I Want To Go Back To Ohio

MARVEL / THE HUNGER GAMES / STRANGER THINGS / DEPRESSION MASTERLIST 25 and miserable babyyyy

[s-trawberryv-eins]

Headcanon where Steve’s parents are shit, but they aren’t /terrible/ people.

Like, they check in regularly, and Steve is often scolded for missing his mothers calls when he’s caught up fighting otherworldly demons, but they aren’t around enough to realise he’s fighting otherworldly demons.

He gets cards and kisses on his birthdays, but the sneakers they bought him are two sizes too small, and he hates sponge cake. They forget, it’s okay.

His dad doesn’t comment on his job or his college applications. He isn’t nasty. He just doesn’t comment. Ever.

“How’s Riley?” Robin. He stopped correcting them a while back, but they ask after her every time they talk.

It comes to a head after Vecna, after the town is torn apart by hellfire and the otherworldly demons they haven’t noticed. They rush home, grabbing Steve and ushering him home. His mother grabs his cheeks and smooths his hair down, silent shame filling her eyes as she looks over the boy she doesn’t really know.

They pack him a bag and tell him all about the lovely townhouse they’ve rented in The City (he doesn’t know which). It isn’t until they pause to breathe that they realise Steve isn’t moving. He isn’t packing or pacing or moving at all.

“I’m not going with you. I can’t leave my family. I’m sorry.” He doesn’t use the F word to hurt them, but he can see the sting on his parents faces nonetheless. They talk. For a while. And then Joyce and Hopper pull up outside, asking for a moment alone with the grown ups.

“Wait in the truck, kid. El’s out there.”

Steve kisses his mothers cheek and pats his father on the shoulder. Then he does as he’s told. Gets in the truck, sits beside El, but they don’t say anything. He can hear his mother cry, and then he can hear his mother ask Joyce to take care of her boy. As if she ever had to ask. Hopper and his father shake hands.

He watches his parents drive away, an odd feeling settling into his bones. He loves his parents. But he loves his family more.

This is terrible I’m sorry. I’m hormonal

[love-stucky]

the one where steve gives in to nipple play

pairing: steve rogers x f!reader

warnings/tags: 18+ MDNI, smut, pwp, p in v, unprotected sex, nipple worship, edging, overstimulation, multiple orgasms (implied), cowgirl, creampie, power imbalance (soft dom reader + subby steve) praise kink, hyperspermia? (implied if you squint?), pet names (honey, baby)

jazz talks: this is what chats in the dms turn into… and i’m definitely not sorry about it 😌 no plot just straight up porn. steve let me bite your pretty titties plsss 🥺

dt: my stevie bb @epiphanyrogers 🥰 subby steve is here for u! honestly u inspired me to do this pookie so ty, ily! also if it sucks, pretend u never read it.

wc: 2k

It started innocently enough, one lazy afternoon tangled in his sheets after a mission that had left him raw and aching for touch that isn't violent.

You were both bare, skin still warm from the shower. He was on his back with you straddling his hips, your hands roaming the broad expanse of his chest.

His pecs are ridiculous—thick, sculpted muscle honed by decades of serum-fueled perfection, smooth and taut under your touch.

You had teased him about them before, called them your favorite pillows, even joked that they could use a bra.

But you didn’t feel like joking that day. You ached to touch, to explore, to have more.

You leaned down, pressing open-mouthed kisses along his collarbone, nipping at the salt of his skin. He sighed contentedly, his hands settling on your thighs.

“Baby," he murmured, voice gravelly, "Let me—"

"Shh," you whispered against his sternum, feeling the rapid thump of his heart.

Your tongue traced the edge of his pectoral before your lips closed around his nipple, soft and warm against the firm swell of muscle.

You sucked lightly at first, rolling your tongue over the tight bud while your teeth grazed just enough to make him shiver.

He froze beneath you, a sharp inhale breaking the quiet, his fingers digging into your thighs with delicious force.

You pulled back to watch, and that was the moment you noticed it: his nipple glistening wet from your mouth, pebbled and flushed, and Steve biting his lip to stifle a whine.

His cock, half-hard against your thigh, twitched visibly, thickening as his hips bucked once, involuntarily.

“Oh,” you breathed, realization blooming hot in your core. “You like that.”

He flushed crimson from his chest up to his face, avoiding your gaze, but his body betrayed him the moment you latched on harder, sucking with a wet pull that echoed shamelessly in the room.

A broken whimper escaped him, nothing like the commanding growl you were so used to. His hands slid up to your ass, gripping you for support as if your weight kept him from tipping over.

“Fuck, honey,” he gasped, voice trembling, you felt him throb against you, fully hard, precum seeping onto your skin.

You had barely ventured lower, and he was already a mess—chest rising and falling rapidly, nipples swollen and begging under your teasing.

That first time, you didn’t push too far—easing off with a final swirl of your tongue before kissing your way back up, capturing his mouth as he panted, dazed and pliant beneath you.

But the seed was planted, and over the following weeks, you nurtured it—trailing teasing licks during makeouts on the couch, pinching through his shirts until he squirmed, whispering promises of what you’d do when he was ready to let go.

Steve fought it as best he could, but always ended up pressing you beneath him, fucking you deep and thorough, as if he had to prove he was still the one in control.

But you saw it in his eyes, the flicker of want he couldn’t quite hide and the way he lingered when your lips drifted too close to his chest.

You knew it was only a matter of time.

The night you fully claim it, he’s worn thin from a brutal week—Avengers chaos stacking up until he’s all tension and quiet fatigue, muscles tight beneath sun-kissed skin.

You find him stretched out in the low light of your bedroom, shirtless, eyes fixed on the ceiling, his body marked with faint scars your fingers have memorized.

“Come here,” you murmur softly, guiding him back onto the pillows until he’s lying flat.

His blue eyes stay fixed on you, wide and trusting, as you climb over him. There’s no rush, no pressure—just you, warm and naked, settling onto his hips.

Steve's hands come up instinctively, cupping your breasts, his thumbs brushing slow, familiar circles with that quiet reverence he always shows you.

You stop him gently, catching his wrists and pressing them back into the mattress.

"Not tonight, Captain. Tonight, you let me take care of you."

His throat bobs as he swallows, a brief flicker of uncertainty crossing his face. He’s not used to this. To being the one laid out and taken care of, but he nods, breath shallow, his cock already straining thick and heavy against the taut cotton of his underwear, pressing against your slick folds as you grind down once, slow and teasing.

You tug his underwear down just enough to free his cock. It shoots up hard and thick, slapping against his abs with a heavy smack, veins standing out along the shaft, the swollen head already glistening with precum.

You slowly ease yourself down onto him, watching his face contort as your pussy swallows him inch by tortuous inch.

He’s huge, always is, filling you with that exquisite stretch, your walls fluttering around his girth until you’re seated completely.

You don't move. Not yet.

You lean forward, breasts brushing his chest, and drape yourself over him, your weight pinning him sweetly.

His cock throbs inside you, trapped in your heat, and you clench—hard, squeezing him in rhythmic pulses that make your own breath hitch.

"Jesus—fuck," Steve’s voice breaks into a soft, helpless sound, head tilting back against the pillows, throat stretched and exposed.

His hands twitch beneath yours, a restless urge to touch, to hold, but he keeps them still, giving himself over to you.

You loosen your hold on his wrists, letting your hands glide down his arms. Your fingers trace the lines of his torso before sliding back up, settling over his chest, over those glorious pecs rising and falling with each ragged breath.

You start slow, hands gliding over the solid planes, kneading gently, feeling the warmth of him seep into your skin.

Steve reacts to every bit of it—each press and squeeze drawing a soft, breathy sound from his throat, his hips trying to lift until you press him back down, holding him steady.

“Ah, ah—stay,” you murmur, soft but firm, and he obeys, catching his lip between his teeth as he nods.

Your thumbs circle over his nipples, the sensitive peaks quickly tightening, begging for attention.

Steve's breath hitches, chest arching into your touch.

"So sensitive here," you coo, pinching one lightly between your thumb and forefinger. He gasps, eyes squeezing shut. "Bet you could come just from this, couldn't you, Stevie?”

"Y-yes,” he confesses, the word slipping out on a shaky breath. His thighs tremble beneath you, abs contracting as he fights the urge to move.

You roll both nipples between your fingers, tugging just hard enough to make him cry out—a high, broken sound that goes straight to your clit.

Leaning down, you take one into your mouth. Your tongue swirls around the pebbled bud, hot and wet, sucking with gentle pressure.

Steve's back arches off the mattress, a keening whine ripping from his throat. “Oh, fuck… please, please, don’t stop.”

His cock throbs violently inside you, more precum slicking your walls as you clench down in response.

You hum against his skin, the vibration making him shudder, your teeth grazing the underside before you suck harder, hollowing your cheeks.

Your hand works the other nipple, pinching and twisting in time with your mouth.

Steve's a wreck already—whimpering mess of a man.

“F-fuck… feels so good,” he babbles, voice wrecked. “Your mouth… God, baby.”

His hands slide up to your hips, gripping like you're his lifeline.

"Look at you," you pull off with a pop, saliva stringing from your lips to his shiny, abused nipple. "My big, strong super soldier, falling apart from a little nipple play. You love it, don't you? Love having your pretty tits sucked while I strangle your cock with my pussy."

The dirty words slip from you effortlessly, fueled by his unraveling—Steve’s eyes glassy, lips parted in endless pleas, hips twitching helplessly against your hold.

"Please, need you, can't—fuck—your pussy's so tight… please move." he whimpers, voice pitching higher as you switch sides, latching onto the neglected nipple with insatiable hunger.

You suck harder, tongue flicking relentlessly while your pussy continues to clamp down in brutal pulses, grinding your clit against his pubic bone for your own pleasure.

Minutes stretch like this—your mouth and hands worshipping his pecs, nipples swollen and red from your assault, his cock still trapped in your fluttering heat.

Steve's reduced to babbling filth he doesn't even know he's saying: "Suck harder—need it—pussy's choking me—gonna come, please say I can—"

Finally, when his whimpers turn to outright sobs, tears pricking his lashes, you relent.

You sit up slowly, hands still toying with his nipples, lifting barely an inch before sinking back down.

Steve's eyes fly open, a guttural moan tearing free. "Yes—fuck, yes—"

You set a torturously languid pace: rising until just the tip kisses your entrance, every veined inch dragging against your walls then lowering with a wet, slap grinding forward to smear your slick onto him.

“Mmm, just like that," you moan breathlessly, leaning back to brace on his thighs, giving him the view of your breasts bouncing softly, your pussy devouring him.

"Feel that, Stevie? My tight little cunt owning you. You gonna come, baby? Gonna come inside me, huh?”

Steve's hands come up to your breasts, kneading desperately, but his focus is shattered, hips stuttering up to meet your glacial pace. “Y-yes, please… inside… oh, fuck… so good…”

You lean forward mid-grind, capturing a nipple between your teeth, tugging as you rock back.

The dual sensation breaks him.

Steve cries out, back arching, cock pulsing rapidly. Hot, thick spurts of cum jet deep into you, rope after rope painting your walls white, his release so forceful it leaks out around the base despite your tight clench.

"F-fuck—coming, baby, can't stop—" he wails, voice cracking into pathetic moans.

His pecs jump under your mouth, nipples diamond-hard, tears streaming down his flushed face while he thrashes helplessly beneath you, every pulse of his cock drawing another broken sob.

The flood of his hot cum tips you over—your clit grinding relentlessly against him, his throbbing length stretching you full, pushes you into bliss.

Pleasure coils tight in your core and shatters; you cry out, walls convulsing wildly around him, milking every last drop as your orgasm crashes through you.

"Shit, Stevie—yes, fill me up, making me come so hard on your cock," you gasp, body shaking, vision blurring while you rock through the waves, soaking him further with your release.

But you don't stop, riding through both your climaxes slow and filthy, clenching rhythmically to wring him utterly dry, prolonging the ecstasy until he's a shuddering, oversensitive mess.

You keep going, grinding lazily through his oversensitivity, sucking his nipples until he's twitching, begging incoherently. "Too much… please… more" His cock gets hard again, super soldier stamina kicking in, and you grin, lifting to ride again.

Hours seem to pass, your slow rolls and deep grinds making obscene wet sounds, dirty talk spilling from your lips.

"Love how good you fill me up, baby. Gonna keep you hard all night, suck these pretty tits until you come again."

By the umpteenth time he spills inside you, you're both wrecked, sweat-slick and trembling. You collapse onto his chest, lips brushing his abused nipples one last time.

“You did so good for me,” you whisper, and he lets out a soft hum as his arms wrap around you.

thank you so much for reading! hope you enjoyed! pls like/comment/reblog if so and let me know what you think!

[buckybsdoll]

subby stevie i need youuuu omggg this was so so good Jazz 🫦🫦

His pecs are ridiculous—thick, sculpted muscle honed by decades of serum-fueled perfection, smooth and taut under your touch.

Steve fought it as best he could, but always ended up pressing you beneath him, fucking you deep and thorough, as if he had to prove he was still the one in control.

his pecs *are* ridiculous omg just wanna

"Look at you," you pull off with a pop, saliva stringing from your lips to his shiny, abused nipple. "My big, strong super soldier, falling apart from a little nipple play. You love it, don't you? Love having your pretty tits sucked while I strangle your cock with my pussy."

suuurrreeeee you're in control stevie, mhm yeah

"Not tonight, Captain. Tonight, you let me take care of you."

i love this bc he really does just need someone to take care of him

no cause fr why does he have so much boob? WHATS IT FOR??

[semper-nox]

Cover Story

Summary: Two days into a cover mission, you and Steve are already frighteningly good at playing newlyweds: hand in hand, pet names on autopilot, smiles for the neighbors. It’s supposed to be safe. It’s supposed to be fake. But the more convincing the act becomes, the harder it is to remember where the cover ends… and what it’s waking up between you.

Wordcount: 12.4k

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Female Reader (no use of Y/N)

Warnings: MDNI, porn with plot (for once), pronebone, unprotected p in v, big dick Steve (I mean... yk what I mean...), fake marriage au, undercover au, mission partners to lovers, friends to lovers, slow burn (but make it fast), mutual pining, pet names (honey, baby, sweetheart, doll), domestic fluff, protective steve rogers, sam wilson is an idiot

Elixir's Arcade Event: Flush with "Do I need to remind you that we're not actually married?" + "Do you know how hard I'm trying not to kiss you right now?" + "We're not supposed to do this." - "Then stop kissing me like that."

A/N: I was a little stuck with this one at first, because I knew I wanted it to be smutty, but at the same time I had no inspiration apart from some "vanilla" sex. And then, Cassie talked to me about the lack of pronebone fics with Steve, and I had no idea what that was, and looked it up, and I went "Oh. That. I want to write that." So, this one got @blobfishlol 's stamp of approval.

Masterlist

The plan had come out of Sam’s mouth like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“You’ll go in as a married couple.”

You had stared at him over the edge of the briefing table, waiting for the punchline to land.

It didn’t.

Sam, completely unfazed, had leaned back in his chair and shrugged like he’d just suggested ordering takeout. “It’s clean. It’s believable. People don’t look too hard at married people.”

Across from him, Steve had gone very, very still.

Which, in your experience, usually meant he was either biting back a comment… or bracing for impact.

You took a slow breath through your nose.

“Sam,” you said, carefully. “Do you realize who he is?”

Sam blinked. “Yes?”

“You know, the part where he’s–” You pointed at Steve without even looking at him, because it felt like pointing at a monument. “–Captain America.”

Steve’s ears turned pink. Of course they did.

Sam lifted his hands. “I’m aware.”

“So walk me through this,” you pressed, leaning in. “Walk me through how this is supposed to work in a world where everyone and their grandma recognizes his face.”

“It’s a cover,” Sam insisted. “Not a red-carpet announcement.”

You let out a laugh that had no humor in it. “A cover. Right. Because nothing says ‘low profile’ like Captain America suddenly having a wife.”

Steve cleared his throat, very quietly. “It doesn’t have to be–”

“No,” you cut in, because if you gave him room, he would try to smooth it over, and you were not in the mood to be smoothed. “No, Steve. We’re not doing this thing where we pretend it makes sense just because Sam said it with confidence.”

Sam’s smile widened, annoying and victorious. “Confidence is important.”

“It’s implacably stupid,” you snapped, and you didn’t even feel bad about it. “It’s the kind of stupid that only sounds brilliant if you say it fast and then leave the room before anyone can argue.”

Bucky, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, made a noise that might have been a laugh if he’d ever allowed himself joy. Natasha’s eyes flicked to you, sharp with interest – like she was watching a fire catch.

Sam pointed a finger at you like you were the one being unreasonable. “Okay, hear me out.”

“No.”

“Just–”

“No.”

Steve shifted again, his gaze fixed somewhere near the schematics, like the diagram might save him. “It’s… not the worst idea.”

Your head snapped toward him. “Don’t.”

His mouth shut. The pink in his cheeks got worse.

Sam seized the opening like a man starving. “Thank you! It’s not the worst idea.”

You looked between them – Sam with his smug optimism, Steve with his painfully earnest discomfort – and felt a headache blooming behind your eyes.

“You’re telling me,” you said slowly, “that we’re going to walk into a place crawling with people who have televisions and internet access, and our plan is… what. Hope nobody says, Hey, isn’t that Captain America? and then immediately follows it with, Wait, why is he wearing a wedding ring?”

Sam tilted his head. “People will assume he has a life.”

“Steve doesn’t have a life,” you said flatly, then immediately regretted the words when Steve’s expression flickered – something quick and wounded that he covered before it could fully exist.

You exhaled, rubbing your forehead. “Okay. That came out wrong.”

Steve shook his head once, small. “No, you’re… you’re not wrong.”

That was worse.

You straightened, forcing yourself back into the argument because it was easier than looking at the way his hands were folded so tightly in front of him.

“It’s not believable,” you said, more controlled now. “It’s not clean. It’s not anything. It’s a neon sign. People don’t look too hard at married people? They look at him.”

Sam leaned forward, elbows on the table, eyes bright. “That’s exactly why it works.”

You stared at him.

Sam smiled like he’d been waiting for this moment. “They’ll look at him and stop thinking. They’ll fill in the gaps themselves. Captain America is married? Sure. Why not. It’s not like the tabloids haven’t tried to marry him off a hundred times.”

Natasha made a thoughtful sound. “He’s not wrong.”

You turned to her. “Don’t you start.”

Natasha’s mouth curved. “I’m not starting. I’m observing.”

Bucky hummed. “It’s gonna be funny.”

You glared at him. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“I’ve had a hard life,” he deadpanned. “Let me have this.”

Steve finally lifted his eyes to you. And there it was again – that quiet steadiness that made you feel seen in the most inconvenient way.

“I’ll do whatever makes the mission safer,” he said, simple as that. “If it’s a bad idea, we’ll find another cover. We don’t have to force it.”

Sam pointed at him again, triumphant. “Look at that. Team player. America’s husband.”

“Sam,” Steve warned, but it had no bite. It never did.

You pushed your chair back with a scrape that sounded louder than it should have in the sterile briefing room.

“It’s stupid,” you repeated, because you needed them to understand that you meant it with your whole chest. “It’s stupid and I’m not backing down. There are a dozen other covers we can use. Hell – put a fake mustache on him. That would be less recognizable.”

Sam’s grin widened to something almost affectionate. “You’re cute when you’re mad.”

“I will end you,” you said, without missing a beat.

Natasha’s eyes gleamed. “Please do it quietly. Some of us are trying to work.”

Steve’s lips twitched, traitorous. He looked away quickly, like smiling at you was a secret he couldn’t afford.

That – that was the problem.

Not the ring. Not the paperwork. Not the logistics.

The problem was that this ridiculous idea had already started to pull at something that had been tight and controlled between you and Steve for months. A thread you both pretended wasn’t there. A tension you both filed away under not now and not allowed and don’t even think about it.

And Sam, in all his “brilliant” stupidity, had just yanked on it with both hands.

“We’re not actually married,” you said, pointing at Steve again like it would somehow anchor reality.

Steve nodded, earnest. “I know.”

“And we’re not going to act like we are,” you added, sharper. “We’re going to act like… like two people who–”

Sam cut in immediately, delighted. “Like two people who love each other.”

You made a sound of pure, visceral disgust. “Absolutely not.”

Steve’s breath caught – so soft you almost missed it – and his eyes flicked to yours.

For a second, the room faded. The table. The files. The mission.

Just his gaze. Just the way it held too much.

Then he blinked, and it was gone, tucked back behind the shield he wore even when the shield wasn’t in his hands.

Sam clapped his hands together. “Great! So we agree.”

“We do not–” you started.

“–agree,” Sam finished, completely ignoring you. “Rings, names, backstory. We’ll workshop it. Steve, you’re gonna have to get used to saying ‘my wife’ without looking like you’re about to apologize.”

Steve’s face went red so fast it was almost impressive.

You threw your hands up. “This is incredibly stupid.”

Sam beamed. “See? You’re already saying it like it’s a catchphrase.”

You glared at him so hard it should’ve set him on fire.

Steve shifted beside you, close enough that you could feel the heat of him, and his voice dropped just for you – low, quiet, sincere.

“We can still say no,” he murmured. “If you want. I’ll back you.”

You should’ve said yes.

You should’ve grabbed onto that lifeline and dragged yourself out of this before it became something you couldn’t control.

Instead you looked at him – at the honesty in his eyes, at the way he offered you safety even when it meant making himself uncomfortable – and something in your chest went soft in the worst possible way.

And Sam, watching the two of you with the satisfied patience of a man who knew exactly what he was doing, just smiled wider.

“Come on,” he said, already gathering the folders. “It’s gonna be fine. Everybody loves a wedding story.”

You muttered, under your breath, “I hate you.”

Sam didn’t even pretend to be offended.

“I know,” he said cheerfully. “Now pick a date. Nothing says ‘committed’ like a date.”

Steve made a strangled sound.

And you realized, with dawning horror, that this mission wasn’t going to be dangerous because of the target.

It was going to be dangerous because of the lie.

By the time you reached the apartment, you already hated everything about Sam’s “brilliant” plan.

It wasn’t a safehouse in the usual sense – not a bunker, not a sterile S.H.I.E.L.D. box with reinforced doors and cameras in the vents. It was an ordinary unit in an ordinary building with beige walls and a lobby that smelled faintly of old mail and someone’s reheated pasta.

Normal.

That was the point.

You went up the stairs with your duffel biting into your shoulder, Steve a step behind you with his own bag like he wasn’t Steve Rogers, like he was just another man moving in with his wife.

The thought made your jaw tighten.

Inside, the apartment was… decent. Small, clean, staged. The kind of space someone had rented out furnished and forgotten about. A neutral sofa, a little kitchen, a table with two chairs. A framed print of something abstract on the wall that looked like it had been chosen specifically because it meant nothing.

You dropped your bag by the entryway and did a quick scan out of habit – sightlines, exits, hiding spots, anything that could turn into a problem.

Then you walked toward the bedroom, pushed the door open, and…

Of course.

One bed.

One, single, wide bed that took up most of the room like it had been placed there to make a point. Crisp white sheets. Two pillows. A faint scent of detergent and that slightly too-sweet air freshener smell that every “temporary” apartment seemed to have.

You stood there for a second, staring at it like it might multiply if you glared hard enough.

Behind you, Steve halted in the doorway. You didn’t have to look at him to know he’d clocked the same thing.

Silence stretched.

You exhaled slowly, turning on your heel. “I’ll take the couch.”

Steve’s head lifted, as if he was going to argue – and of course he was. Because Steve would rather sleep on broken glass than let someone else be uncomfortable.

“I can–” he started.

“You can take the bed,” you cut in before he could do the whole gentle martyr routine. “This isn’t a debate, Steve.”

His brows drew together. “It’s not fair.”

“It’s a mattress,” you said, grabbing one of the throw blankets from the sofa like you’d already decided. “I’ll survive.”

He opened his mouth again…

And the doorbell rang.

Sharp. Immediate. Like the universe had impeccable comedic timing.

You froze.

Steve’s entire posture changed in an instant – from awkward and domestic to alert and ready, the kind of switch that always made you remember he was built for war even when he was holding grocery bags.

You moved toward the door without thinking, peeking through the peephole.

A couple stood in the hallway: middle-aged, friendly faces, the kind of people who waved at neighbors and remembered birthdays. The woman held a small plate covered in foil. The man wore a baseball cap and a curious smile.

Neighbors.

Great.

You pulled the door open and forced your expression into something approachable.

“Hi,” you said, brightening your voice just a touch. “Can I help you?”

The woman’s face lit up. “Oh! Hi. We’re so sorry to bother you, we just– we saw someone moving in and thought we’d come say welcome. I’m Linda. This is my husband, Mark. We’re right across the hall.”

You smiled, polite. “That’s really nice, thank you.”

Before you could add anything else, Steve stepped up behind you.

And then it happened so smoothly you almost didn’t register it until you felt it.

His arm came around your shoulders – warm, solid, familiar – pulling you in just enough to make it natural. Not possessive. Not dramatic. Just… intimate, in that casual way couples were intimate without thinking about it.

Like he’d done it a thousand times.

Your body reacted before your brain caught up: a stiff little jolt in your spine, your breath catching in the back of your throat.

Steve didn’t hesitate.

“Hi,” he said, easy, friendly, utterly un-Captain-America in the best way. “I’m Steve. Thanks for coming by.”

Then, without even looking down, he tipped his head toward you and added, voice softening just a fraction, “Honey, do we still have those waters in the fridge?”

Honey.

The word landed like a hand on your pulse.

Not because it was loud.

Because it was right – in the worst possible way. Like his mouth had shaped it naturally. Like it belonged there. Like you belonged there.

You felt the neighbors’ eyes flicker between the two of you with immediate approval, the way people did when they sensed something familiar and comfortable.

Linda beamed. “Oh my God, you two are adorable.”

Mark nodded, grinning. “Yeah. Welcome to the building.”

You forced a laugh that sounded a little too high in your own ears. “Thanks.”

Steve’s thumb shifted against your shoulder, a tiny squeeze – a silent play along.

Your brain finally caught up enough to do its job.

You leaned into him, just slightly. Let your shoulders relax. Let your body lie as convincingly as your mouth was about to.

“Sorry,” you said, aiming for warm. “We just got in and we’re still… unpacking.”

Linda lifted the plate. “We brought you something. Banana bread. It’s nothing fancy, but it’s fresh.”

“That’s so kind,” you said, accepting it with both hands. The foil was still warm.

Steve’s arm didn’t move.

His presence at your side was steady, reassuring, and suddenly far too distracting.

Linda’s gaze dropped – naturally – to your hand. To the ring.

And then to Steve’s.

Her smile widened like you’d just confirmed something she wanted to believe. “Newlyweds?”

Oh, for the love of–

You felt Steve’s breath change. Not a flinch, exactly. Just a fractional pause, like even he hadn’t anticipated the direct hit.

But he recovered instantly.

“Yeah,” Steve said, gentle, almost shy. “Pretty recently.”

Your stomach flipped.

Linda clasped her hands together. “That is wonderful! Congratulations!”

Mark chuckled. “You picked a good building, man. Quiet. Safe.”

Steve nodded. “That was the idea.”

You kept smiling, kept your face smooth, kept the lie sitting on your tongue like it hadn’t just scorched your throat.

“Thank you,” you managed. “We’re… we’re happy to be here.”

Linda’s eyes softened in that way women’s eyes softened when they thought they were looking at something sweet. “Well, if you need anything – sugar, flour, a screwdriver, someone to take a package – you just knock.”

“We will,” Steve promised. “Thank you. Really.”

They said their goodbyes after another minute, still smiling, still satisfied.

You kept waving until the elevator swallowed them.

The second the door clicked shut, you exhaled so hard it felt like you’d been holding your breath for hours.

Steve’s arm fell away immediately, like he’d been burned.

The warmth it left behind on your skin was almost worse.

You turned slowly, banana bread still in your hands like evidence.

Steve stood a few feet away, eyes on the floor for a beat, then up to you – apologetic already forming on his face.

“I’m sorry,” he started.

You held up a hand. “Don’t.”

His brows knit. “I just– it was automatic. I thought–”

“I know,” you said, because you did. That was the problem. It had been automatic. Instinctive. Like his body knew the role.

Like he’d wanted to play it.

You set the plate on the counter a little too carefully.

Then you looked back at him, trying for exasperation and landing on something softer you didn’t want.

“Honey?” you repeated, dryly.

Steve’s face went red in a way that would’ve been funny if it didn’t make your chest ache.

“I panicked,” he admitted.

“You panicked and your brain decided ‘honey’ was the best option.”

Steve’s mouth opened, then closed. “I–”

You shook your head, letting out a small, incredulous laugh. “This is going to be a long few days.”

His gaze flicked to the bedroom door behind you.

Then to the couch.

Then back to you, like he wanted to say something responsible and didn’t know where to put it.

You could see the thought forming – the inevitable argument about who slept where, about propriety, about comfort, about what you were “supposed” to do.

And then, like the universe wasn’t done tormenting you, you heard footsteps in the hall again. Another door opening. A murmur of voices.

Other neighbors.

More eyes.

More “welcome” smiles.

More rings to notice.

Steve’s shoulders squared subtly, the way they did when he stepped into a role.

When he looked at you this time, there was an apology in his eyes – and something else, too.

Something you didn’t let yourself name.

“Okay,” you muttered, more to yourself than to him. “Ground rules.”

Steve blinked. “Ground rules?”

“You do not call me honey,” you said firmly.

His lips twitched, helpless. “What about–”

“No.”

“Amazing,” he murmured, like he couldn’t help it. “Because I was going to suggest we–”

The doorbell rang again.

You both froze.

Steve’s gaze slid to yours, and for half a second, you saw it: the way he was already bracing to put his arm around you again.

The way you were already bracing to let him.

You swallowed, stepped toward the door, and forced your best smile back into place.

Behind you, Steve moved closer – close enough to feel.

Close enough to make the lie believable.

And you hated how easily your body adjusted to it.

By the end of the first day, you hated two things with equal intensity.

Sam’s smugness.

And how quickly your body learned the rhythm of the lie.

Because outside the apartment, Steve didn’t just play along. He inhabited it like he’d been born knowing how.

It started small – almost reasonable.

A “honey” murmured at the corner store when you reached for the wrong brand of coffee filters. A “darling” said with a soft laugh as he held the door open for you, palm resting at the small of your back like it belonged there.

The first few times, it made your spine go rigid.

Not because it was inappropriate – you’d done worse covers than this – but because it was Steve. Because his voice did something unfair to those words, like he meant them even when he absolutely couldn’t.

And the worst part was that it worked.

The cashier looked at you and didn’t see an Avenger and an agent. She saw a couple. A man with a patient smile, a woman rolling her eyes affectionately, two people bickering gently over which cereal was “actually edible.” She saw normal.

The building’s doorman learned your faces. The elderly lady on the second floor smiled at you like you were her favorite kind of story. The guy with the dog stopped giving Steve the suspicious once-over after the second day, because Steve had started crouching down to scratch the dog’s ears like he didn’t have a single dangerous thought in his head.

And you…

You held his hand.

Not dramatically. Not with some performative squeeze meant for an audience. Just… naturally.

Because it was easier.

Because it was safer.

Because once you’d done it once, your fingers started reaching for his the next time without you even thinking about it.

Two days.

Two days and your body began to anticipate the warmth of his palm before your brain could remember why it was a bad idea.

You ran the perimeter as if you were just stretching your legs after unpacking, strolling past the same coffee shop twice, ducking into a small bookstore, lingering at the window of a florist for no reason other than to look like you had time.

Steve walked beside you like he belonged there.

Sometimes his arm would slide around your shoulders with that same easy familiarity, tugging you in against his side when you crossed a street. Sometimes his hand would settle at your waist when you paused near a storefront, a light pressure that felt like an anchor.

He said your name less.

He said darling or honey more.

And each time he did, it got… easier.

Less jarring.

Less like a performance.

More like a habit.

You told yourself it was because repetition made anything feel normal. That this was just conditioning. That if you repeated a lie often enough, it stopped feeling like a lie.

It was a comforting thought.

It was also a dangerous one.

By the second night, you’d stopped flinching when he touched you.

By the second night, you’d stopped fighting the instinct to lean into him.

By the second night, you’d caught yourself laughing at something he said while his arm was around you – and you’d forgotten, for half a second, that anyone was watching.

You’d forgotten the mission.

You’d forgotten you weren’t supposed to let this seep under your skin.

That was what terrified you.

The third morning should have been routine.

The apartment was quiet in that early way, the kind of quiet that felt domestic whether you wanted it to or not. Pale light spilled through the blinds. The building’s pipes hissed somewhere in the walls. The scent of coffee hung in the air, warm and grounding.

You were sitting at the small table with your laptop open, hair still messy, one knee tucked up under you. A map and a list of names were spread out beside the keyboard, the practical skeleton of the operation laid bare.

Steve moved around the kitchen with a kind of careful ease you didn’t know he had – barefoot, sleeves pushed up, hair still damp from the shower. He’d taken the couch the first night. You’d argued. He’d insisted. You’d rolled your eyes and let him, because it was easier than acknowledging how the idea of sharing the bed made your pulse do stupid things.

He’d taken the couch the second night too.

You’d told yourself that proved you were both being professional.

You were still telling yourself that when he approached with a mug in each hand.

He set one down in front of you – black, two sugars, exactly how you took it – like he’d been doing it for years instead of… forty-eight hours.

Then he tilted his head, mouth curving, voice soft with that morning warmth that made you want to throw something at him.

“Here you go, darling.”

You froze with your fingers hovering over the keyboard.

It wasn’t the word.

It was the way it came with no hesitation at all. No performative wink. No glance toward a window to check who might hear.

Just… natural.

Intimate.

Like you were alone and it was real.

You looked up slowly.

Steve was still smiling, but there was a question in his eyes too – like he wasn’t sure why you’d stopped moving. Like he was just… existing in the habit you’d both built.

Your gaze flicked to the coffee. To the mug. To his hands, big and steady and careful not to spill.

Then back to his face.

“You’re getting comfortable,” you said, suspicion sharpening your tone on purpose, because if you didn’t make it a joke, it would turn into something else.

Steve blinked. “What?”

You nudged the mug slightly, as if moving it could shove the moment back into place. “With the… pet names.”

His mouth opened like he was going to deny it. Then he seemed to think better of it.

A faint flush crept up his neck.

“I thought–” he started, then stopped, because whatever excuse he had didn’t sound convincing even in his own head.

You leaned back in your chair, lifting an eyebrow.

And then you let it land exactly where it needed to.

“Do I need to remind you we’re not actually married?”

For half a second, Steve just stared at you.

Like the words had yanked him out of a daydream.

Like you’d pulled a thread and something inside him had gone tight.

His gaze dropped to your hand – to the ring that still sat there, simple and cruel – and his jaw worked once, as if he was swallowing something he hadn’t meant to taste.

Then he looked up again, and the softness in his expression didn’t disappear.

It just changed.

“I remember,” he said quietly.

There was no defensiveness in it.

No embarrassment.

Just… truth.

And for a moment, the apartment felt too small. The air too warm. The coffee too rich in your throat.

Because he wasn’t arguing.

He wasn’t correcting you.

He was simply acknowledging the line you’d drawn – and the fact that he’d stepped close enough to it to make you nervous.

You forced a small, dry smile, because you needed control back in your hands.

“Good.”

Steve’s eyes held yours, steady and too honest for seven in the morning.

“I’m not doing it to–” he began, and stopped again, like he was choosing his words with care. “It’s… habit. Like you said.”

“Right,” you agreed quickly. “A habit.”

He nodded once, but his voice was lower when he added, almost like he couldn’t help himself–

“It’s easy.”

You didn’t breathe for a second.

Easy.

Like it didn’t cost you anything.

Like it didn’t twist something in your chest every time he called you darling.

Like it didn’t make your skin remember his hand around your shoulders before you’d even stepped outside.

You looked away first, because if you didn’t, you were going to let him see too much.

You reached for the mug, wrapping your hands around the heat like it was something solid to hold onto.

“Let’s just… keep it outside,” you said, casual on purpose. “In here, we can be normal.”

Steve’s lips quirked faintly. “Normal.”

You shot him a look over the rim of your coffee. “You know what I mean.”

His smile softened – gentle, almost fond.

And that was the real problem.

Because you were starting to recognize that look.

Not from missions.

From moments.

“I do,” he said. “I’ll– I’ll be careful.”

Careful.

You nodded, taking a sip, letting the bitterness ground you.

Then the quiet stretched, filled with the small sounds of morning – the building settling, the distant hum of traffic, the faint clink of Steve setting his own mug down.

You told yourself you’d put the line back where it belonged.

That you’d reminded him.

That you’d reminded yourself.

But when you stood a few minutes later to grab the printed file from the counter, Steve shifted to make room for you in the narrow space.

And as you passed him, he murmured, almost too soft to hear, “Sorry, honey.”

The word curled around you like smoke.

You stopped for half a beat.

Steve went still too, like he realized what he’d done at the exact same time you did.

Then you exhaled slowly, not turning around.

“This is going to be a long mission,” you muttered.

Behind you, you heard the smallest sound – not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh.

And Steve, voice warm with something dangerously close to amusement, answered anyway.

“Yeah,” he said. “It is.”

The invite had come through one of the informants like it was nothing.

A “small get-together.” A “few people.” A “chance to be seen.”

Which, translated into your world, meant: a room full of eyes you couldn’t afford to trigger.

It wasn’t black-tie. No glittering ballroom, no orchestra, no photographers. But it was still the kind of evening where people noticed details. Where you couldn’t show up in tactical gear and a hoodie without sticking out like a warning sign.

So you made an effort.

Steve did too.

That was part of the problem.

He’d swapped his usual mission-friendly layers for something softer, cleaner. Dark jeans, a button-down with the sleeves rolled to his forearms, the collar open just enough to look relaxed. His hair was still Steve-hair – stubborn and slightly unruly – but he’d tamed it a little, like he’d actually stood in front of a mirror and tried.

You hated how unfair it was.

How one small shift made him look less like Captain America and more like… a man.

A man you had to pretend was yours.

You chose something simple. Nothing that screamed date night, nothing that made you feel like you were trying too hard. Just a dress that hit your knees and a jacket you could move in, your hair pinned back enough to keep it out of your face. You’d checked the seams, the pockets, the way the fabric fell – because even when you were dressed like a civilian, you still thought like a soldier.

In the hallway mirror, you’d both looked almost… believable.

Steve had glanced at you, then away, like looking too long would be a mistake.

“Ready?” he’d asked.

You’d swallowed. “Yeah.”

And then you’d stepped into the lie together.

The party was in someone’s apartment a few blocks away – bigger than yours, warmer, louder. The kind of place where furniture got pushed back to make room for bodies and music and laughter. Someone had lit too many candles. Someone had put together a playlist that tried hard to be cool.

There were drinks on every surface.

There were clusters of people talking with their whole hands. Couples leaning close. Friends laughing too loudly. A dog weaving between legs like it owned the place.

Normal.

That was the point.

You and Steve slipped into it like you belonged there.

He rested a hand at your back when you moved through the crowd. You smiled at strangers. You laughed at jokes you barely heard. You nodded along to conversations about work and rent and the building’s plumbing like you weren’t mentally mapping exits.

You played your role.

He played his.

And together, you were… seamless.

A couple.

A unit.

Steve’s “honey” came out at the right moments – just loud enough for other people to register, just casual enough to feel real. He introduced you with an arm around your waist. He let people assume things about you without correcting them.

And the room accepted it.

The dangerous part was that you started to accept it too.

You should have paced your drinking. You knew that. You always knew that. But the atmosphere was easy, and the conversation was harmless, and it felt good – too good – to let your shoulders loosen for once.

Someone handed you a glass of something citrusy and sweet. Then another.

Steve didn’t say anything at first. He watched, as he always did – quiet, protective, letting you make your own choices.

But at some point, you realized his hand had moved from your waist to your hip, firmer now. A silent reminder. A steadying weight.

When you glanced up at him, you found his eyes already on you.

Careful.

A little concerned.

A little… something else, maybe.

“You okay?” he murmured, close to your ear so no one else could hear.

You smiled, too bright. “I’m fine.”

Steve’s thumb pressed once into your hip. “You’re flushed.”

“It’s warm in here.”

His gaze dipped to your mouth. Came back up.

“You’ve had a few.”

“Captain,” you teased, leaning in just enough to make it look affectionate, “are you monitoring my alcohol intake?”

His mouth twitched. “Someone has to.”

You laughed – real, this time – and Steve’s expression softened like that sound had hit him somewhere tender.

It made your stomach flip in a way you didn’t have permission to feel.

So you drank again, because it was easier than thinking about it.

You left at the right time.

Before anyone got too drunk to keep their stories straight. Before the noise turned sloppy. Before you started forgetting why you were there.

Steve guided you out with a hand on your back and a polite smile, thanking the host, waving to people you’d spoken to for exactly twelve minutes and would never see again.

Outside, the air was colder, cleaner. The night pressed against your skin like a reset.

You inhaled too deeply and swayed just slightly.

Steve’s hand immediately tightened on your arm.

“Easy,” he said, voice low.

“I’m fine,” you repeated, stubborn.

“I know,” he replied, and there was something in his tone – patient, affectionate, impossibly gentle – that made you look at him.

Really look.

Streetlight pooled gold on his hair. On the line of his jaw. On the collar of his shirt, open at the throat like he wasn’t wearing armor for once.

His face was relaxed from the social performance, but his eyes were still sharp, still tracking, still Steve.

Only now, with the alcohol warm in your blood, you couldn’t keep your mind on the mission.

You saw the way he’d smiled at the dog. The way he’d said your name like it mattered. The way his hand had stayed on you the entire night, not for show, but because he didn’t seem to want to let go.

And something in your chest went strangely quiet.

When you reached your building, you fumbled slightly with the keys.

Steve took them from your hand without a word, unlocked the door, held it open. His shoulder brushed yours as you stepped inside.

You were too aware of that brush.

Too aware of him.

The elevator ride was short and silent.

In your apartment, the familiar blandness hit you – neutral walls, neutral furniture, neutral space that was supposed to be a base and not a home.

Steve set the keys down, loosened his shoulders, exhaled like he’d been carrying the night for both of you.

You turned to face him.

The room was dim. Just the kitchen light, soft and yellow, catching the edges of his features.

You stared.

Not like you normally did, quick and pragmatic, checking for tension, scanning for stress.

Different.

Longer.

Like you were seeing him as something other than a teammate, other than a symbol, other than a role.

Steve noticed.

Of course he did.

His gaze flicked to your eyes and held, suddenly still. Something changed in his posture – not alarm, not defense.

Awareness.

A careful kind of attention that made your skin prickle.

“Hey,” you said, and it came out quieter than you meant it to. Almost tender.

Steve didn’t answer right away. His throat worked once, like he was swallowing.

He took a step closer.

Not enough to crowd you.

Just enough that you could feel the heat of him.

And when he spoke, his voice was low – roughened by restraint, by the whole night of playing husband, by the way you were looking at him now.

“Do you know how hard I’m trying not to kiss you right now?”

The sentence hit you like a shove.

Not because you hadn’t felt the tension.

But because he said it like it was the truth. Like he couldn’t carry it alone anymore.

Your breath caught, your pulse spiking under your skin.

“Steve…” you whispered, and you didn’t know if it was a warning or a plea.

His eyes dropped to your mouth again, just for a second – like he was measuring the distance. Like he was imagining it. Like he was fighting himself with everything he had.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t touch you.

He just stood there, hands loose at his sides, looking at you like he was asking permission without daring to ask.

The alcohol in your blood made you brave in the worst way.

Or honest.

You took a small step forward, closing the space he refused to close.

And you tilted your head, voice soft, almost teasing – but your eyes were serious.

“Then don’t look at me like that,” you said.

Steve’s breath stuttered.

His jaw clenched.

“We’re not supposed to do this,” he murmured, like the words cost him.

You could almost hear the mission between you. The rules. The consequences.

You could almost hear Sam’s laugh if he knew.

And still – you didn’t move away.

Instead, you lifted your hand, not touching him yet, just hovering near his chest, feeling the heat radiating off him.

“Steve,” you said again, quieter. “You’ve been calling me honey all week.”

His eyes flicked up, sharp with something raw. “That was for the cover.”

“And what about the way you held me tonight?” you asked, too softly. “Was that for the neighbors too?”

Steve’s throat bobbed. His voice came out even lower.

“Stop,” he warned – not harsh, not angry. Just desperate.

“Why?” you whispered.

Because he was losing, and you could see it.

Because you were losing too.

He swallowed, eyes burning into yours like he was trying to memorize you before he did something he couldn’t take back.

“Because if you keep talking,” he said, “I’m not going to be able to stop myself.”

The air between you tightened.

Your smile trembled at the edges, not quite playful anymore.

“Then stop trying,” you breathed.

And that was the moment.

The exact moment when Steve’s restraint cracked – not into violence, not into recklessness.

Into want.

His hand lifted, finally, and hovered by your cheek like he was still giving you a chance to back away.

His voice was barely a whisper.

“Tell me to stop.”

You didn’t.

You just leaned in.

Steve kissed you.

It wasn’t careful, not this time – not the gentle, testing press that left room for doubt. This was heat and momentum, the kind of kiss that swallowed the air between you like it had been starving for it.

His hand found your jaw, thumb braced beneath your ear, and you felt the tremor he tried to hide. Like even now, even with his mouth on yours, some part of him was still fighting – counting consequences, holding the line by sheer force of will.

You made a small sound against his lips, and it was like the last thread snapped.

Steve pulled you closer, chest to chest, the slide of fabric and warmth and breath. Your fingers fisted in his shirt, dragging him in because you couldn’t do anything else. Because you didn’t want to.

You broke apart only to breathe, foreheads nearly touching, mouths still brushing – stolen seconds, stolen air.

His eyes stayed on you, dark and wrecked with restraint.

“We shouldn’t do this,” he breathed, the words catching between your mouths like a prayer he didn’t believe in anymore.

You almost laughed. Almost.

Instead you kissed him again, and the sound he made was all frustration and surrender.

He moved you without thinking – one step, then another – until your back hit the wall. Not hard. Not violent. Just decisive, like his body knew exactly where it wanted you. Like he needed something solid behind you to stop himself from falling.

His hands came up, sliding into your hair, fingers spreading at the base of your skull to hold you steady, to keep your face exactly where he wanted it. The tenderness of it should have felt contradictory with the hunger of the kiss, but it didn’t.

It felt like Steve.

Like devotion, even when it was dangerous.

Your breath hitched as he kissed you again, deeper, slower, like he was learning the shape of your mouth by force. Your hands slid up his sides, gripping him like you could anchor yourself to him and keep the whole world from tilting.

Between two kisses, you felt his forehead brush yours.

“We really–” he started, voice ragged. “We–”

You cut him off by pulling him back in, your mouth demanding his until the thought evaporated.

He kissed you like he was trying to convince himself. Like he was trying to forget. Like he was trying to remember, all at once.

When you finally managed to speak – when your lips parted just enough to let words slip out – you were still pinned there, still held in place by his hands in your hair, his body a shield in front of you.

“Then stop kissing me like that,” you whispered, breathless and accusing and not meaning it at all.

Steve stilled for the smallest second.

His eyes flicked over your face – your mouth, your eyes, the way your hands were still gripping him like you were afraid he’d disappear.

His thumbs pressed gently against your scalp, grounding, reverent.

And then he leaned in again, lips brushing yours like he couldn’t help it.

“I can’t,” he murmured.

The admission hit harder than any of the kisses.

Because it wasn’t an excuse.

It was surrender.

You swallowed, your pulse a loud, reckless thing in your throat. Your fingers slid up, catching at his collar, tugging him down again. You wanted to taste the truth of what he’d just said until it stopped making you feel like you might break.

Steve’s breath shuddered against your mouth.

His hands held your head carefully as he kissed you – like he was afraid of hurting you, like he was afraid you might change your mind, like he needed you to stay right there because if you moved away he’d come apart.

You felt the restraint in him anyway, under the hunger. The way he kept stopping himself from crowding you too hard, the way his hips stayed just far enough back, the way he kept his hands only where they could steady you.

Like he was drawing the line with shaking hands.

Like he didn’t trust himself not to cross it.

You pulled back a fraction, just enough to look at him.

Steve’s eyes were blown wide with want, his breathing uneven, his mouth swollen from kissing you like he’d forgotten how to do anything else.

He looked… undone.

And still, even like this, there was a question in him. A need to be sure.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered again, voice breaking at the edges, as if saying it cost him.

Your chest rose and fell too fast.

You could feel the mission hovering in the air like a ghost. The rules. The rings. The thin walls. Tomorrow.

But Steve was here, in front of you, holding your head like you were precious, kissing you like he couldn’t survive without it.

You lifted your hand, sliding your fingers along his jaw, feeling the roughness of stubble there.

“No,” you breathed. “Don’t.”

The sound he made was almost a groan – caught in his throat, swallowed by the next kiss as he pressed his mouth to yours again like you’d just given him permission to breathe.

His lips moved to the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, then your jaw – slower now, reverent in a way that made your skin prickle. He lingered like he was trying to map you. Like he was trying to memorize the places that made you go still.

You tilted your head back instinctively, giving him more.

Steve paused, his forehead resting against yours again, his hands still in your hair, holding you there.

“You’re sure?” he asked, quiet and wrecked.

Your answer came without hesitation, even if your brain was still screaming about consequences.

“Yes.”

Steve closed his eyes like that single word had finally broken him.

Then he kissed you again – deep, aching, unhurried – and his lips pressed harder against yours in the dim light of the kitchen, his strong hands tangled in your hair, tilting your head just right to deepen the kiss.

His fingers threaded through the strands with a firm grip, holding you steady as your tongues met in a slow, heated dance that sent sparks racing through your body. Each swirl and flick left you both gasping for air, breaths mingling in short, ragged bursts between the press of mouths.

Your arms slid up around his broad neck, pulling him closer, fingers digging into the muscles at the base of his skull. He responded instantly, his large hands dropping to your thighs, gripping the soft flesh there with effortless strength. In one fluid motion, he hoisted you up as if you were weightless, your legs wrapping instinctively around his waist. The cool edge of the kitchen counter brushed your back for a split second before he spun you both, pinning you firmly against the wall with his solid frame.

The impact jolted a soft moan from your lips into his mouth, and he swallowed it greedily, his kisses turning fiercer, more demanding.

His body trapped yours there, hips grinding subtly against you, the hard line of his cock already straining through his pants against your core. You could feel the heat radiating from him, the way his chest heaved with every breath, matching the wild thrum of your pulse.

For what felt like an eternity but was probably only moments, you lost yourselves in that wall-bound embrace–lips bruising, tongues battling, hands roaming just enough to tease without mercy.

But soon, the thin barriers of fabric became unbearable, a frustrating veil between skin and skin. Your fingers clawed at the hem of his shirt, tugging it upward to expose the chiseled planes of his abs, while his palms slid under your dress and went up your body, calloused thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts, making your nipples harden instantly under the touch.

He broke the kiss just long enough to growl low in his throat, eyes dark with hunger as they locked onto yours. “Doll,” he murmured, the word rough and intimate, before his mouth claimed yours again. One hand stayed firm on your thigh, keeping you elevated, while the other pushed your dress higher, fingers tracing the edge of your panties, dipping just beneath to feel the damp heat waiting for him.

Steve's hips rolled forward in a deliberate grind, the rigid length of his cock pressing insistently against the damp fabric of your panties, sending jolts of friction straight to your core. Each subtle thrust built a mounting ache between your thighs, his body heat seeping through the layers as he trapped you more firmly against the wall.

His mouth left yours with a wet pop, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down the column of your neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin just below your ear. He nipped there lightly, then sucked harder, marking you with a blooming heat that made your pulse thunder in your veins.

His lips wandered lower, brushing over the exposed curve of your collarbone, then dipping toward the swell of your breasts where your dress had ridden up. The fabric bunched awkwardly, but he didn't care – he kissed and licked at whatever skin he could reach, his breath fanning across your chest in ragged exhales.

One hand kneaded your thigh, fingers digging into the muscle to hold you steady as his hips kept that torturous rhythm, rubbing his erection along your slit through the barriers, teasing your clit with every pass.

Your fingers twisted deeper into his hair, clutching the thick strands like a lifeline, pulling him closer as if the touch alone could ground you amid the whirlwind of sensation. The pull elicited a low groan from him, vibrating against your skin, and he rewarded you by sucking a spot just above your pulse point, his tongue swirling to soothe the sting.

Your body arched into him instinctively, breasts pressing against his chest, nipples pebbling painfully against the confines of your bra, begging for more direct attention.

He shifted slightly, his free hand sliding up your side to cup one breast fully, thumb circling the hardened peak through the thin material. The pressure was exquisite, bordering on rough, and you gasped, your grip in his hair tightening enough to make him hiss in pleasure.

“God, sweetheart,” he rasped against your throat, voice thick with need, before his mouth returned to yours in a brief, devouring clash – tongues tangling fiercely while his grinding grew more urgent, the seam of his pants dragging over your soaked folds.

“Steve,” you panted, the word escaping in a breathless rush as he pulled back from the kiss just enough to draw in air, his lips hovering inches from yours, swollen and glistening.

"Yeah?" he murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through his chest into yours, eyes dark and locked on you with an intensity that made your stomach flip.

"Bedroom. Now. Need you inside me." The demand tumbled out, raw and urgent, your body thrumming with the ache he'd built, every nerve screaming for more.

A deep growl tore from his throat, primal and possessive, as his arms tightened around you.

He glanced down to ensure your legs were locked around his waist, your fingers still buried in his hair, and then he moved – super soldier speed turning the world into a blur. In less than fifteen seconds, the cool tile of the kitchen floor gave way to the plush carpet of the bedroom, the dim lamp casting golden shadows across the king-sized bed.

He lowered you onto the mattress with controlled strength, his body following yours down until he hovered above, caging you in with his broad frame. The weight of him pressed you into the soft sheets, his hips settling between your thighs, that hard cock still straining against his pants and nudging insistently at your core.

Without pause, his mouth crashed back onto yours, kissing you like a man deprived of his fix – desperate, devouring laps of his tongue against yours, teeth nipping at your lower lip to draw out a whimper.

His lips trailed fire along your jaw, then down to the curve of your neck, sucking and licking at the tender skin there.

"Bet you taste as sweet as honey," he whispered hotly against your pulse, his breath fanning over the damp marks he'd already left, one hand sliding up to tangle in your hair and tilt your head for better access. The words sent a shiver racing down your spine, your hips bucking up to grind against him in response.

"But need to be in your pussy now," he added, the confession rough and edged with hunger, his free hand yanking at the hem of your dress to shove it higher, fingers hooking into the waistband of your soaked panties and tugging them aside.

You arched beneath him, legs spreading wider to accommodate his bulk, the friction of his clothed erection dragging over your bare folds making you gasp into his mouth. He groaned at the feel of your wetness coating him through the fabric, his hips thrusting forward in a sharp snap that had the head of his cock pressing right against your entrance, teasing without entering.

His mouth returned to your neck, biting down gently as he rocked against you, building that slick heat until you were writhing, nails scraping down his back under his shirt, desperate for him to follow through on that promise.

Your hands fumbled with the buttons of Steve's shirt, fingers trembling from the heat coursing through you, while his strong palms worked at the zipper of your dress, yanking it down with impatient tugs. Fabric whispered against skin as it peeled away – his shirt tossed aside to reveal the sculpted planes of his chest, muscles rippling under your touch; your dress shoved up and off, leaving you in just your damp panties, which he stripped next, the cool air hitting your exposed folds like a shock.

He shed his pants in a swift motion, kicking them off, his thick cock springing free, heavy and veined, the tip already glistening with pre-cum. You reached for him, wrapping your hand around the base, stroking once, twice, feeling him throb in your grip, but he captured your wrist gently, guiding you back to the bed.

Naked now, skin flushed and slick with sweat, you collided again in a frenzy of kisses – lips crashing, tongues tangling in wet, open-mouthed exploration.

He positioned himself between your spread thighs, one hand bracing beside your head, the other gripping his shaft as he dragged the swollen head of his cock through your slick folds. The first slide coated him in your arousal, his length gliding easily now, lubricated by the evidence of your need.

You moaned into his mouth, the sound muffled as his glans nudged your entrance, parting your lips just enough to tease penetration before pulling back, only to repeat the motion – rubbing up to circle your clit with deliberate pressure.

Each pass sent sparks exploding behind your eyelids, your hips jerking up to chase the friction, a sharp gasp escaping when the broad tip bumped your sensitive nub, nearly slipping inside but holding back at the last second.

“Oh fuck,” you whimpered, the pleasure coiling tighter in your core, your walls clenching around nothing, desperate for him to fill you.

He groaned low, his breath ragged against your cheek, hips rolling in a slow, torturous rhythm that had his cockhead kissing your clit again and again, dipping shallowly at your opening each time, stretching you fractionally before retreating, building the ache until you were dripping onto the sheets.

Your teeth grazed his lower lip in a playful bite, nipping just hard enough to draw a hiss from him, and you pulled back slightly, eyes locking with his heated gaze.

“Want you to take me from behind,” you moaned, the words laced with urgency, your voice husky from the moans he'd already pulled from you.

He panted, chest heaving, his cock twitching against your thigh as he processed your plea.

“You want that?” he rasped, voice thick with desire, one hand sliding down to squeeze your hip possessively.

You nodded fervently, biting your lip as another wave of need washed over you.

“You want me on top of you?”

“God yes. Want to feel you everywhere,” you confessed, arching into him, your breasts pressing against his chest, nipples pebbling from the contact.

“Okay. Okay baby, let's do this,” he murmured, his tone rough with promise.

With gentle but firm hands, he rolled you over, helping you shift onto your stomach, your cheek pressing into the pillow as you stretched out fully on the bed. Your legs parted instinctively, ass lifting just enough to present yourself to him, the cool air kissing your exposed pussy.

Steve settled behind you, his thighs bracketing yours, the heat of his body blanketing your back as his cock rested heavy along the cleft of your ass, still slick from your arousal. His hands roamed your sides, thumbs tracing the curve of your waist before one slid up to cup your breast, pinching the nipple lightly, while the other gripped your hip, positioning you just right.

Steve lowered his body over yours, the solid heat of his chest pressing against your back as he aligned himself fully behind you. One strong arm braced beside your head, muscles flexing to hold most of his weight off you, while his other hand wrapped around the base of his cock, the thick shaft sliding down from the cleft of your ass to nudge insistently at your slick folds.

He dragged the swollen head through your wetness once more, parting your lips before pressing forward, the tip breaching your entrance with a slow, deliberate push.

The stretch hit you immediately, his girth forcing your walls to yield as the head popped inside, filling you just enough to steal the air from your lungs. Your breath hitched sharply, a gasp escaping as your body tensed around the intrusion, the sensation bordering on overwhelming.

“God, you're big,” you murmured, eyes fluttering shut, lashes brushing your cheeks while you focused on the burn of accommodation, your inner muscles clenching involuntarily around him.

His hand released his cock, leaving it buried to the tip as he reached for yours, fingers seeking and finding your own splayed on the sheets. He laced them together tightly, his grip firm and reassuring, palm rough against your softer skin.

Leaning down, Steve's lips found the curve of your shoulder, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses along the slope, then trailing up to the sensitive skin at the nape of your neck. His breath fanned hot there, stirring the fine hairs as he nuzzled closer, teeth grazing lightly before soothing with his tongue.

“Breathe for me, doll,” he whispered against your skin, voice low and gravelly, laced with restraint as he held himself still, letting you adjust.

“Let me in. Let me make you feel good.”

You drew in a shaky inhale, the air filling your lungs as you relaxed fractionally, your free hand clutching the pillow beneath your cheek.

The fullness at your core pulsed with each heartbeat, a mix of ache and promise, your arousal easing the way as he began to inch deeper, the veined length of him sliding past your gripping entrance. His hips rocked gently, feeding more of his cock inside with controlled thrusts, the friction igniting sparks along your nerves.

Steve's mouth continued its worship on your back, kissing the knobs of your spine, sucking lightly at the juncture of neck and shoulder, marking you with faint red blooms that would linger as reminders of this moment. Your joined hands squeezed, anchoring you both as he sank further, the weight of him grounding you in the building pleasure, your moans mingling with his soft grunts of effort and desire.

Steve pushed forward with a steady roll of his hips, the remaining length of his thick cock sinking deep into your pussy until his pelvis pressed flush against your ass, his balls nestling heavy against your clit.

The full invasion stretched you wide, every inch of him buried to the hilt, filling you so completely that your walls fluttered around the pulsing heat of him, a deep ache blooming into exquisite pressure that radiated through your core.

He stilled there, his breath ragged against the back of your neck, giving you those precious seconds to adjust to the overwhelming girth splitting you open, your body trembling as it accommodated the sheer size of him, slick arousal coating his shaft and easing the burn into a throbbing need.

His lips brushed your ear, voice dropping to a husky growl as he murmured filthy words against your skin, each one sending fresh sparks of heat coiling in your belly.

“Fuck, doll, your pussy's gripping me so tight, like it never wants to let go,” he rasped, the obscenity vibrating through you, making your inner muscles clench involuntarily around his buried cock, squeezing him in rhythmic pulses that drew a low groan from his throat.

“Gonna ruin this perfect little hole for anyone else– make it mine, all mine.” The dirty promises ignited your arousal further, your hips twitching back instinctively, chasing the fullness as wetness seeped around where he filled you.

“Move, please,” you begged, the words spilling out in a breathless plea, your fingers tightening around his in a desperate squeeze, nails digging into his knuckles as you held on, the interlaced grip your lifeline amid the intensity. The ache inside you demanded friction now, your body craving the slide and drag that would turn the stretch into shattering pleasure.

Steve obliged with a slow, experimental thrust, pulling back just enough to feel your pussy cling to his retreating length before driving forward again, the motion deliberate and controlled, his cock plunging deep once more with a wet, obscene sound.

The sudden glide hit every sensitive spot inside you, the head nudging against that hidden bundle of nerves, and a sharp wave of ecstasy ripped through you, forcing a high, mewling cry from your lips – almost a whimper, raw and unrestrained, your back arching as stars burst behind your closed eyelids.

“You like that?” he murmured into the hollow of your ear, his free hand sliding up your side to cup your breast, thumb circling the hardened nipple as he held himself deep again, the question laced with dark amusement and hunger, his hot breath teasing the shell of your ear while he waited for your response, his cock twitching inside you in anticipation.

“Yes,” you panted, the word escaping in a ragged breath that caught in your throat, your body still reeling from that first thrust.

“Feels – oh! Feels so good, Steve!”

The pleasure crashed over you in waves, your skin prickling with goosebumps as shivers raced down your spine, every nerve ending alight from the way his cock filled you so utterly, the stretch turning into a delicious burn that made your toes curl against the sheets.

Steve's mouth found your shoulders again, his lips pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along the slope of your skin, trailing up to your neck where he nipped gently with his teeth. His free hand gathered the strands of your hair, pushing them aside with a tender sweep to clear the path for his kisses, his breath warm and uneven against your damp flesh as he savored the taste of you, the salt of your sweat mingling with the faint scent of your arousal.

He established a steady rhythm then, his hips snapping forward in measured strokes, pulling his thick cock almost all the way out – enough to let your pussy walls drag along the veined length, clinging desperately – before slamming back in with a forceful push that buried him to the root, his pelvis slapping against your ass with a sharp, wet smack.

Each thrust drove deeper, the head of his cock grinding against your inner walls, hitting that spot inside you that sent jolts of ecstasy sparking through your core, your juices slicking the way and easing the glide while your body adjusted to the relentless pace.

“Been wanting to– ah, fuck,” he groaned, the words breaking off into a guttural moan when your pussy clenched around him again, the involuntary spasm milking his shaft in tight, fluttering squeezes that made his control waver, his fingers tightening in yours as he fought to keep the rhythm.

The sound of his voice, raw and strained, only heightened your own building tension, your hips rocking back to meet his thrusts, chasing the friction that had you gasping.

“God, do that again, baby, please?” he begged, his tone laced with desperate hunger, the plea vibrating against your ear as he leaned over you, his chest brushing your back, the heat of his body enveloping yours like a blanket of fire.

This time, you did it on purpose, focusing on the muscles inside you and contracting them deliberately around his buried cock, squeezing him in a slow, pulsing grip that rippled from base to tip, feeling every ridge and vein throb in response as you held him tight, your arousal dripping down your thighs from the effort.

“Oh, you feel like heaven, doll,” he rasped, the praise spilling out in a low rumble that made your heart stutter, his thrusts picking up speed now, pounding into you with more urgency, the bed creaking under the force as his balls slapped rhythmically against your clit, building the pressure toward an inevitable peak. His hand released your hair to slide down your side, gripping your hip to angle you better, pulling you back onto him with each drive, the interlaced fingers still locked as he anchored you both in the storm of sensation.

Steve's lips returned to your neck, pressing fervent kisses along the sensitive curve where your pulse hammered wildly, his tongue flicking out to taste the sheen of sweat there as he sucked lightly, drawing a fresh wave of heat through your veins. The sensation sent sparks racing down your spine, amplifying the building pressure in your core, your body arching instinctively into him.

You moaned deeply, the sound raw and unrestrained, vibrating from your chest as your fingers clenched tighter around his, nails digging into the back of his hand in a desperate grip, seeking an anchor amid the overwhelming tide of pleasure that threatened to sweep you under.

“Steve,” you gasped out, the warning laced with urgency, your voice breaking on his name as the first tremors of your climax coiled tight in your belly, your pussy fluttering erratically around his plunging cock, the walls gripping him in spasmodic pulses that made your thighs quake.

“I’m– Steve– Gonna–”

“I know, honey,"“he murmured against your skin, his breath hot and ragged as he maintained that relentless rhythm, his hips driving forward with unyielding force, each thrust burying his thick length deeper, the slick sounds of your joined bodies filling the room like a primal symphony.

He didn't falter, didn't slow, instead pushing you closer to the edge with every measured snap of his pelvis against your ass.

“Can feel your pussy squeezing me,” he growled low, the words vibrating through you as his free hand dug into your hip, holding you steady for his assault, his cock stretching you wide with every withdrawal and re-entry, the veined shaft dragging along your inner walls and sending jolts of electricity straight to your clit.

He delivered another powerful thrust then, the head of his cock slamming against that sweet spot deep inside, grinding insistently as his balls slapped wetly against your swollen folds, the impact ripping a cry from your lips.

“God,” he groaned, the exclamation torn from him in a guttural burst, his body tensing above yours as your contractions intensified, milking his dick in rhythmic squeezes that had him shuddering, his control fraying at the edges.

“You gonna drive me crazy. Your cunt feels too fucking good.”

The words, filthy and possessive, tipped you over the brink.

Your orgasm crashed through you like a storm, your pussy clamping down hard around his cock in vise-like waves, convulsing as ecstasy ripped through every nerve, your vision blurring with stars while your body convulsed beneath him. Juices gushed from you, soaking his shaft and dripping down your thighs, your moans turning into breathless sobs of release as the pleasure peaked, leaving you trembling and spent, your inner muscles still twitching in aftershocks.

Steve followed moments later, unable to hold back against the vise of your climax. With a final, deep thrust that seated him fully inside you, he came undone, his cock pulsing as hot spurts of cum flooded your depths, painting your walls with his seed in thick ropes.

He buried his face in the crook of your neck, groaning your name like a prayer, his body jerking with each release until he was utterly drained, collapsing partially over you while still lodged deep, both of you panting in the hazy aftermath, the air thick with the scent of sex and satisfaction.

Before his full weight could pin you down in the languid haze of release, Steve shifted with deliberate care, rolling onto his side and easing his spent cock from your pussy in a slow, slick withdrawal that left you feeling achingly empty, a warm trickle of his cum seeping from your folds to dampen the sheets beneath you.

The sensation drew a soft whimper from your lips, your inner walls fluttering in protest at the loss, still sensitive and pulsing from the intensity of your shared climax.

He gathered you close without hesitation, his strong arms wrapping around your trembling form, pulling your sweat-slicked body flush against his chest where his heart thundered steadily, a rhythmic counterpoint to your own ragged breaths.

One hand splayed possessively across the small of your back, fingers tracing lazy circles over your skin, while the other cradled the nape of your neck, tilting your face up to meet his gaze – those blue eyes softened now, filled with a tender affection that contrasted the raw hunger of moments before.

His lips found yours in a gentle kiss, unhurried and deep, his mouth moving with a reverence that spoke of more than just the physical sating; his tongue brushed yours lightly, tasting the salt of your shared exertion, as he poured quiet reassurance into the connection.

You melted into him, your hands sliding up his broad shoulders to tangle in the damp strands of his hair, returning the kiss with equal softness, the world narrowing to the warmth of his embrace and the subtle press of his body against yours, bodies entwined in the quiet aftermath of passion.

The bedroom was dim, lit only by the thin spill of streetlight through the blinds and the soft glow from the hallway you’d forgotten to turn off. The air still felt warm, heavy with the aftermath – quiet in that particular way a room became when it had held too much breath.

You lay tangled together on the bed, bare skin against bare skin, the sheets kicked into a messy heap around your legs. Steve’s mouth was still on yours – slower now, unhurried, like he was making sure you were still here. Like he was learning you in a language that didn’t require urgency.

His hand traced the line of your jaw, knuckles brushing your cheek with a tenderness that made your chest tighten. When you sighed against his lips, he kissed you back, softening into it until the kiss became less about hunger and more about… staying.

Eventually, you pulled away just enough to breathe.

Steve followed, his forehead resting against yours, his thumb still stroking your cheek in an absent, reverent motion.

“Hi,” you whispered, because your brain had decided that was the only safe word in existence right now.

Steve’s answering smile was small, almost shy. “Hi.”

Your laugh came out quiet, shaky around the edges. You tucked yourself closer, as if proximity could make the world stop moving. Steve’s arm tightened around you, pulling you in until you were pressed against his chest, your ear over his heartbeat – steady now, slower than before.

You listened to it for a few seconds, letting it ground you.

Then reality, rude and persistent, slipped back into the room.

You shifted slightly, drawing back just enough to see his face in the low light. “We should talk,” you murmured.

Steve’s eyes opened fully. A flicker of seriousness crossed his features – immediate, attentive, the soldier in him snapping back into place.

“Yeah,” he breathed. “Okay.”

Your fingers traced idly over his shoulder, a nervous habit. “We… can’t let this screw up the mission.”

“We won’t,” Steve promised at once, firm. “I won’t let it.”

It wasn’t defensive. It wasn’t a denial of what had happened. It was a vow, plain and simple.

You nodded, swallowing. “And when we go back to the base…”

Steve’s jaw tightened. You could see him thinking – logistics, fallout, consequences. Who would notice. Who would talk. How it would change the way people looked at you. At him.

“How do we handle it?” you asked softly.

For a moment, he didn’t answer. He just watched you, eyes moving over your face like he was trying to hold onto every detail.

Then his voice dropped even lower, a whisper meant only for you.

“Honestly?”

“Yeah.”

Steve exhaled, slow. “I don’t want to pretend it didn’t happen.”

Your throat tightened.

You looked away for half a second, because the words hit too close to what you’d been trying not to want for too long. Then you looked back at him, the truth already climbing out of you like it had been waiting for permission.

“It’s been months,” you admitted, barely audible. “Months since I stopped wanting to be… just your colleague. Or just your friend.”

Steve’s expression softened in a way that made your stomach flip. Like he’d been holding the same confession between his teeth, afraid it would cut someone if he let it go.

His hand slid up to cup your cheek again, thumb brushing beneath your eye with impossible gentleness.

“I’ve always wanted more,” he said, voice rough. “From the moment we–” He hesitated, like he couldn’t believe he was allowed to say it. “From the moment our eyes met the first time.”

You stared at him, stunned by how simple he made it sound. How true.

“How long ago was that?” you whispered, half a joke, half a plea.

Steve’s mouth curved faintly. “Long enough.”

Your laugh was breathless. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I know,” he murmured, and the way he said it was fond. Warm. Like he’d finally stopped fighting the idea of being happy for five seconds.

Silence settled between you again – thick, intimate. Steve’s thumb kept stroking your cheek like he couldn’t stop, like touching you was an instinct now.

You laced your fingers with his, pressing your palm to the mattress beside your head.

“Okay,” you said softly, as if naming it could make it real without breaking it. “We finish the mission.”

Steve nodded once. “We finish the mission.”

“And when we go back,” you continued, voice steadier, “we don’t hide it.”

His gaze sharpened, searching you. “Are you sure?”

You didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

A beat of silence.

Then Steve’s face changed – something like relief sliding through him so visibly it almost hurt to witness. As if he’d been bracing for you to take it back.

He leaned in and kissed you again, not hungry this time. Just grateful. Just certain.

When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours.

“Okay,” he whispered. “No hiding.”

You let out a slow breath. Your heart felt too full, too loud.

“And if anyone has a problem,” you added, because you couldn’t help yourself, “they can–”

Steve’s smile flickered, amused despite himself. “They won’t.”

You huffed softly. “You say that, but…”

The image hit you then – Sam’s face when he found out. The grin. The commentary. The insufferable victory lap.

A smile tugged at your mouth before you could stop it.

“Sam is going to be unbearable,” you said, voice warm with resignation.

Steve’s eyes crinkled at the corners, his thumb still tracing your cheek like he’d never get tired of it. “Yeah.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were still smiling. “I’m already regretting telling him later.”

Steve’s hand drifted down, the back of his knuckles brushing your skin as he tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. His gaze stayed locked on yours, steady and tender.

Then, in a low murmur – half promise, half threat – he said, “I’ll make him pay during training.”

Your laugh came out quiet, bright in the darkness.

“Please do,” you whispered.

Steve kissed the corner of your mouth, lingering there as if he didn’t want to move away.

And for the first time since the mission began, the lie felt less like a trap and more like the strange, accidental path that had finally led you somewhere honest.

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[blowingbarnes]

NETFLIX & CHILL

PAIRING: Steve Rogers x Reader WORD COUNT: 2.6k WARNINGS: domestic fluff, established relationship, steve is tired okay?, SMUT (free use implication, so much oral (f receiving), steve is a munch, fingering, tonguefucking, spit kink, spit as lube, couch sex, p in v, mating press, creampie, cockwarming if you squint, cock pronouns (like ONCE), multiple orgasms) porn with very little plot. SUMMARY: Steve gets home and there's no better way to get his head out of thinking about work than to put it right between your thighs. +fran: I'm in such a Steve kick lately, this ovulation he has me by the clit and he's not letting go. I love how fluffy this is and I too need this man to eat me out until there's nothing in either of our heads. This is straight up blond man propaganda. Here's a little nugget of a fic while I write bigger ones.

Steve Rogers, way back when, wouldn't be called uptight. 

He wasn't much of a rule follower to begin with, seeing things morally grey instead of black and white. He's always been someone that just wants to do the right thing, whatever the cost of that may be. 

Steve Rogers in present day, however, would be uptight by 2020s Manhattan standards. 

His entire presence commanded obedience. Authority. 

Steve's star-spangled broad shoulders, squared when he stood with his hands on his belt ever the proper man, drew every eye in the room to him like a magnet. 

His voice never wavered when barking orders left and right, always a man with a plan. If strategy A failed, he was already halfway through strategy B, and had already thought of a third alternative. 

The entire weight of the world had always been on his shoulders, for the better part of 108 years. 

Steve is, however, much like a working dog. He's restless. He needs a job to do, and do well, even when his actual job stresses him the fuck out.

So when he's walking up the stairs of your condo in the Village, his throat tired from yelling over gunfire, his feet exhausted from running miles in combat boots, and his shoulders tense from holding back frustration during the debrief, the sound of your voice while you talk on the phone is a soothing balm for his soul. 

He unlocked the door and walked in, the dimly lit apartment making him feel like he could finally let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. 

You were curled up on one end of the couch, throw blanket lazily over your legs as a candle burned on the kitchen isle and some trashy reality TV on, while you talked with your best friend on the phone about the events unveiling in front of your eyes.

Your weekly debrief, you called it. Steve thought it was cute. 

"Okay, but here's the thing," you were saying into your phone, eyes glued to the television. "I don't actually think she's mad about the text messages."

Steve really didn't understand half the appeal of those shows. Every week he'd come over and find some new catastrophe unfolding. Someone was cheating on somebody, someone was throwing a drink, someone was crying in a confessional interview, someone was apparently there "for the wrong reasons."

And somehow you knew every single person's name, history, motivations, and interpersonal grievances.

Steve let the door latch with a soft "click" and he dropped his duffel by the counter and shrugged his shoes off.

You turned your head at the sound immediately, your face softening the instant your eyes locked with his. 

There was something about being looked at like that after a day spent getting shot at, yelled at, and blamed for things outside of his control.

Something about knowing there was one place in Manhattan where nobody expected Captain America.

He was just expected to be Steve, or Babe, or Honey, or Stevie, or—

"Hold on," you told your friend, reaching out to him with one hand, which he knew was code for "come here and kiss me".

He smiled with the side of his mouth and complied, walking over until he was behind you, making you tilt your head back to kiss him, a little murmured "I missed you." against his lips before you went back to your conversation. 

He finished walking around the couch, laying down on top of you as you made space of his waist and torso between your legs, his arms instinctively wrapping around your waist as he nuzzled his face into your sternum.

Steve Rogers melted.

That was the only word possible for the exhale he let out as soon as your fingers tangled in his hair, nails gently scraping at his scalp as he let his entire weight just rest on you. 

"You okay, baby?" Your voice was low, not even a hair above a whisper, and he just hummed in agreement against the soft fabric of your tank top.

"Do you need to go? Baaabyyyy." You rolled your eyes at the phone. 

"Don't start."

"Oh, I'm absolutely starting. Did Captain America just come home and immediately turn into a golden retriever?"

Steve huffed a quiet laugh against your shirt. Your hand immediately moved to the back of his neck, nails grazing softly until you pushed your hand past the collar of his cotton shirt, scratching lightly at his back. 

If he was a cat, he'd be purring right at that moment.

"No, because listen," you told your friend, eyes narrowing at the screen. "The issue isn't that she lied." Steve watched you. "The issue is that she lied badly." Completely, utterly, disgustingly in love. "Those are different crimes."

Blue bird sky eyes that look up at you like you invented spring. Like your voice alone makes flowers bloom and birds sing. 

His chin rests comfortably on your stomach, one arm draped across your waist while your fingers absentmindedly travel back up to continue scratching at his scalp.

The way you laugh when someone says something stupid on the show makes him understand poetry. Because regular sentences in language aren't enough to explain what it feels like when somebody becomes your favorite thing in the entire world.

Steve had always been… tactile when he was tired. Like a working dog, he'd find something to occupy his mind until he was so tired, the inside of his skull was nothing but tv static.

Not clingy, exactly just drawn toward you in the same way a sunflower turns toward sunlight.

His fingers slipped beneath the edge of your thank top, resting against the warm skin of your side, fabric riding up and exposing your stomach to him as he pressed absentminded kisses against the skin there. 

Your eyes flickered to him, another kiss on the lower left side of your stomach, big calloused hands pushing your shirt a smidge up again. 

When he grazed the skin with his teeth and soothed it with his tongue, you realized what he was getting at. Some flavor of "I gotta go, love you, bye" and the call was disconnected. 

"Steve." No answer. His hands slowly came back down the length of your waist, "Steve." He was in his own little world, fingers hooking them hem of your sleep shorts and pulling them down.

You let him, because what woman in her right mind would prevent Steve from seeking comfort, specially if that comfort was eating your pussy until you saw double?

He threw the shorts somewhere in the room, nothing but a grunt here or a groan there coming out of his mouth in the meantime. 

You put your right foot on his chest softly, as to catch his attention, sparkling eyes looking up at you with a little "hmm?" to match. 

"Are you okay?"

He sighed happily. He knew you knew you didn't have to worry about him, he's a super solder, a hero, a goddamn Avenger, what could a mere civilian like you do?

But he still loved your worry. Loved… your love. 

Steve chuckled softly and kissed the inside of your ankle, something along the lines of "always okay when I'm with you" being printed against the skin of your leg as his kisses went higher and higher and higher.

He stopped quickly when he got to your core, place a wet kiss over your panties and pulling them down your legs in one swift motion. The plane of his chest resting against the couch as he settled your legs over his shoulders. 

His arms wrapped around you legs, hands resting on top of your thighs to keep you open for him. He nuzzled his face against you first, eyes closed as he licked a flat, wide strip up your cunt.

The soft gasp coming from your lips only spurred him on, your left hand reaching down to tangle in his blond locks again while your right hand rested on his forearm.

Steve looked like he was in a trance. Hypnotized by the taste of you. He hummed against you, satisfied you were giving him what he wanted. Letting him take what he wanted. 

His tongue was soft, warm, wet as it lapped against your folds. He'd tense the muscle closer to your clit and circle it with his tongue before sucking it between his plush lips, only to slow down and do it again. 

The day had scraped him raw in a hundred tiny ways, and now he was tucked into the safest place he knew.

You.

"Mmmm, that feels good…" You settled further into the couch, letting your legs fall open around his head as he lazily made out with your pussy. His right hand reached up to shove your shirt further up, massaging your breasts once they were exposed, rolling and tugging on the nipple.

His tongue zig-zagged between your folds, bottom to top, and he sucked your clit briefly, setting it free with a soft "pop" once he felt your thigh twitch. 

"Needed this," he kissed your inner thigh. "needed you." Steve leaned further down, tensing his tongue to tease your entrance, and then burying his face in your heat. 

"Oh! Oh, G— Steve, f—mmm…" you were already babbling. The feel of his hot tongue inside of you made your hips jerk, his nose nudging your clit in the process. 

The wet noises were loud enough he could hear them even though your thighs were squeezing around his head. And God, this is what he needed, plush skin and muscle tensing under him, suffocating him in all that was you. 

"Gonna co—hah!—come all over your pretty face." Steve moaned, he moaned into you, hips grinding onto the couch cushions as yours did so against his face, pushing himself to be impossibly close to you. 

He sucked your clit into his mouth again, his tongue flicking it while it was trapped between his lips. 

Your moans grew louder, sharper, until you soaked Steve's lips and chin in wet pleasure. He let you ride the wave of your first orgasm, aftershocks flowing through your body like electricity through water. 

He dragged his right hand down from your breast to rest above your pussy, keeping you where he wanted you, and used his thumb and index finger to spread you further.

"Baby, please…" It was a mix of oversensitive and hungry pleas, which Steve took as a green light to keep going. He flattened his tongue again, licking long paths bottom to top, dipping his tongue in your entrance, and then keeping the path up.

You supported yourself up mostly by your right elbow and your grip on Steve's hair, staring at the scene in front of you with your mouth hanging open, panting. 

His left hand travelled down and he covered his index and middle fingers in your slick, pulling away ever so slightly to pool spit in his mouth and let the hot saliva flow softly from his mouth onto your clit. 

His fingers drove into you slowly with a wet squelch echoing into the room, curling them towards him when he got your folds to touch his palm. "Was only gone a day, sweetheart." He pumped his fingers. "How come you're so tight still, mmm?"

He chuckled when you had no response but a needy whine, the scene was a sight, really. Captain America absolutely lost in the pleasure of seeing his girlfriend completely pliant, missing any bottoms, with her tank top bunched up above her breasts, while he had a soaked face and a raging hard on. 

Humming as he licked and teased your clit once again, this time pumping his fingers in and out, and again, again, again, until he slurped every single drop of your second orgasm, feeling you squeeze your cunt around his fingers while your thighs squeezed every thought that didn't revolve around you right out of his skull.

You pulled him up forcefully by the collar, crashing your lips together, moaning as you tasted yourself on him. Your tongue licked into his mouth like you alone could make him forget everything that happened during the mission, even without knowing details. 

Your hands grazed down his chest over his shirt, quickly finding the hem of his sweats, palming him through them. "Did you touch yourself while I was gone?" His voice was breathy against your lips, almost strained. 

You shook your head, biting your lip. "Not as good when it's not you."

Steve whined, like audibly whined at your praise as you pushed his pants down enough to free his cock. "Good girl."

It slapped against your stomach heavy, hard, and leaking, and Steve immediately reached down to rub the head up and down your slick.

"Put it in, baby, please." You sucked on his bottom lip. "Missed you so much."

Steve chuckled as he lined himself up with your entrance. "Me or him?" He didn't wait for an answer, in days like these he never did. He just pushed his entire cock in to the hilt, knocking the air out of your lungs. "Me. Or. Him?" He asked again. 

Your eyes squeezed shut, "You, baby, fuck—" you panted against his mouth, tiny puffs of air matching his every thrust. "Missed your voice, your scent, your laugh—" another harsher thrust knocked the thought out of your head. "Missed your cock too, ah!"

You felt every drag of him inside of you, the vein on the side that split into two, the bulbous head of him that notched so perfectly around the spongy spot inside of you, you'd think they made him in a lab. 

Well, they did. But you're pretty sure the SSR had no involvement in how perfect Steve Rogers' dick was. 

That was all him. 

He reached down to snake his arms under your knees, bringing your legs further up and out, until his pelvis was flush with your entire bottom. 

"That's a good girl." He sighed, pulling all the way out only to slam all the way back in again. "Always so good."

The more Steve fucked you, the less oxygen you felt you had in your lungs. Every muscle in your core was tightening by the second, everything becoming too loud, too hot, too heavy, too good.

"Gonna fill you up, sweetheart. You want that?" His lips dropped to your neck, sucking and licking on the skin there. You nodded. "But I need you to come on my cock, Princess. Can you do that for me?" 

You nodded even more enthusiastically. 

Steve licked his thumb and down to your clit it went, making your eyes cross and roll and the wave of pleasure crashed onto you again. He felt you clamp down on him, shudders licking up his spine as rope after rope of cum leaked out of him.

Steve thrusted both of you through the aftershocks, until he finally let his entire weight rest onto you as your nails once again grazed his back and neck. 

He lifted his head from where he was resting his forehead against your collarbone and gave you a peck on the lips, then another, then another, until it turned into a slow, deep kiss. 

He motioned to pull out and start to clean up, but you squeezed your legs around his waist. "Just stay with me a little longer here, Stevie." He looked at you like he always did when you asked that, when he knew you asked for it more for him than for you, but still gave in, staying with you until your breaths evened out while the TV played in the background. 

bro honestly idk what took over my body in this ovulation... I already humped my husband every single day this week. THE SHACKLES.

💌 permanent freaks taglist: @chateaubarnes @houseofhyde @heldbybarnes @iamthatonefangirl @superbassbuck @its-in-the-woods @wildflowersandvibranium @unificsation @flockoff-featherface @54nboo @earthsmightiestbenders @winterdecember18 @juniebjonesin @barnesonly @bckyslover @buckyfmd @starfire-irl @tw1sters @pinksplace @artficlly @daddysbitchybaby @globetrotter28 @epiphanyrogers @famoushoshi @avgdestitute @blobfishlol @buckysdecaflove @buckybsdoll @allthingswickedpodcast @love-stucky @singulartoast

[heldbybarnes]

Bucky’s pregnant wife (reader) thinks she’s been bossing him around whenever she asks him for something, but it’s just her pregnancy hormones making her think that and Bucky assures her that she’s not bossing him around and he absolutely loves doing stuff for her🥺

The issue is you don' realize you've been doing it.

It slips in quietly, somewhere between the nausea and the exhaustion, between the way your body no longer feels entirely like your own and the way your emotions sit just a little too close to the surface. It starts small—asking Bucky to grab you water when you’re already curled up on the couch, asking if he can grab your blanket from the bedroom instead of getting up yourself.

And Bucky? He doesn’t hesitate. Not once.

“Got it, sweetheart,” he says every time, already halfway up before you’ve even finished asking.

At first, it feels normal. Logical, even. You’re pregnant. You’re growing an entire human being. You should be taking it easy.

But then it keeps happening.

“Bucky, can you—” “Yeah.”

“Bucky, would you mind—” “Already on it.”

“Buck, I think I left my phone—” “Kitchen counter. I’ll grab it.”

And he always says it so easily. So gently. Like it’s nothing. Like it’s second nature.

That’s when the guilt starts creeping in.

It hits you one afternoon, hard and sudden, while you’re sitting on the edge of the bed trying to put your socks on. Your stomach is just big enough now to make it awkward, your balance a little off, your patience nonexistent.

“Bucky,” you call out, a little breathless. “Can you help me with—”

He appears in the doorway almost immediately, like he’s been waiting for you to need something.

“Yeah, doll?” he asks softly.

And something about the way he says it—so attentive, so ready—makes your chest tighten.

“I—” You hesitate, looking down at your feet. “Can you help me with my socks?”

“Course I can.”

He doesn’t tese you. Doesn’t even blink. He just drops down to his knees in front of you like it’s the most natural thing in the world, carefully taking the sock from your hands.

His fingers are warm against your skin as he gently lifts your foot, guiding it into place with slow, deliberate care.

And that’s when it really sinks in.

Because you’ve been doing this all day. All week. Maybe longer.

Asking. Calling. Needing.

“Bucky,” you say quietly.

“Mm?”

He’s focused, adjusting the fabric so it sits comfortably against your ankle, making sure there are no wrinkles.

“Am I… being bossy?”

His hands pause.

Just for a second.

Then he looks up at you, brows pulling together slightly. “What?”

Your throat feels tight all of a sudden. “I feel like I’m just… constantly asking you to do things. Like I can’t do anything myself anymore and I’m just—” you swallow, blinking a little too fast, “—bossing you around all the time.”

Bucky stares at you like you’ve just said something completely absurd.

“Doll,” he says slowly, “you think you’re bossin’ me around?”

“I mean…” you gesture vaguely, frustration bubbling up under the surface. “I am, aren’t I? I’m always asking you for stuff. You never get a break. You’re basically just following me around doing whatever I need—”

“And you think that’s a bad thing?” he cuts in, not harsh, but firm enough to stop you.

You blink at him.

“I just—I don’t want to be that person,” you say, your voice softer now. “I don’t want to be demanding or… or annoying.”

Something in his expression shifts then. Softens in a way that makes your chest ache.

“Hey,” he murmurs, gently resting his hands on your knees. “Look at me.”

You hesitate, but yu do.

And the second your eyes meet his, he’s right there.

“You’re not bossy,” he says, clear and unwavering. “Not even a little bit.”

You let out a small, shaky breath. “It feels like I am.”

“Yeah?” he asks gently. “Or does it feel like everything’s just… harder right now?”

That lands deeper than you expect.

Because it’s true.

Everything is harder. Moving, thinking, sleeping, existing—it all takes more effort than it used to. And asking for help? That’s new. That’s uncomfortable.

“I just don’t want you to feel like I’m taking advantage of you,” you admit quietly.

Bucky huffs out a soft breath, something almost like disbelief slipping through.

“Sweetheart,” he says, shaking his head a little. “You could never take advantage of me.”

“You say that, but—”

“No, listen to me.” His tone is still gentle, but there’s something firmer underneath it now. Something grounding. “You’re carryin’ our baby. You’re dealin’ with all the crap that comes with that—feelin’ sick, bein’ exhausted, your body changin’ every day—and you think askin’ me to grab you a glass of water is too much?”

When he puts it like that, it sounds ridiculous.

Still, the guilt lingers. “I just feel like I should be able to do more.”

Bucky’s gaze softens even further.

“You already are,” he says quietly.

Your brows knit together. “What do you mean?”

He shifts closer, one hand coming up to rest gently against your stomach, his touch instinctively protective.

“You’re doin’ somethin’ I can’t,” he murmurs. “You’re growin’ our kid. Every second of every day. You don’t get to clock out from that. So yeah… if I can make things a little easier for you? I’m gonna do it.”

Your eyes sting.

“I don’t mind it,” he continues, his thumb brushing softly against your skin. “I don’t feel bossed around. I don’t feel used. I feel…” he pauses, searching for the right word, “useful. Needed.”

Your breath catches.

“I like takin’ care of you,” he says simply. “Always have. This just gives me more of a reason to.”

There’s no hesitation in his voice. No resentment. Just quiet certainty.

And suddenly, all that guilt you’ve been carrying around feels a little lighter.

“You’re sure?” you ask softly.

He lets out a small, fond huff. “Doll, if you were actually bossin’ me around, I’d tell you.”

That earns a weak laugh from you.

“Besides,” he adds, a hint of teasing creeping in now, “you’re way too polite to be bossy. Half the time you’re askin’ like you’re afraid I’m gonna say no.”

You duck your head, a little embarrassed. “Well…”

“Hey.” He nudges your knee gently. “I like when you ask me for things.”

You glance up at him again. “You do?”

“Yeah.” His smile is soft, a little crooked. “Means you trust me.”

That hits you right in the chest.

Because you do. Completely.

“I just don’t want to overwhelm you,” you say, quieter now.

Bucky leans in slightly, pressing a gentle kiss to your knee before looking back up at you.

“You couldn’t overwhelm me if you tried,” he murmurs. “Not when it comes to you.”

There’s something so steady about him. So grounding. Like no matter how loud your thoughts get, he’s always right there to quiet them.

You take a slow breath, letting his words settle.

“Okay,” you say after a moment. “But you have to promise me something.”

He raises a brow. “What’s that?”

“If I do start getting bossy… like, actually bossy…” you trail off, a little sheepish. “You’ll tell me?”

He considers that for a second, then nods.

“Deal,” he says. “But I’m tellin’ you now—that day’s not comin’.”

You smile a little at that.

“Still,” you insist lightly.

“Alright,” he relents, squeezing your knee gently. “I’ll tell you.”

You nod, satisfied enough with that.

There’s a small pause before you glance down at your other foot, then back at him.

“…Can you do the other sock too?”

Bucky doesn’t even pretend to hesitate.

“Yeah, sweetheart,” he says, already reaching for it, his voice warm and easy. “C’mere.”

[heaven4lostgirls]

can i request a steve x gf! reader fic where the reader and him met through working and shes constantly saving up money because her family doesnt come from much and left during the earthquake but she doesn’t want to tell steve abiut her money problems so she skips meals and her own needs to offer to buy things for the kids and even a big gift for steve’s bday or anniversary? maybe steve one day sees her money box or handwritten expense sheet or even she skipped too many meals and doesnt feel well and they have a heart to heart ☺️ steve jjst wants to provide for his girl

my heart is full of doubt

pairing: steve harrington x reader

summary: request above!

word count: 3.3k

content warnings: financial insecurity, reader is self-sacrificing, not proofread, idk what else

author's note: hi!! thank you so much for this request my angel! and thank you for being so patient with me!

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

Family Video wasn’t exactly where you’d imagined spending your summer. You knew you’d be working for most of it, but you’d be hoping it would at least be somewhere more…stimulating.

You didn’t hate the place. It was great for the employee discount, and you almost always got first pick out of the new tapes when they came in but you would be lying if it bring some kind of heaviness in your chest when you spent every afternoon stocking the shelves whilst the rest of your friends had free time to do whatever they wanted.

It’s fine, you’ve made your peace with it for the most part. Some people are just dealt different hands in life and while yes, you could spend the rest of your summer outwardly pissed off at the world, how would that help you?

Instead, you channel your energy, into expense sheets and budgeting folders that live under your bed next to your little silver lunchbox you use to keep all the money you make.

It’s nothing grand, but it brings you safety. A crutch, something to fall back on. Most people wouldn’t understand your need to know where every cent is going, because who really cares what happens to the 50c you let fall onto the floor?

You did. You knew just how far to stretch every single dollar left in that little lunchbox like your life depended on it. That was what kept you going, that if you knew it all went to shit one day, you’d still have that.

Steve Harrington was a curveball. A boy raised with a silver spoon in his mouth who only carried 10 dollar bills in his wallet, not a single coin to be seen.

You knew boys like Steve Harrington from the countless service jobs you’d worked over the years. Boys who would have to call Daddy just to know how much gas cost, boys whose biggest concerns were winning their next match, or when their next haircut would be.

So, seeing ‘King Steve’ take up a job at Family Video? Call yourself intrigued, who knew graduation would end with such a fall from grace for the former high school star athlete.

You’d imagined him somewhere far from here, working some corporate job for his father in the big city. That had been the plan after all, everyone knew kids like Harrington basically had their whole lives planned out for them.

But there he was, same mousy brown hair and brown eyes yet this time in an awful vest embroidered in the Family Video logo and his surname, you’d laugh if you weren’t so shocked.

“Harrington?” you say shocked, your jaw slackening as you catch sight of him behind the counter.

His own expression morphs into perplexion as he watches you walk into the store, uniform freshly buttoned over your baby tee. His mouth forms your name in a hesitantly baffled manner.

“Oh shit,” you laugh, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear as you walk closer, “It really is you!”

His smile is strained as he replies, “It’s me.”

You want to ask him why he’s here, why he’s decided to start slumming it downtown when he’s got a nice cushy mansion practically all for himself. However, he looks like he’s begging you not to ask any of that, and you’re a lot of things but an asshole isn’t one.

So, you let it go, you smile and nod your head like you’re not bursting with a million questions and instead offer, “Where do you want me, boss?”

Steve lets a breath out, his shoulders slumping in relief.

Odd.

˖⋆࿐໋₊ ☆

It’s almost embarrassing how easily the two of you become friends. Who would’ve known that Steve Harrington was a total loser?

God, it’s almost like all that confidence in high school got washed away the second he graduated.

He’s dumb. In the funniest way. He knows jack shit about movies except for the dumb action movies that somehow every boy in Hawkins has ever seen and he’s horrendously bad at flirting.

Which is even worse for you considering that it works on you. The dumb smiles and the lines that fall flat—they endear you. So, despite your best efforts—you fall for Steve Harrington.

He’s unusually sweet, kinder than he was in high school and weirdly self-actualised which throws you off.

And as much ad you promised yourself you wouldn’t, you can’t help but compare your Steve to ‘King Steve’. Even though you know he’s not that anymore—that he’s left all that behind him when he left high school.

Dating Steve is nothing like you’d thought it would be, he takes you out to dinner and pays for your meal without even asking, he brings you flowers—different bouquets at first until you mention you like one more than the others, and those become ‘your flowers’, and he never pushes.

You know more about his sex life than you would like but surprisingly enough—Steve is a romantic. He is slow and tender and kind-hearted that you can’t even imagine that the same boy you once knew in high school is the same man you love.

The first time he picks you up, you clean obsessively. Your place has never been dirty but you’re hoping the obsessive cleanliness will distract him from the glaring wealth gap between the two of you.

You’re not embarrassed perse, it’s just that—you really like him. He’s become one of the best things in your life and it would really suck if the one thing you couldn’t control became the thing that drove him away.

Three subsequent knocks echo through your home and with a heavy chest and a smile about as fragile as your mental state, you open the door.

Steve is smiling, that charming boyish smile that you’ve grown immeasurably fond of.

“Hi.” He beams, he thrusts his hand out to you, practically shoving the bouquet under your nose as you flinch back slightly.

“Oh!” you say surprised, “These are for me?” you ask shyly, your hands lifting to grasp the stems of the colourful bouquet with a frail hold.

Steve rubs the back of his neck with a nod, “Yeah, I uh—I thought you’d like them. I dunno, is it too much? I can take them back—” he offers hastily.

You frown, pulling them towards you with a swift shake of your head, “No! no—no they’re nice. They’re lovely Steve.” You assure him, watching delightedly as a red hue blooms from his neck over to his face.

You glace down at the flowers with a fond gaze, biting your lip.

“I’ve never gotten flowers before.” You admit in a hushed whisper, slowly tracing the petals of the fragrant rainbow in front of you.

You glance up at Steve with a soft look, “I’m going to put these in some water, would you like to come in?” you offer.

He nods fast enough that you worry he might just pull a muscle, “Yeah—yeah let’s do that.”

He follows you into your home as you try not to turn around and stare at him. You want to know what he’s thinking—if he finds your place too small, too cold or unlived in, if he likes that you have pillows scattered over your couch despite them being mismatched—if the colour scheme reminds him of something.

You don’t realise it then, but he’s staring at you as you make your way to the kitchen, flowers in your delicate hold as you take precision to care for the flowers.

His gaze is soft and adoring, eyes alight with wonder and ill-hidden emotion. Steve had always worn his heart on his chest and was never really that good at hiding his feelings—he just hopes he makes it through this date without blurting it out that he loves you

˖⋆࿐໋₊ ☆

Dating Steve is nothing short of the best time of your life, you do nauseatingly cute couple things like going to the movies just to make out, drive down to lover’s lake to have picnics and spend hours on the phone with one another.

You open yourself up to him, telling him things you thought you’d never have the confidence to utter aloud.

“My family isn’t around anymore,” you mention casually one night. You’re lying on Steve’s bed with his arms around you as you trace formless shapes onto his chest.

You feel Steve freeze beneath you, and you worry that you’ve overstepped, that maybe you shouldn’t have said anything at all.

His arms tighten around you slowly, unsure at first before he pulls you closer to him, smacking a loving kiss onto the top of your head.

“Yeah?” he murmurs, acknowledging that he’d heard you but not pushy enough for you to grow uncomfortable.

You nibble on your lip with a contemplative expression, “Yeah,” you admit. “They uh—they left after the earthquake.”

“And you stayed behind?”

“And I stayed behind.” You agree.

There’s a bout of silence between the two of you before Steve’s voice whispers softly, “Why?”

“Why’d I stay?” you rhetorically ask, feeling his hum as he does it.

You shrug, “Dunno, I guess I just couldn’t imagine myself leaving y’know? I was old enough to move out and Hawkins is home.” You mumble.

You don’t see the smile that graces Steve’s lips, but you feel him tug you closer and snuggle into you, a silent agreement between the both of you that he shares your sentiment.

“’S that why you started working at Family Video?” he asks and you tense in his arms, trying to avoid where the conversation is heading.

“Yeah,” you mumble reluctantly. “Gotta make a living somehow.”

Steve frowns, “Does Keith even pay you enough? I don’t really know how much you need but if it’s not enough I could aways—”

“Stop,” you cut him off. “He pays me fine Steve, don’t worry about me. I’m fine.”

Steve sniffs, tugging your face to look up at him. “Always gonna worry about you honey,” he says softly, a soft smile spreading across his face.

You squint at him, “Well don’t. I’m fine.” You promise.

He glances over your face, offering no other rebuttal so you drop your head back to his chest without another word.

˖⋆࿐໋₊ ☆

And soon enough, Steve’s kids become your kids. It’s like overnight that you end up adopting 6 kids that are somehow simultaneously the most amusing and annoying things in your life.

They’re fuels for chaos, but they bring so much love into yours and Steve’s life that you can’t help but adore them. Steve and you become honorary parents to the most accident and danger prone group of children.

It’s only right as a group-appointed mother that you spoil your kids, well as much as you can afford to anyways. You find yourself rearranging your own budget to fit in the rest of the party.

Candy for the kids DND nights, birthday gifts for everyone, anniversary gifts for Steve and small things that you think any of them will enjoy. It leaves you wrought out sometimes but it’s worth it most of the time to see the grateful smiles and endless affection that you receive in return.

You like making them happy, and if that means skipping a couple of meals here and there or having to sacrifice some of the luxuries you treat yourself to? You’re more than willing to sacrifice.

You want them to like you.

So, when Steve offers to pick the kids up from the arcade after your date, you don’t hesitate to offer to pay for them to get milkshakes on the way home.

Steve levels you with a look that more amusement than begrudging.

“I wanted one anyway,” you say softly as he scrutinizes you doubtfully but relents to their whining and heads towards the drive thru.

“Alright,” you call out, turning backwards in the passengers’ seat to confirm their orders.

“It’s 3 chocolate, two vanilla’s and one strawberry right?”

“Yes,” they chorus back to you and with a snort you turn to look at Steve who raises a brow at you.

“You want anything?” you offer and he scrunches his face, shaking his head.

 “Still full from lunch.” He says and you nod.

“That’ll be $15.” The crackly speaker answers you when you’ve read out the kids’ order, having you pause as you contemplate whether to add your own.

“Will that be all?”

You only have $20 in your wallet; you can’t afford to have a milkshake and get groceries this month.

“Yes,” you say softly, ignoring that Steve whips his head to your own with a confused look.

While you’re making your way through the drive thru line the kids are involved in their own discussions, Steve interrupts your train of thought with a hushed whisper, “Baby, I thought you wanted a milkshake too?”

You force a smile, shaking your head, “I wouldn’t be able to finish it anyways.”

He frowns, “You sure? I can always drive back around and get you one, the lines not that long.” He offers

You disagree with him immediately, “It’s alright—we’ve gotta get Will home soon or Joyce will kill us.” You remind him.

He doesn’t look happy about your stance, but he can’t actually refute it, so he nods even though there’s a tightness in his chest that won’t go away and drives to drop the kids off as they slurp their milkshakes in the back.

˖⋆࿐໋₊ ☆

It all comes back to bite you when Steve arrives early to your place for your date, forcing you to let him wander around while you shower and get ready. You promise you’ll only be 10 minutes, but Steve knows better than to hold you to that.

He doesn’t mind waiting, he makes himself comfortable on your bed, throwing a random ball around as he whistles to himself.

With an ill-timed throw it misses his outstretched hand and falls to the ground, rolling under your bed. He leans over your bed, pushing himself down to peak under to try and grab it before his attention shifts to a different item.

A silver lunchbox, completely unassuming laid against the wall just begging for Steve to open it.

He hems and haws for a couple of seconds, still hearing the sound of water rushing through the thin walls of your room before he reaches a handout and tugs the lunchbox with him to sit back onto your bed.

He questions his own ethics for a few seconds, arguing that this might be a complete betrayal of your trust even though you yourself knew fairly well that he would be snooping around your room.

Nevertheless, the box is opened and Steve’s face morphs into confusion.

“What?” he mutters to himself, taking in the sight of carefully folded pieces of paper and stacks of bills hidden inside. Granted its probably only around a hundred dollars, but it’s odd enough to have Steve wondering.

Is this some kind of emergency fund? Something you just haven’t told him about?

With barely constrained inquisitiveness, he opens the folded papers one by one. His heart clenches in his chest when he reads your handwriting.

May—expense sheet

Total income: $175

Groceries: $50 $30

Rent: $75

Fun stuff: $15 milkshakes w the kids $15

Steve’s present: $50

Leftover: $5 (savings)

5 dollars leftover for your savings? What the hell?? How didn’t Steve notice this?

His heart grows heavy the more he goes over your previous expense sheets, every single sheet has money adjusted—times when Steve rarely let you pay for dinner when he left his wallet at home had made you late on rent, when you had bought Steve the cologne he’s been speaking about for ages for his birthday, you’d had to stretch 20 dollars over two weeks for your groceries.

He was the worst boyfriend, what kind of boyfriend didn’t know that his girlfriend was struggling to make ends meet? What kind of boyfriend doesn’t notice that she’s been skipping meals, that she’s been taking care of everyone else but not herself—

“Hey, so I was thinking after the movie we could go back to yours? I was thinking—” you babble as you walk out of the bathroom, steam billowing behind you as you towel dry your hair without looking at him.

He stares at you with something akin to horror and despair in his expression and when you don’t hear him respond, you turn to look at him.

“Steve?” you say confused, frowning at his expression before you catch sight of the familiar items on your bed, spread out before him like photos of a crime scene.

No, a horrified thought invades your mind. Nononono

He was never supposed to find those.

“Steve I can explain—” you say panicked.

He frowns, shaking his head, “What?”

“Baby, why didn’t you tell me?” he asks, devastation coating his tongue in an acidic pain.

Your heart feels as heavy as lead in your chest, “I didn’t want you to worry, I was handling it—”

“Handling it?! You were skipping meals!” He disproves.

You shrink into yourself from his tone, feeling like a child being scolded by their parent. He softens at the sight of you, getting off the bed and tentatively walking over with his arms outstretched presumably to show he’s not a threat.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles as he grows near. “I didn’t mean to lash out.”

You shrug, wringing your hands out in front of you in nervousness before he tugs them into his own. He pulls you into his chest, his arms bracketing your form as he rests his head on your own.

“I just wish you would’ve trusted me,” he says softly, his voice tinged with sadness.

You shake your head, “I do trust you!” you insist, pulling away to look up at him.

His smile is crooked and a little fragile, “But you don’t trust me enough with this.”

“That’s okay! Hey—it’s okay, I’m not mad. I’m not mad I promise.” He insists when it looks like you’re about to argue with him.

“I’m sorry,” you say uncertainly, blinking back the tears that prick the corners of your eyes.

“No need,” he dismisses you immediately.

“I just didn’t want to burden you with the bills and the budgeting—I’ve had it under control since my family left, and I thought if I did it well enough then you wouldn’t realise because I can handle it you know? I—I can be self-sufficient and I wouldn’t have to rely on anyone, and I could still be a good friend and girlfriend and buy you these things you want because you deserve them—”

Steve cups your face in his hands, cutting off your train of thought as he forces your gaze to meet his.

“It’s okay” he reassures you, stopping you in your tracks. “It’s okay, you’re okay.”

You bite your lip unsurely, “Are you—do you think less of me?”

Steve’s face grows dark, “Never,” he vows. “I would never think less of you.”

Some of the weight eases off your chest and you let a fragile smile break through your nervous expression.

“However,” he adds despite your protests. “You are going to let me help.” He asserts.

You frown, already shaking your head, “I’m not a charity case, I don’t need—”

“Ah ah,” he tuts with an amused smile. “I never said that I know you don’t need my help, but it would make me very happy if you’d let me help every once in a while. Most of my trust fund is sitting untouched and trust me—I’d be a whole lot happier spending it on spoiling and taking care of you than on anything else.” He practically pleads.

You try to smother the wobble in your lips as you lean up to press a sweet, chaste kiss to his lips.

“You can’t go crazy,” you threaten him with a shaky voice.

He agrees immediately, because of course he does.

“You have to let me help, okay?” he fires back.

With a small amount of hesitation, you nod slowly.

“Okay,” you whisper.

[harringtonsugar]

Your Side Of The Bed

summary: your breakup with steve has been rough, and it only gets worse at night without him next to you.

warnings: angst, mentions of arguing, nightmares, steve and reader are both avoidants, cursing,

word count: 5.5k

In a reality where you fought inter-dimensional monsters and befriended a young girl with telekinesis, you would think there’s nothing worse than dealing with that.

But it’s pretty easy to say going through a breakup with Steve Harrington is infinitely worse.

You’re standing behind the counter of Family Video, eyes fixated on a small piece of fuzz swirling around the air. You’re trying really hard to ignore the customer flirting with your ex boyfriend ten feet away from you.

You’re grateful he doesn’t seem to be reciprocating her advances, but its probably because you’re nearby. Steve really grew out of being an asshole and flirting with her in front of you would put him right back at the top of the official asshole list.

It’s been a month since your breakup and just know whenever someone says it gets easier with time, they’re lying. The first week was spent on Nancy’s couch, surrounded by tissues and a family sized tub of ice cream. You called in sick from work the whole week and cried enough tears to fill an entire ocean.

The second week, she forced you to socialize more. She was considerate enough to start small – an invitation to have breakfast with her and Jonathan. The opportunity to take Mike and El to the new skating rink. Max spent some time with you too but she didn’t push you to talk about it, she just sat with you through four different movies. All horror, there was absolutely no room for romance or comedy.

By the third week, you really had to pull it together. There was no word from Steve and it was probably better that way. Eddie, Mike and Lucas did all the work to get your things from Steve’s house and pack it up to bring to Nancy’s. You really didn’t want to move into her apartment but it was a stepping stone after leaving Steve’s.

Looking back on it now, the breakup was .. well, it was stupid. It was a cumulation of arguing and stress and lack of space all in one. Petty arguments over chores and snide remarks about each others habits. It was something that should’ve been solved with one conversation but you were both equally stubborn and when you angrily shouted maybe you needed space, he didn’t argue.

Still, you missed him. You really fucking missed him.

And the worst part is he seemed to be doing perfectly fine.

Dustin swore he wasn’t taking sides but you haven’t seen much of him these past couple weeks. Whenever the kids hung around you, he and Robin were both missing and Mike let it slip they were at Steve’s. It’s not like you blamed them, you were all friends but Steve was their best friend.

Now, it’s day 34 without him and you’re wishing the ground will swallow you whole and save you from hearing this girl drape herself all over him.

“It’s just so good to see you, Steve,” She says. She wears a wide smile on her face, one palm resting on his bicep. Steve doesn’t seem to mind, he just fiddles with the tape in his hand and smiles back.

“Yeah, you too, Stacey,” He responds.

Stacey.

He never mentioned a Stacey when you two were together and now suddenly they’re a pair of good friends who wish they kept up with each other over the years.

You try not to stare but then she grabs his forearm and snags the pen he had clipped to his vest. Your stomach twists when she begins to write on the skin of his arm. Steve watches her, his brows pulled together and when she finishes, she raises his arm to her mouth – she presses her red lipstick covered lips against his skin, flicking her eyes back up to his and leaves a kiss mark.

You physically feel sick.

She removes her mouth, a quiet pop sound fills the store. You can see now she’s written her phone number on him, the kiss mark a cute little signature. Her thumb brushes over the lipstick stain and smiles up at him again.

“Call me tonight,” Her voice is low and sultry. Steve glances at you and when he sees you already looking, he swallows hard.

You can feel your eyes prick with tears and tear your gaze away from him. Your throat feels tight, you clench your jaw to keep yourself from crying.

Thankfully, a different customer approaches the counter with their own tapes to check out. You clear your throat and take a deep breath, then plaster on the best customer service smile you can muster.

“Find everything okay, Mrs. Langston?” You ask, typing in her information as you complete her sale. The older woman is easy to talk to and maybe for a few seconds, you’re able to forget all about Steve and Stacey.

You’re unsure how the conversation ends but when you hand the receipt to her, Stacey’s gone and Steve is carefully approaching the counter opposite of you.

You bid your goodbyes to Mrs. Langston and busy yourself with cleaning up the papers near the register. There’s nobody left in the store except you and him. Tension fills the air quickly and you can feel him looking at you.

You hope he doesn’t try to make conversation about Stacey. Aside from things related to work, you haven’t spoken since the night you broke up. If he tries now, you’re almost certain you’d burst into tears.

If he’s moving on – even though it’s only been 34 days – you won’t stop him, and you definitely won’t beg him not to.

“Hey, uh listen,” Steve’s voice breaks the awkward silence. “About Stacey, I just want you to know -,”

“You don’t have to explain anything to me,” You cut him off quickly. Your back is still turned to him and you’ve re-piled  the same stack of papers four times now to look busy.

“I know, but I want to.”

You freeze then. Steve notices and you hear the sound of his footsteps coming closer. He approaches you carefully, like he knows you’re seconds away from running away, and stops a few steps behind you. He’s close enough you can feel the warmth from his body.

He says your name softly but you still don’t turn. “I’m sorry you saw that,”

Sorry you saw that.

He’s apologizing it for happening in front of you, not that it happened in the first place. Because he’s not sorry. Clearly, the breakup and space has been good for him and while you’ve been a walking zombie, he’s been moving on.

You swallow hard and bite your lip. “It’s fine, Steve.”

He moves again. This time to stand beside you and his head bends to try and catch your eyes. You keep your eyes trained on the stack of papers and pray he’ll drop it.

Before he has a chance to say anything, the bell at the top of the door sings and the door swings up. You’re more than thankful for the distraction and you look up to greet the customer but you’re met with Eddie, Max and El.

Max and El are talking amongst themselves but Eddie’s eyes are stuck on you. You don’t miss the mischievous glint in his eyes as he looks between you and Steve.

“Look at my two favorite Family Video employees,” He sings and approaches the counter. Max and El follow.

“Hey guys,” Steve greets them, but you can feel his eyes still on you. Eddie clearly notices as well and smirks at you.

“We’re here to pick up the tapes Robin put on hold yesterday. Y’know, movie night and all,”

“Right, I’ll go get those,” You say quickly, taking any opportunity to get as far away from Steve as possible. You miss the way his eyes sadden but he doesn’t stop you.

As you scurry to the break room, Max and El trail behind you.

“You’re coming tonight, right?” Max asks suspiciously. You send her a sideways glance as you fish around the room for where Robin hid the tapes.

You already know your answer – no, you will not be going because movie night is always held at Steve’s house and you can’t bear the thought of being there again so soon. But you haven’t told anybody you weren’t going. Honestly, you planned to just skip out on the whole thing without a word. Clearly, Max knows you well enough to know that’s exactly what you intended.

“I don’t think so, Max. I’m not feeling great today,”

She sees right through you. “Bullshit.”

You scowl at her. “Language, Mayfield.”

“You feel fine, you just don’t want to be around Steve,”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” You wave her off, and kneel to the ground in front of a crate of old tapes.

“Why don’t you two get back together?” El asks. You look up from where you’re shuffling through tapes. “Max and Lucas break up and get back together all the time. Even me and Mike have done it before. He still likes you,”

Her oblivious nature is cute and you can feel yourself soften. “Steve and I are a little different from you guys, El. And I don’t think he wants to get back together.”

“That’s bullshit again!” Max exclaims.

“Max!” You groan and finally find the tapes Robin hid. Rising to your feet, you head back up to the front. “It’s just movie night, it’s not a big deal, alright?”

You push through the beaded curtain, the girls following suit and nobody misses Max’s sour face.

“It is a big deal! Eddie, will you tell her it’s a big deal?”

Eddie pulls himself away from the conversation with Steve and looks at you three. “What’s a big deal?”

“Nothing.” You say.

“She doesn’t wanna come tonight,” Max says at the same time.

Eddie makes a face. “Why not? It’s the third time you’ve bailed on movie night.”

Max gasps, realization dawning on her. “It is the third time!” 

You glare at him. Damn him for keeping count.

“Can you two relax? I just feel sick today,” You grumble, punching in Robin’s phone number into the computer.

“Bull.Shit.”

“Maxine Mayfield, I’m gonna wash your mouth out with soap!” You threaten, a finger pointed in her direction. She rolls her eyes but before she can respond, Steve speaks up.

“What’s wrong? Is it your head?” He asks. You look up at him and immediately regret it. He’s looking down at you with those chocolate brown eyes and they’re swirling with concern. “Have you been sleeping okay?”

You still for a moment because no, you haven’t been sleeping okay. Actually, you haven’t been sleeping at all.

“I’m fine,” You say quickly. “Can all of you relax? It’s just movie night,”

Steve ignores you. “But you said you were sick. What’s bothering you?”

“See?” El speaks up. “I told you he still liked -,”

“Okay, I’ll go!” You cut her off. She was one word away from completely embarrassing you. “Can everybody lay off now?”

Max and El look pleased enough, Eddie as well but Steve’s look of concern doesn’t disappear. Still, he doesn’t press you on it and you’re grateful.

The rest of your shift is spent carefully avoiding Steve and taking every opportunity to help a customer or stock shelves. You’re painfully aware of how he keeps an eye on you the whole time but he seems to respect your wishes to not talk.

By the time 8PM rolls around, the store is cleaned and ready to be locked up. Steve waits behind you as you lock the door before you both make your way through the parking lot. Three steps into the same direction, you realize he parked right next to you.

Thick tension surrounds you, and you’re silently wishing the birds chirping will be loud enough to make him not talk.

“Are you sure everything’s okay?” Steve’s voice is low and hesitant. Your heart pinches at that soft tone he carries – it’s something you got so used to but have been deprived of for the last month.

You nod without looking up at him, and pull the strap of your bag closer to your chest. “Everything’s fine,”

He looks torn between asking again or being quiet completely, and he chooses to be quiet.

This is the most you’ve spoken to him since the breakup and it’s even harder than you thought it would be. It’s taking every ounce of self control not to throw yourself into his arms and beg him to hold you. To come back to you and make everything better.

Your ego wins the battle. He didn’t fight for you to stay and hasn’t fought to bring you back either. If anything, he’s proving he prefers being apart from you.

You’ll get there, with time. Hopefully.

You make it to your car and surprising to you, Steve jogs ahead of you to open your car door. You finally look up at him and see him already looking down at you – he has one hand clutched around the handle and the other resting atop the door.

It’s hard looking at him, especially doing something to gentle like opening your door for no reason. Based on the look in his eyes, you’re sure he can see the pain in your eyes.

“Thanks.” You mumble softly and slide into the seat. He doesn’t shut it right away, so you glance up at him.

He takes a deep breath and moves to stand between the car and the open door. Carefully, he bends down to kneel so he’s eye level with you.

Gently, he says your name. “I don’t want you to miss out on things because of me,” He says and your heart sinks.

“I’m not,” You say instinctively. It was a lie and he sees right through you.

“If you’re uncomfortable being around me, I’ll skip out on tonight,”

You sit up, ready to argue that it’s his house and they’re his friends – he shouldn’t have to worry about your feelings. It’s not his responsibility anymore.

But he continues before you have a chance.

“I can find something else to do, it’s really not a problem.”

You frown at his words and your mind immediately goes back to Stacey.

He didn’t say he’d try to be around you, or that he won’t let it get weird – he was offering to leave completely. Maybe this was his way of finding an excuse to go out with her.

Your eyes flick to his arm and you see the faint trace of her phone number still on his skin. He follows your gaze and drops his arm from where it rests on your door.

“I didn’t mean it like that.” He says quickly, almost defensively.

Maybe he didn’t. Or maybe he did.

Truthfully, there was no way for you to know. And it wasn’t like you had the right to know either. He wasn’t yours anymore.

When you look back up at him, your face is blank, eyes void.

“You can do whatever you’d like, I won’t make it awkward.” You say simply and Steve’s eyes sadden.

He can tell exactly what you’re doing – steeling yourself off from him and he hates it.

Before he gets the chance, you turn away from him. After sliding the key into the ignition, your hands curl around the steering wheel and you look straight ahead. “I already promised Max and El. I don’t want to let them down,”

He looks at you while you avoid looking at him again. From beside you, you see him nod before standing upright and shutting your door softly.

You don’t waste a second before you’re peeling out of the lot and making your way home, all without even glancing at him again.

Whatever he chooses to do will be on him and has nothing to do with you.

You want to cry – you can feel it about to happen – but you’re so tired of it. Crying and wallowing hasn’t helped you these past few weeks and it’s not about to start now.

Even then, you’re debating just breaking your promise to the girls and staying home. At least then you wouldn’t know if Steve decides to stay home or go do whatever he has planned with whoever.

But you miss your friends, and you’re tired of sitting on Nancy’s couch alone all night and tormenting yourself with your own thoughts.

When you make it home – Nancy’s home – you drag yourself into her apartment and avoid all her questions about how your day was, how it was seeing Steve, if you’re okay.

You give short and simple answers, making sure to skip over the Stacey incident, and tell her you’re going to shower before you leave. She’s happy you’re at least going tonight.

By the time you finish, you showered and changed into more comfortable clothes. You managed to talk yourself off the metaphorical cliff – you’ll stay for one movie and drive separately so you can make an early escape.

You haven’t figured out a way to feel normal once you step back inside his house and when you park on the curb, that feeling of dread consumes you.

You turn the car off but stay sitting for a few seconds as you stare at the house. A month ago, it was your house – your home. Now you’re knocking for someone to let you in. It’s a saddening difference and it just makes you regret coming even more.

You’re five seconds from starting the car and leaving before Nancy knocks on your window, Jonathan next to her. She urges you to get out and you can see the look on her face – the one that’s reading into your every move and it’s obvious she’s worried.

So you gather your things and pull yourself together.

Robin is the one to let you guys in and you glance behind you to see if Steve’s car was in the driveway.

Relief sits heavy in your chest when you see the maroon car.

You follow behind Nancy wordlessly but when you see El peak her head around the corner, Mike lingering next to her, it’s hard to fight your smile – because you really did miss them.

She rushes to you, practically dragging you further into the house and to where she claimed her spot on the floor.

Max and Lucas have their own setup next to El and Mike’s and they’re completely engrossed in their own conversation. Dustin has taken over the recliner on the other side of the room, and Eddie takes the end of the couch closest to him.

Nancy and Jonathan settle into the longer couch, and Robin sits on the obnoxiously big beanbag chair she begged Steve to buy her for Christmas last year.

You still haven’t seen Steve, and you wonder if he did choose to skip out and hide in his room.

You take the chance to look further around the living room. It almost looks like nothing has changed. The furniture is still set up the same way, the color palette is still warm and full.

The posed family pictures he once had with his parents are still replaced with pictures of the group across the room. But when you continue looking around, your heart sinks.

Because all the pictures he had of just you and him are still there.

A picture of you and him at the beach sits on the coffee table. One of you two hugging at graduation hangs on the wall beside the TV. Another one of just you, smiling up at the camera at your birthday two years ago is sitting front and center on the fireplace.

Your throat burns and you feel it begin to tighten. You never really let yourself think of the possibility that he hasn’t moved on either. Leaving of group photos was one thing, but the ones of you both? The one of only you?

It’s all too much and it’s slowly breaking your resolve. It’s only proving the fact that the breakup was all for nothing and if you weren’t so damn prideful, you could’ve fixed it.

Suddenly, Steve emerges from the kitchen with his hands full. He’s holding three different bowls of popcorn and bags of chips and candy tucked into his arms.

Your eyes meet and for just a second, he halts. He looks surprised you actually showed and you don’t blame him. Still, he gives you a half smile and you try your best to mirror it.

Dustin jumps from his spot on the seat and makes grabby hands at the snacks Steve holds. Eddie leans up and helps pass them out and you watch Steve swat Dustin’s hands away as he tries to steal everything.

Beside you, El talks your ear off and you’re eager to welcome the distraction. Otherwise, you would’ve spent the whole night staring at Steve.

Before long, Robin starts the movie and Mike begins to argue with Dustin about being quiet. There’s bickering, and laughing, and food being thrown but it feels nice. Happy even.

Steve ends up settling almost directly behind you on the couch. His elbow sits on the arm rest to his left and your back is directly against the foot of the couch. His legs are almost touching your shoulder. Neither of you say anything.

But even though you’re having a good time and aren’t completely regretting coming, you’re painfully aware of how close Steve is. You can feel the warmth radiating from his skin, the smell of his cologne is almost all you can focus on. Your hand twitches in your lap – begging you to hold onto his ankle and lean your head onto his thigh.

And as you watch the movie, your eyes keep finding the picture of you two at graduation. Steve has you pulled back into his chest, his arms iron clad around you. He’s resting his chin on your shoulder and you’re holding both your diplomas up at the camera. Your shared smiles gleam back at you and it’s enough to make you smile in real time.

It’s also enough to make you sad all over again.

Because it’s not your reality anymore, and you’re not sure it ever will be.

Somehow you end up staying through three movies. By the time credits roll on the last one, everyone is asleep. Mike’s leaning against the wall, his neck bent in a way that’ll leave him with a cramp in the morning, and El’s head resting in his lap.

Max and Lucas are sprawled along the floor across from them, one of his arms tucked under her head. Dustin has his face smushed into a pillow, one arm and one leg hanging off the side of the chair. Eddie is slumped beside him, drool pooling at his mouth.

Robin is curled into a ball on her beanbag chair, quietly snoring. Nancy and Jonathan are curled into each other on their side of the couch. You’re too scared to turn and look at Steve, but he hasn’t moved a muscle in an hour so you’re sure he’s asleep too.

It’s the perfect time to slip out undetected.

Carefully, you push yourself off the floor. It’s a mess around the room and even in a rush, you feel bad just leaving things the way they are. So you grab the bowls and snacks from the coffee table and move towards the kitchen.

“Let me help,”

Steve’s voice startles you so much that you drop the bags of candy to the floor, your palm covering your mouth to minimize the scream ready to slip out.

His eyes widen and he smiles. “Sorry, sorry,”

You exhale and it’s hard not to smile back.

He doesn’t look like he’d been asleep at all, which means he probably just sat there thinking the same thing you were. His hair is a little messy, a few pieces covering his forehead and you’re itching to fix it.

He leans down to pick up the bags and you go back to picking up the cups and bowls. You’re both careful not to wake anyone else as you carry everything to the kitchen.

It’s domestic – the way you fall back into rhythm of cleaning. Steve takes care of the dirty dishes and you begin putting the snacks back into the pantry.

When everything is cleaned, you’re unsure what to do next. At first, you figured you’d clean and leave without having to talk to anyone but now, you’re left alone with only him and he’s looking at you like that again and it’s hard to think properly.

You stand in the middle of the kitchen, facing each other. He has one hand resting on the counter, tapping his finger on the granite. Your bottom lip is pulled between your teeth.

“I, uh, I should go,” You finally say.

“You don’t have to,” He replies easily. “It’s late, you shouldn’t be driving right now,”

You glance at the clock on the stove and it reads back 2:19AM.

He was sweet for offering but it wasn’t far and the last thing you wanted was to prolong the inevitable awkwardness that would come in the morning.

Steve notices your apprehension easily. “You can take the guest room and leave first thing in the morning,”

Your head is screaming at you to say no thank you. To bid him a farewell and get home as quickly as possible. Your heart, however, is begging you to accept and take the chance to be close to him – even just for one night.

And you’re sick of sleeping on Nancy’s couch.

“Okay,” You nod.

His face lights up, a smile covering his mouth. “Okay.” He repeats.

Quietly, he shuts off the lights and TV before setting off upstairs. You follow behind him and when you make it down the hall, you both stop in front of his bedroom door. He turns around to face you.

“Uh, guest rooms right there,” He points at the door across the hall. “Bathroom is just down the hall. Second door on the -,”

“I know,” You cut him off and he nods quickly.

“Right, yeah. Of course,”

It’s awkward to say the least, but it’s not unkind. It’s nice to hear him talk again, even if it’s just telling you where things were.

You stare at each other for a moment. The clock in the hall ticks loudly and you wonder if he can hear how loud your heart is beating.

You break first. “Goodnight, Steve.”

He gives you a soft smile. “Goodnight.”

You enter the room and seconds later, hear his bedroom door click shut.

The guest bedroom is dull. There’s no pictures along the wall, only a painting of a red Cadillac from the 70s. There’s beige curtains covering the window and a matching beige bedspread on the mattress. There’s a small lamp on the bedside table and a desk on the opposite wall.

It’s a drastic contrast from Steve’s bedroom – especially after you helped get rid of his matching striped curtains and wallpaper.

It feels cold and lonely.

But you climb into bed anyway and do your best to stop thinking about how much better you’d sleep with him next to you.

On the other side of the wall, Steve lays on his own bed and feels the same way. His room hasn’t felt like his room since the day you left and now that he knows you’re so close, he’s using all his strength not to climb into bed with you.

He’s spent the last month trying to convince himself if he let you have some space, things would get better and you’d come back to him. To him, it was never a breakup – just a stupid stepping stone in your relationship.

But as the days passed, you pulled further away from him, and next thing he knew, the boys were coming over and packing up your things. He wanted to fight them on it, actually he tried – but then Mike said it was your idea and suddenly everything felt too real.

Maybe he fucked up so bad you were fed up. He thought about showing up to Nancy’s, thought about begging you to come home, but he didn’t want you to feel cornered. So he backed off.

But then he saw the way you reacted when you saw him with Stacey.

It’s not like it meant anything – it took her writing her number on him to realize she was flirting with him, all because he couldn’t stop staring at you. After he tried to talk to you about it, he spent ten minutes in the bathroom trying to scrub it off his skin. And you saw the remnants stained onto his arm later that night.

He didn’t want you to feel jealous or upset over it, he didn’t plan on ever calling her, but a small part inside of him felt relieved you did feel like that. At least you still felt something for him.

And he knew what you were thinking all night as he watched your eyes filter back to the pictures of you two. He didn’t leave them up to prove something, he just couldn’t stand the thought of taking them down. You would always be his, no matter what.

Still, the argument escalated so quickly because of him and he had to make sure if – when – you came back to him, it was on your terms. He wouldn’t rush you.

So he offered the guest room and hoped that would be the first step into forgiveness.

It’s maybe an hour after he’s climbed into bed when he hears the faint sound of .. crying?  

His ears perk up and he leans up on his elbows, turning his head towards the door. He listens for a moment but all he hears is the ticking of the clock.

He thinks he must have imagined it until he hears it again.

It’s still quiet, and easy to miss if he wasn’t already awake, but he can hear it – and it’s familiar.

It’s you.

It’s a cry he’s heard a hundred times over the years. It’s soft, and not the same one that comes from you during a sad movie - it’s fear.

He knows what’s causing it – your nightmares used to be overwhelming but ever since you moved in with him two years ago, they’ve become less frequent. Having him next to you was enough to tether you to reality and comfort you.

But now he hasn’t been there. Have you been dealing with them ever since you left? All the while he’s been making you feel like you should be gone.

His feet are moving before he even has a chance to think – like his body was made with a built in magnetic connected to you. He pulls his door open and pads directly across the hall to your door.

He presses his ear to the door and can hear your crying more clearly. They’re still quiet but they sound more intense now. His hand curls around the handle but then he hesitates.

Should he be the one to comfort you? Should he get Nancy to instead? Would you want him?

When he hears you cry out again, this time louder, he pushes the door open. The light from the hall shines through the doorway and he finds her curled in on yourself, sheets skewed across the bed. He can see you shivering, your brows pulled tight, creasing the beautiful skin of your forehead. He sees your skin is flushed red and your cheeks are stained with tears.

Guilt sits in his chest and without thinking, he’s climbing into bed with you. The mattress dips below his weight and he slides one arm under your head and pulls you from your fetal position so you’re facing him instead. He pulls you into his chest, an arm curled around your shoulders and the other cupping your cheek.

His warmth transfers to you, and as if you were searching for him the entire time, your body instantly relaxes in his hold. Your shaking stops, a soft sigh escapes past your lips, and your hand raises to clutch the fabric of his t-shirt.

You watches the way you bury your face into his chest, the crease between your brows disappears, and he hears the soft melody of your voice.

“Steve..” You don’t say his name as a question – he’s pretty sure you’re still not even awake. It’s relief. Even unconscious, you were given comfort again and you knew with absolute certainty, that comfort was him.

He feels his heart contract in his chest and he tightens his hold on you. “It’s me, baby,” He says softly, lips touching your hairline. “You’re safe, I got you.”

As he holds you in his arms, he knows without an ounce of doubt, he’s never letting go again. Nothing is completely fixed and won’t be overnight but when morning comes, he’s going to tell you exactly this.

He won’t ever let you forget how much he loves you.

When you wake up in the morning, you’re practically shackled to the bed by Steve’s arms. They’re wrapped tightly around your waist and his cheek is resting against the top of your head.

Confusion takes hold of you immediately, but you don’t pull away from his hold. If anything, you burrow yourself deeper into his head but it’s enough to make him stir and groan quietly.

Internally, you’re cursing at yourself for moving even an inch but then his hold tightens around you – if that was even possible. You can feel his head lift from where it rested atop of yours and you hold your breath.

“Hey, you awake?” His morning voice is gruff and it makes your stomach swirl. You hesitate for a second before giving him a timid nod.

“Mhm..”

He pulls his arms apart but only enough to spread his palms over your arms, his thumbs brushing back and forth over your skin.

Silence settles over the room, only the sound of your  breathing and the sound of his heart beating in your ear. It feels normal again.

“You were having a nightmare,” Steve says suddenly and your stomach drops. “Last night. That’s why I came in,”

You sigh softly, eyes squeezing shut from embarrassment.

“I’m-I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you up,”

Steve shakes his head quickly. “No, don’t apologize. Seriously.” His tone leaves no room for arguing.

You’re both blanketed in silence again but for the first time in weeks, it’s not uncomfortable. The feeling of his arms around you again, your body tucked perfectly against his – it feels warm and safe and grounding.

“Thank you,” You say quietly, fingers tracing shapes over his shirt covered chest.

“You don’t need to thank me either, baby,”

The pet name slips out so casually and your heart splits in two, but you grip his shirt even tighter. Steve picks up on your reaction and gently cups your face, encouraging you to look up at him.

You’re more than sure you look disgusting – bags under your eyes, and they’re probably puffy from crying in your sleep, cheeks flushed pink, hair a tousled mess – but he doesn’t look at you like you do, even for a second.

Steve looks down at you like you hung the fucking moon and stars. It’s intense enough to have you nearly shying away but he holds you firmly in place.

“I’m sorry about everything,” He says and you blink up at him. “This past month without you has been fucking hell. And seeing you last night, I don’t ever want you to deal with that alone.”

Tears well in your eyes almost immediately and when one slips down your cheek, he swipes it away gently.

“I love you so much and I don’t want to spend even another  second without –.” Steve makes a surprise sound when you cut him off by pressing your lips to his.

He recovers quickly, arms pulling you tighter into his chest and kissing you back just as hard. Every ounce of emotion you’ve kept bottled up are poured into this kiss and as he keeps kissing you, he’s gently wiping away the tears falling from your eyes.

When you finally pull away for air, you don’t go far – you rest your forehead against his and smile.

“I don’t want to be without you either.” You whisper softly.

Steve’s smile is bright and he quickly tosses you onto your back before he hovers over you, sweetly attacking your face with more kisses.

You’re giggling against him as his lips extend down to your neck and there’s not a doubt in your mind that you’ve ever been happier and as long as he’s right next to you, you always will be.

[lonniereads13]

i miss you, i'm sorry

steve harrington x henderson!reader

summary: you and steve broke up a month ago, but hopper called everyone in for a crawl. being stuck in a van with your ex was not how you imagined your night going.

warnings: angst, arguing, cursing, hurt/comfort

word count:

lonnie speaks: first fic!! highly recommend an 80s yearning playlist while reading. specifically Purple Rain towards the end

A crawl was not how you imagined your night going. Especially when Hopper just said you were to ride in the van alongside your brother and your ex.

After your breakup with Steve, you had avoided the party for a couple weeks. There hadn’t been a crawl in awhile due to no news of any convoys and it wasn’t like you were super close with everyone.

You had always tagged along with Steve.

Although everyone was nice to you and invited you, it was clear Steve was best friends with everyone. Not you.

Like when your brother came home and you asked where he had been just for him to scramble and stutter about hanging out with the party. Without you.

But, Robin insisted you join the crawl after showing up at your house to return a book she had borrowed.

“I don’t know, Robin…” You had trailed off, picking at your fingernails and leaning against the wall in your entryway.

Robin had groaned. “Please? Everyone misses you. You haven’t gone to any of the movie nights in the past couple weeks.”

You stared at her, giving her a look. “That’s because I know he will be there.” 

“Please, dude. I can’t do this without you.” She said after a moment, processing what you had said. “Everyone is asking where you are and where you went.”

You didn’t believe it.

“If I go, you have to buy me ice cream.” You muttered finally, folding your arms across your chest.

Robin cheered. “Yes! Thank you!” She pulled you into a quick hug before leaving to find Vickie at the hospital.

A couple hours later, you were sitting in the living space of the squawk, listening to Hopper deal out roles and use an expo marker to create a plan.

You saw Steve across the room, perched on an arm chair that Lucas had occupied. His hair was styled perfectly, his butter yellow sweater ironed and his face? He looked like he hadn’t missed an ounce of sleep, like there wasn’t any stress in his life.

It sent a painful jab to your heart.

Because you had been lying awake for hours for the past few weeks, thinking of him and regretting what you had said. 

You spent an hour this morning just trying to cover up the tear streaks and dark circles under your eyes.

“Alright, we understand?” Hopper concluded, turning back to the group.

Everyone nodded. You followed suit a moment after, gaze still on Steve.

You watched as his eyes left the board and to you.

Your breath caught.

But a second after, Dustin walked up to him and said something. 

You looked away as he did.

A couple minutes later, everyone began to split up.

As you started for the door, you felt a hand on your shoulder. 

You looked back to find Robin behind you, giving a smile.

“You okay?” She asked, walking beside you.

You shrugged. “Guess I’ll have to be.”

Robin frowned. “At least you won’t be alone with him, Dustin’ll be there.”

“Yeah.” You mumbled, stepping into the night air. “But it’s not like he’s best friends with Steve right now. So, it might just be hella awkward.”

Robin chuckled.

You spotted the squawk van, Steve opening the driver side door.

“Dude! Let’s go!” Dustin stood by the sliding door of the van, hand cupped around his mouth as he called to you.

“I’m going, I’m going.” You muttered, annoyed. 

You waved to Robin and headed towards Dustin who climbed into the back. That left the passenger seat.

Fuck my life you thought, hopping into the leather seat.

“Hey,” 

You glanced over to find Steve giving you a small smile, one that didn't reach his eyes. “Hi.” You croaked as you clicked your seatbelt in place.

“How are you?” He asked like it wasn't the first time you guys had talked since that night. One of his hands rested casually on the steering wheel, the other on the gear shift.

You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. “I’m…doing okay.” You had to look away. “You?”

Steve sighed. “Good. Good.”

You nodded. “Good.”

“Oh my god, can we go?” Dustin groaned from the back seat, his headphones halfway on. 

Steve shot him a look and shifted the gear into drive. “Jesus.” He muttered under his breath and took off down the driveway.

As he drove, you leaned forward and turned the radio on. A Crowded House song faded in, a soft beat filling the space of the van.

It was quiet, awkward.

You thought about how it was before.

Steve would sing along to whatever song was playing, whether he knew it or not. Dustin would complain of his horrible singing voice from the back and you would laugh.

The van rides used to be full of warmth and noise. Steve and Dustin would playfully argue, you would cover your hand atop of Steve’s. 

But now, it was cold. Silent. You had to move carefully so the leather of the seat didn’t crinkle and make noise.

You stared silently out the window, watching the buildings of Hawkins pass. 

“Henderson?” The walkie-talkie crackled with Joyce’s voice.

You reached for it. “This is y/n. I copy." You then mumbled, "Over." remembering Dustin's constant reminders to properly conclude your statement.

The walkie crackled. “Okay. We’re running a little behind. You’ll have to wait for a little bit. Over.” Joyce said from the squawk's basement.

Great

You nodded, then realized she couldn’t see. “Right, okay. Will do. Over.” You set the walkie down.

“Guess we’ll just have to park?” Steve mumbled from the driver’s seat, pulling into the usual waiting position in the alley in between the book store and an apartment building.

“Mhm.”

Steve’s fingers tapped against the window. “I’ll grab us a snack. You want anything-a diet coke?”

Your heart clenched when he remembered your favorite drink. You almost forgot to reply. “Uh, yeah. Please.” 

He met your eyes. “A pack of MnMs too.”

You nodded.

“Dustin.”

Your brother pulled off his headphones and appeared between the both of you. “Fanta. Lays. Classic.”

Steve pushed his head back, sending him into the back. 

“Hey!” Dustin squeaked.

You huffed a laugh.

Steve caught your gaze, his own smile tugging at his lips.

You sobered immediately, smile fading.

He held your gaze for a second before shaking his head and opening the car door. “I’ll be back.”

The door clicked shut behind him and you watched as he crossed the street to the convenience store.

"Can't you guys just kiss and makeup already?" Dustin asked, poking his head up front again.

You sighed. "It's not that simple." You watched Steve disappear into the store. "I ended things. Like an idiot. He doesn't want me anymore."

Dustin snorted. "Bullshit."

You gave him a look. "Language."

He shook his head. "Steve is definitely still in love with you."

Your heart clenched.

"He's always asking about you." Dustin went on. "It's getting annoying. And he looks miserable all the time."

You bit your lip. "I dunno, Dusty."

"Uh, well, I know." He rolled his eyes. "Just talk to him. I can give you a chance." He picked up an old rubix cube from the center console. "I'll pretend that the radio connection is bad or something, step out of the car for a few minutes..." You watched as he began to solve the white side. "And boom you say you love him, he'll say it back, then you kiss and happily ever after."

You laughed. "I don't know if its that easy."

He shrugged. "Worth a shot."

You paused for a moment, thinking.

If your brother was saying the truth, then maybe Steve still felt the way you did. You had spent the past month wallowing in self pity, it was exhausting. You definitely wanted him back.

"Fine. Okay." You mumbled.

Dustin grinned.

You rolled your eyes.

Your gaze traveled back out towards the store as Steve exited.

But he wasn't alone.

A girl followed, bubbly, blonde and laughing at something he said.

Your heart sunk.

She put her hand on his arm, her fingers curling around his bicep.

Dustin paused, watching as well.

She said something and he smiled, nodding.

You felt tears well in your eyes when she handed him a piece of paper and he accepted it. It was no doubt her number.

"It's probably not what you think..." Dustin whispered, but his voice spoke it like a question.

You shook your head, watching Steve hoist the grocery bag higher in his hands and beginning to walk the girl to her car. When she slipped into the driver's seat, he waved goodbye and started for the van.

You swallowed thickly, blinking away tears and taking a deep breath.

"Don't mention anything." You told Dustin, your voice a little shaky. Gone was any hope Dustin had given you, and now a sense of coldness towards Steve crept in.

He gave you a sympathetic look and sunk into the backseat, toying with the buttons on the radio system.

You stared straight ahead as Steve opened the door and hoisted himself up into the van.

"Okay, i've got a can of fanta and a large back of chips for you." Steve threw Dustin's food into the backseat.

Dustin groaned as it hit him in the stomach. "Jesus christ, dude."

Steve smiled and reached back into the bag. "And a diet coke and a family size bag of Mnms for the lady." He looked at you, trying to catch your eye. You didn't reply at first. "Y/n?"

You hummed, turning your head towards him.

His smile turned lopsided. "Your food."

You let out a breath as you took the things from him. "Thanks."

He nodded and pulled out his own can of root beer. "Any news on Hop yet?"

You shook your head, popping the tab of the can open.

Steve nodded again. He straightened. "Oh, they didn't have the normal sized Mnms, so I had to get you the mini ones."

You looked at the bag. "Alright."

You couldn't shake the sight of Steve leaning into the touch of that girl. How his smile seemed genuine, how he accepted her number like you'd never existed.

It sent jabs at your heart.

You didn't want to talk to him anymore.

Joyce radioed a couple minutes later, telling you Hopper was on the move.

Steve scrambled at the keys and harshly pulled into the street.

You gripped your seat as he made a sharp turn and sped up.

Dustin guided his speed and soon, you were at an steady pace.

The crawl ended in another dead end.

No sign of Vecna.

Another zone crossed out on the map that projected on the Squawk's wall.

You sat in the passenger seat, curled up against the window as Steve drove you and Dustin home.

"No, we're not listening to Iron Maiden right now." Steve scolded Dustin. "Your sister's sleeping."

"Oh my god, it's always about her, isn't it." Dustin deadpanned.

Steve swallowed because it was. It was always going to be about you.

He had spent the past two hours trying to come up what to say to you and how to ask you to talk. He had an idea of what he wanted to say, constantly repeating it in his head.

Steve had spent the past month picking up the pieces of himself. He had never cried like the night after Robin came by his house to get your stuff because you had been too scared.

His father drilled into his head that real men don't cry.

But that went out the window when he lost you.

He tried to distract himself with work. But you were everywhere. In every song that Robin played for the listeners, in the way he made his coffee for the early morning shifts, in the storage room where you used to sneak kisses.

This had been the first week that he could get through a day without breaking down.

Talking to you again had the tension in his shoulders relax. Hearing your soft voice let him take a breath. Seeing you smile had him wanting to smile back.

But ever since he got back from the convenience store, you turned colder. You didn't look at him, you spoke in one word sentences.

He was dying inside.

He thought about that girl earlier who had slipped him a piece of paper that some guy was creepily following her and requesting he walk her to her car.

Steve glanced at you, slumped against the seat, eyes closed, lips barely parted in soft breaths.

Had you seen? Had you interpreted it differently?

Steve needed to talk to you.

He pulled in front of your house, barely able to see through the rainfall that had started just minutes before.

"Hey," He said to Dustin. "Can you give us a second?"

The younger Henderson glanced at you before nodding slowly. "Yeah, okay." He pulled the door open and hopped out.

Steve watched him walk up the driveway before turning to you.

He placed a hand on your upper arm. "Hey," He murmured gently.

You sighed softly, your eyes fluttering open. "Hm?" You hummed.

Steve practically melted when you gave him a soft look. "We're home."

home

Home used to mean his parent's house. It was where you had lived with him for the past year when his parents skipped town after news of the quarantine put in place.

You blinked slowly, glancing over at your house. "...Right." You reached for the door handle.

Steve swallowed. "Hey...can we, uh, talk?"

You straightened, turning back to him. "Talk?"

He nodded, biting his lip. "About...everything."

"Okay." You said after a minute.

Steve let out a breath.

“What you saw?” He finally said. “That girl, it-it wasn’t what it looked like-”

“Steve.”

“Seriously.” He went on, shaking his head. “I was just helping her to her car, that’s it. I swear.”

“Steve. It’s okay.”

He shook his head again, swallowing. “I didn’t-I can’t move on.” He admitted, his voice cracking. “I won’t.”

Your breath caught. “I-”

“I can’t move on from you.” He gazed into your eyes, pleading with you. 

You tilted your head. “I can’t either.”

Steve sighed with relief, his chest lifting. “Okay,” His hand gently covered yours. “Okay.”

You shook your head, pulling back. “But it isn’t that simple.”

His eyebrows furrowed, chest constricting. “What-what do you mean?”

“Steve…we were fighting constantly.” You whispered. “It wasn’t healthy.”

Steve’s lips parted, his eyes bouncing between yours. “I don’t want to fight.” He reached for you again. “I won’t. I won’t fight with you.”

You drew back, avoiding his gaze. “You can’t promise that.”

“I can. I will.” He choked out. “Please.”

You shook your head. “I can’t right now, I-I need to go.” You opened your door and slipped out, shutting it behind you and starting for your driveway.

A moment later, a car door opened. “Wait!” Steve’s voice cut through the rain. 

You turned slightly. “Steve, go home.”

He rounded the car and caught up with you. “Don’t go. Don’t run away from me. Please.” 

You looked away. “I’m not running away.”

Steve pushed his hair from his eyes, the strands growing wet. “You are, baby.” He took another step closer. “Please, can't we try again?”

You shook your head, tears filling your eyes. “I can’t do this right now, Steve.” You tried to turn away, but his hand caught your wrist, his touch sending electricity up your arm. “I’m tired. Let me go.”

He only pulled you closer. 

You shook away from his hold. You said in a shaky voice, “Goodnight, Steve.”

You got three steps away when he called out to you, “Fuck, I still love you!”

The rain came in buckets as you halted.

“I never stopped.” He called out in a desperate voice. You couldn't leave like this. This couldn't be the end again. “I could never stop. Not when you told me to go to hell that night or when you never returned my calls.” He threw his hands up. “I could never stop loving you.”

Tears fell onto your cheeks as you stared at him while your heart was breaking and everything was screaming at you to run away. His hair was a wet mess, flopping across his forehead. His leather jacket was drenched, his eyes squinting in the rainy night.

“Give me another chance, baby. Please.” He pleaded, standing as if the rain didn’t bother him.

You felt tears running down your cheeks and your lower lip wobbled. Your voice broke when you spoke. “Steve.”

His expression softened and he stepped closer to you, hesitantly bringing his hands to cup your face. You shivered at his cold fingers. “Don’t cry, baby. Don’t cry over me.” He murmured, his thumbs brushing your cheeks in soft swipes.

You let out a sob, uncontrollable tears running down your face. “I can’t help it.”

Steve smiled sadly. “Okay, honey. Let it all out.”

Your shoulders shook as you buried yourself into his chest, his body warm against the cold night.

He wrapped his arms around you tightly. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” He kept whispering over and over again. You couldn’t tell if it was for you or for him.

You pulled away slightly. “I still love you.” You brought your hand to his cheek. “But I'm scared.”

Steve brushed wet hair from your face. “I’m scared too.” 

“I want to try.” You breathed. “I want you.”

A smile spread across his lips. “I want you too. All of you.” He held you tighter. 

You glanced down from his eyes to his lips. 

Steve caught the signal and bent his head down to capture your lips in a kiss. You sighed as he angled his head, his fingers pressing into your cheeks. 

Your legs went shaky as his hand traveled down to hold the small of your back. You latched onto him as the rain poured around you, drops landing on your nose and chin. 

You pulled away slightly so your lips still brushed his. 

His forehead pressed into yours, his eyes barely open and hooded. “I love you.”

You smiled, eyes half closed. “I love you too.”

lonnie speaks: so first little fic 😛 i love angst and i love steve harrington so here we are

[supernovafics]

𝐈𝐓'𝐒 𝐍𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑

pairing: exboyfriend!steve harrington x fem!reader

word count: 3.9k words

summary: in which you and steve break up and robin feels like she’s stuck in the middle

warnings: explicit language, very angsty, a bit of fluff

author’s note: there’s lowkey no better feeling than finally finishing something that you’ve left unfinished for months upon months<333

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

“So, you’re really just going to avoid each other for the rest of your lives?” 

You nodded at Robin's simplification of the situation at hand. “That’s still pretty much the plan, yeah.” 

“Okay, well, I'm sick of this custody arrangement where I only see one of you one day and the other the next day,” She said, slumping back against the couch in her living room. “These past two weeks have sucked. It literally feels like I'm a kid going back and forth between my divorced parents.”

“I'm the dad and Steve's the mom, right?”

“Obviously,” Robin responded to your playful words. “But no time for joking right now. What I'm trying to say is that I hate being stuck in the middle.”

You wanted to tell her that that wasn’t the case at all— you and Steve weren’t trying to make her choose a side, and you weren’t telling her that she could only be friends with one of you— but you didn’t say any of that because she was pretty much right, she was caught in the middle of your and Steve’s breakup. 

The three of you had been best friends, and it was a trio that was forged through long days of slinging ice cream. And even when you and Steve started dating at the end of that summer, things really didn’t change between the three of you all that much. Robin was happy about your and Steve's relationship because she loved bragging that she had seen it coming from a mile away, and you’d all still hang out constantly and never once did she feel like a third wheel. 

It had all been so perfect. 

Until it wasn’t. And now everything had changed. 

“And I get it,” Robin continued. “I get why you guys are broken up, and I understand the reasoning behind it and all of that. But, is there any way that things could maybe go back to how they used to be before you leave for college?”

“I don’t know,” You admitted honestly. You had no idea if you could actually let things go back to how they were. After being so in love with Steve— there had even genuinely been moments where you considered a “forever” with him— the thought of just becoming his friend again felt a little too weird and a lot too depressing to you. 

Robin sighed but ultimately nodded, and you two went back to watching the movie playing on the TV. 

You felt grateful that she didn’t bring up the promise that you and Steve made to her when you first started dating— how if things somehow didn’t work out between you and him, you’d all still be able to stay close friends. You never once thought that you and Steve would break up, and you especially never thought that you’d end up in a place where all you wanted to do was avoid him, so in the moment, it had felt so easy and like a no-brainer to make that promise to her. It was a promise that you now viewed as naive and so stupidly hopeful. 

However, at the end of the day, it was still a promise, and even though Robin hadn’t brought it up, it was all you could think about for the rest of the night. And it became the reason why you decided to call Steve for the first time in two weeks when you got home that night. 

It went entirely against your plan of quitting him cold turkey— no talking to him, no seeing him, absolutely no contact with him whatsoever. But, you fought the urge you immediately had to hang up the phone after you finished dialing his number and it started ringing. 

“Hello?” 

“We need to do something with Robin,” You said, skipping past any and all greetings and niceties. 

“I’m hanging out with her tomorrow,” Steve responded, and you easily picked up on the confusion in his voice. “And didn’t you two just hang out tonight?”

“No, I mean together. We need to hang out with her together,” You told him as you started mindlessly twirling the phone cord around your index finger. “She hates how different things are now, and I think we should show her that we can be… okay around one another.”

“Okay” seemed like the best, and only, word to use in this context; it wasn’t too much. You definitely felt like you couldn’t say friends or anything else remotely close to that. 

“I'm thinking we do a movie at The Hawk and then dinner at the diner,” You continued. 

“Classic Friday night,” Steve responded.

“Exactly,” You said, nodding even though he couldn’t see you.

It had been a staple among the three of you, and you could only allow yourself to inwardly admit how much you really missed those nights. Going to the movies, spending hours at the diner afterward, dropping Robin off at home before her midnight curfew, and then you and Steve heading to his place, falling into his bed, and talking about anything and everything until the sun came up. Your heart ached harshly in your chest the more you thought about it, and the more you thought about how a night like that would never happen again. 

You cleared your throat and willed away the feeling in your chest. “So, yeah, movie and diner. You in?”

“Of course, anything for Robin,” He told you. “And, I guess, we did kind of promise her that things would stay okay between all of us if we did ever break up.”

“Yeah, that’s what I was thinking about too,” You responded, and the conversation came to a quiet end. All too quickly, an awkwardness that felt impossible to ignore started to linger; the harsh reminder of just how different everything was between you and him. You immediately wanted to push that feeling away. “Um, I should go. I’ll see you Friday, I guess.”

“Okay, yeah. See you Friday.”

You let out a sigh when you placed the phone back on its hook. A wave of nervousness washed over you, but you pretended that everything was fine and that spending time with Steve for the first time since the breakup would be completely fine too. 

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

“I know this is a pity hangout, but I'm still having fun.”

You shook your head at Robin’s words. “It’s not a pity hangout.” 

She gave you a look that said that she didn’t believe you in the slightest. “So you two decided to set this up because you wanted to and not because of all that stuff I said a couple nights ago?”

“Yes, exactly,” You said, and then took another sip of your milkshake so that you could break eye contact with her. 

Before she could say anything in response to that, Steve came back from the bathroom and slid back into the booth that you three had been occupying for the last half an hour; you and Robin on one side and him on the other. 

“Okay, it hit me while I was in there. It actually makes so much sense why that guy ended up being the killer,” He said, referring to the movie you all had just watched. “When the first girl was murdered, he got to the scene of the crime way too fast.”

Robin let out a laugh. “You had this groundbreaking epiphany while you were in the bathroom?”

“Yes, I do my best thinking in there sometimes,” Steve responded with a shrug, which only made her laugh harder, and you were unable to bite back your own amused smile. He only playfully rolled his eyes in response. 

“Honestly, the movie kinda sucked,” Robin said when her laughter subsided, and you and Steve hummed in agreement. “Ooh, you know what we need to rewatch again? A Nightmare on Elm Street.”

You groaned. “No. Can we please stay away from horror for a little while? I need to remind my brain that happy things still exist.”

Steve gave you an amused smile. “What’s your suggestion instead? Watching The Muppet Movie for the millionth time?” 

“Joke’s on you because I was actually gonna say The Muppets Take Manhattan,” You said, and then teasingly stuck your tongue out at him because it felt like second nature to do so, and he laughed.  

Somehow, this entire night had felt weirdly okay and actually somewhat easy thus far; like there truly was a way for the three of you to go back to being that “trio” again. You tried not to let yourself think too far ahead, though. This was only one night, and you knew that it wouldn’t be able to change everything for the better. You simply just wanted to live in this really good moment. 

“Wait, that would actually be a good idea for a movie night,” Robin said. “We all watch whatever our favorite movies from childhood were.” 

A conversation started from there, where you all talked about movies you loved when you were kids. You made fun of Steve’s childhood love for the Willy Wonka movie just like he made fun of you with The Muppets, and you both refused to believe Robin when she said that her favorite movie when she was younger was Taxi Driver.

“I had impeccable taste, even as a kid,” She had said, and you rolled your eyes while Steve threw a stray fry at her. 

After spending what was definitely way too long at the diner, the three of you were back in Steve’s car, and he started the quick drive to Robin’s house; she was the closest to the diner, and even you could recognize that it wouldn’t make sense to drop you off first, like when he had picked you up last at the start of the night. However, you had prematurely planned for this; asking Robin yesterday if you could spend the night at her house after the diner, and she, of course, said yes. 

This night with Steve had surprisingly gone okay— pretty much better than just okay— but that didn’t mean that you wanted to be left alone with him, even if it would only be for a ten-minute car ride. You could just imagine how quickly things would fall into awkwardness if you two didn’t have Robin to be the perfect buffer. Without her, you couldn’t even imagine what this night would’ve been like. Without her, this night wouldn’t have existed. 

“Oh, I meant to mention this earlier, but there’s been a slight change of plans,” Robin said when Steve was parked in front of her house, and you started unbuckling your seatbelt to get out too. She turned around to look at you. “You can’t sleep over tonight. My mom is, um, being really weird about… my room. I haven’t cleaned it in forever. It’s a mess. And she doesn’t want me having anyone stay over because of that. So yeah. Sorry.”

“Robin,” You looked at her as if she were insane. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’m deadly serious. You know how my mother is,” She told you and then opened the passenger side door. “Anyway, I'll see you tomorrow. Get her home safe, Harrington. Bye.”

Before you could say anything, she was closing the car door behind her and practically running up her driveway and to her front porch steps, giving you two one final quick wave before heading inside. 

“She’s unbelievable,” You mumbled as you finished unbuckling your seatbelt and then opened the back door.

Steve became entirely confused by your actions. “You’re walking home?”

“No, it just feels too weird being in the back when the front seat is open,” You answered and then moved to the passenger seat. You met Steve’s eyes just for a second and then looked away.

“That could’ve been great practice for when I decide to pivot into my next job as a cab driver,” He said as he started driving, making a left turn at the end of Robin’s street and heading in the direction of your house.

You wanted to laugh at what you knew was a joke, but all you could focus on was how jarring it felt that he wasn’t turning right toward his place, like what would usually happen on these types of Friday nights. 

And it felt weird being in his passenger seat too. It no longer felt right to adjust the seat to how you liked it, or turn up the radio, or jokingly change the station to a country one because hearing the sound of a banjo always made him laugh for some reason. It only felt okay to sit with your hands in your lap and stare out the window at the houses passing by. Somehow, it was being here in his passenger seat, and feeling like a stranger within it, that reminded you of what you and Steve now were to each other.

You took another quick look at him. “Did you actually think I would’ve rather walked home instead of being alone in a car with you?”

“Honestly, I don’t know.” 

“I don’t hate you, Steve.” 

“I know, but before tonight, you had made it really clear that we should never talk to each other again,” He responded, making another turn at another stop sign. “The only reason we hung out tonight was because of Robin.”

That was entirely true, but that was the last thing you wanted to talk about in this moment. 

“If anything, you should hate me. I’m the one who’s leaving.”

He immediately shook his head. “It would be really messed up if I were mad at you for going to college.” 

“Well, I mean, you did break up with me because of it,” You responded, which made Steve sigh. 

“Saying it like that makes it sound really fucked up.”

By the end of that hour-long breakup conversation two weeks ago, it had ended up feeling like a mutual thing, but at the end of the day, it was still Steve who had brought it up in the first place. 

“What other way is there to say it?” You weren’t trying to be mean to him in this moment, but you suddenly worried that the bluntness of your words made it come off that way, especially when he didn’t say anything in response to you at first, and a silence took over the car. 

“It was stupid,” Steve said softly, filling the prevailing quiet. “Probably one of the stupidest things I’ve ever done.” 

A part of you wanted to roll your eyes at his words, while the other part of you felt a tiny sliver of hope that inadvertently made your heart race. It was your turn to sigh. “Do you actually mean that?” 

When he broke up with you, he had talked about how long-distance relationships never worked and how they only prolonged the inevitable and always made the couple hate each other. Honestly, everything he was saying sounded like something you would have said; you’d always been the more logical thinker. However, when it came to you and Steve, you always inadvertently led with your heart over your head. 

“Yes, I wish I had never said it, but I just thought it was the right thing to do.”

“Because long-distance relationships never work?” You said, reminding him of what had been his main point when he broke things off. 

“No,” Steve shook his head. “Because you’re going to college and you’re gonna do great things, and I don’t wanna hold you back.”

That was not at all what you expected to hear from him.

It was so honest and vulnerable, and you suddenly saw that last conversation you two had entirely different, and all you could now do was replay the whole thing in your head.  

Barely a minute later, Steve was pulling up in front of your house. However, there was absolutely no way that you were getting out of his car now, not when he just dropped what felt equivalent to a bomb on you. 

“What?” You turned to look at him, finally responding to his previous words. “What does that even mean?”

“I don’t— I didn’t want things to get to the point where you started choosing me over really important opportunities,” Steve answered, meeting your eyes. 

For a second, all you could do was blink at him. You wanted to understand his words, and you wanted to fully see his point of view, you really did, but it was too hard to think rationally right then because you just felt so confused. 

“Nothing’s even happened yet. I’m not even there yet,” You told him, trying to keep your voice calm and steady, but it felt damn near impossible. “You were thinking about problems that don’t exist.”

“Once I started thinking about it, I couldn’t not think about it,” He responded. “And then I just wanted to rip off the band-aid, if that makes sense. End it before us being together started ruining things for you.”

You looked away from him then, slumping back in your seat. “You should’ve told me the truth, Steve. Not some bullshit reasons about long-distance relationships failing.”

“It was stupid,” Steve said, repeating the words that pretty much started this conversation in the first place. 

“It was,” You agreed, still staring straight ahead at your dark street. 

“And I’m sorry for lying to you. I wish I had just told you the truth instead of being a scared idiot,” He said, and you could only nod in response at first. 

There was too much running through your mind right then. It was a lot of contradictory thoughts and feelings that only confused you and went against everything that you’d convinced yourself was true over the last two weeks.

The breakup was hard, almost too hard, so you had told yourself that you needed to do the one thing that would be “easy” and force your brain to accept it; your heart was a completely different story, but you figured it would catch up eventually. However, now it was as if your head didn’t know what to do or think or feel, and your heart stupidly wanted to be completely truthful in this moment. 

“We would’ve figured everything out,” You told him after a few beats of silence. “I honestly think we could’ve made anything work. Long distance, random life changes, whatever. And I know that’s probably naive of me to say, but I really did believe in us.” You shook your head at yourself. “Somehow, we completely switched roles. You became the logical one and I became the hopeless romantic.”

“I don’t wanna be the logical one anymore. I tried it out and completely fucked everything up.”

“It’s…” You tried to figure out exactly what you wanted to say. There was so much you could’ve said right then, but your thoughts felt too scattered to form a coherent sentence. “It’s okay.”

The conversation came to its natural stopping point there. You didn’t know what else to say or do in this moment. This talk felt unfinished, but you had no idea how to finish it in a way that would make everything feel like it was wrapped up in a pretty little bow. In a perfect world, you and Steve would easily make up from here, pick up right where things left off, and pretend as if the last two weeks hadn’t happened. But, the world you two lived in wasn’t perfect, so you silently figured that maybe it would make more sense if you simply just left things as they now were. 

You started unbuckling your seatbelt. “It’s late. I’m gonna go.”

“You sure?” Steve asked, and you only nodded instead of saying anything. 

You pushed open the car door. “Night, Steve.”

“Night,” He responded softly and then proceeded to watch you walk away from his car. 

You were heading up your front porch steps, moments away from unlocking your door and heading inside, when Steve made the impulsive decision to unbuckle his seatbelt and run after you. 

“Wait,” His voice slightly startled you, and you turned around. He was racing up your steps to catch up to you, and you were about to ask him what he was doing, but he started speaking before the question could even form on your lips. “I think you’re right. No, scratch that, actually, I know you’re right. I want us to work, and I know we can, I really do. And I know you were speaking in past tense, so maybe you don’t believe in us anymore, but I still do. I’m such an idiot for overthinking everything, and I’m so sorry for not being honest about what I was thinking. If I could go back and do things completely different, I would, one thousand percent. I love you so goddamn much, and I don’t think that will ever change. And I know it’s my fault that we’re in this position in the first place, but I hope I didn’t ruin things so terribly that I can’t fix it. Because I really want to fix this—”

You cut off his rambling with a kiss; your hand found his cheek, and you slotted your lips against his. Steve reciprocated immediately, not wasting a second to kiss you back, even though he was slightly surprised by the action. 

It was the exact thing your heart needed in this moment, and it is what it had been aching and yearning for these past two weeks. 

Leaving things as they were made sense because it was technically easier, but it was far from what you actually wanted, and hearing Steve’s rambling apologies and how much he wanted to fix things only made you want to show him that you agreed completely; you didn’t want to give up on you two either. 

Kissing Steve felt like second nature to you, as if absolutely no time had passed since the last time his lips were on yours. In a way, it felt like coming back home.

When you pulled away, you met Steve’s eyes and gave him a soft smile. “Okay.”

“Okay?” He asked, eyes searching yours with a hopeful look on his face, as if that kiss hadn’t just said it all. 

You nodded at his words, and he didn’t hesitate to pull you in for a hug. His arms tightened around you, and you inwardly sighed in contentment at the feeling. You felt at ease in Steve’s arms, and all you wanted to do was grab his hand and lead him inside your house. Instead, though, you decided to savor this moment because there was no need to rush things; you two had all of the time in the world.

“I hope you know that Robin’s gonna say that this is all her doing,” You said, words slightly muffled because your face was buried in Steve’s neck, but he heard you clearly. 

From the moment Robin left you alone in the car with Steve, you knew exactly what she was trying to do, and you were now grateful for her abrupt plan; even though it had been very risky and could’ve potentially made things worse. 

Steve laughed a little at your words, and you couldn’t help but smile at the sound. “Oh yeah, and she’s never gonna let us forget this. This will definitely become her new favorite story to tell everyone.” 

You laughed too and pulled back so you could look up at him. “Definitely.”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

let me know your thoughts<333

[belleeebelleee]

Bucky Barnes (Marvel) x fem!reader

Bucky learns that the best way to help you calm down when you're spiralling in a pit of anxiety is to lie on you like a weighted blanket. Which would be fine, if he wasn't so damn in love with you.

The first time it happens, it’s an accident.

Not a cute accident. Not one of those romantic comedy accidents where someone trips and lands in another person’s lap while soft music plays in the background.

No.

It happens because you are halfway to a panic attack in the kitchen of the compound at two in the morning, shaking so hard you drop a mug hard enough to shatter it across the tile floor.

And because Bucky Barnes has spent the better part of a century reacting to danger before thinking, he moves before his brain catches up.

The mug breaks.

You gasp.

And then suddenly you’re crouched on the floor with your hands clamped over your ears like the sound physically hurt you.

“Hey,” Bucky says immediately.

Too sharp.

Too fast.

Your shoulders jerk violently.

His stomach drops.

“Sorry,” he says, softer now. “Sorry, doll. Didn’t mean to startle you.”

You don’t answer.

That’s what scares him.

You always answer.

Even anxious, even exhausted, even spiralling—you answer.

Usually with a joke. Usually with something self-deprecating and wry and designed to make everyone else comfortable while you quietly unravel inside your own skin.

But now you’re breathing too fast.

Your eyes are fixed on the floor.

And Bucky realizes with cold certainty:

Oh.

Oh, this is bad.

He’s seen panic attacks before. Hell, he’s had enough of them himself. But yours always look different than his. Quieter. Like you’re trying to contain the catastrophe internally so it doesn’t inconvenience anyone else.

“Can you look at me?” he asks carefully.

Nothing.

He crouches slowly several feet away, metal hand deliberately visible, movements gentle.

“Okay,” he murmurs. “That’s okay.”

Broken ceramic litters the floor between you both.

You whisper something he can’t hear.

“What was that?”

Your voice cracks.

“Everything feels wrong.”

Jesus Christ.

That sentence nearly tears him in half.

Because he knows that feeling.

The horrible skin-tight sensation of existing incorrectly. Like your bones are full of bees. Like every thought in your head is moving too fast and too loud and none of them can be stopped.

Bucky swallows hard.

“What do you need?”

“I don’t know.”

You sound ashamed of it.

Like not knowing is somehow a personal failure.

His chest aches.

“Okay,” he says again. “That’s alright too.”

Your breathing gets worse.

Shorter.

Faster.

Your fingers dig into your sleeves hard enough he worries you’ll bruise.

Bucky looks around the kitchen helplessly.

He knows combat. Extraction. Interrogation. Trauma. Survival.

But this?

You falling apart in front of him while he desperately tries to figure out how to help?

It scares him more than most things.

“Can you stand?” he asks.

You shake your head immediately.

“No? Okay. Okay.”

Think.

Think.

Usually when you’re anxious, you like warmth. Blankets. Hoodies. Pressure against your chest.

Pressure.

His eyes flick downward thoughtfully.

“Can I try something?”

You laugh once.

It sounds awful.

“Depends how weird it is.”

His mouth twitches despite everything.

“Probably pretty weird.”

You finally look at him then, eyes glassy and overwhelmed.

“Fine.”

He moves carefully around the broken ceramic before lowering himself to sit beside you against the cabinets.

For a second he hesitates.

This could go horribly.

But then he remembers the way you curl under every blanket in the compound during storms. The way you once admitted sleeping better when Alpine sprawled over your ribs like a furry paperweight.

So Bucky exhales once and says:

“C’mere.”

You blink at him.

“What?”

“Just trust me.”

Which you do.

That’s the dangerous thing.

You always do.

You shift toward him uncertainly, and before he can overthink it, Bucky pulls you gently sideways until your back rests against his chest.

Then he wraps one arm around your middle.

And slowly—carefully—leans enough weight against you that you’re partially pinned beneath him.

Not crushing.

Just heavy.

Solid.

Warm.

The effect is immediate.

Your breathing stutters.

Then slows.

Bucky freezes.

You go still beneath him.

“…oh,” you whisper.

His heartbeat trips.

“Too much?”

“No.”

Another breath.

Slower this time.

“No, that’s—”

Your shoulders finally unclench for the first time since he walked into the kitchen.

“Oh my god.”

Bucky stares at the side of your face.

“You okay?”

“You’re heavy.”

“I’m aware.”

“No,” you say weakly. “I mean—good heavy.”

Something inside him softens so violently it nearly hurts.

Carefully, cautiously, he shifts a little more weight against you.

Your eyes flutter shut.

And then—

Then you melt.

There’s no other word for it.

The tension leaves you in visible increments, your body gradually surrendering under the pressure of his weight and warmth. Your breathing evens out. Your death grip on your sleeves loosens.

Bucky can practically feel your nervous system recalibrating beneath him.

“What kind of sorcery is this?” you murmur.

He huffs a quiet laugh.

“Dunno. Maybe you’re broken.”

“You’re hilarious.”

“You’re calmer.”

“…unfortunately true.”

Bucky smiles before he can stop himself.

And because you can’t see his face pressed near your hair, you miss the terrifying realization blooming in his chest.

He likes taking care of you.

Too much.

In ways that feel dangerous.

Because this—holding you down gently against his chest at two in the morning while your breathing evens out—feels more intimate than half the things he’s done with actual girlfriends.

That should concern him more than it does.

Instead, he tightens his arm around you slightly and says softly:

“Better?”

“Yeah.”

A pause.

“Don’t move.”

His heart does something deeply embarrassing.

“Wasn’t planning to.”

After that, it becomes a thing.

Not intentionally at first.

Neither of you discuss it.

But a week later, after a disastrous mission briefing leaves you overwhelmed and shaky, Bucky finds you curled miserably into the corner of the common room couch.

He takes one look at you.

“You spiralling?”

“Maybe.”

“Move over.”

You snort tiredly.

“There is literally no room.”

“I’ll make room.”

And somehow he does.

The others walk in to discover you pinned beneath the bulk of the Winter Soldier like a hostage being gently comforted.

Sam stops dead.

“…what the hell am I looking at?”

Without opening your eyes, you answer:

“Medical treatment.”

Bucky feels you relax further when he settles more weight across you.

Sam stares.

“You’re using Barnes as an emotional support sandbag?”

“Yes.”

“…and this works?”

“Yes.”

There’s a beat.

Then Sam points accusingly at Bucky.

“You look way too pleased about this.”

“I’m not.”

“You absolutely are.”

Bucky ignores him.

Mostly because Sam’s right.

The horrifying truth is that Bucky likes this arrangement so much it’s becoming a problem.

He likes when you seek him out now.

Likes the sleepy, “Buck?” you murmur from doorways when your anxiety gets bad.

Likes how trusting you are with him.

Likes the way you immediately soften once he presses close.

And he especially likes the fact you never seem afraid of him.

Not of his metal arm.

Not of his size.

Not of the sheer physical reality of him.

You just curl beneath him willingly like he’s safety instead of danger.

It ruins him slowly.

The worst part is how domestic it becomes.

You’re both pathetic enough not to notice immediately.

It starts with movies.

You’re anxious after a rough therapy session, so Bucky sprawls partially on top of you on the couch while some terrible reality baking show plays in the background.

Then it becomes routine.

You reading while he rests against you.

You napping underneath him.

Your legs tangled together while Alpine sleeps smugly on Bucky’s back like she approves of the arrangement.

One night Natasha walks into the living room, sees the position you’re both in, and physically backs out again.

“Nope,” she says immediately.

You blink sleepily from beneath Bucky’s chest.

“What?”

“I’m giving you both privacy to deal with…” she gestures vaguely, “…whatever this is.”

Bucky frowns.

“We’re watching TV.”

Natasha stares at him.

“You’re lying on top of her.”

“To help her anxiety.”

“Mhm.”

“That’s literally all this is.”

Natasha looks directly at you.

“Are you aware he’s in love with you?”

Bucky nearly chokes to death.

You burst into startled laughter.

“What?”

Natasha rolls her eyes.

“Men are exhausting.”

Then she leaves before either of you can recover.

The silence afterward is catastrophic.

Bucky can feel heat crawling up his neck.

You clear your throat awkwardly beneath him.

“Well.”

“Nat talks too much.”

“Yeah.”

Another silence.

Then quietly:

“You’re not in love with me, right?”

And there it is.

The moment.

The opening.

The place where honesty could exist.

Bucky should tell you.

He should.

Instead he says, “You’d know if I was.”

It’s a lie.

A terrible one.

Because he is so violently in love with you it feels like organ failure sometimes.

He loves your laugh.

Your stubbornness.

The way you ramble when tired.

The way you pretend your anxiety makes you difficult to love while offering everyone else endless patience and gentleness.

He loves how you trust him with your softest parts.

He loves you so much it scares him.

But you relax at his answer.

And somehow that feels worse.

“Oh good,” you murmur.

His chest aches.

“Yeah.”

You smile faintly beneath him.

“Because that would make this complicated.”

Bucky stares at the ceiling all night afterward unable to breathe properly.

Things get worse after the nightmare.

Not his.

Yours.

Bucky wakes around three in the morning because someone is pounding on his door hard enough to shake the frame.

He’s moving before he’s fully awake.

When he opens it, you’re standing there shaking.

Not crying.

Which is somehow worse.

Your face looks pale and distant and terrified in a way that spikes immediate panic through him.

“Hey,” he says sharply. “Hey, what happened?”

“I can’t calm down.”

Your voice trembles violently.

“I tried—I tried everything and I can’t—”

“C’mere.”

You practically fall into him.

Bucky catches you automatically, metal arm bracing your back while your fingers clutch desperately at his shirt.

Your heartbeat is terrifying.

Way too fast.

“Easy,” he murmurs. “I got you.”

You bury your face against his chest.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.”

“I woke you up.”

“I don’t care.”

And he means it.

He’d wake up for you every night for the rest of his life if it helped.

The realization lands hard enough to nearly stagger him.

Before he can think too deeply about that deeply alarming truth, he guides you toward the bed.

“Lay down.”

You obey immediately, exhausted and overwhelmed.

Bucky climbs in beside you without hesitation.

Then carefully—carefully—he settles partially over you, broad chest against yours, one heavy thigh between yours, arms caging you safely beneath him.

The second his weight settles, you exhale shakily.

“There you are,” he whispers.

Your eyes close.

“There you are.”

The room goes quiet except for your breathing gradually slowing beneath him.

Bucky should move once you calm down.

Instead he stays.

Because you’re warm beneath him.

Because your fingers are curled loosely in his shirt.

Because every instinct in his body screams protect protect protect.

And because he’s hopelessly, catastrophically gone for you.

You fall asleep first.

Bucky knows because your grip loosens and your face softens against his shoulder.

He should leave then.

Instead he remains exactly where he is for nearly an hour staring into the dark.

He brushes hair away from your face carefully.

God.

He loves you.

He loves you so much.

And he’s completely fucked.

You realize the truth accidentally.

Which feels fitting.

It happens during a mission debrief after a rough extraction goes sideways.

Nothing catastrophic.

But enough to leave everyone frayed.

You’re wound tight all evening afterward, anxiety clawing under your skin while the team argues over tactical mistakes.

Eventually you stand abruptly.

“I need five minutes.”

Bucky’s up instantly.

“I’ll come with you.”

You don’t even question it anymore.

That should probably concern both of you.

The hallway outside the conference room is quiet.

You lean heavily against the wall, pressing your palms into your eyes.

“Sorry,” you mutter.

“For what?”

“I’m being annoying.”

Bucky’s expression hardens immediately.

“You’re not.”

“I’m literally one inconvenience away from imploding.”

“So?”

You laugh weakly.

“So normal people don’t require human compression therapy to function.”

His face softens.

“Hey.”

You look at him.

And Bucky says very carefully:

“There is nothing wrong with needing comfort.”

The sincerity in his voice nearly undoes you.

Your throat tightens unexpectedly.

“You always know how to help.”

The words hit him hard.

Too hard.

Because he does.

He knows your breathing patterns now. Your tells. The difference between stress and genuine panic. He knows exactly how much pressure helps. Exactly where to hold you.

Like your bodies learned each other instinctively.

Your eyes drift across his face.

And suddenly—

Suddenly you see it.

Not all at once.

But enough.

Enough to notice the unbearable tenderness in his expression.

Enough to notice how carefully he handles you.

Enough to realize no one looks at someone they don’t love like that.

Your breath catches.

Oh.

Oh.

Bucky notices immediately.

“What?”

You stare at him.

“You are.”

His entire body stills.

“What?”

“You’re in love with me.”

The silence that follows feels enormous.

Bucky looks almost cornered.

Like you’ve found something he desperately wanted hidden.

Finally, rough and quiet:

“Yeah.”

Your heart stumbles violently.

“Oh.”

“I didn’t want you to know.”

“Why?”

A humorless laugh escapes him.

“Because this arrangement only works if you feel safe.”

“I do feel safe.”

“You know what I mean.”

He steps back slightly then, expression tight.

“If I made this weird, I’m sorry. I can stop. I should’ve stopped earlier.”

The thought hits you like physical pain.

“No.”

Bucky goes still.

You swallow hard.

“Don’t stop.”

His eyes search your face carefully.

“Doll…”

“I mean it.”

Your pulse pounds.

Because suddenly everything makes sense.

The gentleness.

The devotion.

The way he always comes when you need him.

And maybe—maybe you’ve been avoiding the truth too.

Because loving Bucky feels terrifyingly inevitable.

“I think,” you say slowly, “I think maybe I’m in love with you too.”

Bucky looks stunned.

Actually stunned.

Like the words physically knocked the air from him.

“You don’t gotta say that because—”

“I’m not.”

You step closer carefully.

His expression turns painfully vulnerable.

“You make me feel safe,” you whisper. “You make my head quiet.”

Something in him breaks open then.

His hand comes up slowly, brushing against your cheek like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

“You have any idea what you do to me?” he murmurs.

Your breath catches.

“No.”

“You ask for me when you’re hurting.”

His forehead rests against yours.

“You trust me.”

“I do trust you.”

Bucky closes his eyes briefly like that means everything.

Because it does.

When he kisses you, it’s careful at first.

Gentle.

Almost hesitant.

Then you kiss him back and suddenly he’s holding your face like something precious, kissing you deep and aching and relieved.

Years of longing pour into it.

You clutch his shirt instinctively.

Bucky makes a soft wrecked sound against your mouth.

And then—

Because apparently neither of you can be normal people—

He murmurs against your lips:

“You anxious right now?”

You burst into startled laughter.

“You cannot be serious.”

“I’m serious.”

“Oh my god.”

“You want me to lay on you or not?”

You laugh harder, bright and helpless and happy enough it nearly kills him.

“Only if you kiss me again after.”

Bucky smiles then.

Real and warm and breathtaking.

“Deal.”

And later, tangled together in his bed with most of his weight draped over you while your fingers trace lazy patterns against his spine, you realize something quietly extraordinary:

For the first time in a very long time, your mind is calm.

And wrapped around you like armor, like warmth, like home itself—

is Bucky Barnes.

[brownininini]

We become we.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x F! Reader.

Word count: +6.5 words.

Summary: An unexpected pregnancy test forces Bucky and you to confront your deepest fears. Amid silences, doubts, and fears that neither of you can fully articulate, you’ll both discover that starting a family may be the hardest—and most important—battle of your lives.

Tags: Post-TFATWS, Established relationship, accidental pregnancy, miscommunication, angst, hurt/comfort, fear, trauma, mentions of HYDRA, mentions of abortion, mentions of reader with irregular periods, mentions of Sam, mentions of Bucky working with Sam, Bucky emotionally constipated, Bucky afraid of fatherhood, Bucky crying, reader crying, no y/n, happy ending. My native language isn't English (I apologize if there are any mistakes).

Masterlist.

Notes: Hi! I should really be working on the drafts I have, but this idea just popped into my head and helped me get past a little writer’s block.

You’d been trying to pay attention to Bucky for almost half an hour.

With his usual calm demeanor, he was telling you how that day’s mission with Sam had gone. He talked about a chase that ended sooner than expected, his partner’s constant jokes, and a plan that had gone surprisingly well. You nodded from time to time, even smiled out of sheer habit, but in reality you hadn’t heard half of what he was saying. Your mind was trapped in a single thought that repeated itself over and over, impossible to ignore.

The positive pregnancy test.

The little plastic strip was still tucked away in your sock drawer, as if its mere existence had upset the balance of your entire life. You felt it took up a lot of space, even though it barely took up any at all. Ever since you’d seen it that morning, emotions had swirled inside you in a way that was impossible to sort out: fear, uncertainty, nerves, surprise, and a strange sense of hope that you still didn’t dare to accept.

You had no idea what to do.

During your early dates, the two of you had talked about starting a family. It had been a calm conversation, without arguments or promises. Bucky had admitted that he hadn’t imagined himself as a father and wasn’t even sure he could ever be one; after everything he’d been through, the idea of bringing a child into the world seemed too overwhelming to him. You, for your part, didn’t feel it was the right time either.

And yet, there you were.

Facing a situation neither of you had planned for.

The silence between you began to stretch because you had stopped responding several seconds ago. Bucky finished speaking and waited for a reaction that never came. That was when his senses picked up on what your words weren’t expressing.

Your heart was beating too fast.

The rapid, irregular, and persistent rhythm made him turn his full attention to you. He noticed the slight furrow of your brow, the tension in your jaw, and the way your fingers nervously fiddled with the rim of the cup resting on the table.

His expression changed instantly.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart? Are you okay?” he asked in a soft voice, full of concern, as he leaned slightly toward you.

His hand sought yours on the table and gently wrapped around it, giving it a light squeeze, as if to remind you he was there.

That simple gesture finally broke down the barrier you’d been maintaining throughout the conversation.

The words slipped from your lips before you could finish turning them over in your head.

“I think I’m pregnant.”

Time seemed to stand still.

A complete silence settled between you, heavy and almost tangible. Bucky’s eyes widened slowly until they were wide with surprise, as the air left his lungs in a held breath. His fingers trembled slightly around yours, unable to hide the impact of the confession.

You lowered your gaze and let out an unsteady sigh, trying to control the lump that had formed in your throat and the anxiety coursing through every corner of your body.

“I took a pregnancy test because my period was later than usual…” you murmured in a low, tense voice, feeling as though every word required an enormous effort. “I thought it would be a false alarm, but… it came back positive.”

As you finished your sentence, silence once again enveloped the room with an almost suffocating intensity. The world seemed to have come to a sudden halt. Only the sound of their breathing broke the stillness, along with the rapid beating of your heart, which Bucky could still hear with absolute clarity. Each beat revealed the fear you were trying to hide behind a serene expression. They both remained motionless, realizing that a few words had been enough to completely change the course of their lives.

“When…?” he whispered, almost to himself, his gaze lost somewhere on the table.

The question didn’t seem directed at you, but at his own memories.

He looked down as he mentally reviewed every moment of the past few months, trying to find an explanation. Then he remembered. His expression slowly changed until it twisted into a small grimace filled with recognition and regret.

That night.

The only time they had both completely cast caution aside, convinced that nothing would happen, letting themselves be carried away by desire, closeness, and the heat of the moment.

In her memory, that slip had seemed insignificant. Now she realized that just once had been enough.

Her fingers tensed slightly before slipping from yours.

You parted your lips shyly, ready to say something—anything—to break the silence or calm the growing anxiety that was beginning to settle in your chest. You wanted to explain that you didn’t expect an immediate answer, that you didn’t know how to feel either, that the two of you could work it out together.

But Bucky stood up before you could utter a single word.

The movement was so sudden that the chair slid a few inches backward, making a sharp clatter against the floor.

He ran a hand over his face, breathing heavily as he avoided looking directly at you.

“I need some air…” he said in a low voice, though the weight of those four words fell on you like a slab of stone.

There was no anger in his tone, nor rejection, but there was no calm either. Just a confusion so deep that he seemed unable to stay another second within those four walls.

You watched him walk with hurried steps toward the apartment entrance. He grabbed his jacket from the coat rack almost out of habit, without bothering to put it on properly, and opened the door.

For a moment, you thought he would stop, that he would turn his head to say something else or to reassure you.

It didn’t happen.

The door closed behind him with a sharp click that echoed throughout the room.

You stood motionless, staring at the spot where he had disappeared, as silence once again took hold of the apartment. The pressure in your chest increased immediately, and fear began to make its way through all the thoughts you’d been trying to hold back.

☆

The faint blue glow from the TV was the only light in the room you shared with Bucky. Images flashed one after another across the screen, accompanied by the distant voices of a show you’d been trying to follow for over an hour without success.

You were sitting on the bed, your back against the headboard and your legs drawn up to your chest, wrapping both arms around them as if that small gesture could hold you together while you felt everything else beginning to fall apart.

Your eyes remained fixed on the television, but they didn’t really see what was happening on it.

Your mind kept returning to the same place over and over.

The positive test.

Bucky’s expression when you told him.

The way he’d let go of your hand.

And, above all, the door closing behind him.

It had been almost five hours since he left the apartment.

Five hours without a call.

Five hours without a reply to any of the messages you’d sent him with trembling hands—messages that had gone from a simple “Are you okay?” to a worried “Just tell me where you are.”

The phone lay beside you on the sheets, completely silent.

You were worried about him.

You knew that the idea of becoming a father had never held an important place in his life. After everything he’d been through, the decades that had been stolen from him, and the burden he still carried for acts he hadn’t even committed while in his right mind, starting a family seemed like a dream reserved for other people.

He had never told you he didn’t want children, but he hadn’t said he wanted them either.

And now the decision had gone from being a distant possibility to an unexpected reality.

Yet, as you thought about him, it was also impossible not to think about yourself.

About what that new life growing inside your body meant.

About how it would change your future.

About whether you would be able to handle it.

About whether you would be alone.

A lump formed in your throat as you tried to hold back the tears that threatened to return.

The only sound that managed to snap you out of your thoughts was the unmistakable turn of a key in the front door lock.

Your breath caught in your throat.

Then came the creak of the door as it opened, followed by the soft thud as it closed again.

And finally, the heavy echo of boots echoing through the apartment.

You lay motionless on the bed, your gaze fixed on the bedroom door, listening as those footsteps moved slowly down the hallway. Each one seemed to last an eternity.

The doorknob turned and the door opened slowly.

Bucky stood in the doorway for a few seconds before entering. For the first time since you’d broken the news to him, his eyes met yours.

Silence settled between you once more.

You couldn’t help but notice the state he’d returned in.

His hair was more disheveled than usual, as if he’d run his hand through it countless times. The shadows under his eyes seemed to have deepened, betraying that he hadn’t found peace during those hours either. His jacket was still on, slightly wrinkled, and his shoulders remained tense.

But what caught your attention most was the expression on his face. There was fear and guilt.

His eyes scanned the room until they settled on the only source of light: the television.

He was silent for a few seconds before speaking, in that deep, restrained voice that barely let his true feelings show.

“You’re going to ruin your eyes like that…”

It wasn’t a rebuke; it was the only everyday thing he could think to say.

He walked over to the light switch and turned on the room’s light.

The warm glow instantly filled every corner.

You winced slightly at the sudden change in lighting and turned your face away a little, too late to hide what was obvious.

Your eyes were swollen and red. Dry tear stains remained on your cheeks.

Bucky stood still, his jaw tightening slightly. He looked down for a moment before looking back at you, as if he’d been struck by a silent blow.

He didn’t say “I’m sorry.” He wasn’t someone who found words easily, but the way he took a deep breath and stood motionless was enough to make it clear that he regretted leaving you alone for those hours.

With slow, measured movements, he took off his jacket, draped it over a nearby chair, and walked over to the bed.

The mattress sank slightly as he sat down beside you, leaving just a few inches between you and turning his back to you.

He didn’t try to touch you, but he didn’t move away either. He simply stayed there, his forearms resting on his legs and his hands clasped, staring at the floor as he searched, unsuccessfully, for the right way to sort through everything going through his head.

Silence settled in again, heavy and uncomfortable. Filled with questions neither of you dared to ask.

Several seconds passed before Bucky slowly exhaled.

“I walked down to the pier…” he murmured without looking up. “Then I kept walking. I wasn’t planning on going anywhere… I just needed my head to stop making noise.”

He rubbed the back of his neck with one hand and fell silent again.

“I didn’t answer because… I didn’t know what to say.”

The words came out clumsily, forced, as if each one took an enormous effort.

“And because I was afraid of saying the wrong thing.”

You felt a twinge in your heart and could barely manage a shaky exhale as you watched his back.

“I was never good at this.”

He didn’t specify what he meant, and you weren’t sure what he was referring to either. Maybe he meant talking, feeling, imagining a future, or becoming a father. It was probably all of those things at once.

The distance between you was still just a few centimeters, but the real obstacle wasn’t physical.

Your nails dug lightly into your legs before you began crawling toward him to gently take his chin and make him look at you.

He let you do it, and his eyes finally met yours. That blue you loved so much looked different; there was no anger or rejection, only a deep, silent fear mixed with an uncertainty that seemed to have robbed him of his breath.

For a moment, it seemed to you that you were looking at the soldier who had survived a war, not the man who always found a way to protect you.

You traced the rough line of his beard with your thumb.

“What do you want to do?” you asked in a barely audible whisper.

The question hung between you.

Bucky closed his eyes for a second, and his face twisted into an expression that was hard to read—a bitter mix of guilt, vulnerability, and resignation.

He was fully aware that this decision belonged solely to your body and your life. He also knew that he would never try to push you toward a choice that would benefit him over you. Even if he felt terrified, even if the idea of being a father overwhelmed him.

"I'll support you... whatever you decide." His voice was deep and low, almost hoarse.

It was the only certainty he had amid the chaos.

He paused for a moment longer before adding, almost as if he were struggling to get the words out.

"I don't know if I'll do this right... But I won't let you carry this burden alone."

☆

The next day, the uncertainty was still there.

After a nearly sleepless night, you began to convince yourself that maybe that home test had simply been wrong. After all, even pharmacy tests could yield false positives.

It was a possibility, so you clung to it with all your might.

After discussing it briefly over breakfast—if you could even call a cup of coffee you barely touched and the untouched toast on the plate breakfast—you decided to go to the hospital.

An ultrasound could provide answers almost immediately, and you wouldn’t have to endure the endless wait for a blood test.

When they called your name in the waiting room, your stomach turned instantly.

You stood up, your legs trembling, and without even thinking, you reached for Bucky’s hand and gripped it tightly.

He remained seated for another second, motionless, his back stiff and his gaze fixed on the floor. He seemed unable to force himself to walk through that door, not because he wanted to leave, but because he feared what he might find on the other side.

He stood up and walked behind you after you gently took his hand.

The office smelled just like the rest of the hospital: a clean, pungent mix of disinfectant and antiseptic products. However, the atmosphere was different.

The lights were warmer, and the walls were covered with informational posters about conception, birth control methods, fetal development, and drawings showing the approximate size of a baby week by week.

Your eyes lingered for a moment on each one.

Week 4—Poppy seed.

Week 6—Lentil.

Week 7—Chickpea.

Week 8—Cherry.

Week 9—Olive.

And the weeks and illustrations went on.

The illustrations seemed absurdly small for the enormous change they represented.

You swallowed hard as you clung to Bucky’s hand.

Your fingers were cold, and so were his. The slight tremor in his fingers betrayed that he was just as nervous as you were.

He stood beside you with his shoulders slightly hunched, staring at the floor as if he found it impossible to look up at any of those images. His jaw remained tense.

When the specialist told you to lie down on the examination table, you obeyed with slow movements. You lifted the fabric of your clothes just enough to expose your abdomen.

Moments later, the contact of the cold gel on your skin drew a small, involuntary grimace from you. A shiver ran through your entire body.

Without realizing it, you squeezed Bucky’s hand tighter, and he reacted almost reflexively, interlacing his fingers with yours and holding them firmly.

The careful squeeze of his hand was enough to make you understand that, even though he was still emotionally lost and the words remained stuck in some corner of his chest, he had decided to stay with you until he knew the answer.

The room was enveloped in an expectant silence.

The doctor moved the transducer calmly over your abdomen while watching the screen in front of her intently.

To you, that mass of shadows made no sense at all.

To her, every little change seemed to say a lot.

You felt your breathing start to quicken, and Bucky noticed it instantly.

Without taking his eyes off the monitor, his thumb began to slide slowly across the back of your hand—an almost automatic movement that he probably wasn’t even aware he was making.

It was strange and overwhelming for him.

A man who had survived wars, experiments, and decades of violence was completely defenseless in front of an ultrasound screen.

The doctor remained silent for a few more seconds, and your imagination began to fill in the blanks.

Maybe the test had failed after all.

Maybe your period was just coming soon.

Maybe...

“There it is.”

Her voice interrupted the whirlwind of thoughts.

She pointed to a tiny dot on the screen.

“It’s still very early, but we can see the gestational sac.”

You felt the air leave your lungs.

It wasn’t a mistake.

It wasn’t a false positive.

It was real.

Your eyes remained fixed on that tiny image, trying to understand how something so small could change two people’s lives so completely.

Bucky’s hand tightened around yours.

He didn’t say anything and didn’t even blink; he seemed to be holding his breath.

His gaze remained fixed on the monitor, as if trying to memorize every shadow despite not fully understanding them.

The doctor continued explaining a few things about the estimated gestational age, prenatal vitamins, and the tests that would be advisable to perform over the next few weeks.

Her voice reached you like a distant murmur. Neither of you seemed to be processing much; you just nodded.

At one point, the specialist smiled kindly, already accustomed to all kinds of reactions to this news.

“Would you like to hear the heartbeat?”

You turned your head toward Bucky, who remained completely still.

His eyes stayed fixed on the screen, but for the first time since they’d entered the office, he seemed to lose control of his expression.

He looked completely vulnerable.

And, almost imperceptibly, he shook his head before closing his eyes for a moment.

It wasn’t a “no.” It was someone trying to muster enough courage for something he couldn’t bring himself to say because of the weight of the moment and his fear.

“We… We need to talk about this first,” you murmured, your voice strained by the wave of emotions.

The doctor nodded understandingly, printed out some images, and began wiping the gel from your abdomen before walking over to Bucky’s side, where her desk was.

“It seems to be developing as expected for the sixth week,” she explained calmly. “We’ll schedule another checkup in a few weeks and proceed according to your decision.”

You nodded automatically and slowly sat up on the stretcher.

Bucky remained seated where he was, staring at one of the photographs the doctor had just placed on the desk. He seemed unable to take his eyes off that small gray smudge.

Finally, he stood up and slowly let go of your hand to pick up the image between his fingers with an almost absurd delicacy, as if he were afraid of breaking it. He looked at it for a long moment before carefully putting it away in the folder the doctor had given them along with all sorts of recommendations and informational brochures.

He didn't say a word.

He didn't ask any questions.

He just stayed by your side, supporting you when it seemed like the strength in your legs was about to give out.

☆

The days that followed weren't easy.

Both of you tried to cling to a routine that no longer felt entirely your own, as if pretending nothing had changed might delay the moment of facing reality.

You made a conscious effort to carry on with your usual life. You went to work, tidied the apartment, read, replied to messages, and tried to fill every minute with some activity that would keep your mind occupied. There were moments when you even succeeded. For a couple of hours, you forgot the constant fear that had settled in your chest, the uncertainty about the future, and the enormous decision that was still waiting for you.

But those moments of calm never lasted long; something always came along to bring you back to reality, and anxiety would wash over you like a wave.

Things didn’t seem any easier for Bucky either.

He kept taking on missions with Sam, though not as often as before. He started turning down smaller jobs and heading back to the apartment as soon as operations were over.

He didn’t say why—and probably never would—but it was clear he wanted to be close to you, even if he still didn’t know how to be there for you.

Many times he would sit on the couch while you read in silence. Other times you simply shared the same space without exchanging more than a few words, finding a strange sense of calm in each other’s mere presence.

It was his way of saying he was still there.

There were days when the tension seemed to grant you a respite, and you looked like yourselves again.

You’d curl up on the couch under a blanket to watch a movie neither of you paid much attention to, sharing a bowl of popcorn while Bucky complained about the main character and you ended up laughing at his comments.

Other afternoons, you’d cook together. He would chop vegetables with precision while you tried to steal a piece of carrot from him before it made it into the pan, causing him to shake his head and hide a barely perceptible smile before kissing your forehead.

They even resumed their habit of going for walks around the city. They wandered through familiar streets, small cafes, and parks where time seemed to move more slowly.

For a few hours, they managed to forget... Or at least pretend they did.

But the subject of the baby always found a way to come back.

It would surface when you caught yourself imagining how his life would change if you decided to continue with the pregnancy. When you wondered if Bucky could ever feel happy with that possibility. If the two of you could truly become a family.

It also came up during those walks when you passed a pregnant woman absentmindedly stroking her belly, a father pushing a stroller while a baby slept peacefully inside, or a little hand clutching its mother’s tightly as they crossed the street.

Then your steps would slow, your gaze would linger a few seconds longer, and the weight would settle back onto your shoulders.

Bucky never made any comments or asked what you were thinking, but he always noticed the change. He saw how your smile faded little by little, how your fingers unconsciously sought to rest on your abdomen, and how the sparkle in your eyes dimmed.

He could only walk beside you, keeping silent as he felt that familiar tightness settle in his chest.

The words remained trapped inside him.

He had learned to survive without uttering a single word for far too many years, and now, when he needed them most, they wouldn’t come out either.

The nights were the worst.

There were times when the weight of the decision would end up crushing you.

You’d wait until you were sure Bucky was breathing deeply before carefully slipping out of bed, leaving behind the warmth of the sheets and the arms that, even in his sleep, seemed to reach out for you.

Silently, you walked with the folder in your hands to the dining room and opened it once more to reread every brochure and recommendation with obsessive attention.

You read about prenatal vitamins, nutrition, hormonal changes, and medical checkups. Then you turned to the pages that talked about abortion clinics and the procedure.

You set them aside and always ended up doing the same thing: you held the ultrasound photo between your fingers.

The corners were slightly bent, and the paper had lost some of its stiffness from all the times you’d held it in the early hours of the morning.

You slipped out of bed again and again to look at that blurry image where you could barely make out a tiny white dot.

That was all.

A tiny speck.

And yet, it already occupied every corner of your mind.

What you didn’t know was that those worn corners weren’t just your fault.

Many nights, when he woke up and found your spot empty, Bucky would wait a few minutes before getting up and finding you sitting at the table.

He didn’t interrupt.

He simply returned silently to the bedroom, and when you finally fell back asleep, he was the one who left.

He stood in front of the open folder for minutes, sometimes for over an hour, staring at the same photograph without moving, feeling a fear and vulnerability that were completely foreign to him.

A silent terror that no mission, no battlefield, and no enemy had ever managed to awaken in him.

He never told you that he also looked at that ultrasound.

He never confessed that he already had it etched in his memory.

You sighed softly as you held it between your fingers. With the tip of your index finger, you slowly traced the tiny, barely visible figure on the paper.

According to one of the posters in the doctor’s office, when you found out, it was the size of a lentil. Now it was close to the size of a cherry.

It was a tiny difference, and yet, to you, it meant that time was still moving forward.

For days you’d tried to imagine every possible scenario and had made mental lists, thinking about work, money, the future, fear, Bucky, and yourself.

You’d tried to make a decision based solely on reason, but, for the first time since it all began, you stopped trying to convince yourself of an answer and simply listened to the silence.

Slowly, you brought your hand to your belly, which was still flat. Yet you felt a twinge in your chest at the thought of it being empty by your own choice.

You closed your eyes as you realized that the fear was still there, but it was no longer fear that was guiding your thoughts.

It was something else.

A small, fragile, and hard-to-explain feeling that had been growing almost without your noticing over those days.

It was hope.

Your lips trembled before forming a tiny, almost imperceptible smile, and tears slowly rolled down your cheeks.

They weren’t tears of anguish.

Not entirely.

They were the silent relief of someone who, after weeks of doubt, had finally found an answer.

“I want to get to know you…” you whispered, your voice breaking.

The decision was made.

The fear hadn’t disappeared; it had simply stopped being greater than love.

☆

When the first rays of sunlight began to filter through the bedroom curtains, drawing golden lines across the rumpled sheets, you slowly opened your eyes.

The first thing you saw was Bucky, who was already awake.

He lay on his side, his metal arm resting on the mattress and his elbow bent to support his head in the palm of his hand. He’d been watching you in silence for who knows how long, with that almost hypnotic calm and intensity so characteristic of him, as if while you slept he were trying to read all the thoughts you were never able to put into words.

You blinked a couple of times before letting out a sleepy sigh.

The sound snapped him out of his own thoughts, and his lips curved into a faint, discreet smile—so small that anyone could have easily missed it.

“Good morning, sweetheart…” he murmured in his deep, hoarse voice.

He leaned slowly toward you. First he placed a soft kiss on your cheek, then another at the corner of your lips, and finally a slow, gentle kiss on your mouth.

“Good morning, Buck…” you replied, your voice barely audible against his lips.

For a few moments, everything seemed to return to normal.

It was the same tranquility as any Sunday morning. Those mornings when neither of you was in a hurry to get up and you could spend an hour or even two under the sheets, embracing without saying much, stroking each other’s hair, sharing absent-minded kisses, or simply enjoying each other’s warmth while the world kept moving on outside the windows.

A sanctuary that had always belonged only to the two of you.

But something in your expression made him slowly step back to get a full view of your face. His blue eyes scanned every inch of your face, searching for that look he knew so well.

It was the look you had when you’d already made a decision and were gathering the courage to say it.

The faint trace of his smile vanished.

The silence in the bedroom was broken only by the distant traffic beginning to fill the streets and the soft rustle of the sheets as you slowly sat up. Bucky did the same.

“I know what I want to do…” Your voice came out almost as a whisper.

Bucky barely looked up, and there was something in his expression that broke your heart. He looked like a wounded animal trying to stay still so no one would notice how much pain he was in.

Your fingers sought his, and you wanted to intertwine them as you had so many times before, but he remained still, his hand unmoving.

You took a deep breath and spoke.

“I want to continue with the pregnancy.”

Your words came out soft, firm, and without hesitation, and yet they seemed to strike the air with impossible force.

Bucky remained completely still.

He didn’t respond.

He didn’t pull his hand away.

His expression didn’t change.

He simply sat there in front of you, watching you as if he needed several seconds to grasp the meaning of those five words.

Then he slowly lowered his head, and his lips parted slightly as if to say something, but nothing came out. He tried again, and only a muffled sound escaped.

His throat moved with difficulty as he swallowed, and his chest began to rise with deeper breaths than usual.

Fear had suddenly taken hold of his entire body.

It wasn’t fear of the baby or of the decision you’d made. Because during those days, as he walked with you through the city or lay awake staring at the ultrasound in the middle of the night, he’d discovered a truth he’d never wanted to admit.

He wanted to be a father with you and no one else.

He wanted that pregnancy to continue.

He wanted it more than he ever thought possible.

He wanted to meet that little life.

He wanted to hear that tiny heartbeat at the next appointment.

He wanted to be with you as your belly grew little by little.

He wanted to hold your hand during every checkup and for the rest of his life.

He wanted to try to be better for you and for that little boy or girl.

He had even caught himself imagining a messy room with toys on the floor, little footsteps running through the apartment, and a tiny voice calling them “Mom and Dad” while they both laughed as they prepared dinner.

He had allowed himself to imagine a home.

And that was precisely why the fear was unbearable. He had never longed for anything so intensely since regaining his freedom, and he had never felt such terror at the thought of not being up to the task.

The questions began to crowd his mind, giving him no respite.

What if he didn’t know how to be a father?

What if he wasn’t truly free and one day lost control?

What if his past caught up with them?

What if she deserved a simple life, far from someone like him?

What if her children deserved a different father?

He looked down at his own hands—the flesh-and-blood one and the vibranium one—and studied them as if seeing them for the first time.

He remembered the wars, the orders, the HYDRA labs, the lives he had taken, and the names he could never forget.

When his gaze settled on the gleam of the dark, golden metal, all he could think of was the gray metal with the red star. An unbearable shame squeezed his chest.

How could he imagine holding a newborn with hands that had been used to kill for so long?

How could someone who still woke up some nights convinced he was still a weapon promise protection?

The weight of each of his thoughts kept him frozen and unable to speak—that was why he was silent. It wasn’t because he rejected your decision, but because he accepted it so deeply that fear had left him speechless.

He only returned to reality when he felt your trembling hands encircling his face with infinite tenderness. As he looked up, seeing the tears streaming uncontrollably down your cheeks, something inside him snapped, and an unbearable pressure squeezed his chest.

His silence had lasted so long that you began to interpret that absence of words in the worst possible way. You thought he didn’t agree with your decision, that he could never accept that future... That, sooner or later, you would both end up going your separate ways.

That possibility, reflected in the pain in your eyes, was infinitely more terrifying to Bucky than any of the ghosts he carried with him.

For a moment, all the ghosts of his past fell silent.

Now there was only you, crying in front of him, thinking you were going to lose him.

His breath caught.

He raised a hand with obvious hesitation, as if even that gesture cost him an enormous effort, and ended up covering one of yours that you were holding against his cheek.

His fingers held you with desperate strength, as if he feared you were going to pull it away.

He slowly shook his head.

He tried to speak, but his throat kept closing up long before he could utter a single word.

The inability to speak made him feel more helpless than any enemy he had ever faced.

“No…” he finally managed to say, his voice breaking.

He swallowed with difficulty and looked down for just a second before meeting your gaze again.

“Don’t think that.”

His thumb began to absentmindedly stroke the back of your hand. It was a clumsy, instinctive movement, the same one he made every time he tried to calm you down without finding the right words.

“I don’t want… you to leave.” He took a deep breath before continuing. “I want the same thing you do…”

That confession was so quiet it was almost lost amid the noise from outside.

“I’m scared. Really scared.”

He said it plainly, without trying to hide it; it was a brutal honesty that he was finally letting out into the open.

Bucky looked so fragile and vulnerable, until he finally broke down.

His eyes had filled with tears without warning, and a sob welled up from deep within his chest.

His hands wrapped tightly around your waist—but without choking you—as he did his best not to cry like a little child on your shoulder.

You didn’t hesitate for a second to cling to his body as you let yourself cry after all the fear and anxiety that was beginning to dissipate. You could finally feel relief knowing you wouldn’t be alone.

Bucky let out a brief, bitter laugh, filled with disbelief in himself, and shook his head.

“I’ve been imagining it for days,” he confessed, almost ashamed, his voice breaking slightly. “I see you walking around the apartment with the baby in your arms.”

For the first time, a tiny smile appeared on your face through your tears as you heard him.

Bucky looked up fully. His eyes were glistening with small, unshed tears, and there was an obvious, immense fear, but there was also a certainty he was finally ready to voice.

“I want to meet our little one.”

The words hung between you.

Bucky seemed surprised to have said it out loud and without trembling, as if a weight had just been lifted from his shoulders.

“I want to hear his heartbeat at the next appointment.” His lips trembled as a smile full of emotion appeared on his face. “I want to watch him grow…”

His gaze slowly drifted down to your still-flat abdomen, and with reverent slowness, he brought his vibranium hand to rest upon it. The tremor running through his fingers was entirely human.

“And I want to be there when the baby is born.” His voice broke again. “I want to hold him.”

He fell silent for a few seconds to compose himself.

“I still think you deserve better than me.” He admitted in a whisper.

You shook your head quickly. You searched desperately for his gaze as one of your hands reached out to touch his face again, but his metallic fingers gently caught your hand and pressed a kiss against the back of it.

“I’ll probably think that for a while,” he whispered as a tear rolled down his cheek. “But I’m going to spend the rest of my life trying to be the man you both deserve.”

You threw yourself at him without thinking, and Bucky barely had time to react before wrapping both arms around you with absolute firmness. You buried your face in his shoulder while he buried his in your hair.

They stayed like that for several long minutes.

Without speaking.

Without moving.

The future remained uncertain, but for the first time since that positive test forgotten in your drawer, the two of you stopped facing it alone.

They would face it together.

And for someone like Bucky, who clung to the idea of not making grand promises and was used to showing love through presence rather than words, standing there, holding you as if he wanted to protect you from the whole world, was the most sincere way of saying that he had chosen to stay with you.

[heldbybarnes]

Hi Kennedy! Kinda feeling a little angsty today and i had an idea for a blurb!

The classic tale of reader being Bucky’s best friend, Bucky starts dating an agent who is secretly mean to the reader whenever they’re alone so no one is there to believe her if she ever tries to tell anyone. Reader starts pulling away slightly and of course Bucky notices but thinks maybe it’s just stress around the next mission or whatever.

On the next mission, reader, Bucky’s gf, Bucky, Sam, Nat, and Steve are all there and get split up into teams, leaving reader with Bucky’s gf and maybe Sam or Steve sees Bucky’s gf intentionally leave reader to fight alone knowing she would be outnumbered and before they can go to help, reader gets beat up pretty bad. So they get reader back to the compound and of course Bucky is flipping a fucking lid and then Steve or Sam tell him what happened and it’s a scene and when reader wakes up it’s apologies and love confessions and happy ending lol sorry this is so long I’m just feeling the cliche angst vibes today

-🍎

You almost convince yourself you’re imagining it.

Marnie Cross smiles at you in front of everyone—polished, sharp, all easy charm and knowing glances that make her look like she belongs beside Bucky. She laughs at Sam’s jokes, trades strategy notes with Natasha, even asks you for your opinion like it matters.

But the moment you’re alone, something shifts.

The first time it happens, it’s so subtle you barely register it. A comment slipped under her breath while you’re grabbing gear.

“Funny,” she murmurs, eyes flicking over you, “how he never shuts up about you. You’d think he’d want something a little less… predictable.”

You blink, caught off guard. “What?”

She just smiles, sweet as anything, like she didn’t say a word.

After that, it becomes a pattern.

Little things. Sharp things. Things no one else hears.

“You know he only keeps you around because you’re familiar, right?”

“You should see the way he looks at me when you’re not there.”

“You’re not exactly hard to replace.”

Each one lands softer than a punch but sinks deeper.

And the worst part?

No one would believe you.

Because Marnie is perfect on paper. Efficient. Respected. The kind of agent people trust without question. And you… you’re just the best friend who’s been around too long, maybe a little too close for comfort.

So you don’t say anything.

You just start stepping back.

It’s small at first. Sitting a little farther away during briefings. Letting conversations drift without jumping in. Skipping movie nights because you’re “tired.” Avoiding the way Bucky’s arm naturally drapes over the back of your chair like it always has.

He notices.

Bucky’s always been tuned into you in a way that borders on instinct, and it doesn’t take long before his brows start to knit together every time you slip out of a room too early or dodge his questions.

“You good?” he asks one night, catching you in the hallway.

“Yeah,” you say quickly, offering a smile that doesn’t quite stick. “Just tired.”

His eyes narrow slightly, not buying it. “You’ve been ‘tired’ for like a week.”

You shrug, already stepping back. “Mission coming up. Just in my head, I guess.”

He doesn’t like that answer, you can tell. But Marnie calls his name from the common room, and the moment breaks.

You pretend not to notice how easily he lets himself be pulled away.

---

The mission is supposed to be straightforward.

Infiltrate. Extract intel. Get out.

You, Bucky, Sam, Steve, Natasha, and Marnie.

It goes sideways almost immediately.

Alarms blare. Footsteps thunder down corridors. The team splits on instinct, falling into smaller units to cover more ground.

You end up with Marnie.

For a second, you think maybe this is a chance to prove something—to smooth over whatever tension has been building, even if it’s mostly one-sided.

You move together down a dim hallway, backs to the wall, weapons raised.

“Two guards ahead,” you whisper.

“I see them,” she replies.

You take one. She takes the other.

Clean. Efficient.

For a moment, it feels normal.

Then more footsteps echo—too many.

Your grip tightens on your weapon. “We need to regroup.”

Marnie glances around the corner, assessing. “You hold them here. I’ll circle around and flank.”

Your stomach twists. “That’s not—”

“I’ve got it,” she cuts you off smoothly, already stepping back. “Try to keep up.”

And then she’s gone.

You’re left standing there as five—no, six—armed men round the corner.

For a split second, you just stare after her, disbelief cracking through you.

She knew. She knew exactly how many there were, and she left anyway.

There’s no time to dwell on it.

You move.

You fight.

You’ve been in worse situations, you tell yourself. You can handle it.

But six on one is never a fair fight.

The first hit lands hard against your ribs, knocking the breath from your lungs. You recover, swing, drop one, but another comes from behind, slamming you into the wall. Pain sparks across your vision. You taste blood.

You keep going. You have to. But it’s too much.

A boot catches your knee. You go down. A fist cracks against your jaw. Your head snaps to the side, vision blurring.

Somewhere down the hall, there’s shouting then gunfire.

Precise. Controlled.

The pressure around you disappears almost as quickly as it came.

You don’t even see who takes the last shot.

Everything fades to black.

---

When you come to, it’s quiet.

The sterile hum of the med bay wraps around you, steady and unforgiving. Your body aches in places you can’t even fully register yet, heavy and distant.

There’s a hand in yours.

Warm. Familiar. Bucky.

His head is bowed, shoulders hunched like he’s carrying something too heavy to hold. His grip tightens the second you shift.

“Hey—hey,” he breathes, voice rough, snapping upright. “You’re awake. Doll, hey, look at me.”

Your eyes struggle to focus, but you find him eventually.

He looks… wrecked.

“You’re okay,” he keeps saying, like he’s trying to convince himself. “You’re okay.”

Your throat feels like sandpaper. “Buck…”

He swallows hard, squeezing your hand. “I’m here.”

There’s movement behind him—Steve, Sam, Natasha—but Bucky doesn’t take his eyes off you.

And then Steve speaks, quiet but firm.

“Sam saw what happened.”

The words hang in the air.

Bucky stills.

“What?” he asks slowly.

Sam steps forward, jaw tight. “Marie left her. On purpose. There were six guys and she—she just walked away, man.”

The room shifts.

You see it happen in real time, the moment the pieces click into place in Bucky’s mind. Every unanswered question. Every time you pulled away. Every “I’m fine” that clearly wasn’t.

His grip on your hand trembles.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks, voice breaking in a way you’ve never heard before.

You blink up at him, exhaustion pulling at you. “Didn’t think you’d believe me.”

The hurt that flashes across his face is immediate and devastating.

“I always believe you,” he says, like it’s the simplest truth in the world. “It’s you. It’s always been you.”

Your chest tightens.

“I’m sorry,” he adds quickly, shaking his head. “I should’ve seen it. I should’ve—God, I left you alone with her—”

“Buck,” you interrupt weakly. “Not your fault.”

“It is,” he insists, voice rising. “I was too busy—” He cuts himself off, jaw clenching. “She’s gone. Nat dealt with it.”

There’s something final in that.

You don’t ask.

You don’t need to.

Silence settles again, softer this time.

Bucky leans closer, his forehead nearly brushing yours, his voice dropping to something fragile.

“I thought you were pulling away because you didn’t need me anymore,” he admits. “I didn’t think it was because I was letting someone hurt you.”

Your heart stutters.

“I could never not need you,” you whisper.

His eyes search yours, desperate, like he’s been waiting to hear that.

“Yeah?” he asks, almost afraid.

You nod as much as you can. “Yeah.”

Something in him finally breaks open.

“I love you,” he says, the words tumbling out like they’ve been trapped for too long. “I think I always have. I just—I didn’t want to mess up what we had, and then she—” He shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter. You matter.”

Your breath catches.

Even through the pain, even through the haze, warmth spreads through your chest.

“Took you long enough,” you murmur, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at your lips.

He lets out a shaky laugh, relief flooding his features. “Yeah. I know.”

His thumb brushes gently over your knuckles, grounding, careful.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he promises. “Not ever again. You don’t have to fight alone. Not while I’m here.”

You tighten your grip on his hand, holding on just as firmly.

“Good,” you whisper.

And this time, when your eyes drift closed again, it’s not from pain.

It’s because, finally, you feel safe.

[heldbybarnes]

Hiii just thought about this

Reader works as lifeguard, it can be in a pool or a beach, and bucky is her husband who loves to admire her from afar even if he's on work or mission. Which cause alot of distraction and hard to get his attention back.

(would be cute seeing bucky being inlove whenever he sees his wife being serious in her job)

lore drop: i was a lifeguard in high school (traumatizing times for lil k)

--------

When realizes it’s a problem, he’s standing on a mission briefing call with Sam in one ear and Steve pacing somewhere behind him—and he hasn’t heard a single word in the last thirty seconds.

“Buck? You still with me?” Sam’s voice crackles through the comm.

“Yeah,” Bucky answers automatically, even though he’s not. Not even a little.

Because you’re down below him, framed by sun and water and the bright white edge of the lifeguard stand, completely absorbed in your job.

You don’t look like his wife right now—not in the way he’s used to. Not soft and sleepy in the mornings, not laughing on the couch with your legs thrown over his lap, not teasing him over coffee.

No, right now you look focused. Sharp. All straight lines and quick movements, scanning the water with practiced precision. Your sunglasses are perched on your nose, your posture perfect, whistle resting against your collarbone like a promise.

You look… untouchable.

And Bucky can’t stop staring.

“Barnes,” Steve says, a little louder this time, stepping into his line of sight.

Bucky blinks, dragged back into the moment, but it’s delayed, like surfacing from underwater. “What?”

Steve follows his gaze without meaning to—and then huffs, something amused flickering across his face. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Bucky doesn’t even bother denying it. “I’m listening.”

“You’re not,” Sam cuts in immediately. “You’re absolutely not.”

“I am.”

“You just agreed to something I didn’t even say yet.”

Bucky grimaces. “…Okay, maybe I’m not.”

Sam laughs outright. “Man is down catastrophic.”

Bucky ignores him. Mostly because he’s already looking back at you.

There’s something about the way you move when you’re working that does something to him—something deep and instinctive. It’s not just that you look good (though, yeah, you absolutely do in that red lifeguard suit, skin sun-warmed and glowing). It’s the way you take it seriously.

The way your eyes never stop moving.

The way your body is always ready.

The way you don’t hesitate.

A kid jumps off the side of the pool a little too recklessly, and you’re already shifting, watching, calculating. Someone calls out from the shallow end and you’re down from the stand in seconds, jogging over, calm but firm.

Bucky swears his heart stutters.

“Okay,” Sam says, clearly watching this unfold in real time now. “This is worse than I thought.”

“He’s in love,” Steve says simply, like that explains everything.

Bucky scoffs, but it’s weak. “I’m married to her.”

“Yeah,” Sam replies. “And somehow that made it worse.”

Bucky should argue. Should focus. Should drag his attention back to the mission, the plan, literally anything else.

Instead, he leans his forearms on the railing and just… watches.

Because you don’t notice him yet.

You’re too busy, too focused, too good at what you do to spare him even a glance, and for some reason that makes it all the more impossible to look away. You belong to him, yeah—but right now, you belong to this moment. To your job. To the people you’re responsible for.

And God, he loves that.

He loves you soft, he loves you sweet, he loves you half-asleep and curled into him—but this version of you?

This version steals the air straight out of his lungs.

“Buck,” Steve tries again, a little more gently this time. “We need you here.”

“I am here,” Bucky insists, even as his eyes track you crossing the deck again.

“You’re really not.”

Bucky exhales through his nose, scrubbing a hand over his face before forcing himself to look away. It physically hurts a little, like tearing himself out of orbit.

“Fine,” he mutters. “Run it back.”

Sam doesn’t even try to hide the grin in his voice as he starts over. “Alright, Romeo, listen up—”

It lasts maybe a minute.

Two, if he’s being generous.

Your whistle blows.

Bucky’s head snaps up before he can stop himself.

“—you have got to be kidding me,” Sam groans.

Someone’s struggling in the deeper end. It’s not full panic yet, but it’s heading there fast—and before anyone else can even react, you’re already moving.

You dive clean.

The water barely splashes as you cut through it, strong, sure strokes carrying you straight to the kid. Bucky’s entire body goes tight, every instinct screaming at him to jump in after you—even though you don’t need it. Even though you’ve done this a hundred times.

You reach them in seconds, voice calm, hands steady, guiding them back, keeping them afloat.

You’re in control.

You’re always in control.

And when you pull them to the side, helping them out, crouching down to check on them with that same focused concern—Bucky swears something in his chest cracks wide open.

“…Buck?” Steve says, quieter now.

But Bucky doesn’t answer.

Because you’re laughing softly now, reassuring the kid, brushing wet hair out of your face, and then—finally—you glance up.

Right at him.

It’s like the world tilts.

Your whole expression shifts the second you spot him. The sharpness melts, replaced with something warm and familiar and so unmistakably yours that it hits him harder than anything else.

You smile.

And just like that, he’s gone.

“Hi,” you call up to him, shading your eyes with your hand.

Bucky forgets every single word he’s supposed to say into the comm. “Hi,” he echoes, softer, like it’s just for you.

Sam makes a noise that’s somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “Oh my God.”

“You’re working,” you remind him, a little teasing, even from a distance.

“So are you,” he shoots back.

You grin, shaking your head before turning back to your stand, climbing up like nothing just happened.

Like you didn’t just completely derail him, again.

There’s a beat of silence on the comm.

Then Steve sighs, long-suffering. “We’re never getting anything done, are we?”

“Nope,” Sam says immediately.

Bucky doesn’t even try to argue this time.

Because you’re back in your chair, scanning the water again, all focus and purpose—and he already knows exactly how this is going to go.

He’s going to try.

He’s going to fail.

He’s going to fall in love with you all over again every single time you don’t even realize you’re doing it.

[spaceceo]

human nature

pairing; ryland grace / reader

warnings; none

desc; its only natural that one would seek physical contact after being deprived for so long.

length; 969 words

a/n; pretty short one but its the first thing i’ve written in a long time so bare with me 🫡

MASTERPOST

.✦ ݁˖

𖦹 Small, insignificant touches were to be expected due to a lack of space on the Hail Mary. With Rocky moving himself onto the ship, there wasn’t a lot of floor space and so occasionally, you and Ryland had to scoot around each other awkwardly to get to where you wanted to go. Bumping into each other accidentally or a hand on your shoulder while you moved around eachother were the norm.

Those small touches were fine to begin with but it’s when the weight of Ryland’s hand started to linger on your shoulder or when he would guide you with a hand on the small of your back that you realised just how much you missed contact with another human. And you craved it even more because it was him.

You would never ask your friend to indulge in your longings out of respect for his space, but god did you want to remember what it felt like to wrap your arms around someone gently and give them a squeeze. Or to hear someone’s heartbeat when you placed your head to their chest. Or even running your hands through their hair as they told you all about their day. Those moments were what you thought about most whenever you started to miss home.

It was one of those occasions where there was nothing you wanted more than to return to Earth -- to your friends and family. As you sat gazing mindlessly out at Adrian through Mary's only large window, you felt a presence behind you.

"It never gets old, does it?"

Ryland caught your attention and you smiled up at him. He was in his usual attire. Jumpsuit tied at the waist with one of his science pun t-shirts you'd grown to be quite fond of. A smile graced your face as you patted the space next to you and invited him to sit. With no words exchanged, the two of you sat together watching the green swirls move slowly on the planet's surface. This was a regular occurance between you both. Watching space together was a nice reminder you weren't alone.

The silence was comfortable as you let your mind wander. You looked to Ryland to catch a glimpse of his expression. The bright green reflected through the glass and drenched you both in colour. As always, his glasses were squint on his face in a way that made you question if he even remembered how to wear them half the time. Before you could stop yourself, you reached up to tilt them back into place. Ryland flinched, not expecting your hands so close. Yet he didn't pull away. He let you fix them and sat patiently wile you adjusted them to his nose.

"Sorry, it was bothering me." You muttered before going back to minding your business. He didn't respond, just kept looking at you.

"Do you ever miss the feeling of holding someone?" He broke the silence, causing you to turn to him again. It was almost like he read your mind about what you were feeling so down about.

"All the time." You responded wholeheartedly with the ache of melancholy in your heart.

He didn't say much after that, just glanced down at your hands and then back to your face like he was afraid to ask out loud for what it was that he wanted. You understood completely. For what felt like weeks you had yearned to reach out and hug him or even just lean on him while you, him, and Rocky watched movies and videos in the 'Don't Go Crazy' room.

Holding out your hand towards him, you waited. If you read the situation correctly then you hoped he could reciprocate your action. Without missing a beat, Ryland grabbed your hand in both of his, feeling over every line and crease like he was trying to memorise it. The sensation of someone studying you so intensely was nothing short of intimate. It was evident from how gentle and immersed he was that had wanted to do this for a long time.

His fingertips and palms were calloused from the work you had both been doing on board. Marks and scars from burns and cuts that weren't quite healed littered his skin. While he was captivated with your fingers, you took a moment to appreciate his face.

It would be a lie to say you didn't find joy in the way his eyes lit up as you willingly let him touch you -- not just in passing or by accident, but rather on purpose.

It was amusing to watch as he discovered every detail of your skin. You had been so distracted observing his face, you weren't expecting him to move in closer so you were sat hip to hip, and intertwine his hand with yours. He gave your hand a squeeze and looked away as if he were embarassed.

"Sorry...I just forgot what it felt like to, you know."

Ryland wouldn't meet your eyes so you brought your free hand up and turned his face towards yours. His eyes widened as you carressed his cheek with your thumb lovingly, feeling his stubble rub against your palm. A peaceful expression formed on his features as he melted into your touch.

Not a word was spoken. You just moved closer to share each other's warmth and continue watching Adrian's colours dance. It was comfortable and satisfied the deep craving of another's presence. Having Ryland so willing to fill that void was probably the reason it felt so right. Now it had started, you prayed things would stay this way forever.

Being so caught up in your own world, you failed to hear the sounds of things clattering and the rolling of an asymmetrical ball enter the lab.

"Grace and Y/n finally mates, question?"

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

[artrickscupid]

ryland grace being a crier during sex. he gets overstimulated easily, clinging to you when you stroke him gently. “mnnghh baby..” he starts off whining. he’s backed up against the headboard of his bed while your seated perpendicular to his hips on your calf’s. your hand’s on his cock, using his excessive precum to your advantage, spreading it around his tip. his hips lift off the bed when your squeeze him a little before he’s keeling over himself. “please, please—“ he starts begging with a moan cutting him off. that’s when his tears start developing in the corners of his eyes.

“please what?” you tease him. he’s always so needy when you’re touching him. even when your not touching him, when he’s jumping your leg at night when you’re ‘too tired’ to assist with his desires. when you’re only talking him through his orgasm and he’s drinking your every word. your voice gets him going like a dog at your beck and call.

“please help me cum. i need it, please, baby” he’s full on crying and you’re living off it. seeing him like this, admittedly, gets you sinfully turned on. his red cheeks glistening with every tear that falls. and when he looks up at you with his mouth agape it’s like you’re dreaming.

you test his limits further, “lemme see you hold it a little longer. can you do that for me?” to which he nods with a choked sob-moan. “good boy. you’re always so obedient for me.” and he was. you’re good boy. you lean forward to kiss and lick at his tear stained cheeks which gets him all the more red. his meeks moans send ripples through your core and he’s barely containing himself.

“can i now? can i? i’ve been good, you said so!” he grabs at your arm, gently, and your shirt, pinching the plush of your boob not-so-accidentally. you continue to work him, twisting your wrist and making designated stops at his tip, stimulating the vein that starts right under it. it makes his eyes roll to the back of his head.

“cum for me, ry” you whisper into his neck as your peppering kisses to it. his face is all twisted, red, and wet when white hot ropes come sputtering out of him. it’s a lot and it gets all over your hands and his thighs. after a few tens of seconds he’s spent and sticky, heavily breathing out ‘thank yous’ like you granted him his one wish willow.

“what do you say about going one more time? with me on top?” you suggest. you guys spend the rest of the night doing “intensive exercise” and expecting noise complaints from ryland’s neighbors.

[cloudytimelapse]

"Carl and I made a baby"

Except it’s - "(Your Name) and I made a baby"

Which immediately sends Stratt into a stressful spiral because she thinks her lead project scientist is about to become a father on a timeline meant to save the world.

Cue Ryland frantically tripping over his words to explain that he meant an astrophage baby, not a human baby.

All the while he is turning beet red because now the image of a real, actual human baby with you is firmly stuck in his head and his brain is short-circuiting.

Can you hear me scream?!

[hotdogcatalogue]

You are very accident prone on the Hail Mary. You bump into corners and regularly get random bruises that you don’t remember obtaining. Cuts are also commonplace—the lesser ones don’t hurt that much anymore.

You don’t really complain about your injuries, because they simply don’t bother you—much to the dismay of Ryland.

A deeper cut had found its way onto your forearm while reaching elbow deep into the wall of the Hail Mary; it was your latest project, trying to fix the wiring of the overhead lights in the lab since some of them refused to turn on, annoying Ryland to no end. Your forearm caught against a stray edge of metal as you retracted your arm, slicing a clean cut straight through the top of your forearm.

You hissed. You’d be okay, of course. Armando was just around the corner—

Ryland suddenly rounded said corner, and almost passed out at how much blood was pouring out of your arm. He literally shrieked and ran over to you, grasping your hand and hauling you upwards. It still shocks you just how strong he is, even as he’s dragging you towards Armando while on the verge of throwing up.

Armando takes care of your cut swiftly, and Ryland lingers near your back, his forehead pressed against your shoulder from behind.

“You‘ve got to be more careful.” He whispers, and his breath tickles the back of your neck.

“I am—“

“No, you’re absolutely not,” his hands come to rest on your hips. “I know these types of things don’t feel like a big deal to you but—“ he worries his bottom lip between his teeth, swallowing thickly.

“—it’s a big deal to me.”