“We..we actually made it, I never thought I’d get this far”
Person A spoke, panting as Person B stood behind them, both of them out of breath. Barely escaping with their lives.
“Yeah, I can’t believe it either. I guess I can bring back the bucket list -“
Person A perked up to Person B’s statement. Turning around to see Person B blushing, assuming it was from being so overworked, overwhelmed and the adrenaline still pumping through both of their veins. Got closer to Person B.
“What’s this ‘bucket list’ ?”
Person A teased jokingly, watching as Person B stiffened from the question. Tense and a look of uncertainty taking over their expression, which concerned Person A. Person A let out a nervous chuckle in order to try and ease Person B’s tension.
“We’ve known each other for years [Person B], you can trust me with whatever it is,”
“That’s the thing [Person A], we’ve known each other for so long. And if I tell you I fear I might lose you, or - or that awkward tension when —“
Person B began to anxiously ramble, hugging themselves as paranoia filled their head. Person A watched on for a moment, trying to listen to everything but soon it became incoherent.
“[Person B], please, you don’t have to tell me, really -“
“No no, you’re right,, I should trust you with it - better now than never right ?”
There was a short silence and soon Person B cleared their throat, finally getting their thoughts in order.
“What I’m saying is,, I love you”
“Awe I love you too !”
Person A obviously replied, making Person B anxiously frustrated for a split second.
“No ! Not like that, far from that ! I mean like, the I wanna hold your hand, hold you in ways that those couples we make fun of together do-“
Person A’s heart raced once again, their face turning the same shade of red as Person B. Person A smiled, lunging themselves at Person B and hugging them.
“I was hoping you felt that way about me too, [Person B’s nickname]”
A royal/servant au, where they are both quick to fall for eachother and when the royal has the chance, marries servant so they can be together forever.
Being able to talk to your soulmate telepathically, no matter how far away or preoccupied one or the other is. They always have that ability to go in and talk to the other. Feeling safe whenever the other is around even if it’s just the other talking to them when they’re not physically there.
Someone who is in high power, having a personal baker for their sweet tooth - but finding it more and more difficult to contain their ever growing feelings for the baker. Spending more time with them and developing more of a friendship. Baker develops feelings for the other person but is worried that if they’re not platonic that they’ll lose their trust with person A. So they try to subtly flirt with person A (whether they know it or goes over their head is up to you).
Summary: Steve once revealed a bit of a fetish to you. Tonight, you test it out.
Warnings:uh…you and Steve being cheeky weirdosandsmutty smut (graphic but loving), lightly edited because I is tired. (Minors DNI)
It’s not the perfect day or time for this, but if there’s one thing you’ve learned being with Steve Rogers it’s that it’s never the perfect time for anything. You two would never have had a real conversation. You’d never have made it to a first date. You’d never have gotten engaged. Perfect isn’t what you two are, but you do love each other, you are devoted to each other, and that is enough.
This story of soft!Steve experiencing his fantasy come to life is fucking AMAZING! Do yourself a favor and read all chapters of the series she’s written of the (painfully!) slow-burn of their relationship up to this point. I can’t recommend it enough!
Hilariously, I keep thinking to myself “I could have made that slower,” but I’m pretty sure I’d have been hunted down and punched in the face. ><
What’s started out as a single one-shot now reminds me of that moment in the theater where–
–flashed before my eyes, and my idea for 5k became 100k (and counting, woof).
Summary: You’re a writer, too, but Steve has never pushed for you to share. It’s nerve-wracking as all hell, but you’re gonna show him. You’ve *got* to show him what you’ve been working on now. It’s time.
(This is gonna be split between two posts because I wasn’t expecting a few very small ideas to weave together into 5k+, but this half is basically all lovey fluff before a tooouch of smooooot in the next.)
Your hands are so clammy they stick to the pages still warm from the printer. The manuscript is sloppily bound; you didn’t feel this warranted a fancy seal. It could all go in the bin at any moment. If Steve for one tiny second doesn’t seem to approve, it’s game over. You’ll delete the whole file and burn all the copies…although currently, this is the only hard copy on the planet.
Gosh, you need to find a better phrase since you are now set to marry into an intergalactic band of heroes.
Only hard copy in existence. There. That’s more accurate.
You’ve chosen the day you and Steve officially move in together, into a new, bigger apartment on AvIn campus, to hopefully take some of the pressure off of this moment, this…present. Steve’s so over-the-moon about your new space—since you now have an extra bedroom that is the agreed ‘studio’ space for you both—plus a second bathroom and its own laundry. He’s gone off on several little shpeels about hating that someone else washes all of his clothes. Dry-cleaning and the tact suits, he understands, but his boxers? Steve doesn’t like handing that task off. It’s always made him uncomfortable. It makes him feel high and mighty. It makes him feel like Tony, though he’ll never be caught dead admitting that. So your fiance self-corrects to the point of hauling his own army duffel down to the laundry and chats up some staff while he uses a machine for himself wheneverhe possibly can. Once or twice he even brought his laundry over to your apartment, your old apartment now, to hang out with you during the cycles. It took a lot of effort to convince the man you’re gonna marry that he should maybelet you wash both of your things together when he isn’t around to do it himself.
Logic was a mighty weapon that day, but from Steve’s face, hell likely froze over in the process. He’s a stubborn git when he wants to be, and you love it. He loves you because you won’t let him be a stubborn git for too long. He gets to throw his ‘back in my day’ tantrum. He’s heard…and then you immediately offer him the logical option which was your choice in the first place. Everyone’s happy. When it doesn’t really matter, you let Steve win. Compromise is the name of the game.
You even compromised on what you consider is not pulling your weight when it comes to moving. Steve insisted he carry all the boxes himself, two by two, across the entire compound. His logic: it will be about the equivalent of his dozens of mile runs or the hours-long training he does regularly. It’s not as big of a deal as you’re making it out to be. He kissed your forehead as a warning. This was just one of those things he wasn’t going to budge on. You weren’t ever going to win this argument.
And so you took the time to print out this and hope for the best. Two hundred and seventy-eight pages weigh a fuckton, say nothing of the weight of their meaning. Your palms are sweating full-stop now.
Since your desk had to be driven from your off-campus apartment to the compound, it was one of the first things moved in. You set the beast of pulp down with a thud, leaving it to rest and cool off—or maybe just you need to rest and cool down—because Steve’s not back from his latest pickup from downstairs. Shame, but oh well, you’ll do it later.
The manuscript fits in the second drawer. You even put it face down, so it looks just like a stack of paper, not even Steve’s good drawing paper. He has no reason to look or to want it. It’s only going to be until you next see him, which might be seconds away. That thought makes your stomach swirl harshly.
Now to grab some lunch. He’ll be so proud you remembered to feed yourself without his prodding, especially because you aren’t sitting at work with a whole group of people who walk out to do just that every day. Compromise and growth. It’s a beautiful thing.
* * *
“D’ya’know, one of the perks of billionaire life is paying someone to do this for you,” Tony drawls with a click of his tongue slapped on the end for good measure. He doesn’t help, of course; he just leans against the door frame.
“Yeah, well, I’m not a billionaire, Tony.” Steve lifts the third-to-last box of books and papers (plus one surprise), the heaviest by far because you efficiently stuffed it full, a Tetris of bricks. Good thing he’s a super-soldier, or you would’ve had to unpack it and carry the same contents in four smaller bins.
“You and the misses are so cheap,” Stark chides.
Steve doesn’t even correct him. Tony has offered so many bad ideas for the wedding that Steve needs a single day without giving him ammunition. “We aren’t cheap. We’re thrifty. It’s a good quality to have. Maybe you could even try it sometime.”
“Ew—“ Tony wrinkles his nose as if he too saw what the empty fridge looked like this morning “—why.”
Steve snorts and pushes past the loving idiot in his way.
“When’s the housewarming party?” Tony calls after him.
If Steve could roll his eyes hard enough to shake the ground beneath Stark’s feet, he would, but alas, that kind of power eludes him. You two are only moving to a different floor, one with larger (and thus fewer) residentially suites. Instead of Steve’s original and perfectly adequate one-bedroom apartment, you’ll have three rooms and two and a half baths. You and Steve agree that it’s a bit excessive, even though you’ve been giddily chatting on how to use all the space several nights in a row, legs tangled together in bed as Steve called dibs on the smallest room to use as a studio.
You’d crossed your arms in a huff of fake irritation, shoving your naked breasts together in a ploy to distract him (in the dark because you know he can see that and it will get you what you want). “Fine, but then the other is an office or work storage. And that includes—“ you emphasized your point with a finger to his chest “—your suit, shield, and weapons. I don’t want them in the closet anymore.”
“Hmm,” Steve acted perplexed, using his Cap voice for a minute, “what if I say ‘no?’”
You cocked an eyebrow and shimmied your feet behind his calves. “That’s the hill you wanna die on?”
“No.“ He leaned forward and pushed your arm out of the way, hand sliding over your ribcage so his thumb could caress the soft swell of you. It’s his favorite. “But you’re very cute when you’re annoyed.”
“Oh, welcome, Captain Critical to my bedroom,” you teased.
“Our bedroom.” Steve’s arm wrapped around your back to pull you closer. He’d kissed you with a smile on his lips because he knows it makes you giggle. “Must be true love if I move the suits for ya, huh?”
Steve fondly recalls all of this while he waits for the elevator. These books are actually heavy enough that he doesn’t take the stairs.
You had then playfully smacked his arm.
“No, Sketch. Separate bathrooms is true love.”
He just smiled wider, hugged you a little closer, and ticked his nose up to nuzzle at your neck.
“That’s the saying, huh? Separate bathrooms make the heart grow fonder?”
He would have laughed if he weren’t thoroughly distracted by the pulse of your heartbeat against his lips. Suddenly, you didn’t have any more quips for him either.
The elevator dings, and there you are, smiling brightly as you see it’s him.
“I’m gonna get us some food. You’ve earned it, big buy,” you say with a wink, but Steve hears a nervous edge to it. Maybe you’re still concerned with how heavy the boxes are or how many trips back and forth he’s been taking, but since he’s almost finished before lunchtime, he doesn’t see the big deal.
So all he replies with is “sounds good.”
It does sound good. It sounds perfect because you’ll be out for a bit and he’s got that surprise to hang in the new place. Since he knows he can grab it now, he hurriedly drops off the heavy box and races to the stairs. He saved the surprise for last, but two boxes ahead of schedule will do just fine.
Only one other thing, he wants to write a little note, but everything is packed away. There might be paper floating around in your desk still. He’ll take a look when he gets back up.
* * *
It takes way longer than it should to drive out and pick up Indian. There’s traffic, a line, a substitution they needed to make when something suddenly ran out, but it’s fine. You are nowhere near as put out as the staff rushing around the packed restaurant (and you got a refill on mango lassi, so you can’t complain).
You ask Friday to swing open the door since your hands are full. It still smells like new apartment when you step in, and you passingly wonder if your first meal will christen the whole place with a homey aroma. If that’s the case, your mouth is going to water every time you come home, an impulse Steve will wildly approve of since it’s just another reminder he won’t have to give.
Steve isn’t visible from the entrance or the kitchen. You put the food on the counter and check to see if anything will need heating a little more before digging in, and then you see it.
A long rectangle wrapped in brown paper sits across the coffee table. It’s not a shape you recognize as one of the paintings you packed from downstairs, but it sits with the taped side up. Maybe Tony dropped it off? He loves to collect art. Well, Pepper loves to collect art, and Tony loves to ownart.
Your finger slices beneath a corner fold. Steve’s not really one for surprises—another reason you’re so worried about your little project—so he won’t mind if he’s not here for an unveiling of a gift. Where is he anyway? Only one of the huge book boxes is there sitting by the door, so he might still be—
Oh my god.
It’s…it’s…
It’s you. The whole thing is you, or you two rather. Nearly two feet tall and one foot wide, it’s a close-up of your favorite photo of you and Steve.
But this isn’t a photo. Steve has drawn you in painstaking detail, with vivid colors, and soft edges. His arms are wrapped around you from behind as he curls forward to kiss your cheek. Your head is lifted with a huge, toothy smile, open and laughing. Natasha took the original. You and Steve don’t really remember to take photos much, and there was one time, just one time, you joked that “it’s no big deal, he can sketch us anyway” in front of everyone. You’ve never seen him draw you, but you don’t ask because he wants things private until he shares them, like everything about you two and your relationship so far.
Butoh my god. You loved the original photo. You didn’t care that you didn’t have makeup on or that you wore one of his oversized sweaters. You didn’t care that your flesh rolled just a smidge between his tight arms across your middle. You didn’t care that your hair looked a bit lost because it was pulled back and out of frame. That was the photo.
This. This is you and Steve absolutely perfect. The tone of your hair is noticeably portrayed in a style you love, your skin is flawless, and he’s changed the sweater he wears to your favorite color. He hasn’t made it hyper-realistic. He didn’t simply copy over what he saw in the photograph. He interpreted what you adored about it with a few added bonuses. You look amazing. You look joyous. Most importantly, he’s captured how in love he looks by your side, enveloping you, feeding your body his heat on that brisk cold day.
You can feel that heat in your cheeks now.
“Steve,” you call out, unable to take your eyes off the art. His art. It’s already framed and everything. It’s like he knew you would want it up right here in the living room. “Steve!”
It’s odd he’d take so long to come back up—shit.
On your way to the door, you see him. He’s leaning on your desk because there’s no chair. You’ve ordered a new one, and it hasn’t arrived yet. In his hands, Steve is flipping through a document about three hundred pages thick. Your brain can’t even make up any option but the worst.
He found it. He found it with no explanation, no lead-in, no excuse.
“Sweetheart,” you huff in a rush to get over and take it back before too much damage is done. It’s not as perfect as his drawing of you; you know now that it’s not ready. Your sinuses seize and threaten to flood your vision while you beg to have it back, but Steve just holds out a long arm and easily keeps you at bay while he continues to read…
…about himself, about his life.
You’re not even sure what gibberish comes out of your mouth before he finally lifts a crystal clear gaze to you.
“What is this?”
“It’s nothing. It’s stupid. Please just put it down. I promise I’ll get rid of it if you—“
“Keeps,what is this?”
“Um, it’s,” and then you mumble a bit. His stern look tells you to try again. “It’s a…biography. Kinda. I wrote down every story you’ve ever told me. And then I…put in commentary about why it’s all important. How it all—“ a shaky breath ravages your tense system “—made you the man you are today.”
“Honey,” Steve starts with an inscrutable tone. You’re not sure what’s coming but your mind is on fire. “When did you start this?”
You giggle nervously, afraid to admit the truth, but he’ll know. Steve Rogers will know if you lie to him.
“The day…” you say quietly, “the same day you…when I sat on your couch for the first time. The day my hand was injured, again, well, the second time. I wrote down little descriptions of how you looked sketching, real you, not Captain you. I didn’t know what I’d do with it, but I knew even then that most people don’t get to see that. It just…snowballed from there.”
From where his finger sits in the stack, Steve’s already forty to fifty pages in. How long has he been in here? Jeez! He looks down at the manuscript and then back out toward the hall. He runs a broad hand over his face.
“So like a year,” he questions.
You nod and bite your lip.
“Dang, I—“ The sharp, slapping thud of paper on your desk startles you until you’re pulled into a huge hug. “I only spent three weeks on the picture.”
“Heh,” you cry-laugh. Your shoulders kick up to your ears even under the weight of Steve’s arms. “I’m an over-achiever.”
Now it’s his turn to laugh, but he’s more focused on tucking his arms beneath yours to lift you up. Your hands slide across his shoulders and bury your fingers in his hair. Steve hums between chuckles. You can feel his smile through your shirt at your collarbone.
His words are muffled in the fabric. “What’s it called?”
You quickly sweep away a few recklessly shedding tears and gasp in relief. “Ah, well, the working title—the one I’m leaning toward—is The Son of Joseph and Sarah.”
Steve stops laughing. He grips you tighter for a long moment.
It’s bright daylight. You both are fully clothed in a nearly furniture-less room. You aren’t even eye-to-eye, but neither of you has ever been so exposed to the other. From early on, Steve said he struggled to find the lines to capture you. You replied by saying you wanted the words to describe him. You’re both here now, at the finish line of your separate lives, at the start of your lives together, and you’ve done it: you’ve learned one another enough to show what you’ve seen. It’s beautiful. It’s flawed. It’s a long, long time in the making. It involves so many people and experiences you weren’t around for, but you understand.
You let Steve hold you as long as he wants, and after what feels like an eternity (which isn’t enough), he untucks his face and sniffs the air.
“Oh, wow, that smells good. I’m starving.”
You’d completely forgotten again. Good thing he’s around to remind you.
I can’t handle how sweet Steve would be in a relationship, guys. Like this literally haunts me at night–his cuteness, his support. Just dying, but really happy about it? Ugh, ok, happy Thursday everyone! Dignity get’s updated tomorrow…
