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祝日 / Permanent Vacation
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@othersideoftheparadise
idgaf. endgame steve rogers ruined ten years of development and was an assassination of the character. it took a progressive character and sent him to the 50s (the epitome of traditional values) and had him settle down with a woman who recruited nazis into an organization made in his “honor”. he left his best friend alone in the future and didn’t save him from being tortured in the past. it was an evil ending and I can’t believe we’re having it shoved in our faces again (doomsday)
Oscar Isaac as Victor Frankenstein + 'Creation Costume' shots courtesy of Kate Hawley
#genuinely: this is what further research into the famous 'marshmallow test' showed#it wasn't that kids who were able to delay gratification were more likely to be successful later on#due to intrinsic qualities#it was that kids who had a stable upbringing were more likely to be successful#and ALSO: those kids had trust that their caregivers would keep promises#which is WHY they were willing to give up one marshmallow now for the promise of two marshmallows later#kids who did NOT have trustworthy caregivers#or who were in a fundamentally unstable situation#DID NOT have that trust so they wanted their one marshmallow NOW#same deal here i think#it's not that Gen Z is bratty#it's that they have no trust in the system and no faith that promises will be fulfilled#and frankly i do not blame them -@cicerfics
For you. For all of us.
when im reading the most delicous jaw dropping smut but then then character calls the reader 'kitten'
yyyyyyyuck!
Lease
best-friend!roommate!reader x Steve Rogers
*This was a totally random and spontaneous idea. Not edited. Light language (so we can get *the joke*), pining, light angst, hurt/comfort, and fluff. This work is for all ages! WC ~2k
Sam Wilson introduces you. Both your parents were veterans and active at the VA, so you practically grew up there.
At first, you’re reserved, a little formal, but very nice. Oddly enough, Steve just likes that you don’t hound him with questions about his military service and how it was different based on the decade, etc. You are just…around to listen.
He finds himself filling any (comfortable) silence between you with stories. Stupid things. Things that don’t have to do with the VA or his past or even his present, which is entirely work as Captain America.
Steve gets to a point where he is itching to live off of Avengers Campus, but he doesn’t want to live alone.
One day he finds you hunched over a laptop and grumbling, “why is everything so fucking expensive?”
A sentiment which, of course, he frowns at.
“Sorry,” you shrug, a look of sincere apology on your distraught face. “I didn’t realize it, but apparently, I’m poor with my measly three-thousand-dollar-a-month budget for an apartment. Now I have to find a roommate, and—“ you start wagging a finger at him sarcastically “—I don’t know if you’ve noticed there’re some real weirdos out there. It’ll take me longer to find a safe, stable roomie than it takes to—“
“I can move in with you.”
Steve almost gasps at how fast the words fly out of his mouth.
“Well, not ‘move in’ to your current place. I mean. I can—I would be willing to live with you. Sorry! That sounds bad. You’re not bad. I meant…you know, anytime you want to chime in and stop me would be helpful.”
You remain silent and smirking.
“Right. Okay. So…think about it? Or not, that’s fine.”
“Let’s talk figures, Rogers. The square-footage just doubled, and I need to rework the budget.”
Moving in is shockingly uneventful. You’re easy to get along with, when not suddenly up on your high horse about something, and Steve is easy to get along with under the same circumstances. You push his militant rigidity to the brink on purpose, but never too far.
Things sit out in the wrong place, but it’s never dirty. Stuff doesn’t always get returned promptly, but if he asks, you’re on it.
There are two bathrooms, thank mercy.
He has random and odd hours. You work nine to five, mostly. It’s the perfect level of independence without loneliness for Steve.
Sam and Natasha stop by regularly or ask you both out for drinks or to fun, new places.
One time, when Nat is ribbing Steve to go talk to a cute girl ordering at the bar, he panics and takes your hand in his on the tabletop.
“How can I do that when my date is right here?” he grits playfully through his pearly white teeth. “Leave it alone.”
Each word is punctuated by a shift forward and a slight tilt of his head.
Natasha is unamused and instantly grabs your other hand (which was holding your drink) to pull you toward the dance floor.
It’s awkward for multiple reasons. You’d pay a whole month’s rent to know what Sam and Steve talked about after you left.
Sam takes a different approach, luring—or attempting to lure—Steve into setting up just one dating profile online.
“You don’t have to put photos,” Sam assures, “and you can stick with your first name only. I swear to you, man, this’ll be good for you. Get you out there more. Help me out here, Tagalong!”
He turns to you for support. To be fair, you did quite literally tag along with your parents for years to the VA, and it stuck. Why it sticks as a grown-ass adult? You’ll never know. You just don’t mind Sam Wilson saying it because he means well and never uses it in public.
“Uh, nooooo.”
Sam’s face falls. “What?”
You look at Steve and grimace, clicking your tongue. “He’s not ready for that,” you conclude.
Steve jumps out of the chair, arms wide with victory.
“THAT’S WHAT I’VE BEEN SAYING!”
“I know you told her to say that,” Sam shouts back.
“Did not,” Steve barks.
“He did not.” You lean against your bedroom doorframe. “I just think it’s obvious.”
That makes Steve deflate a little. “Wait, but…I’m not that bad.”
“Oh gosh,” you fake with a huge smile, “look at the time! Gotta be off to bed…”
The men keep fighting albeit muffled from your side of the wall. The only part you can make out before giving them privacy is Sam, whining, “but you actually like bubble baths and walks on the beach, dude. You’re gonna be money on there.”
“Hey, why do you not, ya know, date?”
You look up from your breakfast, stunned because that came out of nowhere. You’ve lived together over six months now, and Steve hasn’t asked for one iota of personal—well, romantically personal—information.
Twiddling your fork around, you think.
“I always imagine what my parents would think of him, any guy I’ve ever considered being with longterm, and…I was just never proud to say ‘here, here’s the one,’ I guess.”
Your parents have been gone for years. You value their opinion anyway.
“Mhm,” Steve hums, “the one?”
You take a bite of food, straightening your back, tossing a dismissive hand in the air. “Yeah, if you believe in that sort of thing.”
He’s quiet for a while.
“So you’re waiting for the right partner?” Steve finally mutters, and he watches your noncommittal gesturing intently.
That was a ‘yes.’
Natasha knows. Sam knows. Steve suspects but won’t admit to anything. You are kind and unreadable.
You’ve always been kind, so there’s no discernible difference to signal you have feelings for him in return. He can’t bring himself to be anything less than a gentleman at home and makes absolutely no moves to find out.
He stays out in the living room a lot more, all hours, hoping you’ll mention staying in for a movie, praying you’ll be tired enough to fall asleep on his lap on the couch.
He’s in way too deep.
What Steve suspects is that it would be too awkward to start anything while living together, but he doesn’t want to leave you in the lurch for rent or a roommate. He also desperately doesn’t want to move out. The status quo is comfortable.
He loves being comfortable with you.
The stress of not telling you, while needing to make some sort of arrangements should telling you blow up in his face, starts to wear on him.
Steve is a pro at compartmentalizing his life, so it’s when he’s stuck at the apartment without any missions, a handful of meetings, and a team that all have lives for two long months that he cracks…in the least attractive way.
He’s messed up his sleep schedule with worry and playing innocent, and out of the not-so-blue, a horrible, vivid nightmare hits him. Steve isn’t even on the mattress anymore by the time he figures out there wasn’t carpet like this in Germany and the desk chair he grips is not a motorcycle.
“Rogers,” he hears. “Rogers, can you look at me?”
The dark room is somehow hollow and stifling all at once. His head turns slower than his brain tells it to.
Steve blinks.
“Do you know where you are?”
“Hey, sweets,” he husks from a dry throat. “What…”
“Can you tell me where this is?” You step closer and pry one of his hands off the mesh to cradle in yours. “Where are we, Rogers?”
“Home.” He swallows. “Our home.”
Your smile doesn’t reach your eyes, but you nod like he’s done well.
“Okay, Steve, I’m going to get you some water. If you want—“ your fingers smooth over the back of his hand, nudging the other to release the chair “—you can sit on the bed.”
You don’t leave. You don’t even get up from the floor.
He doesn’t notice he’s clutching your hands, shaking slightly until long seconds go by.
“Yeah. Okay.” Steve lets go, otherwise unmoving, contemplating how he ever thought the semi-rough industrial carpet felt the same as mud.
You carefully hand him the water and rub his back, using your nails to trace invisible patterns. He can’t remember what he was so scared of a minute ago. He only knows he’s sweating that empty kind of confused.
“What’s that supposed to do?” he asks absently.
You shrug. “Eh. Back scratches just feel good.”
Steve’s mind remains blank as he sips his water.
: We need to renew the lease soon. Like this week.
Steve has stalled as long as humanly possible; he is officially not being a gentleman now. He is a coward.
: Talk about it when I get home?
: Could you at least tell me if this is a hard NO on staying here or just some concerns/questions? : I don’t get why you’re being like this.
Steve gets it, but he hates it.
: I’ll be back tonight. Should I pick up food?
: ffs : Fine. Whatever you want.
Steve also hates when you’re mad at him…which has been happening more and more.
He’s been distant, he refuses to let Sam or Nat come around for fear they’ll play match-maker and ruin the whole thing, and he is about to ruin the whole thing anyway.
Because he is not smooth. Because he is not prepared. Because he’s built up this perfect and amazing, sweep-you-off-your-feet moment.
And he bungles it.
“Out with it,” you command, haughtily yanking your portion of food from the countertop beside him, heading for the dinette.
“I want to be with you,” he blurts.
“Thank god,” you sigh, settling in your spot. “So we’ll go down to the office and sign in the morning. I don’t want there to be an issue if you’re off to wherever for who-the-hell-knows how long on the date the thing expires.”
“No, I…” but Steve’s voice is too quiet.
“There’s only a tiny window where they’re open before I have to head to work, so let me physically sign first, right? Then I gotta go.”
“Sure,” he slurs.
“Steve?” You turn to see him staring down at his food. He’s still across the room. “Are you okay?”
“I said I—I meant that—“ he huffs out his breath and taps his fist on the counter “—I meant that I’m an idiot,” he finishes softly.
Approaching with that beautiful, open-hearted kindness that haunts his days and soothes his night, you cross to him, scratching his back just the way he’s grown to crave.
“Think you might be hangry,” you chuckle.
He cannot do this. Steve is hanging on by a thread until the graze of your hand slides down his forearm to take his plate, and he spins.
He’s thought about kissing you so many times, he mapped out the angles he’d have to hold himself at, how far he needs to lean to get to you, the care to take wrangling in his strength and sheer excitement.
Steve Rogers is good at planning, at least, this part.
Gentle pecks of his plush lips to yours leave gaps in contact that let you whimper, and he fears you stopping him. He presses, wrapping his arms around you and molding your bodies together. The linoleum of the kitchen floor makes sticky sounds beneath your shuffling feet, squeaking once you hit the adjacent wall.
The force of that knocks your frozen arms into his chest, and painfully, Steve relents to step away, but not far. He bites his bottom lip and tastes the balm from yours, his head tilted in shame but fiery eyes watching you from beneath long lashes.
“Oh,” you breathe out. “Oh…you meant…”
Steve’s tongue darts out hungrily.
“Yeah.”
[Main Masterlist; Light Masterlist; Ko-Fi]
They're soooo cute!!!!!!
OSCAR ISAAC as Victor Frankenstein Frankenstein (2025) dir. Guillermo Del Toro
The only one who can pull off lord farquaad's hairstyle and still look this good
Not Your Motorcycle
Written for @steverogersbingo. A4 - Motorcycle.
Steve Rogers Masterlist | Steve Rogers Bingo | Main Masterlist
Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader
Word Count: 1861
Summary: All you wanted after a long day at work is to ride your motorcycle until your tension and stress disappeared. The last thing you ever expected was to find Steve checking out your bike or anything that follows.
Warnings: mutual pining/attraction; meddling friends (mainly Nat, but Tony to smaller extent); fluff; lots of fluff; gentlemanly Steve (absolute warning)
I do not give permission to have my works copied, translated, reposted, or fed into an AI machine.
****
Dr. Banner couldn't get back fast enough.
Exhaustion and tension threatened to cave you in as you stepped onto the elevator.
Who knew a shift with Tony Stark could feel like an eternity?
Oh, how you missed the quieter, can-hear-yourself-think time spent with your actual boss. There hadn't been one thought that Mr. Stark had kept to himself. If he wasn't talking through one problem he wanted to work on, he was blasting his music at an ungodly level. Your head thumped to the beat until it throbbed and screamed for the quiet you preferred.
Dr. Banner played music, sure, but it was always at a level that you could tune out when it suited you. He also never really spoke unless he needed your opinion on one matter or another. The two of you could spend almost the entire day in silence, working on your respective duties. It was something you wouldn't ever take for granted again while praying you wouldn't have Mr. Stark for company again the next day.
All you wanted in that moment was to hop on your bike and ride.
Where? It didn't matter. Just wind yourself through the streets and out to the more country-ish roads until you found the peace you desperately needed. Sure, maybe you'd stop for a bite to eat somewhere, but you had no plans to stop until the hour grew late.
Maybe you'd even make a weekend of it. It's why you kept a spare set of clothes in your saddlebags. All it would take is a quick search for a little place to spend the night.
Your grand plan ground to a halt the moment you stepped into the parking garage.
Some oversized dude had apparently taken a liking to your bike and was now sitting on it.
The absolute audacity. The nerve.
"Excuse me," you shouted as you marched toward the guy on your bike. "What exactly do you think you're doing? Didn't your mama ever teach you not to touch other's stuff? Get off my bike before I—"
The words died abruptly in your throat.
The great hulk of a man who'd been on your bike had turned toward you at the start of your tirade. But, you'd been so caught up in shouting it took a moment to compute who he was. When your brain finally caught up to your mouth, it was too late.
Staring back at you were the bluest eyes you've ever encountered. The same eyes you'd dreamed about a time or two. How could you not? After all, they belonged to none other than Captain America, Steve Rogers himself.
To his credit, he appeared at a loss, quickly and easily moving off your bike and taking a few steps away. His hand came up to rub at the back of his neck as pink suffused his cheeks. "I didn't realize it was yours. Tony's been talking up his newest bike, and I was led to believe this was it. My sincerest apologies."
Your earlier ire died swiftly.
His sincerity and horrified expression was more than enough to easily forgive him. It was a relatively minor transgression compared to if he'd been a complete stranger who'd wandered into the gated garage.
If anyone should incur your wrath, it should be Mr. Stark, not Captain Rogers. No, Steve Rogers had only ever been kind and even sweet whenever the two of you interacted. It wasn't often he'd come into Dr. Banner's labs. When he did though, he was always courteous and maybe a little quieter than you thought he would be as you worked. He wouldn't linger, either.
You had no idea that he often wished he had more excuses to come into Dr. Banner's labs. Nor were you aware that he's liked you from the first time he'd seen you, but he'd never found an opening that made sense. He'd give almost anything to have a chance to learn more about you.
"It's, uh, okay," you finally stammered when you realized you hadn't responded to him. No, you'd been a bit busy losing yourself to your thoughts while also staring at him. Not drooling or anything, mind you, but in a way that Steve couldn't quite read if he'd deeply offended you or not. "I wasn't aware that Mr. Stark was a bike man. He doesn't seem the type."
That earned you a huff of what could only be laughter.
Steve's eyes crinkled at the corners as his smile blossomed.
"Yeah," he said after a moment, "he's more a collector than rider nowadays. Prefers his suit, you know."
You smiled at him. "Oh, I know he does. I don't think he stopped talking about it all day as he worked in Dr. Banner's labs. You don't, by any chance, know when Dr. Banner's coming back from his mission, do you?"
"Not a fan of Tony in the lab?"
Your face must've shifted more than you imagined it did. One moment, Steve's grinning at you, and the next, he's shaking his head and chuckling under his breath.
"You won't tell him, will you? I don't want to bruise his ego or anything. I mean, he could use an ego deflation now and then, but he's an okay boss. I just prefer Dr. Banner. That's all."
Steve's hands came up as if to ward off any more of your words. His smile gentled once more into the one that filled your dreams at night as he said, "Your secret's safe with me. Bruce should be back by next Friday, I think. I'm not exactly sure since his mission doesn't have a strict turnaround or deadline compared to others."
"Ah, okay," you said, hoping he didn't catch a hint of your disappointment. You'd really been hoping Dr. Banner would be back by Monday morning. That way, there would be no more Tony Stark in the lab. "Thank you for letting me know though. I guess I'll, uh, see you around, Captain Rogers."
When you would've stepped towards your bike, ready to get one with your plans, Steve stepped in front of you, blocking you from it.
"Call me Steve, please," he said softly, his voice holding a hint of something you couldn't quite put your finger on. When you glanced up to meet his gaze, you found his eyes watching you with something you so wanted to be interest and maybe a little bit of hope. As if to confirm, he asked, "You going straight home? I know a diner nearby. Good food, great atmosphere. It's a good place to wind down after a stressful day."
That certainly had your attention.
All previous plans flew out of your head as you stared at Steve and saw that same expression deepen with his gaze. Even his posture shifted in a way that made you think of a puppy, hoping it would be the one chosen this time.
Now, that was the most surprising part of all.
It was well known around the Tower that Steve was ogled and drooled over every time he walks by. He could have his pick of any hundred-plus women that work within its glass-lined walls. That included you though you adamantly denied you were as bad as some.
"Are you asking me out?" you couldn't help asking. After all, you had to be sure for fear you'd make a fool of yourself.
He nodded so emphatically. "Bad idea?"
"Oh, no," you shook your head, a smile sliding back in place, "diner food sounds really good right now."
"Yeah?"
You nodded your head rather vigorously.
Steve beamed down at you before his cheeks went pink. "Okay, great, um, just let me grab my jacket and keys. Then, we'll go. Wait for me? Five minutes, tops?"
He almost made it a full stop, but you managed to stop him. Your smile widened into a full-blown grin. You even shook your head while gesturing to himself.
"You're wearing your jacket," you said softly, then pointed at the keys peeking out of his pocket, "and I believe those are your keys right there. Unless you somehow managed to lift mine, copy them, and return them without my noticing."
His cheeks darkened into a rosier color.
You couldn't help thinking how unfair the color suited him better than it ever would you.
"Sorry, guess I'm just excited you said yes," he murmured, his hue growing even darker and spreading.
Your heart, the traitor, started pounding in your chest at the sweetness of his words. It'd been a bit since anyone had shown this level of interest in you, and you found it a little daunting but also so sweet. You couldn't help but feel the butterflies kick up when his gaze met yours with an earnestness that literally stole your breath for a moment.
Before your courage could fail you, you rose on tiptoes and pressed a chaste kiss to his cheek. Pulling back, you said, "Well, my bike is calling me to ride. Wanna grab yours and show me your diner? Maybe after, we can go on the drive I had planned for myself. I mean, if you don't have anything else to do and want to spend more time together."
"I'd really like that, but I don't want to impose on your alone time."
Oh, this man could just about kill you with his gentlemanly behavior.
"Wouldn't have offered if you'd be imposing." You allowed yourself a squeeze of his arm before stepping back and picking up your helmet. "Now, I'm starving, so let's get going. Definitely want to get out of here before Mr. Stark tries to find me and drag me back to the lab."
Steve grinned. "I'd keep you safe."
"Hm, that's good to know."
The two of you quickly donned what gear you typically wore. You with your full-body protection gear and Steve with only a helmet that you made him put on. Despite hearing his protests about the serum, you weren't having it, not when you'd gained what you hoped to be the first of many dates with him.
Your bikes roared to life within minutes, then spun out of the garage and onto the city's streets.
*****
Meanwhile…
"You didn't have to throw me under the bus like you did, Romanov," Tony groused while watching the screens in front of them. "Can't believe I didn't see your meddling sooner."
Nat smirked, her eyes never leaving the screens. "You never do, genius. Besides, my plan worked just as it was meant to. Those two were never going to make a move if we didn't help them along."
"Yeah, I guess," Tony continued to grumble, "but next time, don't make it where I almost cost Banner his assistant. He'd never forgive me, and we don't need a Hulk situation in the city."
"You know I can't promise that."
'Tony sighed, his gaze going a final time to the screens. He watched as you and Steve made your way out of the garage. A smile flitted over his features.
"It's nice to see him happy, yeah?"
Nat nodded. Her smirk transformed into an honest smile as she said, "Yeah, it is."
This reminds me of the older fics I used to read. Tysm for the memories 😊
OSCAR ISAAC Gotham Film Awards December 1, 2025
x reader she's like Barbie. she can be anything. she can be everything. she can do whatever I'm not dare to do in rl and she can choose her man. *sigh* Life've never been better.
hello child born between the end of the 1990s and beggining of the 2000s, welcome to my saw trap. in front of you is a computer, you can learn to code and guarantee yourself the only career that will be available in a couple of decades, or you can play around on ms paint and develop a beautiful creative mind that will starve to death forever, you have a few years to choose but by the time you do it'll be too late
ALmee New York Fashion Week 2026 Couture
Caught (S.R.)
Type: one-shot, fluff, they were roommates and idiots trope
Pairing: Steve Rogers x reader Word Count: 8,2k
Summary: You hadn’t exactly planned to get caught in the rain. Then again, people rarely do. But you did.
You hadn’t plan to get caught in the soft spiderweb of feelings for Steve Rogers when your friend had set you up as roommates. Then again, people rarely do. But you did. It was impossible not to.
Arriving at your shared apartment soaking wet sees Steve springing into action to warm you up… and send you falling deeper in love with him with every passing second. But hey – what else was new, right?
Warnings: tooth-rottng FLUFF, idiots-in-love trope, they were ROOMMATES trope, brief mention of PTSD and its symptoms, one gratuitous 'fuck' and French
A/N: cross-written for the Winds of Autumn challenge hosted by @the-slumberparty and for @elixirfromthestars ' writing challenge. Thank you ALL for hosting and breathing live into the community 💕 for WoA I chose 'caught in the cold rain' for the WChallenge I chose “ Why don’t you tell me what I can do to make your day better?”
A/N 2: DIVIDER by @steviebbboi ;enjoy y'all 🥰
This was all your fault; it really was.
There was no one else to blame for your current state.
Soaking wet, hair and clothes dripping alike, shaking so hard you nearly dropped your keys when trying to fit it into the keyhole.
A few minutes was all it took.
And yes; it was all on you.
You had practically been praying for a sweater weather. You had been so fed up with the unbearable summer heat still gripping the reigns even mid-September that you prayed and begged and swore you might be able to kill a man for a single breath of autumn.
So clearly, you had called this upon yourself.
In all fairness, you had wished for Indian summer; the normal late September weather. The light sweater weather. You certainly hadn’t been hoping to be thrown into the weather of seasonal depression, the temperature drop equalling a time machine bringing the end of November to the air and people’s hearts alike. Unforgiving icy wind, endless downpours, poking umbrellas all around, ever-present grumbling as one’s coat brushed against another, the dampness and cold seeping into yours and everyone else’s bones.
Nothing nice and prayers-worthy about that.
The thing was, this had been a daily reality for about a week now – and so one would think you were well-equipped to deal with the weather at least.
Except like the fool you were, you left your waterproof jacket at home, because you had believed today’s weather forecast, confident that the desired sweet and slightly crispy autumn was coming at last.
You and the meteorologists had been wrong.
But that wasn’t the worst part, no – the worst part would be your giddy optimism in the face a sudden NY underground failure.
Taking the ride home from work, you had nearly slammed into people surrounding you in the train at the sudden slam of breaks. A system failure, apparently. Caused by the damage to the network due to previous intense rains. A mishap stopping the trains in their stations, forcing people out.
And like the optimistic half-wit, trying to find a bright side and making the most of a miserable situation, you had thought, hey, it’s only a few blocks from here! No rain on the horizon for a change. What an opportunity to soak in the lovely autumn weather! The buses and taxis will be packed, and walking is good for health anyway.
And sure it was. And you ended up soaking indeed.
The brutal downpour and icy wind caught you in about ten minutes after you had taken off to your brisk walk.
You seriously doubted there was any benefit to your health at all, safe for maybe points to your mental resilience and an excuse to stay in bed with a book and a cup of hot chocolate next week, because you were about to catch a grade-A case of cold.
By the time you got to your apartment door, you were ready to flop on the floor the moment you’d stumble inside, uncaring for the wet smack you’d make against the hardwood or the carpet should you make it further into the apartment.
Except you knew the floor would be unforgivingly hard either way, and cold and you first had to get out of your dripping shoes and then the drenched clothes sticking to your body like a second skin and it would take you forever to strip with how shaky and numb your fingers had turned, the only sensation being cold and stiffness bordering on pain and for god’s sake could you at least stick the damn key into the goddamn keyhole-
You finally opened the door with a gratuitous ‘fuck’ on your lips, practically throwing the door open.
And were met with a surprised sleepy supersoldier blinking at your owlishly, grey sweatpants hanging low on his hips, his white sleepshirt crumbled, the perfect case of bed hair and confused expression completing the most telling startled-from-his-sleep-but-not-Avenger-level-alarmed look.
Even in your state you had to admit he was adorable in a way men built like mountains shouldn’t.
You stared at each other mutely for several seconds, as if both surprised by each other’s presence – or at least state – processing.
You, drenched from rain and puddles, cold-dried by the wind, shivering all over and barely keeping your teeth from clattering as to hold onto the last shreds of your dignity and sanity.
Steve, still slightly disoriented, having just been woken up. Woken up by you, most likely, you thought regretfully, cursing your life-choices again. He was a light sleeper – a mere jiggle of keys would have interrupted his slumber, let alone your endless fumbling around the lock.
You spoke at the same time.
“I’m sorry for wak-” “What happened to you?”
Your voice trailed off, a chuckle of irony echoing in the back of your head.
What happened to you?
That was a question a lot more loaded that it might seem.
What had happened to lead you to this place, facing a sleepy Greek-godlike figure with a concerned look on his face?
A whole lot of coincidences; a whole lot of fate, maybe.
Sam Wilson, a friend from childhood, with whom you had only reconnected a few years ago.
You, having been looking for an apartment ever since your landlord had announced he planned to sell the building to a huge corporation which would, from then on, only rent the apartments to its employees.
Sam again, looking to move in with his girlfriend, claiming he was leaving a roommate behind, who would appreciate a kind, trustworthy and reliable replacement.
Your ‘Gee, thanks’.
‘Wait, no, he didn’t word it exactly like that,’ Sam had assured you. ‘I promise, he’s a real stand-up guy. Sure, a guy, but a respectful one and a neat one, with a sprinkle of a neat freak on top. He’s a great roommate and one of my best friends – I wouldn’t do this if I didn’t believe it could work.’
That was what your friend had said. And you believed him.
One thing led to another.
What Sam had conveniently failed to mention was that his real stand-up guy was a hulking drop-dead gorgeous supersoldier with the sweetest soul on the damn planet. Or maybe in the universe – what did you know? The universe had got a lot bigger ever since you found out it was perfectly possible for aliens to rain down from the sky through some kind of a hole in spacetime.
What Sam had conveniently failed to mention was that your future roommate was one of the heroes from the superhero band that had stopped these very aliens from taking over planet Earth.
After processing – even though you weren’t sure you’d ever finish processing – that you would share an apartment with Captain America, you accepted.
After all, you certainly weren’t one to look a gifted horse in the mouth; experience told you that could have done a lot worse than landing a person vetted by Sam Wilson and by a potentially world-ending event for a roommate.
In fact, you soon learned you couldn’t have done any better.
Steve was all the things Sam had promised.
And besides being the perfect person to share an apartment with, besides being the paragon of justice itself with a sprinkle of neat freak on top, he was also shockingly human.
Steve was a guy who had a routine until he didn’t, his schedule a little funny. He split housework with you in a way that left both of you content even as you felt he was doing a little bit more than his part whenever he could. He enjoyed cooking and baking and drawing and generally working with his hands, fixing any household issues before they could develop into a problem. Sometimes, nights found him in the living room with a book in his hand and quiet movie for a background when he couldn’t sleep. Sometimes, he left dirty dishes in the sink and a toothbrush on the basin instead of putting it into the holder and sometimes he forgot to put the toilet seat down. He was painfully respectful of your privacy and of your sleep alike whenever he was coming back at strange times, almost absurdly so for a man who seemed to barely fit in a doorway.
He had a sharp mind and a subtle but deadly sense of humour on a good day and a quiet demeanour on a bad day, usually after a sleepless or nightmare-filled nights, which were always followed by him walking around the apartment with his sweats tucked into his socks because the draught and the cold on his ankles clearly bothered him. The list could go on and on and it was rather embarrassing for you, the idea for just how long you could keep listing things you observed about Steve and his habits and him; but the point was that he was a guy who was absurdly ordinary guy and extraordinary in about everything at once.
He had introduced as Steve the very day you had met, clearly not standing for any of your Captain, Sir, Captain Rogers nonsense.
He became Steve to you soon after.
He turned dear to you just as fast.
You weren’t sure when it happened; when your relationship shifted from sharing an apartment to sharing a life. It happened gradually, through dinners and breakfasts and films watched together; through nights he found you on the couch, barely awake or already sleeping after having been waiting for him even as he had told you not to; through late-night talks, about both things you were passionate about and things you wished you could forget.
You weren’t sure when this man, larger than life in both frame and heart, became your close friend.
You weren’t sure when the small butterflies that appeared in your stomach every time he smiled turned so all-consuming, spreading their wings through your whole body, circling around your heart.
It must have happened somewhere between his first smile and the sparkle in his warm blue eyes, between the tear-streaked cheeks when you found his shaking breathless body curled on the floor, between a hug and holding your hand when he drove you back from your wisdom teeth removal surgery because no one else was available, between every single minute you had the fortune to spend in his company and those you couldn’t, longing for him instead.
Somewhere in between, you must have fallen in love, the urgent feeling in your chest slowly turning unbearable and heavy. It burned, to stifle it inside, the one secret you wouldn’t share for the fear of breaking something as precious to you as your peaceful life with Steve the friend.
You weren’t sure when exactly it happened, but it got you there.
It got you here; into this very moment, just like many others, facing him and rendered speechless for a breath or two, because god, was he handsome and lovely and sweetly worried and an image of domesticity at once and you were hit with a sharp tug of a feeling whispering of coming home.
What happened to you, Steve had asked, his gaze turning more concerned by the second as you remained silent safe for the rustle of your soaked jacket you had started to strip at some point and the one clatter of your teeth you failed to stifle.
What did happen again?
“Got caught in a rain,” you rasped, stating the painfully obvious. “Underground broke down. Thought I’d walk…”
Steve frowned, sleepiness wiped off his face to give way to compassion and sternness at once, a sigh leaving his lips as he slowly neared you.
“Seemed like a smart idea at the time…” you continued when he didn’t say a word, just gently – always so gently dammit – pushed at the door to get it closed at last, his arms quietly coming around you, engulfing you in his embrace. Your heart startled at the gesture. “Steve, no, I’ll get you all we---wow okay, this is nice, you’re really warm-“
He chuckled sweetly above your head as you babbled, protests dying on your lips with a sound resembling a whine and moan as his warmth enveloped you, so relieving and inviting, prompting you to melt against his firm and yet painfully soft body.
His voice carried an admonishing note as you trembled against him, his warmth and pleasant scent of comfort seeping into your body while the cold and smell of rain soaked him in return. You did not care for the scolding; it was a kind one. And Steve still was still holding you – that was the important part.
And the most painful one.
"You could have called,” he said, like a sweet, even if already lost bargain. “I’d come get you.”
You pressed closer to him, clearly having a glutton for punishment.
Those few innocent words burned through you like the most tender wildfire. An inflection and tone that couldn’t have been good for your heart and yet you revelled in them; a statement that felt like an oath:
I‘d come get you.
I’d always come get you.
I’d do anything for you.
Something so close to love, in your reach and yet untouchable, because he didn’t mean it – he couldn’t mean it, because Steve Rogers had a large heart, but surely would have told you if you had occupied space in it that way.
And yet he held your own heart in his palms and he didn’t even know. Was it wrong you let the gentle words wash over you and let them warm you just as much as Steve’s arms, even if they meant something different than you’d wish?
You gulped, a shiver that had nothing to do with cold running down your spine.
“You only got in like three hours earlier,” you reasoned, forcing yourself to focus on the practical matters as not to slip into whispering a true confession; and perhaps doing so anyway along the way. It was true, however; as per habit and your request, Steve had texted you he was home safe and sound barely few hours ago. Knowing that led you to immediately weed out the mere idea of calling him to pick you up as it appeared in your mind the moment the downpour started. You were aware, however bittersweet the knowledge was, that he would come – that was why you hadn’t called. For his benefit. “You needed to sleep.”
Steve sighed again. And you needed to be picked up, you heard in the weary and yet somehow fond sound.
He didn’t argue, however; his hold grew tighter, appreciative, his broad hand, oh so warm, running up and down your back, pressing a little stronger than he normally would in a hug; allowing the heat of his body sink deeper, into your very bones, sending you sinking deeper into the warmth blooming in your chest as well.
Pressed against his front, you couldn’t but breathe in, allowing everything that was Steve overwhelm over your senses. The woodsy notes and musk of his cologne, the soft material of his sleepshirt burning almost too hot as it clung to his body, the smooth movements of his rough hands, his warm breath brushing your scalp, the image of his minute smile behind your closed eyelids, his voice humming in his ribcage and filling your ears like honey.
“Why don’t you tell me what I can do to make your day better?”
His question was so genuine – and a little wavery in a way that made your belly tingle in response. Tell me what I can do and I will do it. Just say the word, it seemed to whisper in your head, your heart protesting and fluttering in your chest.
You already are, you almost replied as the shudders subdued slowly despite both of you now soaking. You’re back home. You’re safe. You’re with me. And you’re warm. And big. And strong. And you smell good. And you’re holding me oh so tight and gentle and it feels so profoundly nice and you really are warm and maybe this new shiver running down my back isn’t just that I’m cold, maybe it’s that naïve hope of which I should have let go of so long ago-
He noticed the fresh wave of tremble of whose origin you yourself weren’t entirely sure of – your weather escapades or the escapades of your poor heart – and the caress up and down your back grew faster, more of a rubbing to create warmth than a soothing gesture.
“Okay, doll, you’re getting into the bathtub right away. What can I do in the meantime?”
In spite of his words, a benevolent order one might say, he didn’t let go.
Despite his question sounding urgent, you took your time responding; because it took a huge portion of your willpower not to tell him to just keep holding you.
“…hot chocolate?” you suggested meekly, a shy but slightly mischievous smile tugging at your lips when Steve released you at last, those big warm paws of his settling on your shoulders for a moment. “And you should probably change.”
He glanced at his wet clothes self-deprecatingly, as if it was his fault – and in a way, you supposed it was. But you weren’t complaining. The wet fabric clung to his body in the most delicious way, no matter the scepticism he observed it with.
When his gaze met yours again, his smile was the sun itself; but you still missed the heat of his body against your skin.
“You got it, doll. Come on.”
Much to your regret and salvation, he released you completely. You still graced him with a grateful and once again shaky smile which you could and should blame on the loss of his body heat.
“Thanks, Steve. You’re the best.”
And he was.
And if that wasn’t becoming a bigger problem by the minute.
With some of Steve’s warmth lingering – mainly the one his actions and demeanour awoke deep within your body – you managed to get rid of your clothes with enough ease and patience to have the bathtub fill with steaming hot water before climbing in. Sinking into the water then felt about as pleasant as sinking into Steve’s embrace had been – except this time, it was the rest of your body which appreciated the heat, warming you from the outside, tension leaving your muscles, your brain relaxing and slipping into a mindless haze, an absent smile forming on your lips.
You soaked in the tub for long enough to almost fall asleep and slide under the water; the only thing convincing you to fight the slumber off – perhaps besides, well, drowning – was the premise of a delicious cup of hot chocolate made with utmost care and Steve’s company, all the more appreciated since you knew he’d stay for at least five minutes even as he was no doubt falling asleep on his feet himself.
Not wanting to keep him waiting any longer, your climbed from the tub, rushed through your routine and emerged from the bathroom with steam following you, no doubt making for an image of cosiness with your blissfully dry comfortable clothes, complete with fuzzy socks.
Steve must have agreed with your assessment, because he greeted you with a grin.
He had left the two mugs of top tier hot chocolate with actual melted pieces of the treat and whipped cream on top on the kitchen counter, having brought two blankets for the couch, now fumbling with the tv remote. A quick glance around the apartment told you that while you were nearly nodding off in the bathroom, he had made a quick work of cleaning the mess you had left behind; electric shoe dryers already placed in your boots, your drenched jacket near the heating with plastic film spread on the floor as not to do any damage.
You could kiss the lop-sided smile he gave you when you thanked him, your heart hammering in your chest with excitement and longing when he nodded towards the couch. To an outsider, the scene could easily appear as a quiet night in of a couple; a thoughtful beautiful man setting everything up for a date night full of seeking joy in simple domesticity and quiet intimacy.
One day, Steve Rogers was about to make someone incredibly happy.
The idea strung a sharp but brief note of jealousy in your chest, a lump growing in your throat as the rational part of you mocked you that the person wasn’t you. You would have known by now if you were; even though spending time with him did make you all kinds of happy.
You forced a smile through the light sting of tears, trying to stop your mind from racing and spiralling about the thought of having to move out to make space for the vaguely gorgeous and brilliant woman; or maybe sooner, just to put your heart at ease, because with every beat of it you felt yourself falling deeper into the trap of loving this man. It was beginning to hurt; and still, you approached him, smiling.
“Looking cosy. Feeling better?”
You nodded, unable to resist and placing your hand over Steve’s arm, his soft blues finding your gaze.
“Thank you, Steve. Really.”
The lopsided smile returned, his fingers brushing your shoulder. God, he was so close and all you’d have to do was to stand on your tiptoes. You’d kiss his cheek, a purely innocent display of gratitude of course, just to feel his smooth skin against your lips once-
You needed to get a grip. The brief hypothermia you had suffered was messing with your brain and was lowering your inhibitions and that was not good.
“Anytime,” he assured you, nodding towards the screen. “We don’t have to, but I was wondering if you maybe wanted to watch a movie? I feel like we could both use that. But if you’d rather be alone-“
You shook your head quickly, your smile coming easier now because of the absurdity and thoughtfulness of his question at once. To be alone when he was there? No thank you. Who cared that the rational part of your brain huffed again, telling you that maybe that would be a better idea unless you wanted to torture yourself with false hopes.
Saying no was not an option.
You really must have had a glutton for punishment; but in some ways, you learned Steve suffered from the same condition. So maybe that was just his persona rubbing on off you… And thank you, brain, for the worst possible choice of words.
You cleared your throat.
“A movie sounds great,” you said, the mental image of you throwing its hands in the air, grumbling something about your poor old heart. Steve was still very softly holding onto your shoulder though, facing you, mere foot apart; who expected you to think rationally in these conditions? “Fair warning though, I almost fell asleep in the tub. Might fall asleep half-way through this.”
Steve grinned, stepping back to get the mugs and beckoning towards the couch again as to tell you to get settled. You obeyed without protest; you knew him well enough to be aware there was no point in trying to get your mug yourself.
He was the nurturing kind of friend.
“Does that mean I get to choose the movie so you can blame your social and cultural ignorance on my choices?” he teased.
He was also the loveable little shit kind of friend.
“Rude… and I would never,” you protested, accepting the offering of the hot chocolate, now indeed all cosy, tucked in a blanket, sitting comfortably and wrapping your hands around the mug to warm your palms further. “…but deal.”
Steve’s laugh was perhaps warmer than the mug and sweeter than its content, but you stomped at the thought as soon as it popped up in your head. You had no time nor capacity for nonsense. You had a nice evening ahead.
Better not to ruin it.
You weren’t sure what you’d expected, but this was not it.
You had warned Steve about the possibility of you nodding off; after all, beyond having exhausted your body with the less-than-pleasant walk, nearly falling asleep in a bathtub and getting all comfortable on the couch, you had expected the large amount of sugar you’d consume to take its toll eventually and push you over the edge, the infamous sugar crash being the last straw.
You had expected to be out as a light in a matter of minutes, to be honest.
You had not expected the effect of all the warmth and sugars to evaporate much faster than that.
You were maybe twenty minutes into the movie and the anticipated sleep barely scratched the door of your consciousness; instead, the first reluctant shivers arrived. Blatantly ignoring Steve’s subtle side-eye and entirely obvious worry, you sank deeper into the couch, pulling the second blanket over yourself, tucking it all the way up to your chin, curling into yourself to preserve the warmth.
Thirty minutes in, you were shaking so hard Steve paused the movie, a crease forming between his eyebrows as he turned his upper body to you, right hand reaching out before pausing a few inches from your forehead.
“Can I?”
You hummed noncommittally, wondering yourself if maybe your grade-A case of cold was arriving sooner than expected and a fever already hit.
You were feeling just fine though; it was just the damn shivers which you couldn’t seem to stop.
Steve’s hand gently settled against your forehead, his frown deepening almost as if he could feel your heart speed up at the contact and didn’t approve. Which you knew was nonsense, because his whole mind was probably already consumed by the mission of assessing whether his inner Nurse Rogers should come out, but it worked well for cooling off your train of thought.
“It doesn’t feel like you have a fever, but we should probably check,” he hummed thoughtfully, shifting, prepared to rise his feet in search of the thermometer.
Your hand shot up from its safe warm haven, missing the target of his forearm but sending clear enough message to stop him.
He settled back down with a sigh, his hand sliding from your forehead over your cheek to the side of your neck, a delightful source of warmth spreading through your whole body and your suddenly deadly heartrate; a flicker of an image in which he’d place his hand exactly there and leaned forward, his lips brushing yours, nudged insistently at your brain.
You battled it with violent effort, refusing to even consider the soft look in Steve’s eyes was anything but concern for a good friend.
Because that was all it was: concern. What if you turned into an icicle, right? He had seen weirder things than that and he had spent whole seventy years frozen. He was naturally very worried about you having to endure the same.
“I’m fine,” you assured him with a smile that was shaky due to everything but cold. “Just my thermoregulation going haywire after all the excitement today--- Jesus how are you always so warm…”
Steve ignored your question, his hand still firmly set on your neck, the most delicious source of heat, his eyes roaming your embarrassingly shaking form.
“I’ve had a lot of practice with cold,” he said absently.
You could practically hear the wheels in his head turning, even as you were quite busy keeping your teeth from clattering. His eyes were so startingly blue, with the lightest speckle of green standing out for some reason, mesmerizing and warm as if to wreck the theory of these two colours normally belonging to the cold scale and you heart was positively about to beat your way out of your chest, because it appeared as if he was leaning forward a bit and maybe you were entering some kind of delirium, so it really was the time to move.
Move to kiss him, maybe, you bet his lips were warm too and yours were cold-
Okay, that was it.
“Okay, I think I’m gonna go for another soak-“
“Come here,” he muttered at the same time, effectively rendering you speechless when he released you only to scoot back a bit, his fingers beckoning lightly to himself, expression entirely serious.
What.
“I do run pretty hot and frankly I’d rather have you under supervision,” he said matter-of-factly, slipping into the Captain mode – managing to shoot your naïve hopes sky-high and shooting them dead in one sentence.
He was mission-oriented; that was all. He was worried, because frankly, your body was acting out and he was a good friend.
A good friend. A captain, responsible for his own.
There was nothing romantic about sharing body heat; he had probably done it dozen times on a mission.
He was simply concerned. And you should be and were grateful for that and for the practical and grounded approach to the matter at hand; you certainly preferred it to him rushing you to the doctor, because you were still pretty certain it was nothing to be worried about, nothing a good night’s sleep with loads of blankets on top of you wouldn’t fix.
So why the pang in your heart?
Why the regret and disappointment at him simply doing it to assure you’d feel better?
Because you were an idiot and you should have been so much more radical about forbidding yourself from catching feelings while living with Steve. But how could anyone blame you? He was just stupidly attractive and profoundly good and adorably ordinary in his extraordinariness, and you just wanted one touch, one taste, one moment of basking in his light and warmth and actual love.
Was that really so wrong of you?
You swallowed, voice set perhaps a little harsher than needed, the idea of him holding you out of pity making you a little sick to your stomach.
“Steve, you really don’t have to-“
“I want to,” he argued, voice so much softer in contrast to yours, and your body, that traitorous body acted, nearing to his despite your achy heart and hurting brain screaming at you to get to your feet instead, get to the bathroom or your room and lock the door and your heart and throw away the key to keep it safe.
“Steve-“
A smile tugged at the corner of his lips as he saw you wavering despite your verbal protest.
“Plus, I’m just doing my civic duty of protecting the innocent. You shake any harder, you’ll cause an earthquake.”
Deadpanning, you managed to stop your progress; in turn, your heart fluttered at the sparkle of mischief in Steve’s eye, that stupid muscle in your chest humming with fondness.
Godddamn him.
He knew exactly how to disarm you completely, to have you do his bidding, and he must have known of this power of his, blatantly abusing it for your wellbeing.
What a criminal behaviour.
With a sigh, you lifted your blanket a bit, scooting over to his open arms, carefully laying to his side as his arm slid under the blanket around your shoulders and pulled you closer; his warmth enveloped you in an instant, his hand rubbing gently at your arm, while his other busied itself with tucking the blanket around you to create a safe cocoon.
You felt yourself relax despite your better judgement, cheek laying on his chest, a steady thump-thump of his heart bargaining with yours:
How could you be short with him? Mad at him? He was just being the nicest person in the world, taking care of his friend, radiating warmth and smelling of comfort, selfless and without seeking anything but a simple thank you in return, if even that. And the charming bastard he was, he even tried to make you laugh.
It wasn’t his fault you had gone and fallen in love with him; it wasn’t fair to hold it against him that he was the best person you knew and your feelings were hurt just because he couldn’t think the same about you. Your mind understood that; it was your heart that was foolish.
You chased the thoughts away, only an echo of the ugly empty feeling remaining, giving way to a much more tender and insistent emotion; but mostly to sensation of your shivers subduing, almost as if they had been the trembles of an addict seeking their fix – Steve’s touch – rather than those of someone with messed up thermoregulation.
Maybe they were. But that wasn’t for Steve to worry about.
“Har har… how about your civil duty of being a sassybag…” you muttered in appreciation of his attempt, his chest shaking lightly with a chuckle.
“Oh, I’m taking that one most serious of them all.”
That he was.
The grin in his voice was infectious, however; you smiled against your will, poking his side lightly with your index finger.
“I noticed… but I forgive you.”
Because you’re really warm and sweet and for a moment, I guess I can indulge in the unhealthy delusion of you doing this because you like me close, postponing the ache of sobering up to reality for later.
“I’m glad. How’s that feel?”
Like I want to stay like this forever.
Like I want you to want to stay like this forever.
You shushed the traitorous voice.
“Warm… comfy,” you added after a while, rewarded by a rub to your shoulder, being pulled impossibly closer. And it felt so good.
“Good.”
Simply holding you and sharing his heat indeed for a moment, he let you soak in the comfort. Seconds passed, maybe minutes; you didn’t count the beats of his heart, but heard every single one of them, soothing, whispering the little lie that maybe some of them were for you.
You didn’t argue; you didn’t quite give in.
When Steve lowly asked you if you wanted to continue the movie, you just nodded, grateful for the distraction of how incredibly right you felt in the little fantasy of yours that this, you being here in Steve’s arms, was exactly where you belonged.
As he reached for the remote, you whispered a soundless ‘thank you’.
His ‘you’re welcome’ was softer and warmer than the blankets.
It was a herculean task to accomplish, fending off sleep, but having being in Steve’s company had rubbed off of you; you were anything but determined. Not knowing what the movie was about and what had happened on the screen in the past minutes – since the movie started, really – you still tried not to doze off at least.
You had a creeping suspicion Steve knew, deducting so from your silence or from the way your body was completely pliant against his, but he didn’t call you out, like the gentleman he was. Instead, he had simply stopped moving, safe from the periodical rise and fall of his chest, serving you as the most comfortable pillow you had ever had a chance of laying your head to, soft and warm and solid all at once.
And he seemed perfectly content to serve as one.
Just for that, you had stopped caring a while ago about his motivations. Had this been just a mission to keep a fellow human warm, so be it. He seemed pleased enough to do so and in your hazy sleepy mind, you knew one thing with absolute certainty – and that was that you did find this all kinds of pleasant too. Should the contentedness of yours come from a different place than his, well, you could deal with that later.
Or never.
You were just… happy and at peace.
You weren’t sure when exactly you had closed your eyes, but you had; your voice was slurring a bit too, your determination to fight your exhaustion clearly not enough to win over sleep.
“Thank ya’ for takin’ care of me, Steve.”
At that, the soft statue under you shifted the tinniest bit, Steve’s thumb brushing your arm gently as his arm had remained around your shoulders. His heart was beating a little fast, you thought absently, lulled back into obliviousness by the vibration of his voice.
“You already said that…” he reminded you, humour and something else, sweeter, laced into his voice. “Anytime.”
You hummed in response, sinking deeper into the softness enveloping you.
“Hey… I mean it, okay?”
“Uh huh,” you muttered again, the dreamland already calling you, insistent and so inviting. “Same… arenchya sleepy? ‘m sleepy.”
Silence only sweetened by his still rapidly beating heart settled, another slow caress to your arm, Steve’s voice reaching you from tender proximity and endless distance all at once.
“Then sleep, doll.”
Mmm.
The dreams wrapped around your wrists like tender ribbons, coaxing you to follow them, pulling gently.
You could give in so easily. Letting the dreamland take you felt as simple as breathing; comfortable and warm, and feeling so damn safe that your heart, while peaceful, was aching a little.
And maybe it was the tone Steve had spoken with earlier – so much emotion weaved into a few simple words, so much meaning – maybe it was the subconsciousness forming your dreams, but the memory of one of your favourites book which you had read multiple times flickered through your mind, making you smile. Or maybe it didn’t – you weren’t sure if you moved a single muscle, your body already floating.
Le sommeil partagé était le corps du délit de l'amour, the line read. A pondering of a man to whom sleeping with women meant nothing but entertainment, no feelings attached; not until he held a woman truly dear to him through the night, having fallen asleep peacefully, at last realizing that what he was feeling was love.
Sleeping with someoneor sleeping with someone, that was at the centre of his dilemma; the sharp contrast, one much more meaningful than the other. One a display of desire; the other, display of trust and love. A corpus delicti of love.
It was never like that for you – to you, the physical only came along with emotional, deep trust necessary to both. Having been learning about who Steve was, your mind argued lazily, there was no doubt in your mind Steve felt the same way about his relationships.
But the fact you could fall asleep right there, in his arms, and it felt like the safest place in the world…
It brought along a different memory; a memory of Steve’s large body curled into itself next to you on the couch, three blankets on top of him, your hands holding his, the contact seemingly somehow chasing away the demons of his past that had come to haunt his dreams. You had found him, lost in his own home, trapped in his own mind. He had agreed on a movie even as it had taken a long time to convince him that you weren’t going to back to sleep in your room while he’d try to fight off the invisible enemies his mind had created alone; so you had settled on a movie marathon instead. He had relaxed eventually, the dreamland taking him again, soft snores a lullaby to you – and you had never spoken about it again besides his quiet, ashamed and painfully genuine thank you the next morning. He had trusted you then, maybe feeling just as safe as you were now, despite you being nothing but an ordinary unenhanced human protecting him from evil.
It was a mirror image to how you were at this moment, you mused sleepily; you made him your pillow and a space heater and the source of comfort, while you tiptoed the line of reality and dreams.
His heartbeat thundered softly in your ear, calming but so vigorous and fast; and it slowly dawned to you that his body had stiffened under yours, the sensation nudging your consciousness and pulling you back, away from sleep.
Before you could voice your concern and confusion, his chest vibrated softly under you; his voice caressed you, tender with a hint of a rasp.
“…oui, c’est toujours vrai,” he whispered slowly, the words not making any sense.
Yes, that is always – still – true, you understood despite not being able to grasp at what he was saying truly or why, even as you knew French nearly perfectly, could probably speak it even in your sleep-
Your eyes snapped open, your heart jumping in your chest so fiercely it hurt.
Yes, that is always true.
It is true-
You had spoken out loud.
You had quoted one of your favourite books to him, out loud, speaking of shared sleep and love, and he had read that book too, you knew as much because you had talked about it before, he knew what that line meant, what it meant to you.
But it couldn’t be. He couldn’t be saying what you meant he was saying-
Except that tone. That soft, soft inflection to his voice, his thumb brushing over your arm again, reluctant but firm, his breath having hitched, awaiting your reaction to this… revelation?
And he got it; all sleep evaporating from your body, realizing you were basically lying on top of him – gods, you had no inhibitions in your semi-sleep state – your heart pounded so wildly your ribcage just might set it free. You gulped, shifting so you could look at him, the world slowly coming back to focus as your mind kept echoing the same words, over and over.
Corpus delicti of love. Corpus delicti of LOVE, c’est vrai-
You found Steve with his head bowed, observing you with patient and nervous anticipation, still holding you close to his body, something softly hopeful shimmering in his irises. Shadows of the evening had fallen over the living room but you could still see his perfect face so clearly, the depth of his blue eyes, the two beauty marks on his cheek, the pink lips looking so soft even as they were lightly pressed in a line – expectant of your response.
Your response to him indirectly confessing to---
Was he in love in you too?
The flicker of something you’d never dare to truly believe was real, because it appeared dangerously like adoration, lit up his eyes at your barely audible ‘really?’, a shadow of anxiety building behind the brilliant speckles of green in his irises when he nodded and waited.
As you processed, Steve never took his gaze off you in a display of bravery you were sure you would never have been capable of.
He had nodded. He had nodded.
Unless you were reading it completely wrong, unless--- unless this was just your fever actually taking over, Steve loved you, or at least was on his way to do so.
The overwhelming euphoric feeling rushed through ever nerve ending like a livewire, lighting your body up, your breathing hitching and expanding in your chest, something prickling in your eyes.
Steve’s Adam’s apple bobbed, gaze flickering over your face, appearing almost desperate to read your reaction since you couldn’t seem to verbalize how you felt.
But how could you let out a single word? He had romantic feelings for you too.
“We… we can talk later, if you’d like. You need your rest too…” he argued in a reluctant whisper.
There was no universe in which you were going to fall asleep, ever again and frankly you admired his self-restraint and willingness to wait after having just confessed he was interested in more than friendship and roommate-ship.
Steve Rogers, your Steve, was holding you in his arms, your bodies aligned, and he had feelings for you.
The soft expression – and the nervous energy radiation off him – whispered urgently of you not having read too much into his gestures, of your naïve hopes not being all that naïve, of all of this being true even as it left like a dream.
Maybe it was. But if it was, you’d cling to it and never let go.
And if it was by some miracle true, you sure as hell would never ever let sleep take you, because then… well.
The corners of your lips twitched minutely in an incredulous self-deprecating smile.
You were thoroughly warmed up, all shivers having subdued a long time ago, but something inside you trembled more than your voice.
“I can’t sleep now... I’ll think I’d dreamed all this up. That it wasn’t real,” you whispered hastily, “I… I want it to be real.”
Tension melted from Steve’s body at last, muscles having been tight as a bowstring easing into their mere usual firmness. His lips, those inviting lips, curled up in a smile, an echo of his eyes twinkling with something soft and exciting.
“Sounds like a dream to me too, yeah,” he admitted, your pulse nearing the speed that would sooner or later surely lead to cardiac arrest, your mind screaming with dozen of swirling thoughts.
He liked you. Steve like-liked you, perhaps maybe, just a little, on his way to love you, shared sleep, trust and love, he had dreamed of this too, he-
“How about…” he hummed, hand slowly cupping your cheek, tilting your head up and guiding you to lift it off his chest, causing your head to spin sweetly.
You could have easily escaped the tender touch; but you didn’t want to, not in a million years. You leaned into it instead, a pleasant twist deep within your belly, a shaky exhale leaving your parted lips, air swiftly drawn back as Steve leaned down, eyes roaming your face for any sign of protest. Finding none, his eyes earned a new kind of glow that warmed you up like no blanket or shower could, his lips neared dangerously, a silent wishful sigh as your fingertips stroked lightly over his chest.
“…we share a moment so real there’s no doubt left?”
There was no doubt left; and not a second of hesitation.
It occurred to you how absurd the reasoning was, to have a real moment, what a feeble excuse; as if you hadn’t dreamed of this before, as if the images of kissing Steve hadn’t haunted your nights, so vivid and so tangible morning had felt like razor tearing the masterpiece of a canvas apart; but that thought was but a silent voice in the very back of your mind and you did not care for it in the slightest.
On the other hand, Steve was right here and you’d do just about anything he’d suggest.
“Yes.”
The second the breathless sound left you, Steve’s lips were pressed to yours, soft and warm and real, an electrifying sensation of right rushing through your very being, proving Steve’s damn point; your dreams could have never done justice to this.
Not to the way his lips moulded against yours, the tentative touch turning eager the very moment you pressed against him.
Not to the way he felt so perfectly solid and soft under your palm, against your side, against your thigh.
Not to the way his hand on your arm curled around your bicep and squeezed when your lips parted for him with a choked whimper.
Not to the way his fingertips caressed along your jaw to your chin, tipping your head back further to truly kiss you.
Not to the way you couldn’t get enough of it, of his touch, of his taste, chocolate and sugar and home, of his scent, invading your senses in the most wonderful attack you’d yield to with delight.
When your lips parted with a gasp, your name like the sweetest endearment on his lips, his forehead rested against yours, sharing your breath, your space, the wild beats of your hearts.
It seemed that some of those beats of his heart truly might be for you; just like quite a few of yours were for him.
And it was beautiful.
An unwitting chuckle spilled from your lips, the euphoria coursing your veins spilling over, rewarded by a soft stroke of Steve’s thumb over your cheek, a deep inhale, your eyes fluttering open to his soft but blinding smile you couldn’t but mirror.
God, he was the most stunning man you had ever seen in your life.
Had you not been rendered speechless by the kiss, his beauty would have done the job.
And if that hadn’t been enough, the way he was looking at you, as if you had hung the moon and the stars and he would have hung them for you if you had just asked – how had you never noticed it before? – now that would have done you for.
You had no words; but it seemed that for the moment, neither did he.
And so your gaze flickered down to his lips, now more tempting than ever, and you let action speak louder than words.
Cupping his face in return, you kissed him again, and let the coincidence or perhaps fate, that had led you to spill your secrets at the precipice of sleep, take reigns again, not at all protesting when Steve’s hands roamed to your waist, a silent invitation for you to move closer in any way you wished.
You let the moment take you wherever it would lead, quite happy if the half-wit you had called yourself earlier that day lost all her wits to Steve’s softly demanding mouth.
Maybe next time you’d get caught in the rain, he’d be there soaking with you; and maybe just like he hadn’t cared for getting his clothes wet earlier either, you’d both stand there in the downpour in an embrace of lovers, caring little for the water dripping all over you.
As long as he’d keep kissing you.
Complete masterlist
Steve Rogers masterlist
Happy autumn, everyone 💕 I know I should be working on my longfic but my brain seems distracted by various short-fic ideas, often fullfilling writing challenges...
I really enjoyed this one 🥰 and I hope that so did you!
Have a lovely autumn!🍂
P.S. - For those interested, the quote comes from Milan Kundera's novel Unbearable Lightness of Being (L'insoutenable légèreté de l'être or Nesnesitelná lehkost bytí).
me on the tag trying to find a romantic/fluff/angst fic to read but the writers only do smut with outrageous and criminal kinks
A Conjuring - S.R.
Type: one-shot, medieval/fantasy, angst with a sweet ending
Pairining: King!Steve Rogers x reader Word count: 9100
Summary: Steve Rogers is a kind, just ruler in the true service of his kingdom; the King of the People, they call him. But heavy is the sense of duty and heavy is the crown.
And yet, none is heavier than his heart without you by his side; none is louder than the screaming silence of your absence, turning him into barely half the man he is meant to be.
Warnings: angsty angst, mentions of blood, injuries and death (childbed), grieving for a spouse, less than healthy coping mechanisms, mention of growing up without a parent, vague medieval setting... and did I mentioned angst-- but a happy ending
A/N: inspired by Karliene's song A Conjuring - highly recommended and came recommended to me by lovely @stellar-solar-flare who is absolutely blamed for my muse latching onto this song; lyrics are through the text in verses, any poetry is my own; divider by @firefly-graphics
The first sunrays of a new dawn are warm on his cheeks, the breeze of the brisk, foggy morning, wrapping him kindly in its arms as he enters the space hidden among the castle walls.
The dew is soaking his boots with every slow step he takes, the cold biting softly into his toes, but he cares little for it; it is his sense of smell and sight which are tuned in the most, the small private gardens welcoming him with aching familiarity. Like a garden of Eden; a peaceful solace breathing of love.
It rained last night. The heady scent of wet soil and roses fills his head and closes up his throat, but he continues walking, much like every single morning without fail.
Steve loves the garden; and he knows that so do you. It isn’t rich in many types of exotic precious flowers; in fact, many would call it simple. A few trees, one of which Steve had planted himself; a few soft-coloured flowerbeds; the pink roses climbing up the artistic constructions you had asked the smith to make. A few blooming bushes.
It’s the roses you brought to life yourself and cared for them with your own hands; with soft hands of the queen, letting dirt under your nails, skin scraped by thorns and bleeding to give birth to beauty, just like the hands of a commoner would.
The Queen of the People, they call you.
The King of the People is what they call Steve; and you both carry that title with pride.
Steve’s mother, the late queen, was the first one of that moniker, having learned how to treat wounded so she could follow her husband to the war camp and lend a helping hand to those in pain, to nurse them back to health.
In the time of peace, with the same care, you and Steve learned to grow and nurture flowers, the way you nurture your kingdom.
The time of wars seem eons away now, even as Steve himself wielded his sword alongside his men in its very battles; life has turned much quieter since then. Steve is glad for it. While fighting for the kingdom brought him sense of pride and brotherhood, he has been longing for sense of life instead. For love.
And he’s been blessed enough to have found it.
As he approaches the roses weaving up the metal construction, he breathes in deeply, his senses drowning in the overwhelming scent; a wistful smile forms on his lips, the memory of the smile you graced him with upon your first meeting wrapping around his heart.
He wrote a letter to your brother.
After King Howard’s death, the word was that the kingdom of Starkenburg had changed, progressive both in technology and social structing. The tales of King Anthony’s sister – a princess of wit quick enough to advise the king himself – intrigued Steve; and upon seeing your portrait, something in his very soul seemed to shift. Whoever the artist was, they had captured you admirably vividly; Steve almost felt as if you were looking straight into his soul and smiled.
He wrote to your brother of his intentions, but he wrote to you as well, to ask your opinion before he’d arrive to your home and attempt to court you. He had had a sense that excessive amount of gold sent with the letter would not impress you; he sent a single pair of earrings he had had commissioned instead, a well-loved book of poetry, and a vial of precious rose oil from his latest travels to the allied kingdom of the East.
And he had been right to do so.
In your response, while thanking for the jewellery, you seemed genuinely appreciative of the gifts of more personal nature, sending a book of fables in return.
You had exchanged two more letters before he made the journey, waiting only upon your request not to intrude on your brother’s wedding festivities; but as soon as Steve could arrive, he brought another three vials of rose oil among other riches to honour the royal family with.
Walking down the steps of the courtyard to greet him, your polite smile widened upon seeing his gift, a vivid spark – reminding him of your portrait so much – appearing in your eye as he brushed his lips over your knuckles, the scent of the very oil he had gifted you filling his head.
“A mind’s a maze, my wiseness sees me through… important truths lie beyond what eyes can see,” you whispered and Steve’s heart thundered in his ribcage upon recognizing those words – perhaps out of place, but all the more familiar. A little test, it seemed, you set upon him; and the spark in your eye might have been the mischief your brother was known for, but was all the more mesmerizing on you.
Warmth spread through Steve’s veins as he stood back to his full height, even as there was faint weakness in his knees already.
“‘tis through my heart I may appreciate true beauty,” he continued the poem softly, your smile turning most sincere in an instant, “’tis through your heart you reveal yourself to me… but I must say, Your Highness, you are an exquisite a sight for my eyes all the same.”
You accepted the compliment graciously, as well as the gifts – but more importantly, you accepted his courtship, warmly so.
Whatever longing Steve had felt in his chest for many years now, wearing your face since the moment he had set his eyes on your portrait, it was this very first encounter that ignited something beautiful and fierce in his heart.
And then, with every glance, word or touch exchanged, no matter how innocent, he found the fire kindled gently until it consumed him whole, the late afternoon sunrays following your steps in the royal garden having nothing on the genuine warmth of your smile, little shy, little cheeky, or the shine of your beauty.
Enchanted; that was what you made him with your presence and absence all the more. The scent of your skin with the notes of the roses haunted his dreams, day and night, and made him long and crave for more.
The day you agreed to the marriage, Steve realised he was at true peace for the first time in his life.
And the memory of that joyful day, too, was linked to the sweet scent of white roses, decorating the wedding feast.
I drew your shape in crystal shapes every single night I weaved a dream of fire for you under stormy skies In every life I've loved you so The only home I've ever known The magic part of me
The scent fills his nostrils now too. It wraps all around him with every breath as he instinctively moves closer, not worried he might step on and crush a single blossom. After all, he knows the garden like the back of his hand and could navigate it blind; he prefers it that way, in fact. With eyes closed, he can see you, your tender fingers caressing the petals, the fruit of your love and care. It is no wonder the garden used to bloom so wild upon your touch; Steve knows its effect, the way it awakes life in one’s veins, the way it fills his lungs with light and makes the very essence of him hum with the sense of rightness.
With well-practiced ease, he follows the way your fingers would run over the blossoms blindly; dew dampens his fingers, cold, but the rose itself feels almost warm, as if it holds your very soul. And soft. So beautifully soft it makes Steve’s ribcage ache with the next generous breath he takes.
He remembers the softness and the warmth of your body too well.
The line of your jaw he caressed before finally cradling your face, before leaning to kiss your lips on your wedding day, to commit your features to memory beyond what eyes could see; he thought of his fingertips like the extension of his heart that allowed him to appreciate your beauty properly. The exquisite happiness humming in his chest that day settled in your expression as well, in that vivid sparkle in your eyes, fluttering shut when his lips finally met yours after long weeks of dreaming of it.
The moment he did kiss you was written into his mind as revelation; for all the poetry he had ever read, for all the longing, for all the mad swirls of feelings and sensation haunting his days and nights ever since he had the fortune to meet you, it all made sense then; even the past bloodshed and pain. It all made sense for it had all led right into the blessed moment.
“My husband… my king,” you whispered to his lips breathlessly, your smile tasting like sunshine against his own and he could not but respond in kind before kissing you once more:
“My wife… my beautiful queen.”
And your lips were just as soft the night he took you to his bed for the first time; and if kissing you was revelation, to be able to touch your body and hold you close was what he imagined ascension felt like. The welcoming heat of your skin was a taste of heaven as he carefully stripped your chemise, breath wavering under his burning gaze, the silver of shyness soothed by his mouth exploring every exposed inch of you.
“Steve-“
You had been so careful to address him properly when in company he thought he could die right there, hearing the breathless sound of his name, a shuddering plea. He remembers the way your own touch turned him into a man possessed, your careful but burning fingertips appreciatively mapping out his body. He took you with a tremble in his very core and with an overwhelming sense of being right where the two of you were supposed to be. He loved on you for half the night, the air full of heady scent of your lovemaking and rose oil oozing off your thoroughly warmed-up skin.
“I love you more than the stars could ever know,” he whispered into your hair that night, as you laid on his chest, thoroughly exhausted, but with a serene smile on your face. As if you heard him, you pressed to him closer, and with your proximity, you brought love and peace into his soul.
Time changed none of it. The softness of your body against his, every night, so beautifully alive and warm under his greedy tender hands, the sensation never failing to fill his head and roar in his veins with need to claim, to mark, to love; always. Body as soft and warm as your belly was when you placed his hand over it one day, tears pearling in your eyes, telling him you were with a child before you even spoke a single word.
That day, Steve kneeled in front of you, pressing his forehead against your belly, and thanked the gods for all the blessings he received; and he thanked you all the same, silent words spilling from his lips before he looked up at you, your fingers having carded through his hair in appreciation of his joy and gratitude. With sudden burst of emotion, he jumped to his feet and picked up and spun and spun and spun with you, your joined laughter filling your chambers and probably raising quite a few questioning eyebrows Steve could not care less for at any moment, let alone at a moment like that.
The entirety of his world had been blessed; and he thanked the gods and you alike for it diligently every single day.
The day after he’d found out, he planted a tree, as common people said a father-to-be should; and he did so without care for whether his child – your child – would be a son or a daughter. He’d love and raise the child with tender care and dedication either way, the same way he would care for the symbol of his love for a new life planted.
You, in turn, planted roses into the very same garden, taking care of them ever since, come sunshine or rain, a new life growing under your hands as well as under your heart.
Steve never had the heart to scold you when you kneeled in the dirt, with barely any strength remaining to stand up with how you belly had grown; instead, he observed you with a smile, kissing your temple and helping you stand on the rare days when he didn’t feel like simply scooping you up in his arms and carrying you to your chambers to rest properly, like the Queen and a future mother should.
It never failed to make for a gentle laugh when moments later, cleaned up and in bed, he’d find you falling asleep as soon as your head laid down on the pillow.
He’d kiss your forehead, brushing your untidy hair from your face with a smile, and went to kiss your belly, before covering you properly and thanking for all his blessing once more.
Will I always find you Neath every moon Singing from the cold gloom My spells for you Are you just a conjuring Or my dream come true For my heart was calling calling, calling for you
Are you just a conjuring Or can I keep you?
Steve loves the garden and so do you; you love it still. He knows. He knows it with agonizing certainty because even now, this is where he feels you. This is where your warmth lingers, years after your passing. This is where he hears you whisper his name, in the rustle of leaves, feels your gentle touch in the breeze caressing his face, carding through his hair like your hands used to, especially on days when the weight of the crown became too heavy. This is where he feels your lips on his ear, whispering of your love, the softness of your kiss on his forehead, on his own lips when they brush the petals.
Here, he can hear you the clearest, tender; his chest tightens every time, a sharp memory of your screams behind the closed doors and the calming words of his friends that the cries he only knew from battlefields and sick tents, torn from your lungs, were but a part of the process of giving birth.
When the new voice cut the air and your screams turned into sobs and the softest murmur, no one could hold him back anymore, rules of propriety be damned; throwing the doors open, his eyes filled with tears upon the sight of the little miracle crying in your arms – your baby, your son. A little prince letting the world know there he was at last, loudly so; until you held him close enough for his cries to ease into sniffles and content hums.
That day too, Steve kneeled before you; by your bed, a few tears of undiluted joy rolled down his face as he welcomed James Samuel Anthony into his world and promised to love him for the rest of his days. To you, he thanked like he thanked to the gods, kissed your hands, your sternum, your lips. He could not imagine what pain you had endured, not even with the screams having echoed through the castle; but your smile and your tears, so warm on your soft skin, told him enough of how worthy of the struggle the result was.
“I love both of you, so much. You must never forget,” you whispered in a hoarse voice, tears rolling down your cheeks as you didn’t seem to know where to look – at your son, at Steve and back and forth, smiling through your tears.
Steve should have known then. He should have known the gods themselves had touched your soul and perhaps told you in their riddles what was to come to force you say those words. Perhaps they had told you what was to follow the most joyful night of Steve’s life; what the moments just before the dawn would bring.
But Steve was blind and deaf to it; all his senses and his heart alike caught in the precious moment, a cherished memory in making. The sensation of being touched by the divine in the most beautiful blessings of all; seeing you cradle the child to your chest, damp hair stuck to your forehead, skin glistening with sweat, eyes glazed over with tears and exhaustion… an intimate voice whispering to your child like you had been to your bump since the day it had become visible: you are so, so loved, our sweet child, our little starlight. Humming a lullaby until you could not keep your own eyes open, passing the child to Steve for a longer while.
The child never returned to the arms of his mother, never felt her warmth or loving touch ever again.
And neither did Steve.
All he was given was a new memory, made out of the worst nightmares he had never dared to speak of out loud even as they had been haunting him from time to time: your motionless, cold body, cleaned of the blood but terrifying all the same.
Steve had seen men bleed out on the battlefield before, enough terror for a lifetime; but to have that happen to you, at the threshold of the happiest day of your life, broke his very spirit. For the second time in the course of mere hours in which his world had been turned upside down as easily as if someone had turned an hourglass, he fell to his knees by your bed; your deathbed. Forehead pressed to your icy hand, his heart comprehended something the rest of his body could not yet. Unlike when he had welcomed the new life, he did not shed a single tear upon saying goodbye to yours. His sobs were dry, even as his chest was heaving so violently his whole frame shook, a part of him still praying so your hand would move, fingers card through his hair to comfort him, his grip on you growing harder by the moment despite the numbing weakness in his muscles.
You didn’t move. You had left the earthly realm long moments ago, ripped suddenly and violently from the centre of Steve’s whole world, creating an unrepairable tear in his soul.
He loved; he still does. Both the life given and the life taken that night. But the scar of having half of his heart torn out never healed. It never would; he did not think he’d want it too. He kept his wound wide and open so the love could pour out, for your memory, for his son. Your son. The only living thing left of you.
Your son and your roses.
He had your ashes dispersed into the soil under the roses, to nurture them like you had been in life; and he has your thoughts, shared only in whispers of your bed chamber, and he has all your love nurture your child.
He takes care of, raises and loves his son for you and himself alike; he keeps the roses alive with the most tender and careful care for you only. To keep your love and spirit alive and present.
You loved the garden and you still do; Steve knows.
Here, in the garden, he can feel you the best. Hear you in the wind, feel you in the warmth of the sun and blossoms alike, wrapped in your scent and the ghost of your touch, soft and clawing deep into the gaping wound in his ribcage all at once.
Here, his memories of the most joyful moments with you feel vivid. The dew sings your whispers of affection and the rain carries your tears spilled for the grief of leaving your son and your husband all too soon.
I know your face in fractured time, and I know our kiss A thousand lives, our love remains, pulling me back in Through all the dark, I've searched for light And found you waiting every night But are you even real?
The garden is where he feels you most tangible; but your spirit hovers around him at all times.
Sometimes the memories creep at him gently; a colour you liked catching his eye out of instinct, your words echoing in his head, your favourite book still lying on the table in your shared room. Sometimes they slam into him with violence that knocks air out of his lungs, having been filled with the sweet scent of roses; a royal celebration with a dance overflowing with emptiness without you in his arms, without you following his steps with elegance, utter faith in his lead, your wide sparkling eyes full of affection and fond memory of your first dance shared. His bed, a wailing void, swallowing him every night. And of course, the soft and so beautifully violent reminder of your absence, ever-present in the face of your son, in his questions about mama.
Steve talks about you. James cannot quite understand yet, he’s too young, his heart too pure and his mind too full of magic this world offers; but his little hand on Steve’s damp cheek when he fails to keep his tears at bay, his son’s worry about his father being sad, breaks his heart and mends it all the same. Steve answers James’s questions; he speaks of you out of turn too. Your son knows your face from your portraits, ones painted by artists, ones drawn by Steve himself, and knows all about your and Steve’s love for him. They prayed for you together. He knows your garden and the significance of the roses and he looks at them with the strangest affectionate expression in his soft, carefree features.
James has your smile, your eyes, and your wit.
In the grey of Steve’s days, he is his light. James and the garden, where he can feel you and the echo of your love.
Steve’s hand slips from the blossoms, the missing weight setting the flowers in motion, sending a small shower of droplets down his hand, on his face, nature’s blessing bleeding into his burning tears, his eyes fluttering open, the pink and rich green and grey of the stone swimming in his tear-filled vision. His lips are unsteady, trembling under the crushing weight of your absence; and yet, your voice is so clear in his mind as if you stood right next to him.
Don’t cry, my love, whispers the breeze, a warm breath as if tickling his ear. I miss you too.
“There is no day I do not miss you,” he whispers back soundlessly, blinking away his tears as a ghost of your touch caresses down his spine, “my wife, my precious, my heart.”
I know, love. I know. I wish I could take your pain away.
He grants himself another deep breath, all that used to be you – including the kindness and worry you probably did have for him even in afterlife – washing over him.
The sudden ruckus by the gates startles him, his heart skipping a beat; the bubble of his own world he still gets to share with you bursts as the rustle of cloth and quick little steps instantly followed by a sniffle push through the veils of solace the garden offers.
The only person who can be forgiven to do so bursts into the garden, red blotches on his damp cheeks, eyes finding Steve with relief and bottomless trust Steve will never fail to appreciate even as it squeezes his heart in a vice.
He’s crouching on instinct before the scene is even complete, James’s governess’ rushed steps and her scolding surprisingly far away.
Little James lands in Steve’s arms and clutches him with an awful vigour for a three-year-old, his choked cry of fa-eh muffled by the fabric of Steve’s attire.
“James-" he whispers gently, arms coming around him like thousands times before, one hand laid over the back of his head as he rises to his feet, encouraged by the grip of the little fingers on him tightening.
“James--! Your Majesty, I am-“
Steve shakes his head at the poor woman, an understanding smile on his lips before he turns his attention back to the toddler in his arms, careful to keep his voice soft despite the flash of fear in his chest – his son truly was getting stronger and faster by the day, able to run away quick and get into all sorts of trouble.
James Buchannan Bucky Barnes, his namesake, would always say Steve’s son was the payback from the gods. Steve does not disagree and swallows his pride and worry at that very fact every time little James is up to something Steve is sure he himself could have never come up with at his age. Bucky would probably argue about that and Steve might believe him, because Bucky knows him as well if not better than Steve knows himself; that was why Bucky is the only person who has not nagged him about a new queen, has not pushed him about a motherly figure needed in James’s life.
For now, and perhaps for ever, it is enough for Steve to know about his own mother and you.
His mother had the patience of the gods and their strictness all the same; Steve believes you would have been the same and he tries his best to live up to such standard of parenthood.
“Jamie, little starlight, what is wrong?" he inquires, the child wiggling in his arms to hold on tighter, face still hidden in Steve’s chest.
“Miss momma. Bad sweep.”
The unrepairable crack in Steve’s heart gapes open, his lips pressed tight as he runs his hand down James’s back, barely holding back a sigh. He knows the feeling all too well, even if in his world, your absence, however painful, translates differently.
“Did you not sleep well? Had bad dreams?”
James nods in confirmation, repeating his words. “Miss momma.”
“I see,” Steve hums, breathing in deeply, pondering. It is not the first time this has happened; Steve knows he’s partly to blame and guilt pangs in his gut, the familiar dilemma of honouring your memory and loving you, keeping you in your son’s memory, and reminding the child of your glaring absence in the process setting heavy in his ribcage. “I sleep badly too, when I miss her.”
Which is every night.
James pushes away from Steves chest a fraction, looking up at his face with tear-filled eyes and a pout that feels like a whiplash to Steve’s soul; he’s your mirror image painted with sincerity and innocence, his whole generous heart on display.
“Ya? Ugwy dweams?”
“Yes,” Steve says gently, even as his voice cracks with emotion. “That is why I come here every morning.”
James’s expression turns serious – and way too intelligent for a boy his age, Steve thinks, even as his heart flutters at his son’s words.
“Tawk to momma. Is why I wun heew.”
“Oh. Do you… want to say something to your mum too?” Again, James nods; and again, Steve’s ribcage constricts, the burn of tears in his eyes as familiar as the gentle warmth kindled in his veins. “I see. But first – you must not run away from Lady Brigitte like that, alright? She would be upset and get worried. Me too.”
Little James nods quickly, his pupils growing bigger.
“Sowy…. Sowy Wady Bwigitt.”
“Your Highness,” she smiles benevolently at the child, nodding at Steve, already stepping back, understanding her services are not needed at the moment, “Your Majesty.”
“Thank you, Brigitte.”
With one last brief smile, she is gone; not too far for she might be needed soon, but far enough to grant privacy to the grieving family.
It is not the first time Steve explains what he is doing here to his son; that is how James knows in the first place to come here. It is, however, the first time the child has run here and Steve is not blind to the importance of the moment, his heartbeat rushing past his ears, his touch a little shaky with nerves as his son observes him with curious, sad eyes.
“Tawk now?”
“Yes, little starlight, talk now,” Steve assures his son with a smile with a heartbroken edge, crouching again by the bunch of flowers. “You don’t have to, but what I do, is that I stroke the roses first. Carefully. And then I tell her what I need to say.”
He licks his lips, a lump in his throat growing, voice cracking as he continues.
“And I tell her how much I love her and miss her.”
James nods, a single step from his father’s embrace, petting one of the blossoms with his fingertips with clumsiness but undeniable care, sending a few droplets falling.
“Miss you, momma. Wove you.”
Something digs its claws into Steve’s heart and lungs and yanks violently, tears springing from his eyes at the sincerity of James’s words, all the more touching as they are slurred through his wobbly lips. Steve smiles encouragingly when little James seeks his approval. He’s crying too; fat tears are rolling down his cheeks, but as he continues to caress the flower, the corners of his lips turned up tensely.
“She say she wove too.”
Steve clears his throat, swallowing the pitiful sound born there – profoundly proud and happy as only James could make him.
“Yes, she does that. She loved--- she loves you very much, little starlight. More than anything in this whole wide world.”
“Wike you wove me. Wike she wove you.”
“Yes, exactly that, son,” Steve says, breathing in shakily, slightly startled when James’s fingers slip to the stem.
Steve is too slow, his hand unable to catch James’s before blood pearls on the child’s index finger, a surprised yelp of pain torn from the his lips.
Steve opens his mouth, words of comfort ready as much as the comfort of his embrace; but to his awe, James frowns and moves back to the blossom, murmuring he loves you still.
Steve is not sure whether his chest is too heavy from bursting with pride, affection or grief.
Finally, his son smiles, abandoning the flower and showing off his little injury.
“Not cwy. Stwong wike dad,” he declares, arms rising in an universal gesture. “Up?”
Without a word of protest, Steve lifts him to his arms, suddenly acutely aware of the morning truly being rather brisk when he feels James’s cold hands on his neck and curses himself for not having thought of that.
“Of course you are. Let’s say bye to mum and go get some tea and breakfast, yes? If you want, I can tell you all about the most beautiful queen there ever was.”
James obediently whispers g’dbye, nuzzling into Steve’s neck, allowing him to shield James’s small body from the cold as he heads out of the garden, one last glance and a silent goodbye to his sanctuary and your spirit that seems to reside there.
Neither of them notices that the one flower little James has touched begins to wilt.
When morning comes Will you fade away Like all my dreams I never, ever want to wake This love we've made Is like a spell upon my soul I'm bound to you for now and evermore
Between playing with and trying his best to teach his son, between holding court and training with his brothers in arms and friends, Steve’s mind is occupied; too full to ponder and to feel.
The weight of the morning experience comes crushing him at night.
It had rained in the evening, but then the wind blew apart the clouds, moonlight streaming into Steve’s bedroom – his and yours – light and shadows playing wicked games on the walls. You are on Steve’s mind, memories haunting him with intensity he cannot remember since before James was taking his first steps and Steve wished you were there to witness it and celebrate it.
He hears your voice, a ghost of your touch stirring him awake every time he feels sleep might finally take him into its merciful arms; drifting between consciousness and dreamland, he sees things. He could swear the moonlight keeps taking your form by the window, taunting him to follow; but whenever he does, feet all but dragging from the lack of a shuteye, the mirage disperses, only to materialize in the armchair where you used to read to Jamie before he was even born, then in the bed where Steve held you for far too few nights, loved on you for too short of a time, the aroma of rose oil hovering in the air, an untouchable torment and bliss to his senses.
He ends up dozing off in the chair by the fireplace, shivering, and waking up too soon to the first crimson and fiery orange of a new dawn.
Dressing up, he refuses to take a look in the mirror to see the shell of the King of the People he must resemble. He knows it without looking; the red-rimmed glassy eyes, the dark circles under them, the pale skin, the numb lips he is not sure will be able to speak a single word today, let alone lead and inspire.
Should anyone come at him with a sword in the next few hours, he’d be dead before he could swing his own just once; and yet, he attaches the sword to his waist as a part of his attire, the weight comfortingly familiar. Today might be a battle where no sharp blade could help him win, but he had spent years with his trusted weapon. It was how he approached your court too; a man of riches and conquered lands, a soldier and a king, but also a simple man longing for love.
The castle is still and silent safe for the guards on duty, abandoning their proper stance only to pay him respect by shallow bows; the garden, as per usual, awaits him in its peaceful solitude.
The dew was still falling abundantly, Steve’s hair damp and sticking to his forehead by the time he walks through the gates, the first sunrays shining through the leaves of James’s tree, blinding Steve for just a moment, enough for him to have to shield his eyes before they adjust, drawn towards his destination.
He freezes mid-step so sharply it hurts; air is knocked from his lungs and it hurts more.
It was back at Harrigörn where an army skilled more any other they had encountered before massacred many of Steve’s own; where too many good men laid down their life for their kingdom, for their king. It was back at Harrigörn where Steve’s own blood soaked the lands, a lucky strike delivered after a significant part of his armour had been knocked off, exposing his left side, an opening his enemy eagerly took and pushed his sword right through under Steve’s ribcage the very moment Steve hesitated. That day, Bucky, striking the man and dragging Steve to safety, might have as well ripped Steve from the fingers of the gods themselves who were about to guide him into afterlife.
As a reminder, Steve has been carrying a nasty scar that sometimes aches still; and a piercingly sharp memory of blood on his tongue and brutal, numbing pain whose echo interrupted more than one of his nights.
He truly remembers the moment with shocking clarity; the way all the sensation came crashing down on him, stunning him motionless and speechless, mouth open, no sound coming out.
His body remembers.
He stands stunned just the same right now, a guttural no falling from his lips, pulse rushing past his ears; metallic taste of blood and tears and panic on his tongue.
Your smile flashes in front of his eyes and he can’t breathe; his stomach swings so violently he retches, his first coherent thought being a desperate prayer to all gods above to wake him up from the nightmare unfolded in front of his tired eyes.
He stands there stunned for a moment lasting an eternity.
And then he’s finally moving, frantic breaths fogging the cold air, dew soaking his boots and biting into his toes and he does not care; he does not even notice, a string of raspy no no no falling from his lips, desperation colouring his grey world black around the edges.
The roses.
Your roses.
Your precious roses, your flowery children, your memory: dead.
Every single one.
Dry and wilted and rotten, seemingly all three at once, the dew caught on them but a mocking, like a salve numbing pain on a dead body; beyond any salvation.
All of it gone, not a single blossom left. Just an image of utter devastation.
It strikes him harder and sharper than any sword, weighting his body down to the ground faster than armour made of lead.
He falls to his knees, hands landing in the soil, fingers digging in as if it could speak and tell him how to fix that – to tell him what and how and why has this happened in the first place, when he had studied and learned about how to enrich the soil and protect the flowers from disease, just how, over a single night, over the course of a few hours, could life be ripped away so suddenly and violently, a life that was blooming so fully and beautifully only a day ago-
A life ripped out just like yours.
A life that’s been a memory and a monument to yours.
The pain that rips through his chest has him digging his fingers deeper, his head falling between his shoulders with a cry that might not even be human, more akin to one of a dying animal.
He can’t let out more; he can’t let anything in. His chest feels too tight, air too heavy to breathe in, burning in his lungs as much as shame and self-loathing burns in his veins.
He failed. He failed to keep your memory alive, he failed you, a terrible letdown and it was just flowers, one would say, but they were not. The flowers are not the only thing gone.
Your spirit, usually so present, seems to have evaporated, having bled out from the sanctuary as if it had been tied to the roses; as if it has been keeping the roses alive or vice versa.
He has lost you, for the second time; that is the feeling tearing his heart apart.
The garden usually filled with memories of you screams with emptiness; the breeze bushing his damp hair is cold and dull and harsh despite barely being there. The warmth of your affection; gone.
He swallows the scream clawing its way up his tight throat, a violent shudder cutting through his spine, his eyes squeezing shut.
He hears the light steps but he cannot make himself to react, to open his eyes, to move; he does not recognize them even as there is a grief-struck part of his mind he tends to keep locked that tells him that he does.
It’s not little James; it’s not Bucky nor Bucky’s wife. It’s not James’s governess either; and no one else has been permitted to enter here unless Steve would have had to leave the castle for days and a gardener had to be appointed.
If a stranger came to slash his throat, the numbness in Steve’s fingers whispered of him not caring at the moment; if anything, Steve might call it an unjustified mercy to him.
The steps stop behind him, the hand softly laid on his shoulder making for a burning sensation in his nose, tears prickling in his red-rimmed eyes.
“It’s not your fault,” the ghost of your voice reaches him, the scent of rose oil enveloping him, a lovechild of a sob and chuckle of relief exploding from his lips.
Gods, you were still here. Still, despite it all, he could feel you, more tangible than ever, hear you even, the clearest in the past three years.
“I am so---- so--rry I couldn’t-“ he chokes out, but the phantom touch seems to grow firmer, reassurance he does not deserve.
“It was never your fault, Steve,” the breeze whispers kindly, and yet, his breath hitches as thousands of icy shards stab his broken heart.
It might as well be his conscience speaking, and it does not relent.
“I know of the guilt you carry and you need to let it go. It was never your fault.”
It was never your fault that the child born out of our love, the life you had given seed to, took me away.
At those words, the very guilt consumes him more than ever, burning like midnight oil and ice. Of course he had thought that; it was one of the nightmares haunting his nights. If he had only… he loves little James with all his heart, and it’s such blasphemous thought he asks penance for and loves his child all the more in the days that follow, but if Steve had only never—would you have lived? Or would have the gods ripped his happiness from his hands still and gave him no solace at all?
“You’ve given me a son. I love you and always will.”
The echo of your voice shakes with emotion and another sob is torn from Steve’s lips, shaking his whole frame, his hand instinctively moving to his shoulder where the warm memory of your touch lingers.
Will I always find you Neath every moon Singing from the cold gloom My spells for you Are you just a conjuring Or my dream come true For my heart was calling calling, calling for you
His heart stops in his chest when the tips of his fingers, still covered in dirt from where he has dug them into the soil, meet skin instead of the fabric of his own coat.
He turns so fast he lands on his backside, his head spinning with the unexpectedly fast movement; and his heart stands still for one moment longer, his throat suddenly dry unlike his cheeks.
Gods, he can see you.
Beautiful and ethereal, the sun shining from behind you and yet overshadowed by your presence.
Steve’s lost his mind for certain; another of his sleepless nights finally having pushed him into the realm of insanity.
But by gods he’d trade it all if he could look at the smile, no matter how sad, adorning your lips for jus a minute longer.
You are in all white; a nightdress Steve knows like the back of his hand, an attire he held you in during your nights together or stripped it with tenderness or vigour. The very nightdress you wore the night you left this world.
You crouch by him, the scent of rose oil filling his nostrils so intense a pitiful whine is born in his chest, even as his eyes adjust and he notices your hair ruffled rather messily, streaks of dirt on your skin, on your dress; you are barefoot.
You are the most gorgeous, divine mirage.
“It’s not your fault the roses died. You took care of them with as much precision as love, every single day. I know. I watched you.”
Steve only gulps, all coherent thought leaving him, his hands shaking; he must not touch you. He has never seen a mirage of you so vivid – he cannot afford to lose it, to have you dissipate into thin air if he tries to hold on too tight.
“It is my fault… the price to pay.”
Steve does not understand. Not your words, not the blessed image his mind has conjured, not even the wild swirl of suffocating joy and heartbreak upon seeing you; he only understands the terror of realisation that his own memory, until now, did not seem to do you justice. He has been forgetting your face despite the amount of time he has been spending looking at your portraits and reminiscing; he has almost forgot what your voice sounds like, a soothing caress to his soul.
But conjuring of you is kind and patient; it smiles warmly, tears gathering in its eyes Steve longs to kiss away.
“I was visiting town when she approached me, a blind fortune teller, a harmless youngling, beautiful beyond what my own eyes has ever seen… she told me she was bringing an important message from the gods,” you say, “but she told me she could only unveil it to me and no other living soul. Asked me to follow her.”
Steve’s breath hitches in fear; a fear that makes no sense. A story that has likely never happened and his broken mind had just dreamed up, and yet; the image of his wife, his precious heart, following a woman she had never encountered before without the trusted guards, shakes him. The Queen of the People they call you; visiting the commoners was no strange nor exceptional occurrence, but Steve would have never let you walk alone. Beloved as you are and were by most, there is always evil lurking and looking to hurt the crown; but you know as much. You always knew.
And Steve knows that because beauty has not been the only quality of yours he loved and loves; it is your wit too. For all your kindness, you are no fool and do not trust without evidence.
A spark – a heart-wrenchingly vivid spark of affection – flashes in your eye as you continue, as if you can hear his thoughts.
“I would have never followed her had it not been for her next words and her gentle touch. As innocent as she appeared despite the air of something divine, there was no telling who could be hiding in her hut, to whom she wished to lured me to under false pretences.”
“What did she say?” Steve hears himself rasp, in the very back of his mind well-aware he is entertaining a conversation with the result of his own fatigued mind.
The tears pearling in your eyes fall over, making Steve’s hand twitch with the need to gently wipe them away.
“The paths laid down by gods are full of twists and turns… to know them all I would surely have turned mad,” you recite softly and Steve has to force himself to keep his eyes open as your voice washes over him, like the times you whispered this very first poem of the booklet he had sent you along with his first letter in the sweet darkness of your shared bedroom, like he whispered them to you back. He can’t. If he closes his eyes, you might disappear again. “Fate in the stars written by lighting dust of souls… if I’d known how, I would have rather read.”
Steve, having been mouthing the words along unwittingly, feels his lips moving almost soundlessly as he finishes:
“But I am but a man, I’m blood and heart and faith; Walking the one path that I believe to be true. I follow the path to which my heart’s been calling… for I have faith t’will lead me back to you.”
“Yes,” you nod, warmth blooming around Steve’s heart despite it all. This is a kind memory, he decides. Whatever has brought you here, whatever has killed the roses, your image has been sent here to sooth him. It might hurt all the more later; but for now, he finds himself almost, almost at peace. “So I did follow her. She told me that in quarter of a moon, I will find myself with a child. And I did. She told me to plant the roses… and so I did.”
You take a wavering breath and Steve finds himself doing the same; you face twists in grief before you continue.
“She told me to nurture them and cherish them like the child itself, and so I did – because once my son was born, I would not have but short moments to hold him.”
With a wince, the outrage rushing through Steve has him straightening his spine, his hand instinctively moving to his sword. To protect his wife, to eliminate the person who dared to make such threat to his beloved.
But there is nothing to fight; it is all but the past that might have never even happened except for your painful passing. And yet, Steve’s mind is whirling, memories falling into place, of your thoughtful expression upon returning for the town one day, the abundance of tears upon your announcement you were with a child, your solid feeling it would be a boy, your words, spoken quietly but with conviction and finality Steve has wondered so many times about: “I love both of you, so much. You must never forget.”
“My love-“
“And I did,” you cut off his raspy voice. “And she told me that should my ashes nurture the roses, I would come back, once they’d meet the blood and tears of my love… and the blood of my blood.”
Steve watches, stunned, as you move to kneel next to him, the ghost of the warmth of your skin radiating and calling out for him, a temptation to catch the mirage and condemn it to disperse in this air smelling of freshly cut roses.
The image of little James, scratching his finger on the thorn yesterday, staining one of the pink blossoms with his blood is the last thing Steve thinks of – before your hand, much colder now, goosebumps having risen on your arms, settles tenderly on his cheek, damp with tears he cannot recall having cried.
It strikes him like a lightning, rushing through his soul, stunning him motionless.
You were touching him.
He felt your cold skin against his, your warm affection, your smile a thousand suns and your voice just as unsteady as his heart and as real as the dirt under his fingernails or the wet ground under him as you whisper, voice cracking with emotion:
“And I did.”
A single beat of his heart; and his hand is rising with a violent tremble, hesitating for just a moment before he dares to cover the back of your hand on his cheek.
You are still there.
Undeniably and completely true.
“Oh gods-“
He chokes on a sob so potent his whole ribcage vibrates, painfully so, but he does not care.
He is already moving.
He springs from the ground, dropping your hand only to throw his arms around your form and pull you against him, inhaling into his already tight chest when your solid warm body meets his, one arm around your waist, the other around your shoulder, gripping your nape, tangling in your hair and gripping with violent force just so if anyone tried to pull you away he’d never let them, because you-
You’re still here.
You press your face against his neck, the tip of your nose making him shudder not because it’s cold, but because it feels as cold as it used to on a brisk morning like this one when you’d press yourself to him and smile into the skin of his throat when he’d faux-chastise you for not dressing warm enough and thus forcing him to give you his own coat.
--which is something he will absolutely do in just a second or two of hundred once it settles that your tears soaking into his skin are real and his own tears are seeping into your hair as he buries his face there and inhales, the scent of wet soil and rose-oil so intense and overwhelmingly familiar with years of grief and blissful memories he feels his muscles give out, sending both your you toppling over into the tall wet grass, the complete opposite of keeping you warm as he should but you don’t seem to care and he cannot think, let alone move.
Your name is falling form his lips, over and over, a prayer, a plea, a thank you, ragged breaths held just to keep still, to remember this moment for the rest of his days.
You are here.
You are here, somehow alive, right in his arms.
And you are saying his name, over and over, sweet endearment and apologies for not telling him, for being scared, for perhaps being foolish, for all the grief your absence has condemned him to and Steve just laughs.
He laughs so hard he is crying and he is not sure which came first, but he rolls over with you to protect you from the cold ground at last, your weight the most soothing thing he could ever conjure, perhaps safe for your blinding smile broken on its edges or your I love you, or your hands cradling his face for a long silent moment before your lips descend to his, sending tremble through his body, his heart, his very soul.
“My husband… my king.”
“My wife… my beautiful queen, my precious, my heart,” he whispers in return, choking on the last word, because his heart truly has just returned, beating its way out of his chest, brought by the woman the stars themselves had conspired to lead him to, only to steal her and then give her back. The stars, the gods, the fairies, it does not matter as long as you’d get to stay.
And again, your wit, your impeccable ability to read him like the very book of poetry he had given you years ago, have you caress his face with your fingertips, one of his hands leaving your nape to keep your other hand warm, and whisper to him:
“And she told me I’d get to kiss my husband again… and to hold my son, after only watching him grow in the loving hands of the kindest man there ever was and I shall have the chance to do it all for a very, very long time.”
Steve brushes the unruly hair from your face and kisses you softly – all but a meagre reminder of the overwhelming love humming in his very being. He sits up, wrapping you around him, legs around his waist, arms around his shoulders, and stands up, rising full of life and strength as if he has not lied awake all night; he lifts you both, carrying you from the garden, to ensure you could do exactly as you said.
“You will, my love. You will.”
Of that – he vows to himself and to the gods above with gravity of the word of the king, a warrior, a father and a husband – I will make sure.
He will. For the rest of his days, he will.
Are you just a conjuring …or can I keep you?
S.R. masterlist // Complete masterlist
There we go... I suppose that due to the magical elements here, this can be read as the fic for this year's Walpurgis Night. May yours mbe a good one, may you May be sweet 🌸
Thank you for reading 💕 thoughts, rants, yells and reblogs are always welcomed 🥰
Would you rather go on a date with smol!Steve or be stuck in a small space with nomad!Steve?
This had me thinking hard. 😁 Smol! steve has my whole heart. But...
Nomad!steve... could ask me to come with him to the ninth circle of hell and id willingly go there😫🤭
Anyways...
Closer Than Ever
pairing: Steve Rogers x reader
warnings: kissing. Being pinned to the door by a Soft!dom!Steve(?). Allusions to smut
Enjoy 💋
The plan was doomed from the start.
A cosmic joke personally curated to pull at your every single nerve.
Sam missing, comms dead, the weather raging.
Perfect time to be stuck in a safehouse with Steve.
He was setting up the fireplace as you looked through the cabinets for something edible that might pass as dinner.
You didn't hear him come in the kitchen as you were busy slamming the bowls and pots on the counter. Stupid little kitchen with stupid little things with stupid li— "Woah!"
The man appeared like a shadow behind you, silent as ever. You turned to face him fully, ready to give him a piece of your mind was scaring the hell out of you. But your words remained lodged in your throat as you took in his appearance.
His hair was still wet at the ends, his skin still dewy. He was not wearing a shirt, and was in just a pair of black sweatpants that hung low on his hips. "I thought you were starting the fire," you said, merely to fill the silence that settled heavily in the air.
"Done. And I might have used up all the hot water so you'll have to wait for your turn."
He still had not stepped back from you, the close proximity making the surroundings hum like a live wire.
You swallowed hard, "I'll wait. Still gotta make something to eat." Your eyes were trained on his eyes, not wanting to look at his bare chest, the water dripping down from his hair to his neck down to— No, your eyes were locked with his.
You wouldn't give in to the overwhelming feeling of wanting to drag your hands up his chest, feeling the muscles coiled with tension. As they drag up to the expanse of his shoulders, up his neck to finally caress his jaw as you kiss those perfect lips of his.
No, obviously you wouldn't think of doing that.
You finally cleared your throat and turned away to busy yourself with picking up the pan. You didn't need the oan right now, you have nothing to put in it, you just wanted to occupy your hands so they wouldn't reach for him.
"There's a pantry. You check it?" His voice curled around you and you felt your resolve shattering. No, you still wouldn't give in to those thoughts, he's your coworker. Your captain.
"I haven't..." your voice trailed off as you once again found yourself overcome by him. The woody scent of his soap, the tired blue of his eyes, the deep timbre of his voice.
You took a step back. Then another. Before you could take another look at him, before you could make a very unprofessional, a very can't-take-it-back mistake.
You reached the pantry with shaky steps, a shaky breath and even shakier hands. It's funny, the effect one single man has on you. But then again, that man is Steve, that's acceptable.
The pantry itself was tiny. Not even a full square meter. Stacked with... nothing.
Shelves upon shelves of dust and cobwebs. And a few cans of god knows what stacked in one corner. Well, you both weren't picky when it comes to surviving in the woods.
"Ah! They're so thoughtful, aren't they?"
You jumped and collided with one of the shelves, cans falling down and rolling in all directions. Damn him and his silent footsteps.
Steve swiftly closed the door to stop the cans from rolling out. Swift thinking on his part. No wonder he was the captain. You'd have just scrambled to grab each one of them as they rolled out around the corridor.
"You need to start making more noise when you walk." You calm your heart that was thudding so violently, you could hear it. Steve could too.
He just raised his brows, unimpressed by your reaction and your suggestion. "No, thanks. I'd mucn rather not announce my location everytime."
Once again, he was right.
And you were just annoyed. And frustrated. And excited. And your heart was shaking for a much diferent reason from the scare.
Huffing, you bent to pick up the cans, which proved to be a daunting task in the very limited space and the very big man currently occupying the vast majority of said space.
If you looked up, you'd be eye to eye with his... stuff.
And you didn’t want to be eye to eye with his stuff.
At least, not right now.
Not when he's staring down at you with disappointment.
As you picked up the cans and put them back onto the shelf, picking up two to go heat up and "devour", you could feel his eyes on you.
It was a weird feeling.
You were all wound up. Why does he keep staring? Why doesn't he still have a shirt on? Doesn't he gets cold?
You ignored his staring and went to push at the door. Only to find it stuck.
You huffed and pushed again. You wanted to get out of here. Get away from him. One more second close to him and you might confess your feelings to him.
Probably write a sonnet while you're at it.
(My old captain, you inspire me to write.
How I love the way you stand and stare,
Invading my mind day and through the night,...)
The door didn't even budge an inch. You looked over at Steve standing suspiciously calm. As if he's watching his favourite show.
Of course, he's just amused at your poor attempts to open a pantry door. He probably thinks you're pathetic.
Well, that's the last thing you think of him, so you step aside, "Mind giving a hand?", your voice was deceptively calm, the picture of nonchalance; but deep down, you were the embodiment of barely leashed urges to pin him to the sad, wooden shelf and kiss him stupid.
Or the other way round. Yeah, the other way round sounds nice as well.
His eyes locked on yours, those blues that seemed so dull back in the kitchen now seemed to sparkle under the dim light. Sparkling with... interest? Amusement?
He stepped forward and you made space, as much as you could in the small area, for him to reach over you to the door.
But then he paused, seeming to notice the actual position you both found yourself in.
Your back to the door, his bare chest almost brushing your clothed one.
You looked up at him, his blue eyes seeming to take in every single detail about you.
He lowered his head, his nose touching yours. "I do." His warm breath brushing over your lips.
Your heart was thrumming violently against your ribs now. Your breath caught in your chest.
"What?" Your voice was a whisper. Barely audible against the beating of your heart.
Had it not been for his heightened hearing, he'd have missed it. "I do mind. Why would I get out? When I've got you right here, huh?"
Your hands shot up before your mind could understand what was happening. You gripped the smooth expanse of his shoulders, although shakily. "Steve..."
That was the only word you could manage before he closed the distance between you two.
His lips were soft, but the kiss was anything but. It was rough and reckless. Making up for all the lost time where you two circled each other like lovesick idiots.
Stolen glances.
Lingering touches.
Soft words.
That's all it comes down to.
His hands slid down your back to grab at your waist to pull you closer to him. His chest flush to yours.
You pulled at his hair as his movements against your lips grew frantic. He groaned into the kiss and that sound went straight to your core.
His tongue licked at the seam of your mouth and as you parted in invitation, he married your tongue with his. His tongue tangled with yours, a battle of harmony and lust.
As you both finally parted, he pecked your lips a couple times, unable to resist the urge to kiss the breath out of you.
But he had to, you were out of breath. Your chest rising and falling rapidly, your eyes dazed, your lips swollen. You looked thoroughly wrecked.
"I've wanted to do that for a while now." His voice was ragged, he wasn't as unaffected as he seemed to be.
"Me too."
He straightened your jacket and pushed himself off you. A final peck to your lips and he was picking the fallen cans off the floor.
Cans you didn't even know fell down.
He opened the door with ease.
"So you like beans?"
And he was gone back to the kitchen, leaving you standing there in the pantry, breath uneven, heart still beating about ten times too fast. You didn't like beans. But you did like him, and you couldn't wait to see what the night brings for the both of you.
There ya go.
Thank you so much siri for this amazing prompt. I had so much fun writing it.
Please take a second to leave any thoughts below. I'm fully open to constructive criticism and won't take it harshly if you say my writing is bad. Im still learning and improving. This one was a bit more on the light hearted side, but I just posted this last time and I needed to write this to change things up a bit.
Actually I'm not done thinking about Frankenstein sorry
The fact that Harlander only saw Victor's science, his creation, as a means to preserving himself. His own name.
The fact that Victor had only thought so far as the creation itself, and not what comes after. That the perfection in his mind began and ended with the act of creation.
How men only see (pro)creation through the lens of carrying on their legacy.
And when told no, that the creature will not be Harlander and his legacy? He seeks to ruin it all. And when the creature seems too slow, too difficult, too painful for Victor to deal with? He tries to destroy him.
Because to them, if what is borne from that isn't a perfect vessel to carry on their name, if it does not serve them, then the only answer is violence.
