the breakfast buffet—Maria Hill, the same intelligence officer from the plane. She's not alone. A man in an impeccable dark suit stands beside her, his posture military-straight, his expression grave as he surveys the room with calculated precision.
Steve's hand tenses almost imperceptibly against your back. You glance up at him, catching the slight hardening of his jaw, the narrowing of his eyes.
"What is it?" you ask quietly.
"Agent Calloway," Steve acknowledges with a slight nod, his voice carefully neutral despite the tension you feel radiating through his palm against your back. "I wasn't expecting to see you in Boston."
The man—Agent Calloway—turns toward you both, his weathered face revealing nothing as he approaches with measured steps. He's older than Maria, perhaps in his mid-fifties, with close-cropped greying hair and eyes that seem to catalog every detail of the room in continuous sweeps.
"Captain Rogers," he says, extending a hand to Steve. "I’ve been assigned to personally oversee the enhanced security protocols for these final campaign events." His handshake is brief, then his attention shifts to you with professional efficiency. "Ma'am," he says with a respectful nod.
You return the greeting, a sense of unease creeping up your spine. Enhanced security protocols. The words are heavy, unexpected. Should you be more worried?
You offer what you hope is a polite smile, but Calloway's steel-gray eyes catch the flicker of worry that crosses your face. His expression softens marginally—the change so subtle you might have missed it if you weren't studying him so intently.
"Please don't be concerned, ma'am," he says, his voice dropping to a more conversational tone. "Enhanced protocols are standard procedure for the final days before an election. The heightened visibility, larger crowds—it's all part of the calculus."
You nod, attempting to look reassured, but you can feel Steve's body beside yours, taut as a bowstring.
"Standard procedure," Steve repeats, the words measured and careful. His face maintains the pleasant, diplomatic expression he's perfected during the campaign, but you know the mask. “It seems a bit unnece–”
“Captain Rogers,” Calloway interrupts, “sir, let me stop you right there. My men and women and I are more than aware of your capability to defend yourself. They assigned me because I’m the one who will take the least amount of pushback from you. We know you’re an Avenger. Should anything happen, we would not be surprised to have you fighting and defending alongside us.”
You don’t even have to look, you can feel the frown emanating from Steve. You keep your eyes on Calloway’s face.
“Our responsibility is to keep an eye on everyone and everything to keep you and the public safe. Your responsibility right now is to campaign. If elected, it will be to lead the American people. That’s why we’re here. Let us do our job so you can do yours.”
“This old man is retired anyway,” Sam chimes in, stepping up next to Steve and clapping him on the back, jostling him on purpose to loosen him up.
The tension in Steve's shoulders doesn't fully dissipate, but his expression softens at Sam's intervention. He nods once at Calloway, conceding the point without quite relinquishing his concern.
"I appreciate the dedication," Steve says, his voice measured. "Just make sure your team keeps my staff safe - I’m no more important than them."
"Consider it done," Calloway responds with crisp efficiency. "We've been briefed on all locations and have advance teams in place. They will monitor and update throughout the day.”
Maria Hill approaches, tablet in hand. "If you have a moment, Captain, there are some logistics we should review before your first event." Her tone is professional, but you catch the subtle urgency beneath.
Steve's eyes meet yours, a silent communication passing between you. "I'll catch up with you," he says, his hand squeezing yours briefly before following Maria and Calloway to a quieter corner of the room.
Sam stays beside you, his presence steady and reassuring. "Don't worry," he says quietly as you both watch Steve step away. "Extra security is normal for the final push."
"Is it?" you ask, unable to keep the doubt from your voice.
"Yes," Sam insists, then adds with a half-smile, "though having Hill still on site for national security and intelligence updates is... possibly not."
You turn to face him fully. "Sam."
He meets your gaze, “I’m genuinely not concerned yet - I’m alert, but not concerned. Bucky agrees, he thinks whatever situation is developing is probably serious, but that Maria’s staying close more out of a personal sense of duty than any real safety concern.”
You frown. “Are you just saying that to make me feel better?”
“No. I’ve been around these heroes for years, and I know sometimes they try and save us regular folk from bad news, but in the end that never helps. I don’t think Bucky will hold back with you, and I don’t think Steve would intentionally either, but I can definitely promise I’ll bullshit you now and then, but I’ll always be straight with you when it matters.”
You nod, finding comfort in Sam's directness. "Thank you. I appreciate that."
"Come on," Sam says, guiding you toward the breakfast buffet. "You need to eat something. Big day ahead."
You follow him, but your eyes drift back to Steve, who's now leaning over a tablet with Maria and Calloway, his brow furrowed in concentration. The three of them speak in low voices, their expressions grave. The knot of unease in your stomach tightens.
"He's concerned," you murmur, more to yourself than to Sam.
"He's always concerned," Sam counters gently. "It's his default setting. Has been since I met him."
You smile despite yourself. "I've noticed."
Sophia waves you over to a table where she's sitting with Bucky and Jake, campaign materials spread between their plates. As you approach, you notice the dark circles under Sophia's eyes, the slight tremor in Jake's hand as he lifts his coffee cup. Everyone is feeling the weight of these final hours.
"Morning," Jake greets you, sliding a folder across the table. "Final numbers from last night's polling.”
"How's it looking?" you ask, opening the folder as you settle into a chair next to Sophia.
"It's tight," Jake says. "The national polls still have Monroe up by two, but within the margin of error."
"The battleground states are where it matters," Sophia adds, tapping a spreadsheet with her pen. "Pennsylvania and Michigan are looking good, but Wisconsin and Arizona are razor-thin with Steve biting on both their heels."
You nod, scanning the numbers. Your stomach churns with a familiar mixture of hope and anxiety that has become your constant companion these last weeks. The race is close—closer than any of you had anticipated when this journey began.
"Florida's polling is all over the place," Bucky says, running a hand through his already disheveled hair. "Depending on which poll you believe, Steve, Monroe, or Peterson take the sunshine state, and it skews the board no matter which way it goes.”
“So, basically, we’re doing well, but no one knows how well?” you ask.
"It's an election," Jake says with a wry smile. "No one ever really knows until the votes are counted."
Bucky leans forward, his metal hand tapping lightly on the table. "What matters is that we're competitive everywhere we need to be. Six months ago, no one thought an independent candidate could seriously contend. Now..." His voice trails off as his eyes drift to where Steve is still deep in conversation with Maria and Calloway.
"Now we've got them scared," Sophia finishes, a fierce pride in her voice.
[NOVEMBER 2 - EVENING - NEW YORK CITY]
You and Steve are put into a car with Jake and Lisa once you touchdown in New York, getting off the campaign plane for the final time. Your campaign manager and press secretary want to use the short ride from La Guardia to the hotel in Midtown Manhattan to review final notes before the morning.
"The itinerary is straightforward," Jake says, scrolling through his tablet. "Early breakfast with the New York campaign volunteers at 6 AM, radio morning shows from 6:30 to 7, then straight to your polling place in Brooklyn by 7:30. We want the images of you two voting to hit the morning news cycles."
"After that," Lisa continues, "it's a series of get-out-the-vote stops across the city. We'll hit all five boroughs by mid-afternoon.”
“Then we have a break for the two of you until dinner and a final event in Central Park at 7 PM, which should give us prime placement for the evening news for all time zones," Jake says. “It should hopefully pull in some undecided voters - the ones who are debating whether to go home after work or go to the polls, and those are the voters likely to sway to you.”
Steve nods, his thumb absently stroking the back of your hand where it rests between you on the seat. "And the rest of the night?"
"We've secured the Grand Ballroom at the Plaza for the watch party," Lisa says. "Doors open to supporters at seven, but we don't expect either of you to make an appearance until at least nine, when the first results start coming in."
“This is why we’ve got the afternoon siesta for the two of you,” Jake says, his tone straightforward, logical, leaving no space to argue, “you’ll both need to be public-ready.”
"And if it's a long night?" you ask, voicing the question that's been weighing on all of you. With such a tight race, a definitive result by the end of the night is far from guaranteed.
Jake and Lisa exchange glances. "We have contingency plans," Lisa answers. “The event in Central Park will continue through the night as long as it’s viable. If there’s any need for a public address, we want you to make it to the crowd outdoors in the park.”
“Absolutely,” Steve nods, “it’ll be a cold, long night for them, and if there’s something to be said, I want to be able to show them how much they’re appreciated.”
The car glides through late-night New York traffic, the city lights reflecting off rain-slicked streets. You feel the weight of tomorrow pressing down—the culmination of months of exhausting work, of speeches and handshakes and strategy sessions. Of a marriage that began as strategy and transformed into something neither of you could have predicted.
"What about security?" Steve asks, his voice pulling you from your thoughts.
Jake nods, his expression serious. "Calloway's team has coordinated with NYPD, FBI, and Homeland. The security presence will be significant but as unobtrusive as possible. We don't want to alarm voters or create bottlenecks at polling places."
The car slows as it approaches The Plaza Hotel, the familiar choreography of arrival unfolding once more. Secret Service agents radio ahead, confirming positions.
Even though your home is in New York - the new home you have yet to truly live in yet with Steve in Brooklyn - you’re staying at The Plaza Hotel since it will be campaign headquarters for the next 36 hours, ready to go in the morning immediately with the campaign staff.
The SUV pulls to a stop under the elegant awning of The Plaza, its golden lights glowing against the darkness. Immediately, the flurry of your arrival begins—Secret Service agents materializing from seemingly nowhere, forming a protective perimeter as hotel staff stand at attention near the entrance. Despite the late hour, a small crowd of reporters and curious onlookers has gathered behind barricades, camera flashes punctuating the darkness like artificial lightning.
"Ready?" Steve asks quietly.
“Let’s do this.” You nod, summoning a smile that feels genuine despite your exhaustion. This is the final push—one more night, one more day, and then whatever comes next.
The moment the car door opens, the world rushes in—the cool November air carrying the scent of rain and the city, the sounds of late night traffic, the frenzied murmur of voices. Steve exits first, turning to offer you his hand. Camera flashes explode like silent lightning around you and Steve.
"Captain Rogers! How are you feeling about tomorrow?" "Any response to Senator Monroe's latest polling numbers?" "Are you confident about your chances?"
Steve offers a practiced wave and a warm smile that somehow manages to convey both confidence and humility. "We're focused on getting out the vote tomorrow," he calls to the reporters, his voice carrying just enough to be heard without seeming to shout. "Every American deserves to have their voice heard in this election."
His hand finds the small of your back, guiding you forward with practiced ease as the two of you navigate the gauntlet of questions and flashing cameras. The Secret Service forms a protective bubble around you, not pushing or shoving but somehow creating space through sheer presence. You've become accustomed to this dance—the careful balance of accessibility and security, of warmth and vigilance.
The Plaza's ornate lobby envelops you in sudden quiet, the thick carpets and soaring ceilings absorbing the chaos that swirls just outside its revolving doors. Crystal chandeliers cast a warm glow over marble floors, transforming the space into something from another era—a pocket of gilded elegance that has somehow survived the city's constant reinvention.
The advance campaign staff move with practiced efficiency, checking in with each other in hushed tones. Several nod respectfully as you and Steve pass, their expressions a mixture of exhaustion and determination. These are the people who have sacrificed sleep, stability, and sometimes sanity to bring this improbable campaign to the precipice of possible victory.
Amidst the quiet bustle, you spot Eric, your logistics coordinator. When she sees you, Eric breaks away from the hotel staff, his efficiency on display even at this late hour. He's been with the campaign since June, and his ability to coordinate the movement of hundreds of people across the country with military precision has been invaluable.
"Captain Rogers, Mrs. Rogers," he greets you both with a quick nod. "Everything's set for tomorrow. Your rooms are ready—you’re on the fifteenth floor. The campaign staff is distributed across the fourteenth and fifteenth."
He hands each of you a key card in a small Plaza-emblazoned envelope. "I've had your luggage sent up. The 6 AM breakfast meeting will be in the Grand Ballroom. We've converted the Edwardian Room into our command center—all the polling data will be coming in there throughout the day tomorrow."
"Thank you, Eric. For everything." The simple words feel inadequate for the months of meticulous planning he's orchestrated, transforming the logistical nightmare of a presidential campaign into something almost manageable.
"Just doing my job," he replies with characteristic modesty, but his tired eyes brighten at the recognition. "Oh, and Mrs. Potts called. She's arriving early tomorrow morning. She'll meet you directly at the breakfast event."
Steve nods, his hand still resting gently at the small of your back, like it’s always belonged there. "Perfect.”
Jake checks his watch and stifles a yawn. "It's almost eleven. We made good time. You two head up, Lisa and I will help Eric marshal the rest of the troops as they arrive.”
You suspect Steve agrees because then he can hold you to going up as well, and he always tries to take care of you and the rest of his team. The two of you cross the lobby to the elevators, and it’s only a few moments before one arrives. Two Secret Service agents file in with you. As the lift ascends, the subtle vibration beneath your feet seems to harmonize with the nervous flutter in your chest.
Your fingers fidget with the edge of your sleeve, a small tell that you've never quite managed to control when anticipation takes hold. Steve notices—of course he notices. Those observant blue eyes miss nothing, especially when it comes to you.
"Hey," Steve's voice is gentle as his hand covers yours, stilling the restless movement. "You okay?"
You look up to find his eyes studying you with that particular intensity that always makes your heart skip—the look that sees past practiced smiles and campaign-ready expressions to the truth underneath.
"I'm fine," you say automatically, then catch yourself. After everything you've been through together, the practiced deflections feel wrong. "Actually, I'm a little nervous."
His brow furrows slightly, concern deepening the blue of his eyes. "About tomorrow?"
"No. Well, yes, of course about tomorrow, but that's not—" You pause as the elevator slows, the display indicating you've reached the fifteenth floor. The doors slide open to reveal an elegantly appointed hallway, its rich carpeting muffling the sound as the Secret Service agents step out first, performing their customary sweep.
"All clear, sir," one of them says, positioning himself discreetly near the elevator bank while the other advances down the hallway, you and Steve following behind.
You watch the numbers of the doors as you pass, then stop when you get to room 1518. “This is me,” you say.
He frowns briefly, looking at the number on his key card envelope. “Mine says 1518, too.”
“Mhmm,” you nod, looking up at him through your lashes.
The realization settles over Steve's face, his expression shifting from confusion to understanding. "Oh," he says, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I see."
You hand your key card to the agent, who taps it to the door and enters to do a security sweep.
"I asked Sophia to arrange it with Eric," you admit, heat rising to your cheeks despite your best efforts. "I thought… for our last night before everything changes one way or another, I just want to be with you."
Steve's expression softens and he steps closer, the space between you shrinking until you can feel the warmth radiating from his body.
"That’s what you were nervous about?" he asks, his voice low enough that only you can hear. "Asking me to stay with you tonight?"
You nod, feeling shy despite the months of growing intimacy between you. "We've been dancing around it. But tonight..."
Steve's hand finds yours, fingers intertwining. He doesn’t say anything, the way he looks at your face, you don’t need him to. Reassurance and longing are written and reflected there.
A moment later, the agent steps out of the room. “All clear. We’ll be monitoring the floor.”
“Thank you, Roberts,” Steve says without looking away from you.
You enter first, and the door swings open to reveal a spacious suite, elegantly appointed in the Plaza's signature style—cream walls, gold accents, plush furnishings in muted tones. Your luggage sits neatly arranged near the closet, and a small bouquet of fresh flowers brightens the writing desk.
Steve follows right behind you, the door closing behind him with a gentle thud that seems to seal you both away from the world outside. For a moment, neither of you speaks, the sudden privacy after days of constant company and scrutiny creating a bubble of stillness around you.
"So," Steve says.
The word hangs between you, heavy with unspoken anticipation. You turn to face him fully, taking in the sight of him—this man who has somehow become the center of your universe in the span of a few tumultuous months. The lines of fatigue around his eyes only enhance the intensity of his gaze as it locks with yours.
"So," you echo, a small smile playing at your lips. "Here we are."
"Here we are," he agrees, his voice a low rumble that sends a pleasant shiver down your spine. He takes a step toward you, closing the distance until mere inches separate you. "The night before everything changes."
You reach up, fingers gently tugging to loosen his tie. "Everything's already changed, Steve. Whatever happens tomorrow..."
"We face it together," he finishes, capturing your hand where it rests against his chest. His fingers envelop yours, warm and steady. "Just like we promised."
The weight of tomorrow presses against the edges of your consciousness, but here, in this moment, there is only Steve—his presence solid and real before you. The campaign, the election, the world waiting beyond these walls—all of it recedes as you lean into him.
"I'm glad you arranged this," he murmurs, his free hand coming up to cup your cheek. "Us tonight."
"I've wanted to for weeks," you admit. "But everything's been so intense, and there never seemed to be the right moment to..."
"I know." His thumb traces the curve of your cheekbone, his touch gentle yet grounding. "And I’ve never wanted to assume or rush, but I've wanted it too."
Your eyes drift closed as he leans forward, his breath warm against your lips just before they meet yours. The kiss is gentle at first, but as his arms encircle you, drawing you closer against the solid warmth of his chest, something shifts—urgency bleeding into tenderness, months of carefully banked desire kindling into something more demanding.
Your fingers thread through his hair, fusing him to you as the kiss deepens. His hands span your waist, lifting you effortlessly until your feet barely touch the ground. The sensation of being suspended, weightless in his embrace, sends a thrill through you that has nothing to do with the campaign or tomorrow's uncertainties.
When you finally break apart, both breathless, Steve rests his forehead against yours. His eyes, when they open, are darkened with desire but still impossibly blue. His eyes hold yours, a universe of emotion swirling in their blue depths. He shrugs off his suit coat, you slip out of your coat, and Steve takes both and drapes them over a nearby armchair. Then Steve steps close to you again, his hands moving to frame your face, his touch reverent as his thumbs trace the curve of your cheekbones.
"I've been hungry for this moment," he confesses, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through you where your bodies press together. "Being alone with you. Really alone."
"Me, too," you confess, fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw and his well-trimmed beard.
His smile in response is both tender and knowing, a silent acknowledgment of the journey that brought you here—from strangers to hesitant allies to something neither of you could have anticipated. His hands slide up your back, pulling you impossibly closer as his lips find yours again.
This kiss is different—deeper, unhurried yet purposeful. The careful restraint that's defined so much of your relationship begins to unravel with each passing second. His lips move against yours with increasing urgency, and you respond in kind, your body arching into his as if drawn by some invisible force.
Steve guides you backward through the suite with what feels like a dancer's grace, each step purposeful yet fluid. The world narrows to the points where your bodies connect—his hand at the small of your back, his chest against yours, his lips moving with increasing urgency against your own. The sitting room passes in a blur of cream and gold, furniture mere obstacles to navigate around as you drift through the space in this intimate waltz.
Your fingers work at his tie again, tugging the knot loose with fumbling eagerness. The silk slides free with a whisper against cotton, and you let it fall, forgotten, somewhere behind you. His mouth never leaves yours as you move together, his breath mingling with your own in the narrow space between kisses. Your shoulder bumps gently against a doorframe—the threshold to the bedroom—and Steve's arm tightens around you, steadying you against him.
"I've got you," he murmurs against your lips, the words more breath than sound.
You feel the familiar pressure of his hand at the small of your back, guiding you through the doorway and into the bedroom. The soft glow of city lights filters through the sheer curtains, painting the room in muted blues and golds.
Your fingers, trembling slightly with anticipation, move to the buttons of his crisp white shirt. The first button slips free easily, revealing a triangle of warm skin at his throat that you caress briefly before continuing your task. The second proves more challenging as Steve's kisses grow more insistent, his tongue sliding against yours in a way that makes focusing on anything else nearly impossible. You manage the third button just as the back of your knees meet the edge of the bed.
At some point between the sitting room and the bedroom, Steve had evidently unzipped your dress, because now he quickly pushes the fabric down over your shoulders, and it falls to the floor, pooling at your feet. He turns you around in his arms, pulling you flush against him. Without missing a beat, his left hand comes up to collar your throat and turn your head to the side so he can continue devouring your lips with his own. His other hand slides over the roundness of your stomach and down into your panties, no hesitation
His fingers slide against you, finding you already wet and ready for him. You gasp against his mouth at the contact, your body arching into his touch. Steve's lips trail from yours to the sensitive spot just below your ear, his breath hot on your skin, and his beard scratching pleasantly against your neck.
"I've wanted this for so long," he whispers, his voice rough with desire. "Wanted you."
You reach back, fingers threading through his hair as his thumb circles your most sensitive spot with exquisite precision. Your legs tremble, and he tightens his arm across your chest, supporting your weight as pleasure builds with each deliberate stroke.
"Steve," you breathe, the word half plea, half prayer.
He turns you in his arms once more, then pushes you back onto the mattress. He’s quick to follow, hovering over you as you both slither further up the bed, capturing your mouth in that kiss that's constant hunger and heat.
His shirt hangs open now, and you push it from his shoulders, murmuring, “Too many clothes,” desperate to feel his skin against yours. He shrugs it off, chuckling against your lips.
"I agree," he murmurs, his hands moving to unclasp your bra with surprising dexterity. As he tosses it aside, his eyes darken with appreciation, taking in the sight of you beneath him. "God, you're beautiful."
His palm cups your breast, thumb brushing across the sensitive peak as he lowers his head to press open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone. You arch into his touch, fingers working at his belt buckle with growing urgency. The metal clinks as it comes free, and Steve shifts to help you push his pants down his hips.
The bed cradles you as Steve's weight settles over you, his body a perfect counterbalance of power and restraint. Every touch feels like a revelation, each kiss deeper than the last. His hands trace the curves of your body with reverence, as if mapping territories both familiar and new.
"You're beautiful," he whispers against your collarbone, his lips tracking a slow path downward. "So beautiful."
Your fingers explore the broad expanse of his shoulders, feeling the play of muscles beneath warm skin as he moves. When his mouth closes over your breast, a soft gasp escapes you, your back arching into the sensation. His beard creates a delicious friction against your sensitive skin, the contrast between softness and roughness heightening every sensation.
He sucks and lavishes your nipple with attention that makes your head spin before moving his mouth to your other breast and delivering more of the dizzying pleasure. Only when he has you squirming beneath him is he satisfied. He moves back up your body, and his mouth captures yours again.
Your hands slide over the muscled planes of his chest, marveling at the contrast between the softness of his skin and the hardness of the body beneath. When your fingers trace the defined ridges of his abdomen, following the trail of hair that disappears beneath the waistband of his boxer briefs.
Steve shivers beneath your touch, his breath catching as your fingers dip below the elastic of his boxers. The hardness of him strains against the fabric, his physical desire for you manifested plainly. You trace the length of him through the cotton, reveling in the way his breath hitches, the way his eyes darken to midnight as they hold yours.
"I need you," you whisper, emboldened by the naked want in his gaze. "All of you."
The words act like a catalyst. Steve moves with sudden purpose, stripping away the last barriers between you until there's nothing but skin against skin, heat against heat. His weight settles partially on you, one strong thigh slipping between yours as he claims your mouth again. You’re sure you’re going to forget to breathe, the way this man - your husband - kisses you in this moment.
His hand skims down your side, tracing the curve of your hip before sliding between your bodies. When his fingers find your folds again, you gasp against his mouth, your body arching into his touch. He explores you with gentle thoroughness, learning what makes your breath catch, what draws those soft moans from deep in your throat.
"Steve," you breathe, his name a plea as tension coils tighter within you. "Please."
He understands what you're asking for, positioning himself between your thighs, the hard length of him pressing against your entrance. His eyes find yours, intense and questioning even now.
"Are you sure?" he asks, his voice rough with need but still so careful, so considerate.
In answer, you wrap your legs around his hips, drawing him closer. The first slow push of him entering you draws a moan from both your lips, the sensation of fullness, of completeness, overwhelming in its intensity. He moves with deliberate control, giving you time to adjust to him, his forehead pressed against yours.
"Yes," you whisper, tracing his cheekbone with trembling fingers. "I've never been more sure of anything."
Steve's eyes hold yours as he begins to move, setting a rhythm that quickly has you both breathing hard. The world narrows to this—to the perfect friction where your bodies join, to the sound of his breath against your ear, to the weight of him above you, anchoring you against the rising tide of pleasure.
His pace quickens, driven by your encouraging moans and the way your hips rise to meet each thrust. One of his hands slides beneath you, tilting your hips at an angle that has you gasping his name, your nails digging into the solid muscle of his shoulders.
"Steve," you breathe, his name a prayer on your lips as pleasure builds within you, coiling tighter with each movement of his hips against yours.
"Let go," he murmurs against your throat, his voice strained with the effort of control. "I've got you."
His mouth captures yours again and again, each kiss deeper than the last, as if he's trying to memorize the taste of you.
The exquisite tension builds and builds until it finally breaks like a wave crashing against shore, pleasure radiating outward from where your bodies join. Your back arches off the bed as you cry out, fingers gripping Steve's shoulders as if he's the only solid thing in a world suddenly turned liquid with sensation. He follows you moments later, his rhythm faltering as his release claims him, your name a reverent whisper against your throat.
For several heartbeats, neither of you moves, bodies still joined, breaths mingling in the narrow space between your faces. Steve's weight is carefully balanced on his forearms, his body a warm shelter above yours. When he lifts his head to look at you, the tenderness in his gaze makes your chest ache with an emotion too vast to name.
"Hey," he murmurs, brushing a strand of hair from your forehead with gentle fingers.
"Hey yourself," you reply, voice slightly hoarse.
As the aftershocks subside, Steve gathers you close, rolling to his side and bringing you with him. Your head finds the perfect resting place against his chest, where you can hear the gradual slowing of his heartbeat. His fingers trace lazy patterns along your spine as the world slowly expands beyond the two of you once more.
"That was..." you begin, struggling to find words adequate for what just transpired between you.
"Worth waiting for," Steve finishes, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "Though I've been thinking about it since that night in Tucson."
You smile against his skin. "Only since Tucson?”
His chuckle vibrates through his chest and into yours, a warm sound that wraps around you like a blanket. "Maybe before," he admits, his fingers still tracing gentle patterns on your skin. "Maybe since that day in the garden at the DAR headquarters when you told me what you really thought about my speech."
"That long?" you ask, tilting your head to look up at him, finding his expression soft with memory. That had been a sweltering hot afternoon in mid-July - long before you thought he viewed you as more than an ally.
"You surprised me," Steve says simply. "Not many people do that anymore."
You prop yourself up on one elbow to look at him properly, drinking in the sight of him relaxed and unguarded in the soft glow of the city lights filtering through the curtains. "For me it was the hospital visit in Chicago."
His eyebrows lift slightly. "Really? That early?"
"Not consciously," you admit, tracing the line of his collarbone with your fingertip. Chicago had been the very tail end of June. "But looking back, that's when everything started to shift. You were so you, even when no one was watching."
Steve captures your wandering hand, bringing it to his lips to press a kiss to your palm. “I love you,” he declares for the first time, no restraint, voice firm and warm.
Your heart skips a beat, but you’re quick to respond in kind, grinning when you say, “I love you, too,” your face splitting into a wide grin.
The moment hangs between you, weightless and perfect. Steve's smile widens, crinkling the corners of his eyes in that way that makes your heart flutter. His hand comes up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing tenderly across your skin.
“I love you,” he says again.
You settle back against him, content in the circle of his arms as the sounds of the city filter in through the windows—distant sirens, the occasional car horn, the ambient hum that is uniquely New York. Tomorrow looms beyond this moment, with all its uncertainties and possibilities, but here, now, there is only this—the steady rhythm of Steve's heart beneath your ear, the warmth of his body, the love you’ve been building together finally spoken aloud.
"I've been thinking about this," he confesses, his voice still thick with emotion. "About tonight. About us. About what happens after tomorrow."
You flatten your palm over his chest, anchoring yourself against the tide of feelings his words evoke. "What do you think happens? After tomorrow?"
He’s quiet for a moment, and you wait. "I don't know what happens with the election. But I know what I want to happen with us."
Your heart beats faster, a flutter of anticipation rising in your chest. "Tell me."
Steve takes a breath, his hands sliding up and down your back, caressing your body with gentle reverence. "I want us to continue building our life together. The real one I feel like we’ve been nurturing—not just for the cameras or the campaign. I want mornings and evenings and all the moments in between."
The raw honesty in his voice catches at something deep inside you. This is Steve—the man beneath the mantle.
"I want that too," you whisper, the words feeling like a promise. "All of it."
His arms tighten around you, pulling you closer against the solid warmth of his chest. Outside, the city continues its nighttime symphony, but in this room, in this bed, time seems suspended—a perfect bubble of peace before tomorrow's storm.
"No matter what happens with the election," Steve murmurs, his voice a low rumble against your ear, "this—us—is real. It's the most real thing in my life."
You lift your head to look at him, taking in the sincerity etched across his features, the vulnerability in his eyes that he shows to so few. "Mine too."
His smile in response warms you from the inside out. His hand cups your cheek, thumb tracing the line of your jaw with tender precision. "Get some sleep," he whispers.
“You first,” you tease.
He laughs softly before kissing you once more before you both drift off.
next part: Election Day in New York, part 1
Did I include links for rooms at The Plaza, including the room type I decided I wanted you and Steve to spend the night together in? Yes. Yes, I did.
DID YOU ALSO GET TO FINALLY HAVE SEX WITH YOUR FANTASTIC HUSBAND? YES! THE THING WE'VE ALL BEEN WAITING FOR! SLOWEST BURN OF ALL TIME, but I knew from the very beginning that I wanted your first time to be on the eve of the election, and even as the story gained more plot and put more and more chapters and developments between where we started and getting to this night, I'm so glad I stuck to that part of the original plan.
....can you believe I thought this story was only going to be six or seven chapters? 🤣
↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest
I do not do tag lists, but FOLLOW @buckets-and-stories and TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS to be updated any time I publish a new work!
Re: this post, which of your CE!babes is the first to come to mind for mounting you? 😏
It's Bolotnik!Curtis, and I don't think you'll mind, but he is going to do so much more than merely mount you because it's been so long since we last encountered him...
Darkness Always Finds You Either Way
Characters/Pairings: Bolotnik!Curtis x curvy!Reader
Word Count: 4k
Summary: You did not go with him when he wanted you to before, and so what will a third encounter mean for your future with this creature from the lake who has staked his claim on you?
Notes: Curtis was going to make you wait, but I didn't know we were going to wait THIS long until the muse finally decided to drag him up from the lake again...
First Encounter | Second Encounter
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You hardly realized you were wandering to the lake until you were already halfway to the shore, cloak clutched around your body and the air tinged with the bite of approaching autumn. It had been increasingly difficult for you to sleep, and something inside you had instead dragged you down the empty streets of your sleeping village, past the silent church, through the dew-soggy grass to the edge of all things. The lake was a mirror, black and rippling, and you could see your own reflection: hair wild, eyes wide and red-rimmed.
You went barefoot, toes digging in the mud, and thought that the strange itch developing under your skin was maybe not so strange, not in the grand scheme of things.
Curtis said your body would change. Maybe you had outgrown your skin and your home, until the only thing left to do was to come here and wait to be collected. The urge was stronger than ever, and you could no longer resist, only yield.
The waterline was lower than you remembered, the silt and reeds exposed in the flickering starlight. You waded in ankle-deep, sinking, sensing the soft sucking of the mud as it accepted your feet. The air was loud with crickets, the occasional splash of fish, the far-off call of some night bird. The moon was gone, but the stars provided enough light to see the expanse of the lake, sprawling out imposingly.
And yet the lapping of the water around your ankles soothed in a way you hadn’t felt in weeks. You’ve felt dry in your skin, and these last days even your veins feel like hollowed-out reeds beneath the surface.
It had been eighty-three days since Curtis climbed through your window, the second night he filled you with his seed. It had been one hundred and twenty-three days since the night he claimed your body and pumped you with pleasure and with his spend all night, marked you in ways no mother’s salve could erase, left you shivering on the shore, his seed rooted in your womb.
You kept going, wading past the reeds and the brambles, the hem of your nightdress dragging through the shallows, soaking up moonless water and pond scum.
Even now, you told yourself you’re out here only to see the stars, but you knew you were lying.
The changes in your body had become more pronounced and less deniable. Soon you would no longer be able to hide the swell of your belly, blossoming with the taut dome of new life. The skin had grown soft but oddly cold, even through the high summer.
Your eyes started to reflect light in a way that makes children in the street shy away from your gaze. Your sister, ever helpful, insisted you were simply tired, that the sleepless nights were just exhaustion from your job at the bakery, the endless cycles of flour and heat, the constant lifting and kneading. Your sister believed what she said, but you sensed her growing unease—the way she looked at your belly with furtive suspicion, the way she muttered prayers when she thought you could not hear.
Curtis has not returned. The absence of him was a wound that festered.
You thought, in the aftermath, that Curtis would return often, if not every night. You thought he would haunt your window, your dreams, your shadows. But he was true to his word: he gave you space. There were nights you sat up in the window seat, knuckles white on the wood, waiting to see the gleam of blue scales or the shimmer of his eyes, and nothing appeared but the unbroken dark. Sometimes you convinced yourself this was a mercy, a kindness, and that you hadn’t wanted any of it to begin with. Other nights, you pressed your face to the glass and called his name softly into the silence the night, and the longer he hasn’t come, the more your spirit has withered.
Surely he hadn’t abandoned you.
He had seemed so insistent.
And yet… he was not here, and you were, and inside you the child of him grew steadily, unerringly, as night follows the tides. The thought left you hollow, as if your body had already begun to be carved away by the thing inside it, making you less yourself with each passing week. You felt it now, even as you shivered in the shallows; a dull, aquatic ache that stretched through your hips and lower belly, encompassing all that you were meant to be, and all that you no longer were.
There was only the wind and the water, and you, marooned between them. No answers. Only a hunger, like a current, dragging you under.
You stood, shivering in your thin shift, despite the cloak around your shoulders, and waited.
Waited for—
You didn’t know.
But after some time, you trekked back to the shore. Your body seemed to know where it wanted you to go, and you are not surprised to find yourself back near the trees where it all began, where he both ravished and worshipped your body.
You crouched into the hollow of trees and planted yourself at the base of the trunk. It was humid and close under the branches, the sweet, sharp tang of decaying leaves pressed into the earth, and beneath that, the mineral wet of the lake. You pulled your knees to your chest and listened for footsteps, for anything, but in the night the whole world was quieted to only the whisper of leaves, your own uneven breathing, and the persistent lap of water against the shore.
Though you were well-hidden, there was a break in the trees that gave you a view of the lake. You watched as the surface quivered, reflecting back the warped face of the stars, and you wondered if you were supposed to do something more. If there was a ritual to summon him, or if all of this—the ache, the hunger, the uncertainty—was part of the summoning. You dropped your face into your knees and breathed deeply, searching for any scent of him, any hint that Curtis still lingered on the edges of this world. All you tasted was old wood and lake rot and something soft and almost metallic—a scent that felt like memory.
If you closed your eyes, you could remember the weight of his hands on your skin, the dark press of his body against yours, the way his voice was both threat and comfort. You wanted to hate him for what he did, for what he made of you, but you couldn’t. Not when your own body, traitorous and tender, mourned him even as it craved his presence.
The ache spiked, sharper this time, radiating from the place where your child grew. It was not pain, exactly. More an insistence, like a call you were unable to answer. You wrapped your arms tighter around yourself. But as the night wore on, your body loosened, drooped, gave into sleep—one of the things it had long been craving.
Something woke you in the deep hours, something more than cold or discomfort. You peeled yourself off the ground, stiff and numb, leaned against the tree trunk, and then instantly sensed the difference in the air. It was charged, vibrating with static, and the reeds at the water’s edge were shivering where no wind stirred them. Your heart stammered, your mouth tasted copper, and for a moment you were sure you were only dreaming.
Curtis was there, just outside the ring of trees that sheltered you. He stood perfectly motionless at the water’s edge, as if he’d been carved from the dark itself, a shadow with a suggestion of scales and the faintest luminescence tracing the lines of his body. His eyes shone out of his face, impossibly blue, fixed on you with a ferocity so wild and so focused it made you flinch. You had not heard him arrive. You wondered how long he’d been standing there, waiting for you to open your eyes.
You found that you are not afraid, not in the way you expected. It was something else, a tension like a drawn bow. His tail was flicking behind him, the tip slicing dangerous curves through the humid air.
He moved toward you in an unhurried, even elegant way, each step deliberate, his weight barely imprinting the mud despite his hulking form, so much larger than a human man’s. He didn’t speak; you realized suddenly that he never had to. He only needed to look at you, and your body would answer.
He took your face in his hands—not soft, not gentle, but not cruel either, and tilted your head so he could look into your eyes. You saw the hunger there, a desperation that matched your own, but also a grief, and something nearly like relief.
He didn’t ask permission. He didn’t even speak. His lips crashed into yours, sharp and cold and tasting of brine. It was nothing like human kisses, but you leaned in, lips parting, swallowing the taste of him, that deep, mineral tang, the way his teeth scraped across your lower lip. When he broke off, you gasped for air, surprised at how much of your hunger was for oxygen and how much for something else entirely. His tail snapped up behind you, coiling around your back and waist, pinning you to him so you could not slip away even if you wanted to.
You shivered, but it wasn’t from cold. A sound escaped you, a wet, hungry sob, and your arms went around his shoulders before you could think better of it. You expected roughness; you found yourself enveloped, cradled against a chest so wide and firm that you could hardly breathe for the way it trapped the air in your lungs. He held you like a cherished and broken thing, and you felt the hardness of his excitement against your hip, the way it pressed through both your clothes and his. The scent of him, seawater and something sweetly corrupt, filled your nose, and you worried, briefly, that you would drown on land.
His hands went to your shoulders, then your arms, then he pulled the damp cloak from your body and let it drop to the forest floor. He was more impatient with your shift, ripping the collar so the rest of the garment could fall away and pool at your feet. The shock of air on your bare skin made you gasp, but you didn’t try to cover yourself. Curtis bent down and sniffed you, pressing his face into the hollow where your neck and shoulder met.
He inhaled deeply, pulled a low, vibrating groan from somewhere in the cage of his chest, and just like that, you were entirely, murderously desperate for him, for the feeling of his mouth and the slick pressure of his tongue, for the pain of his teeth and the searing cold of his hands sliding up your thighs. His breath fogged against your skin, cool and alive, and just hearing the ragged need in it was enough to make your knees threaten mutiny.
“Curtis,” you managed, syllables fractured and spilling out before you could stop them.
He growled, the sound vibrating through your chest, resonant and urgent. His claws grazed your shoulders as he shrugged the cloak away from you, letting it slide to the ground where it slumped darkly into the leaf mold. His hands found your waist, spanning it with impossible ease, and then his palms moved, mapping the curvature of your ribs, your breasts, then down, down, his fingers raking over your belly. He lingered on your midsection, ran his knuckles with surprising care over the curve of it, fascination and triumph wrestling for dominance in his gaze.
His hands encircled your belly and held there, as though placing a spell, or as though he expected the child to respond to his pulse. Maybe it did. You thought you felt it, some answering quiver, and you tried not to flinch. You shouldn’t want this, shouldn’t want him, but when his mouth found your collarbone you choked on nothing, a breathless exhale that turned into a moan.
His mouth was cold against your skin but his tongue wet and shockingly warm, as if the heat of desire tunneled underneath his icy exterior, a core of molten need blazing inside him. Teeth pressed, not quite biting, then scraped a line along your clavicle, leaving a trail of sensation so bright it bordered on pain. Your hands went, almost stupidly, to his biceps: smooth, firm, scaled over in patches, reminding you he belonged to the lake.
Your stomach ached, low and deep, with a hunger you refused to call by name. You wanted this, you wanted him, you wanted him to take you apart, fill you until your bones dissolved, until the self you’d been before dissolved in the brine of his touch.
His lips found your throat and sucked until you thought you were being hollowed out, all feeling compressed to the bright ring where his mouth met your skin. His hands splayed at your ass, cupping and kneading, moving you against him until you both groaned in time, a shared, strangled note that seemed to ring out over the water.
He barely bothered to undress himself, simply tore away the layers of sodden cloth as if they were nothing, exposing his torso and hips until the heat of him seared into you. His cock, thick and strange and ridged with whorls of blue-black skin, already pulsed against your thigh. He backed you up against the trunk of the tree and pinned you there, one massive arm braced next to your head, and dipped his head to your chest.
His tongue rasped along the curve of your breast, a wet, hungry line, and when his teeth found your nipple, you cried out, the sound trapped between your tongue and his. He bit, just hard enough to mark, then soothed it with that impossible tongue, flicking and sucking until your head spun and a firecracking ache tethered itself from breast to cunt.
His hand was already between your legs before you could breathe out his name, and his fingers--long, ridged, preternaturally strong--slid through the wetness between your thighs. He pressed in, tasted how ready you were, and when he drew his hand away, he brought two glistening fingers to his mouth and licked them clean with a noise so greedy, so hungry, it made your core tighten almost painfully.
“The desperate smell of your want was intoxicating enough, little one,” he growled, “but your taste?”
His claws sank into the flesh of your hips and he yanked you off your feet, spinning you so fast your head swam. You landed, hands and knees in the leaf mulch, your bare ass exposed to the night and to him, your thighs smeared with your own want. His grip found your shoulder and pressed you down, arching your back, planting you so firmly into the earth you could feel the cool dampness rising through your palms and shins. You didn’t fight when he spread your legs wider. If anything, you shuddered in relief, because this, this was what you needed.
His breath was a frigid fog against your skin, and then the blunt, slick head of his cock was nudging at your entrance, so wide it seemed impossible to take him. You whimpered against the moss, torn between terror and a nearly painful anticipation. Though he had your entrance amply slick with your own arousal, the size of him was still enough to make you gasp when he breached you, slow and relentless. You felt yourself stretch, felt the ache of it, but he did not yield.
He slid in further, relentless, unyielding, and your entire body shuddered around the breach. You scrambled for purchase, fingers digging furrows in the loam, and then his hand was at the base of your spine, stroking small, slow circles in a semblance of comfort.
“Look at you,” he growled, voice low in your ear as he bottomed out with a shudder that rocked you forward. “You were made for me. You fit like a custom-forged scabbard, little one. I could breed you a thousand times and never get tired of the way you clench around me.”
His cock pulsed inside you, impossibly thick, and every subtle drag and shift of his hips sent a shiver through your entire body. He held you there, immovable, his weight pinning you to the mud and leaf litter, fucking into you with a slow, brutal rhythm that left you gasping every time he drove home. Each thrust felt like it would split you, stretch you beyond your limit, and each time you bent, pliant, desperate to be filled further, to be ruined in the same way again and again.
His tail wrapped around your left ankle, hoisting the leg upward and outward, so you were splayed wide, offered to him and the lake and the night. He leaned forward, his chest pressing between your shoulders, bent over you, mouth at your ear now, voice ragged and low. “Little one,” he growled, “I will never let you forget how you felt this night. No matter how many times I take you, I’ll always want to take you again.”
You didn’t bother to hide your noises now; any vestige of shame was gone, burned away by the friction and fullness and the way his hands gripped you with such claiming certainty. You felt yourself dripping down your thighs, making a mess of the ground beneath, and you thought it fitting, to mark the earth as you were marked, to leave nothing untouched by him.
“If the lake had not insisted on a bloodline to restore balance, I would have demanded it. You are the only thing I want in all this world, and every drop of you belongs to me.”
He fucked you harder, faster, driving you into the ground with abandon. Each thrust made you whine, made your elbows buckle and your head drop forward, hair stuck to your face with sweat and dew. He reached around and slid two fingers to your clit, rubbing in tight, ruthless circles that sent the world spinning white-hot.
You came so hard your vision narrowed to a single bright point. Your limbs splayed and trembled, nails sinking into the dirt and your ass bucking up to meet every brutal blow, savoring the way it forced you open, greedily cradling his cock to the hilt with every cycle. Curtis growled so low and animal it vibrated the whole length of you, and his hands tightened on your hips, guiding you, fucking you back onto him, making sure you took every last centimeter his body offered.
You wanted to scream with it. You wanted to howl his name so loud they’d hear it in every village around the lake. But you couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do anything but let him use you, let the rhythm of his rutting into you become the only pulse that mattered. All sense of the world dropped away, and there was only the slap of skin, the wet, hungry noises of your cunt taking his cock, the raw, animal sound of your own voice every time the head of him pressed so deep it made your belly ache.
Curtis—no longer the stranger, never just the creature—was everything: the air, the ache, the axis about which you spun. Every time he slurred your name into your ear, mangling the syllables with his animal tongue, a fresh ripple shuddered through you. He rutted you in the dirt, rutting away the remnants of your old life, seeding you so deeply you could feel it pooling hot inside where the child already grew.
He never relented. Even as your body tried to collapse, he pinned you, forced you to take more, forced you beyond your own edge, made it impossible to know where you ended and he began. He held you through it, every time you tried to shudder or twitch away, his hands locked your hips exactly where he needed them, pulling on the strings of want and need until you unspooled every last thread, the tip of his tail tormenting your throbbing clit.
If you had thought yourself hollowed by his absence, you were now made whole by his invasion, every place inside you mapped and remade by him, by this act of mating, of possession. He bit the back of your neck, just at the nape, so hard you cried out and the sound split the night open, echoing off the trees and out to the water, where every living thing had to know what he was doing to you. The air rang with your sounds, and the taste of copper and earth and salt was on your tongue, and you felt the sharp crackle of him biting through the flesh just enough to breach the skin, a mark so carnal it would never fade. You wanted to be marked. You wanted to be his—no, you were his, and always would be, because some part of you had never belonged to anything else, and he simply reminded your body whose it was.
And then he came. You felt it, the flood of cold and the clutching, almost electrical pulse. His cock throbbed inside you, filling you even as you clenched and spasmed around him, milked every last drop of his seed so there could be no doubt, none, what your purpose was. He stayed like that, locked to you, fused to your body as if he could keep you in place for the rest of eternity by the sheer force of want. All up your spine, his scales left the faintest scratch, the imprint of his cooler body temperature, a memory of friction that anointed you as singularly his. Curtis kept you there, cock still embedded in you, his weight almost comforting, the way he spread over you like a shield against the cold and the dark and anything else that could try to threaten you.
Eventually, he shifted, rolling you gently onto your back as though conscious of your fragility. His cock slid from your body with a raw, slippery sound, and you felt some of his spend leak from your fluttering cunt, soaking the ground beneath you.
He hovered over you, gaze unblinking, so close you could see the reflection of your own trembling, ruined face in his eyes. The hard line of his body pressed you flat to the earth, and you felt every inch of him, every scale and muscle, the brutal weight of his presence. He let his hands roam your stomach and your hips, drawing slow, reverent circles, memorizing the curves of your form that he already knew too intimately. For a moment, you thought he was going to say something soft, something almost human. Instead, his mouth settled by your ear and he said, voice stripped to its essential hunger, “You come with me now.”
His tail curled around your thigh, not as a threat but as a matter-of-fact assertion of what would happen next. You were dizzy from the way he’d taken you, your cunt still raw and throbbing.
He lifted you, all at once, as if you weighed nothing. You were limp in his arms, boneless from the waves of pleasure, trailing wetness and ruin as he carried you back to the water. It should have been cold, but when the lake closed around your body it was only a relief, a soft, enveloping embrace that soothed the raw places. He held you afloat, one powerful arm under your knees, the other bracing your back, until your eyes unblurred and you could see his face above you, illuminated by the briefest shimmer of phosphorescence off the water. His eyes were luminous, impossible in the dark.
He kissed you again, more gently this time, and you let your head fall against his chest. He began to swim, slow and tireless, propelling you through the black, star-pocked surface and into the heart of the lake.
Hope you enjoyed a bit of monster-fucking Monday.
↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest
I do not do tag lists, but FOLLOW @buckets-and-stories and TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS to be updated any time I publish a new work!
Characters/Pairings: Steve Rogers x curvy Millennial Female!Reader
Word Count: 6.5k
Summary: The fallout from the interview with Oprah comes immediately, but with it is an unexpected attack that rocks you to your core.
Content/Warnings: discussion of women's health issues [notably pregnancy and abortion], deep fakes, political maneuvering, marriage of political convenience, slow burn
Notes: This takes place in a post-Endgame scenario where Steve stays and generally most of TFATWS happened.
ADDITIONAL NOTE: Please pay attention to the content/warnings for this chapter. Thematically, we're going to get into some discussion about family planning, and I do think and hope I've given it the care and respect I think it deserves, but KNOW YOURSELF and know whether or not you have the bandwidth to read this without judgment. That said, if you've read the story to this point - a tenth chapter - and been okay with what I've included politically, I don't think you'll be shocked or offended by the discussions had here.
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[OCTOBER 12 - KANSAS CITY TO TUCSON]
The next morning, you are eating breakfast on the plane with Steve and Bucky in the private cabin on the Rogers campaign plane on the way to Tucson. You’re trying to hold off on being too tense or apprehensive, but a lot has already happened over social media while you slept. You’ve already done a lot of scrolling of your own and Jake and Lisa have already gone over the landscape of things so far with you and Steve and the core campaign staff.
The negative voices are loud. The hashtag #FakeFirstLady is trending on Twitter/X, along with countless memes mocking your relationship.
The headlines are brutal:
"ROGERS CAMPAIGN BUILT ON LIES: Captain America's Marriage a Sham"
"AMERICA'S GOLDEN BOY TARNISHED: Steve Rogers Admits to Political Marriage"
"CAPTAIN AMERICA OR CAPTAIN BETRAYAL”
But there are some people are praising the honesty, calling it a refreshing change from typical political marriages - and typical marriages, even, pointing out that a partnership built on shared values from the beginning over sparks or chemistry is a sensible and inspiring approach.
TikTok already has shops selling shirts and stickers that say “Blipped and Back,” people are clipping and posting their takes on parts of the interview, and BookTok is eating it up with many creators asking, “How long until we see the book based on this plot?”
You’ve been on BookTok, and so you know they’re speculating over more than that but aren’t surprised the sordid details weren’t included in the professional briefing.
You're trying to focus on your breakfast, but your mind keeps drifting to the swirling media storm.
You can't help but glance at your phone again, scrolling through the flood of notifications. The mix of support and vitriol is dizzying.
"You might want to put that away for a bit," Bucky suggests gently, noticing your furrowed brow. "It's not going to do you any good to keep reading all that right now."
Steve reaches over, taking your hand in his. "We knew this wasn't going to be easy," he says, his voice steady and reassuring. "But we're in this together, remember?"
You nod, squeezing his hand gratefully. "I know. It's just one thing to know it in theory and another to see it all playing out in real-time."
Just then, Jake enters the cabin, his face serious. "Sorry to interrupt, but we've got a situation developing."
Sophia, Lisa, and Sam enter swiftly right behind him.
Your stomach drops as you brace yourself for more bad news. "What is it?"
Jake grabs the remote from the side table and turns on the large flat-screen TV mounted on the cabin wall. The Fox News logo flashes across the screen as the sound comes to life.
"...and that's why this revelation about the Rogers' marriage is so troubling," a stern-faced commentator is saying. "It calls into question everything we thought we knew about Steve Rogers and his values."
Your heart races as you glance at Steve, whose jaw is clenched tight. Bucky leans forward, his eyes narrowed at the screen.
Another panelist, a woman with perfectly coiffed blonde hair, nods in agreement. "Absolutely, John. And let's not forget their non-answer about having children. When Oprah asked about their plans for a family, Mrs. Rogers was notably evasive." She refers to you as ‘Mrs. Rogers’ with so much sarcasm it’s mortifying.
The first commentator, John, picks things right back up. "Speaking of which, we may have an answer to whether or not Mrs. Rogers wants children from some information sent to us this morning."
Your heart stops as the first image fills the screen.
The woman continues, her voice dripping with sensationalism, "Our sources have provided us with some shocking photos that seem to show Mrs. Rogers entering a Planned Parenthood clinic from two years ago. And as you can see in these images, she appears to be visibly pregnant - probably five or six months along.”
The screen splits to show a second photo - the same woman, a slightly different angle - entering the clinic, and you don’t even know how to react because these images are such high quality you would believe they were real.
"According to our anonymous source," John jumps in eagerly, "Mrs. Rogers was there to terminate the pregnancy. If true, this raises serious questions about the Rogers' values and their fitness for the White House."
“We reached out to this Planned Parenthood clinic for comment, but they would only confirm that Mrs. Rogers had been a patient there.”
“That’s enough,” Steve nearly growls, and Jake mutes the screen.
The cabin falls silent, the tension palpable. You feel like you can't breathe, your mind reeling from the accusations being hurled at you on national television. Steve's hand tightens almost painfully around yours, but you don’t protest because you’re clutching it like a lifeline.
Jake turns to face the group, his expression grim. "I know we're all shocked by this, but we need to address it head-on. We've got to get ahead of this story before it spirals out of control. We've all read the opposition research file on you," he says, gesturing to the team. "There's no record of any pregnancy or abortion in your past, and I won’t judge you either way, but did you ev-"
“Wait a minute, Jake.”
It’s Sophia who takes a step forward, her voice sharp as she says, “She shouldn’t have to answer that question to us or anyone else, period. With the negative coverage that has reared its head since last night, the bulk of it is not being directed at Steve. The fire and the big guns are being directed straight at the woman in the situation - which is unsurprising, but ridiculously unfair.”
Your eyes burn and your throat aches as tears threaten to burst out of you, but you fight to keep them in. You’re gutted by what you’ve just seen on tv, angry at the reality Sophia has pointed out, but also moved by her fierce defense of you.
You take a deep breath, steadying yourself. "Sophia's right. I shouldn't have to answer that question. But I will, because I want there to be no doubt." You look each person in the eye as you continue, "I have never been pregnant. I have never had an abortion. Those photos are fake."
Steve's arm wraps around your shoulders, pulling you close. "We need to shut this down immediately," he says, his voice tight with barely contained anger.
“There will be no shutting this down completely; it’s out there,” Jake counters, already typing furiously on his phone. "But we do have a press corps traveling with us who are going to want statements as soon as possible and I suggest we make them as soon as possible as it’s the most powerful option available to you to have any voice in the direction this narrative will go.”
Jake turns to you directly, and his voice softens. “Sophia was right to check me,” and at this he glances at your assistant. “I’m not going to step back, but I want to step right in line behind you and have you work directly with Lisa on what you want to say now that we’re stepping into this arena. You have a lot of power in this moment to direct the attention of this situation. And I think we all know this man,” he nods at Steve, “will back whatever you choose.”
You take a deep breath, trying to center yourself amidst the chaos swirling around you. The weight of the moment settles on your shoulders, but you feel Steve's steadying presence beside you and draw strength from it.
"Thank you, Jake," you say, your voice steadier than you feel. "And thank you, Sophia." You lock eyes with your assistant, conveying your gratitude for her fierce defense.
Turning to Lisa, you nod. "Let's draft a statement. I want to be clear and direct."
Lisa sits and pulls out her laptop, ready to take notes. "What key points do you want to hit?"
You consider for another moment, then begin, "First and foremost, I want to set the record straight. Those photos are fake - but rather than saying I’ve never had an abortion, I only want to say I’ve never been pregnant. A woman’s reproductive choices are her own, and I don’t want to elevate or disparage whether or not a woman has been or wants to be pregnant, nor whether or not she’s had or wanted to have an abortion. They’re all deeply personal choices and can change over the course of a woman’s life.
"Second, I want to confirm that I was indeed a patient at Planned Parenthood, as the report stated. But I want to use this as an opportunity to educate people about the wide range of essential health services they provide," you continue, your voice growing stronger as you speak.
“This is an excellent start,” Lisa affirms, her fingers flying across the keyboard of the laptop screen as she types. “We can tie into Steve’s healthcare plans with this, too,” Lisa says.
Twenty minutes later, you’re standing at the front of the press cabin, addressing the reporters, podcasters, and bloggers with Lisa and Steve standing just off to the side of you. After making your first point that you’ve never been pregnant and that any choice about whether or not to have children is deeply personal and can change over the course of time, you move into expanding on the value of Planned Parenthood clinics since you know they’re often misunderstood, misrepresented, and that they provide beneficial services some don’t even know about.
"When I was in college, working part-time and struggling to make ends meet, Planned Parenthood was there for me. They provided me with affordable, compassionate care when I needed it`."
You pause, glancing around the cabin before continuing. "I received my annual well-woman exams there, including pap smears and breast cancer screenings. They provided me with birth control and counseling on reproductive health. Planned Parenthood has been a crucial healthcare provider for me and millions of other women, especially those who are uninsured or underinsured.”
You take a deep breath, feeling the weight of every word. "These clinics offer vital services beyond what many people realize - STI testing and treatment, prenatal care, and even primary care and mental health care services in some locations. They are often the only source of healthcare for many women in underserved communities."
A reporter raises her hand, and you nod for her to speak.
"Mrs. Rogers, how do you respond to critics who may say your support of Planned Parenthood conflicts with traditional family values?"
You meet her gaze steadily. "I believe that supporting women's health and reproductive rights is entirely consistent with family values. Healthy women build healthy families. Access to comprehensive healthcare, including family planning services, empowers women to make the best choices for themselves and their families."
"As for the doctored images being circulated," you continue, your voice growing firmer, "they are a blatant attempt to mislead the American people and distract from the real issues at hand. This kind of dirty politics has no place in our democracy. We should be focusing on healthcare reform, economic policies, education, climate change, and how we can build a stronger country.”
As you finish your statement, a flurry of hands shoot up, reporters eager to ask follow-up questions. You field a few more, your responses growing more confident with each answer. The cabin buzzes with the rapid-fire clicks of laptop keys and the occasional flash of a camera.
After about ten minutes, Lisa steps forward, gently touching your elbow. "Thank you all for your time," she addresses the press corps. "We'll be releasing a full statement shortly with additional details."
As you turn to leave, you catch sight of a young woman in the back, her press badge identifying her as a reporter for a small Midwestern paper. She's not raising her hand or shouting questions like the others, but there's an intensity in her gaze that catches your attention. You make a mental note to speak with her later, sensing there might be a story there.
Steve's hand finds the small of your back, following you back to the staff area of the plane, and the buzz of excited chatter from the press corps fades behind you as the door closes.
Back in the relative quiet of the staff cabin, you let out a long breath, feeling the adrenaline slowly ebb away. This cabin, usually a hive of activity, seems almost serene now as some of the staff move around, working on the transcript of your press statement and the questions you fielded, jumping on social media, preparing for the events you’re all headed to once you hit the ground in Tucson.
“You did well,” Jake says.
You glance at Jake, grateful for the praise but still feeling the weight of the situation. "Thanks, but this is far from over, isn't it?"
Jake shakes his head. "You’re right. But you've given us a solid foundation to build on. Your statements were clear, compassionate, and hit all the right notes. We can work with this."
Steve, who's been uncharacteristically quiet, finally speaks up. "I'm proud of you," he says, his voice low and intense. "You handled that with grace and strength. But I can't help feeling responsible for putting you in this position."
You turn to him, seeing the guilt etched on his face. "Steve, we're in this together, remember? We knew there would be challenges. This is just... a bigger one than we anticipated."
Bucky, who's been watching the whole scene unfold, chimes in. He hesitates for a moment before speaking. "I was just thinking this might be an opportunity to do more than just defend ourselves. We could use this to push the conversation forward."
Jake nods thoughtfully. "Bucky’s right. It’s like I said earlier, we've got the nation's attention right now. What do you want to do with it?"
You consider for a moment, then turn to Lisa. "Can we set up a series of interviews and speaking engagements focused on women’s health and the lack of comprehensive knowledge and education? The US has one of the worst - if not the worst - maternal mortality rate among developed nations in the world, if I’m remembering correctly.”
You turn to Sophia. “You’ve been mentioning that I should be thinking about one or two causes I want to truly champion if I were to be elected. Looks like I’m locking in on one for sure.”
Steve pulls you into a tight embrace. "You are incredible," he murmurs into your hair. "Thank you for being so strong."
You burrow into him for a moment. His praise and reassurance bolster you in the moment, but you feel the tightrope you’re walking on getting higher and higher. You can only hope you won’t fall.
Once you pull away from Steve's embrace, you notice his gaze shift over your shoulder. His brow furrows slightly, and you turn to follow his line of sight. In the corner of the cabin, Bucky and Jake have their heads close together, engaged in an intense, hushed conversation. Their expressions are grave, and Bucky's metal arm whirs softly as he gesticulates, emphasizing whatever point he's making.
Steve clears his throat. "Hey, you two," he calls out, his voice tinged with curiosity and a hint of concern. "What are you two strategizing?"
Bucky and Jake exchange a quick glance before Bucky straightens up, his steel-blue eyes meeting Steve's. "We were just discussing the photos," he says, his voice low and determined. "I want to see if I can track down the source."
The cabin seems to grow quieter, as Bucky continues. “Somebody doctored them, and they doctored them for a reason.”
Jake nods, his expression serious. "Bucky thinks he might be able to trace the origin of those photos. I’d like to know who we’re dealing with - they aren’t amateurs, and I doubt they’re officially on the campaign team of either of your opponents, but they have an agenda, and I want to get ahead of it."
"Is it even possible?” you ask. “And is it legal?"
Bucky's lips quirk into a small, wry smile. "I have some unique skills from my past that might come in handy. As for legal... well, I won’t cross any actual lines."
Steve looks conflicted, running a hand over his beard. "I don't know, Buck. We can't afford any more scandals right now."
"Which is exactly why we need to get ahead of this," Bucky argues. "If we can find out who's behind the root of this, we can potentially stop them before they escalate further."
Steve's jaw clenches as he mulls it over. "What exactly did you have in mind, Buck?"
"I've got some contacts from my previous line of work. They can trace the digital footprint of those images, maybe even identify the software used to create them. It's all above board, I promise."
You and Steve exchange a long look, a silent conversation passing between you. The weight of the decision hangs in the air, but after a moment, you both nod almost imperceptibly.
Steve turns back to Bucky, his voice low but resolute. "Alright, go ahead. But tread carefully. We're walking a fine line here."
Bucky's face is set with determination. "I'll be discreet."
Bucky pulls out his phone and steps into the private cabin to make some calls.
Steve steps across the cabin to where Sophia is conferring with Lisa, their heads bent over a tablet as they likely discuss the upcoming schedule adjustments.
“There’s a Fox News reporter on the plane in our press group right now, isn’t there?” Steve asks Lisa. “I want him out as soon as we land,” Steve declares, his anger dialed back, but still palpable.
“Yes,” Lisa confirms, “Ryan Jackson. But he’s been a reasonably fair advocate for coverage of your campaign up to this point, and he’s actually the one who tipped us off about this before it went live, said his producer gave him an advance about ten minutes before with the instructions to get a response from you.”
Steve's brow furrows as he processes this information. "He tipped us off? Why would he do that?"
Lisa shrugs. "Not everyone at Fox agrees with their editorial stance. Some journalists there are just reasonable conservatives who still believe in fair reporting."
You step closer, joining the conversation. "If he's willing to give us a heads up, he might be an valuable ally."
Steve looks at you, his expression softening slightly. "You're right. I let my anger rush my judgment." He turns back to Lisa. "Can you arrange a private conversation with Ryan once we land? I'd like to thank him personally for the warning."
Lisa nods, making a note on her tablet. "I'll set it up."
You take a seat next to Sophia so you can weigh in if they need you, and Steve crosses back over to talk to Jake. The initial flurry of activity in the campaign cabin has settled into a focused hum, with staff members working diligently at their laptops or speaking in hushed tones on their phones. The plane's engines provide a steady background noise, a constant reminder of your journey towards Tucson and the challenges that awaits, and you try and steel yourself for what’s coming.
[OCTOBER 12 - TUCSON, ARIZONA]
You’ve often felt like days on the campaign trail are equal to three or four days of real life, but by the time you get to the hotel that night, you feel like you’ve lived a full week in this day from hell. The fake photos, the impromptu press conference, the endless strategizing throughout the day in pockets between the campaign events that had already been scheduled, and more interaction with the press corps - and public - as the day unfolded all blend together in an exhausting blur.
Two notable developments changed the trajectory of the day, as well. Once you hit the afternoon and had been asked some of the same judgmental questions - that would never have been asked to a man - you had shot back with your disappointment that once again, double standards were at play. “Beyond fake photos,” you had said, “this is just another display of how women in politics are treated, especially when they dare to challenge the status quo. Shots are fired at women because we’re not given equal footing with men - we’re viewed as expendable targets in a continual hunting season."
That had rattled a lot of cages and been received as a battle cry, as well.
And around dinnertime, Bucky had come back with confirmed evidence that the doctored photos had been given to Fox News by the Coalition for Strengthening the Families of America Today* (CSFAT). He had not discovered yet who gave the photos to CSFAT, but their staff had bypassed checking their validity and wanted to get the word about you out immediately. And though the Coalition for Strengthening the Families of America Today hadn’t worked with their campaign staff at all, CSFAT - as it turned out - were huge contributors to the Republican candidate’s campaign.
Bucky was still working to find out who had created the images and given them to CSFAT.
But Lisa had worked used her superpowers to masterfully reveal Fox News’ source and suggest further commentary and investigation of the matter.
After that final briefing with the press, there had been a meeting to debrief the day and strategize for tomorrow, and then you had quickly and quietly snuck away as quickly as you possibly could and escaped to your room, desperate to get away from everyone and from the nightmare of the day.
But you had only dropped your phone onto the small coffee table in your room when there was a knock on your door.
You shut your eyes your shoulders slump. The last thing you want to do is answer that door.
But after another few moments of your reticence, whoever’s on the other side knocks again, and you know instinctively they’re not going away before they talk to you.
You drag yourself to the door, steeling yourself for another round of strategy or crisis management. But when you open it, you find Steve standing there, his broad shoulders filling the doorframe. His face is etched with concern, the worry lines around his eyes more pronounced than usual.
"Hey," he says softly, his blue eyes searching yours. "Can I come in?"
You nod, stepping aside to let him enter.
Steve moves into the room, his gaze taking in the untouched bed, your jacket tossed haphazardly over a chair, the room service menu lying unopened on the nightstand. He turns back to you, his expression softening.
"You haven't eaten, have you?"
You shake your head, suddenly realizing how hungry you are. "No, I… I guess I forgot."
Steve's brow furrows with even more concern. "Let me order something for you," he says, reaching for the room service menu.
"Steve, you don't have to—" you start to protest, but he cuts you off gently.
"I want to," he insists. "You need to eat. And... I thought maybe we could talk. If you're up for it."
You hesitate for a moment, then nod. "Okay," you agree softly.
“Why don’t you take a shower, and I’ll order us some dinner.”
You nod, grab your bag, and Steve is already picking up the phone as you step into the bathroom.
When you finally emerge from the bathroom, comfy in a pair of silk pajamas, you find Steve sitting in the armchair by the couch. He's shed his suit jacket and rolled up his sleeves, looking more relaxed than he has all day. The room service cart is beside him, covered dishes waiting.
"Feel better?" he asks, a soft smile playing on his lips.
You nod, managing a small smile in return. "A little, yeah. Thanks."
You sink onto the couch, feeling the full weight of exhaustion from the day. Steve stands and moves to the cart. He passes you a set of utensils wrapped in a cloth napkin, a drink, which you set on the end table next to you, and then finally a plate of food that makes you gasp.
“How did you know?” you ask, smiling up at him.
“That it’s your favorite? I pay attention,” he answers simply.
Steve sits beside you with his own plate, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from him.
The two of you eat and talk - though only a little bit, as it’s evident you were both incredibly hungry. But once you’re both done, plates are set aside, and Steve shifts, angling himself to face you better, and you do the same, tucking your legs up to be more comfortable.
"How are you holding up?" he asks softly.
You let out a long sigh. "Honestly? I'm not sure. It feels like we're in the eye of a hurricane, and I have no idea what's coming next."
He nods, understanding in his eyes. "I know. It's been one hell of a day."
Steve reaches for your hand, enveloping it in his much larger one. His touch is warm and comforting.
"You've been beyond incredible," he says, his voice low and earnest. "The way you handled everything today - the press conference, the interviews, the constant barrage of questions - it was nothing short of remarkable."
His thumb traces gentle circles on the back of your hand as he continues, and you look up into his blue eyes, which are locked on yours. "Your strength, your composure, your eloquence - it's been awe-inspiring. You didn't just weather the storm; you stood up to it and turned it into something powerful."
Steve's words, filled with such genuine admiration and unwavering support, begin to chip away at the walls you've built up throughout the day. The compassion in his eyes, the absolute confidence in his voice - it hits you like the sun, and it’s warm and powerful, but after the day you’ve had, wearing a brave face of poise and power that took more strength than you even thought you had, it’s too much.
Your breath hitches, and before you can stop it, a sob escapes your lips. Tears spring to your eyes, blurring your vision as they spill down your cheeks. Your shoulders shake as you try to hold back the flood, but it's no use. The weight of the day, the constant scrutiny, the vicious attacks - it all comes crashing down on you at once.
"I'm sorry," you choke out between sobs, "I didn't mean to-"
But Steve doesn't let you finish. He pulls you into his arms, cradling you against his broad chest. One of his hands moves to stroke your hair while the other rubs soothing circles on your back. "Shh," he murmurs, "You don't have to apologize. Let it out. I've got you."
And with those words, the floodgates truly open. You cry for what feels like hours, your tears soaking into Steve's shirt. Steve holds you through it all, his strong arms a protective barrier against the world.
As your tears begin to subside, replaced by hiccupping breaths, you realize this has been the hardest day of your life.
When you came back from the Blip to find Jeff had moved on, it had been devastating. But that pain was private, shared only with those closest to you. You could grieve in the safety of your own home, away from prying eyes and judgmental whispers. And you also weren't alone in the world - millions of others were going through the similar losses, a shared trauma that bonded you all together.
But this? This was different. This was a targeted attack, aimed squarely at you, broadcast to the entire world. Your name, your face, your most personal choices - real or fabricated - were splashed across every screen, dissected not only by the media but the millions and millions of people with access to the internet and had decided to commentate as well.
You pull back slightly, wiping at your eyes with the back of your hand. "I'm sorry," you say again, your voice hoarse. "I didn't mean to fall apart like that."
Steve gently cups your face, his thumbs brushing away the remaining tears. "You have nothing to apologize for. You're human," he corrects softly. "And you've been through hell today. You're allowed to break down."
You take a shaky breath, trying to steady yourself. "I knew it would be hard, but I didn't expect this. The lies, the scrutiny, the judgment. It feels like the whole world is watching, waiting for mistakes."
Steve nods, his expression somber. "I know. And I'm sorry. I never wanted to put you through this."
You shake your head. "No, Steve. This isn't your fault. We're in this together, remember?"
He smiles softly at you. “And you’ve been so strong through everything - not just today, but every day since I met you.”
You feel a sudden rush of emotions, as if the floodgates have opened. The dam that held back your fears and insecurities has finally broken, and everything comes pouring out at once.
"I've been trying so hard to be strong," you whisper, your voice trembling. "To be the person you need me to be. The person America needs me to be. But sometimes, I feel like I'm barely treading water. Tonight, I feel like I’m drowning."
Steve's brow furrows in concern, but you continue before he can speak.
"You're Captain America, Steve. You're a hero, a legend. And I'm just... me. I worry constantly that I'm not good enough, that I'm going to let you down somehow."
Steve's arms tighten around you, and you feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your cheek. It's comforting, grounding you in the midst of your emotional storm.
“You could never disappoint me,” he says quietly, but with a fervent power that seeps into you. “You may not see it yet, but I see how people look at you. With such hope, such admiration, because you’re so real to them. I got a super soldier serum that changed my life. You showed up in your life every day and worked hard and built relationships - people see that and they resonate with that. They could do it, because you could - because you are.”
You take a deep, shuddering breath, Steve's words sinking in. The sincerity in his voice is palpable, and you find yourself clinging to it like a lifeline.
"I just... I don't want to let anyone down," you whisper, your voice barely audible. "Especially not you."
Steve pulls back slightly, his hands moving to cup your face. His blue eyes lock onto yours, intense and unwavering. "Listen to me," he says, his voice low and firm. "You could never let me down. Ever. You've already exceeded every expectation I could have had."
He pauses, his thumbs gently stroking your cheeks. "When we started this, I thought I was just getting a partner to help me navigate the political landscape. But you've become so much more than that. You're my rock, my compass. You keep me grounded when everything is moving a thousand miles an hour around us.”
You feel the tension in your shoulders start to ease, your breathing becoming steadier.
"You're not just keeping up," Steve continues, his voice soft but intense. "You're leading the way in so many aspects. The way you've handled yourself, the causes you've chosen to champion, the connections you've made with people - it's all been incredible to watch."
You take a shaky breath, feeling overwhelmed by his praise. "I'm just trying to do what's right," you murmur.
Steve smiles softly. "And that's exactly why you're perfect for this. Your moral compass, your compassion, your determination to make things better - that's what this country needs. That's what I need."
You surge close to him again, but this time wrapping your arms around his neck. He returns your embrace, his strong arms surround you completely, holding you firmly to him.
You stay in Steve's embrace for a long moment, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest against yours. His warmth and strength envelop you, providing a sense of safety and comfort you didn't realize you desperately needed. For the last three years, you’ve done life on your own, and you’re strong and independent and more than capable. But to be held, and in being held have someone hold part of the emotional battle with you… you didn’t know how much you needed that.
When you finally pull back, you meet Steve's gaze. His blue eyes are filled with concern, but also with something else - a warmth and tenderness that makes your heart skip a beat.
"Thank you," you say softly. "For everything. For being here, for listening, for... for just being you."
Steve's lips curve into a gentle smile. "Always," he replies, his voice low and sincere. "We're in this together, remember?"
You nod, managing a small smile in return. "I do."
A comfortable silence falls between you, and you find yourself studying Steve's face. The worry lines around his eyes have softened, but you can still see the concern etched in his features. It strikes you how much he's been carrying too.
"Steve," you say softly, reaching out to touch his cheek. "How are you holding up through all of this?"
He lets out a long breath, leaning into your touch. "I'm alright," he says after a moment. "It's not easy, seeing you go through this. Knowing that my choices, my campaign, have put you in this position."
You shake your head. "We've been over this. It was my choice too."
"I know," he sighs. "But that doesn't make it any easier to watch. And then there's the constant pressure, the scrutiny. I do still wonder if I'm cut out for this. Fighting Thanos almost seems simpler in comparison."
You can't help but let out a small laugh at that, and Steve's lips quirk up in response.
"At least with Thanos, the enemy was clear," he continues. "Here, my opponents aren’t my enemies, but they have enemies attached to them - like we saw today.” He runs a hand over his beard, before he continues. "I've been in the public eye for a long time, but this is different. More personal. And I hate that today you're bearing the brunt of it."
You reach out, taking his hand in yours. "We're in this together, remember?" you echo his words back to him, squeezing his hand gently.
Steve smiles softly, squeezing your hand in return. "We are."
For a moment, you both sit quietly, the weight of the day settling around you but softer and lighter now that it’s shared between you. The room feels like a sanctuary, a quiet bubble away from the chaos of the campaign trail.
"You know," Steve says after a while, his voice thoughtful, "I've been thinking about what you said earlier. About feeling like you're drowning sometimes."
You look up at him, curious.
"I want you to know that it's okay to feel that way," he continues. "This isn't easy, and I want you to know that I see your strength, even when you don't."
His blue eyes lock onto yours, intense and sincere. "You've faced every challenge head-on and your support has sustained to me than you know on days when I’ve quietly doubted myself, too.”
The sincerity in his voice, the intensity of his gaze - it's almost overwhelming. You've spent so much time focusing on being strong for him, for the campaign, that you hadn't realized how much you needed to hear those words.
"Thank you," you say softly, your voice thick with emotion. "That means more than you know."
He smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "I meant every word."
Steve's hand reaches up, gently tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. His touch lingers, and you find yourself leaning into it almost instinctively. And then you yawn.
He laughs softly. “Come on, it’s late. Let’s get you to bed,” he says, and stands, scooping you up in his arms bridal style. You hold on around his neck, resting your head against his shoulder for the short walk into the bedroom area of your small suite.
Steve carries you to the bed, his strong arms cradling you gently. He sets you down carefully on the plush mattress, the soft sheets cool against your skin.
With tender care, Steve pulls the covers up over you, tucking them snugly around your shoulders. His movements are slow and deliberate, as if he's savoring each moment. Your eyes are drooping closed, but you still notice the way the lamp on the bedside table casts a warm, golden glow across the room, softening the angles of Steve's face as he leans over you.
He brushes the hair from your forehead, his touch feather-light. Then, with infinite gentleness, he presses a soft kiss to your brow. His lips linger for a moment, warm and comforting against your skin. Then he places another soft but quick kiss to your cheek, and murmurs, “Goodnight,” as he pulls away.
“Mmm, stay?” you mumble in reply, reaching for him.
Steve hesitates for a moment, his fingers curling softly around yours. You can almost see the internal debate playing out behind his eyes. But then his expression softens, and he nods, a gentle smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
"Alright," he says softly, "I'll stay."
You hear the soft thud of his shoes hitting the carpet, followed by the rustle of fabric as he removes his dress shirt and slacks, leaving him in only a simple white undershirt and his boxers.
He turns off the lamp next to you, then moves around to the other side of the room. The mattress dips slightly as he slips under the covers behind you. You can feel the warmth of his body immediately radiating through the thin fabric of your silk pajamas.
Steve's arm drapes over your waist, pulling you gently back against his chest. You can feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing, a soothing rhythm that begins to lull you towards sleep. The cotton of his undershirt is soft, the scent of him so comforting.
Outside, the distant hum of traffic and the occasional siren serve as a reminder of the world beyond this room, but here, in this moment, it all feels far away.
Steve's breathing evens out behind you, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm against your back. His arm is a comforting weight around your waist, his hand splayed protectively over your stomach. You can feel the calluses on his palm, testament to years of fighting and sacrifice, now a source of gentle comfort.
As you drift off to sleep in Steve’s arms, you know everything is far from fixed, but the chaos of the day fades enough, replaced at least for the night by a sense of peace and security you haven't felt in a long, long time.
next part: TUCSON
Thoughts? Feelings?
thank you @stargazingfangirl18 for helping me to work out some of this chapter - you know what you said/did 😎
I had said there were only going to be 12 chapters, but I think we might need to push it to 13, if there are no complaints...
*The "Coalition for Strengthening the Families of America Today" is a name that I made up - or at least I tried to! I Googled just to make sure I didn't use the name of a group that already exists.
↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest
I do not do tag lists, but FOLLOW @buckets-and-stories and TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS to be updated any time I publish a new work!
🧚🏻♀️✨Bippity boppity bow chicka wow oww! You’ve been visited by the Shameless Hoe Fairy, and now (if you feel inspired) you must share a hoe thot about: CE!babe + “Ohhh, sweetheart, you fucked with the wrong person.”
ahh thank you so much for this prompt, Siri!!! the Shameless Hoe Fairy has given me more inspiration than i expected, and this prompt gave me three very different ideas, so i figured i'd do a poll!
the ideas:
mob underboss!Curtis Everett x journalist!reader - you're trying to take down Curtis's boss and the two of you form a tentative alliance, one that he insists on christening with a bj. dirty, mean smut.
Lloyd Hansen x pixie!reader - you're a pixie who loves to make mischief for our favorite mustachioed man, but he catches you and cages you and makes you his own personal sex toy. supernatural smut (potentially with a fully pixie-sized reader, i haven't decided yet so if you vote for this option, please weigh in!)
Steve Rogers x Avengers!reader - you win a game of air hockey against Steve at the Coney Island arcade, and as the loser, he has to go skinny dipping in the ocean—and you eventually join him. sweet smut ensues!
every time i get strawberries from the farmer's market, i think about strawberry farmer!Ari 🤭 his and reader’s baby is a toddler by now, big enough to sit on Ari’s shoulders while he walks through the strawberry fields, checking on his crops and telling his little one everything there is to know about growing strawberries. and the toddler is big enough to help mama in the kitchen, sitting on the counter munching on strawberries while you bake them into a pie or a cake or a cobbler.
in fact, your toddler is getting big enough that you and Ari are thinking about giving them a little sibling….maybe a few siblings 👀
anyway, here are the strawberries i got from the farmer's market today
I'm really failing to see his thought process here. As if blackmailing her into marriage wasn't bad enough, he's not telling her about her need to be involved in the criminal underworld. Does he expect this to go well?? He's obviously intelligent enough to get to where he is in life, how is shit like this a good idea in his warped little brain? I get the impression he does want them to be happy together on some level, so just...WHY????
Hahahahaha ok.
Okay, I loved your irritation on future Mrs. Barber's behalf from what I said in this post. It's not totally unwarranted.
BUT
I'll reassure you it's not going to be that bad. You're certainly not going to be doing any of the business-business! That's the last thing Andy would allow.
No, Andy's been lacking by not having a wife by his side to do some of the community care for his organization. Some wives really become the ultimate right hand (or I think of that quote from My Big Fat Greek Wedding where she says, "the man may be the head of the house, but the woman is the neck: she can turn the head any way she wants"), but that's not what Andy wants for you. He doesn't want you involved in the dark and dangerous side of what he does, and there's a very particular reason for that, and you'll find out at least part of that soon...
No me and Andy are thinking of parties, family and "family" dinners, keeping up with weddings and babies and deaths for his people. Genuinely the matronly things.
That's not to say there still won't be some frustration and some words exchanged over this aspect, but he's not throwing you into the deep end - at least not in this one singular aspect.
Do we think reader will be relieved that she won't be in the ins-and-outs or annoyed that she's being kept at a a distance?
I'm really failing to see his thought process here. As if blackmailing her into marriage wasn't bad enough, he's not telling her about her need to be involved in the criminal underworld. Does he expect this to go well?? He's obviously intelligent enough to get to where he is in life, how is shit like this a good idea in his warped little brain? I get the impression he does want them to be happy together on some level, so just...WHY????
Hahahahaha ok.
Okay, I loved your irritation on future Mrs. Barber's behalf from what I said in this post. It's not totally unwarranted.
BUT
I'll reassure you it's not going to be that bad. You're certainly not going to be doing any of the business-business! That's the last thing Andy would allow.
No, Andy's been lacking by not having a wife by his side to do some of the community care for his organization. Some wives really become the ultimate right hand (or I think of that quote from My Big Fat Greek Wedding where she says, "the man may be the head of the house, but the woman is the neck: she can turn the head any way she wants"), but that's not what Andy wants for you. He doesn't want you involved in the dark and dangerous side of what he does, and there's a very particular reason for that, and you'll find out at least part of that soon...
No me and Andy are thinking of parties, family and "family" dinners, keeping up with weddings and babies and deaths for his people. Genuinely the matronly things.
That's not to say there still won't be some frustration and some words exchanged over this aspect, but he's not throwing you into the deep end - at least not in this one singular aspect.
Do we think reader will be relieved that she won't be in the ins-and-outs or annoyed that she's being kept at a a distance?
