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fangirltrash15 · 5 hours ago

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𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐨𝐲𝐚𝐥 𝐖𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠

Parings → Peter Parker x Reader

Warnings → Royal AU, streamy, old times, fluff

Summary → Princess Y/n got married with King Peter, they're strangers to eachother, but as the night grows, they grew close too.

The grand castle of the Parker family was alive with celebration, guests mingling in the great halls, music playing from every corner, and the scent of roses and candle wax heavy in the air. Yet, for you, Princess Y/N, it felt as though the world had frozen the moment you stood at the altar.

Your thoughts spun as you locked eyes with your soon-to-be husband for the first time.

King Peter Parker stood there, tall and regal, yet there was a softness in his eyes that instantly put you at ease. He wasn’t the stern, unfeeling king you had feared. No, there was something kind in his gaze, something vulnerable even, as though he was just as uncertain about this union as you were.

He was handsome, just like in the portrait, but somehow more boyish, more human, in person. His golden crown, slightly too large for his head, tilted as he looked down at his feet.

When the priest announced you husband and wife, Peter leaned down to kiss you. It wasn’t what you had feared—a possessive, harsh claim. Instead, it was gentle. His lips barely brushed yours, but it sent warmth flooding through your entire body. You blushed fiercely, feeling the heat rush to your cheeks, as his lips lingered just a moment longer.

Peter pulled back, his eyes scanning your face as though making sure you were okay. You offered a small smile in return, feeling shy and awkward under his gaze, but also… safe.

_______

The feast that followed was grand, as expected. The court members and nobility gathered, their laughter filling the room, but you barely noticed. Peter remained by your side the entire evening. He didn’t leave you alone even for a moment, which was both a comfort and a source of nervousness. You exchanged polite greetings with the guests, accepting their congratulations, but all the while, your heart was pounding in your chest.

You occasionally sneaked glances at Peter, who always seemed to catch you looking. Each time, he would offer a soft smile, his hand gently resting over yours.

"You look beautiful," he whispered quietly between the courses of the meal, his voice so soft that only you could hear it over the din of the hall.

Your heart fluttered. "Thank you, Your Majesty."

"Peter," he corrected gently. "We are married now. I’d like for you to call me Peter."

You nodded, feeling a surge of warmth at his kindness. "Peter."

________

The celebration had ended all too soon, and with it, the part you had been dreading most had arrived—the wedding night. The large wooden doors of the royal chambers closed with a soft thud, leaving you alone with your thoughts and the anxious pounding of your heart.

You stood in front of the grand mirror in the royal bedchamber, staring at your reflection as the maids moved around you in a flurry, helping you out of the heavy layers of your wedding dress. The mirror’s polished surface reflected back the image of a girl who hardly recognized herself. A girl barely eighteen, now a queen, married to a man she had never truly known until today. The thin, delicate nightgown the maids had dressed you in felt foreign, too intimate for a moment you weren't ready for. The silk was smooth against your skin, brushing against you like a whisper, yet it did little to ease the knot of nerves in your stomach.

“You’ll be fine, my lady,” one of the maids murmured as she fastened the lace at the back of your gown. “The king is a good man.”

You swallowed hard, nodding, though her words did little to comfort you. Now, after a day of rigid formality and pleasantries, you found yourself here, in his chambers, awaiting the consummation of a marriage that had been decided for you.

The bedchamber was vast and imposing, yet intimate in its design. The tall stone walls were softened by the flickering light of the hearth, the flames casting dancing shadows across the room. The large bed dominated the space, covered in sheets of crimson velvet, gold embroidery glistening in the dim light. It was already turned down, as though beckoning you to fulfill the expectation of the night. The sight of it made your cheeks flush, and you quickly averted your gaze, your breath catching in your throat.

Your mother’s voice echoed in your mind: 'Obey your husband.' That was all the guidance she had offered, a simple instruction that held the weight of so much more. But how? How were you supposed to obey when you barely knew the man? What was expected of you beyond the formality of your vows? What did it mean to be a wife on a night like this? The answers eluded you, leaving you trembling as you tried to prepare yourself for what was to come.

What if this was the start of a life where you were nothing but a vessel for heirs? The thought was terrifying. What if Peter was kind tonight, only to grow distant or cold as time went on? Or worse, what if he was indifferent, treating this night as nothing more than a duty? You couldn’t bear the thought of being nothing more than a name on a royal ledger, a queen in title but not in heart.

The maids finished their work, their hands briefly brushing against your shoulders as they straightened the delicate straps of your gown. “There you are, my lady,” one of them said, stepping back to admire their work.

You offered them a tight smile, unable to find your voice. The tension in your chest had only grown, tightening with every passing second. Then, as if summoned by your anxious thoughts, there came a soft knock at the door. The maids exchanged quick glances before bowing and scurrying away, leaving you alone.

The door creaked open slowly, and in stepped Peter, the king—now your husband.

He paused for a moment in the doorway, his presence filling the room even before he fully entered. He looked different now, far from the regal figure he had presented during the day’s ceremonies. Gone were the heavy robes embroidered with the crest of New York, the polished armor and golden crown. In their place was a simple white shirt, the fabric loose over his broad shoulders, and soft linen trousers. His hair, chestnut brown and slightly wavy, was a bit disheveled, as if he had run his fingers through it in nervous habit. He seemed as uneasy as you felt.

The sight of him in such informal attire—vulnerable in a way you hadn’t expected—did little to ease the tension within you. In fact, it made everything feel more real. More immediate. He was no longer just a figure on a throne or a portrait hanging in the royal halls. He was here, in this room, about to share this night with you.

Peter cleared his throat awkwardly, stepping further into the chamber. His eyes flicked toward you, then quickly away, as if unsure where to look. His cheeks flushed a deep pink, the color creeping up his neck, betraying his own nervousness. For a moment, the two of you stood in silence, neither knowing what to say or do. The air between you was thick with the unspoken expectations of the night, the weight of tradition pressing down on you both.

“I… I hope you’re comfortable,” Peter finally said, his voice quiet, hesitant. His eyes darted to the bed, then back to the floor, as though he couldn’t quite bring himself to look at you.

You nodded, though the truth was far from it. You felt anything but comfortable, standing there in a nightgown that felt too revealing, in a room that felt too large, with a man you barely knew. Your hands fidgeted with a lace of your gown, twisting the delicate fabric between your fingers as you tried to find the words to respond.

“I am,” you managed to say, though your voice was barely above a whisper. You weren’t sure if he heard you.

Another silence stretched between you, thick and heavy. You could feel your heart pounding in your chest, the sound of it deafening in your ears. What now? What were you supposed to do? You had no experience, no knowledge of what was expected beyond the vague instruction to "obey." But Peter didn’t seem any more certain than you were.

Peter took a tentative step closer, then stopped, clearly unsure of how to proceed. His fingers twitched at his sides, and you could see the tension in his jaw as he struggled to find the right words.

“I don’t want you to feel… pressured,” he said finally, his voice soft. “We don’t have to—I mean, I understand if you’re not ready.”

His words surprised you. You had expected something different—something more commanding, more certain. But instead, there was hesitation in his voice, a gentleness you hadn’t anticipated. He was giving you a choice, something you hadn’t expected to have on this night.

Your eyes met his for the first time since he entered the room, and in that moment, something shifted. The tension that had gripped you both began to ease, if only slightly. There was uncertainty in his gaze, yes, but also kindness. He wasn’t the imposing king you had imagined, nor the distant figure from the portrait in your father’s palace. He was just Peter, a man as unsure and nervous as you were.

A breath you hadn’t realized you were holding slipped from your lips. You nodded, offering him the smallest of smiles, a gesture that said more than words could in that moment. This was uncharted territory for both of you, but perhaps, with time, you could navigate it together.

Peter’s shoulders relaxed slightly at your silent reassurance, and though the night was still young, the weight of expectation no longer seemed as overwhelming. He moved closer, until he was standing right in front of you. He raised his hand but stopped, looking at you for permission.

You gave a small nod, and he gently cupped your cheek. His touch was soft, almost hesitant, as though he were afraid to hurt you.

Peter cleared his throat, stepping back slightly as his hand dropped to his side. “Would you like to sit, perhaps?” He asked, gesturing toward a small chaise near the fireplace. His voice was soft, as though afraid to disturb the heavy silence.

“Yes, I—thank you,” you replied, barely louder than a whisper.

You crossed the room and sank down onto the chaise, smoothing the delicate fabric of your nightgown nervously over your knees. Peter followed, sitting on the opposite end of the chaise, leaving a respectful distance between you. His hands fidgeted in his lap, the candlelight playing over his sharp features and casting soft shadows across his face.

“I—uh—hope everything today wasn’t too overwhelming,” Peter began, his voice tight with uncertainty. “It must have been… a lot.”

You looked up at him, finding comfort in his unease. It made him feel more real, more approachable. “It was. I didn’t expect so many people,” you admitted, finally meeting his gaze. “But I suppose a royal wedding is meant to be grand.”

Peter chuckled softly, nodding. “Yes, they certainly made sure of that.” He shifted a little, his eyes flickering between you and the floor. “You looked really beautiful in your wedding gown.”

Your cheeks warmed again at his compliment. “Thank you. You looked very regal in your attire.”

He smiled, a little more at ease now. “I’m not sure I’m used to it yet. This crown feels like it weights more than I do.”

You couldn’t help but laugh softly, and Peter’s smile widened at the sound. The tension in the room seemed to ease just a fraction. His gaze softened, and for the first time, he seemed to be truly looking at you, not just the princess he was expected to marry.

“You must be tired,” he said, his voice quieter now, almost tender. “It’s been a long day.”

“I am, a little,” you admitted. “But… I don’t really know what we’re supposed to do now.” Your voice faltered, the weight of the unspoken expectations between you sinking back in. “No one told me what to expect.”

Peter's face flushed at your confession, his own discomfort evident. “I… I wasn’t really told much either,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “Just that… well, tonight we’re supposed to…” His voice trailed off, both of you too embarrassed to say the words aloud.

Silence settled between you again, the only sound the crackling of the fire. Your heart raced, not from fear, but from the uncertainty of what came next.

Peter cleared his throat, looking away. "We could just… talk? Get to know each other.” His voice was hesitant, offering you an escape from the weight of tradition.

Relief flooded through you at his suggestion. “I would like that. I mean… talking. I’d like to talk.”

Peter nodded, his shoulders relaxing slightly as he shifted closer, though still maintaining a respectful distance. “Well, um… let’s start with something simple, then,” he said, smiling awkwardly. “What… what’s your favorite flower?”

You blinked at him, caught off guard by the innocent question. “My favorite flower?”

He nodded again, his expression almost boyish in its eagerness. “Yes. Mine are peonies.”

A small smile tugged at your lips. “I think I like lavender best. The scent reminds me of home.”

Peter smiled warmly at that. “Lavender is lovely,” he agreed. “I’ll make sure the gardens are filled with it when spring comes.”

You felt your chest tighten at the gesture. It was small, but it was thoughtful, and it made you feel… seen, in a way you hadn’t expected.

“What about you?” You asked, feeling a little braver now. “What do you like to do in your free time?”

Peter’s eyes lit up, clearly grateful for the shift in focus. “Oh, well… I enjoy reading. Especially books about physics and biology. I’m not much of a fighter, but I like to understand how battles are won. I'm still learning.” He paused, then added shyly, “And… sometimes, when no one’s looking, I like to sketch. I’m not very good, but it’s relaxing.”

You tilted your head in surprise. “You draw?”

Peter shrugged, a little embarrassed. “A little. Nothing fancy.”

“I’d like to see them sometime,” you said softly, and Peter’s cheeks flushed again, though he looked pleased by the offer.

“I—well, maybe I’ll show you one day,” he mumbled, smiling at the thought. His fingers brushed yours where they rested on the chaise between you, and both of you froze at the soft contact. His eyes flicked to yours, questioning, but he didn’t pull away.

“Are you… alright?” He asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

You nodded, your heart thudding in your chest. “I’m alright. Are you?”

Peter smiled softly. “I am.”

His fingers intertwine with yours, and in that quiet moment, something changed. You both stood at the same time, an unspoken agreement passing between you. Now standing in front of each other, the flickering light of the fire bathed your faces in a soft glow. His eyes, warm and tender, locked with yours, and for the first time, it felt like the distance between you had completely disappeared.

Peter’s hand reached out, hovering just beside your arm, as if asking for permission without words. You gave him a small nod, allowing him to take the next step. Gently, he placed his hand on your arm, his fingers grazing the bare skin of your shoulder, sending a shiver through you.

His gaze softened, and though you could sense the nervousness still within him, there was also a newfound determination. You could see it in the way his eyes flickered with uncertainty but also with trust. Slowly, his hand moved from your shoulder, trailing down to your waist.

“You’re so beautiful, Y/N,” he whispered again, his voice full of awe, as if he were still in disbelief that you were standing there, with him.

Peter took a step closer, his breath mixing with yours in the small space between you. You could feel the heat radiating from him, and yet there was no rush, no urgency. He was taking his time, waiting for you to lead him through this delicate moment.

Your hand found its way to his chest, resting gently against his heart. His heartbeat was steady but quick, mirroring your own. You looked up into his eyes, a question lingering there, and he answered it with the slightest of nods.

Peter raised his hand again, this time cupping your cheek as he had before, his thumb brushing over your skin with the lightest of touches. His eyes, filled with affection and understanding, never left yours.

"I’ve never… done this before," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper, his thumb continuing to caress your cheek.

Your eyes widened slightly. "You haven’t?"

He shook his head, a small, almost shy smile playing on his lips. "No. I wanted to wait. I never thought it was right… to be vulnerable with someone I didn’t care about."

The honesty in his words made your heart swell. For the first time, you felt truly connected to him. He wasn’t just the king you were supposed to marry—he was Peter, a man who, like you, was stepping into the unknown with nothing but trust and hope.

"You’re kind," you said softly, your fingers tracing the fabric of his tunic, feeling the strength beneath it but also the tenderness in his actions.

Peter’s smile widened, a flicker of relief passing through his eyes. "And you’re enchanting, Y/N."

Your heart raced at his words, and you felt the tension in the room begin to dissolve completely. Peter lowered his hand from your cheek, letting it drift to the thin straps of your gown. His fingers hovered there for a moment, as if asking for permission once more.

"May I?" He whispered, his voice almost trembling with care.

You nodded, your breath catching in your throat as his fingers gently slid the straps from your shoulders. His movements were slow, deliberate, giving you all the time in the world to pull away if you needed to—but you didn’t. You trusted him entirely.

His touch was soft, almost reverent, as though he were afraid of hurting you, but you could feel the warmth radiating from his body as he stepped even closer. There was no rush, no pressure, just the two of you in this quiet moment, standing before one another, your hearts open and vulnerable.

Peter’s eyes searched yours as if seeking reassurance, and you offered him a small smile, one that said you were ready, that you were in this together.

As the fabric of your gown fell away, leaving you bare before him, you instinctively crossed your arms over your chest, feeling exposed.

Peter’s eyes softened, and he stepped closer, his hands gently resting on your arms. "You don’t need to hide from me," he said gently. "You’re gorgeous. I want you to know that."

Your heart swelled at his words, and slowly, hesitantly, you lowered your arms. Peter’s gaze never strayed from your face. He wasn’t looking at you with hunger or possession—he was looking at you with admiration, with respect.

He leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to your bare shoulder, then another to your collarbone. His lips were warm, gentle, and you felt yourself relax under his touch.

Peter took a small step back, his eyes still on yours, before his hands moved to the hem of his shirt. You watched as he slowly pulled it over his head, exposing the toned lines of his chest and the subtle definition of his muscles. His movements were careful, deliberate, as if he was just as nervous as you, yet determined to let you in.

You couldn’t help but let your eyes wander, taking in the sight of him. His skin was smooth, his frame lean but strong, and for a moment, you found yourself staring, completely captivated. His arms, his chest, the way his muscles shifted with each breath—it all felt so new, so intimate.

As Peter’s hands moved to the waistband of his pants, he paused for just a second, his eyes meeting yours, silently asking if this was still okay. You gave him a reassuring nod, biting your lip as he pushed the fabric down, leaving him standing in nothing but his boxers.

The sight of him like this—vulnerable, exposed, yet confident—made your cheeks flush with heat. Your eyes briefly flicked down to his body again, admiring the strong lines of his torso, the way his muscles tensed slightly as he stood there, waiting for your reaction.

But then Peter caught you staring, and a soft laugh escaped his lips. "Caught you," he teased, his voice light but gentle, no judgment behind it.

Your face burned, and you quickly looked away, embarrassed by how obvious you’d been. "I wasn’t—I mean, I didn’t mean to stare," you stammered, crossing your arms over your chest again, feeling shy all over.

Peter stepped closer, lifting your chin with his finger so your eyes met his again. There was nothing but warmth and affection in his gaze, no teasing or embarrassment—just understanding.

"It’s okay," he said softly, his hand brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. "I’m looking at you, too."

His words sent a shiver through you, and despite the nerves fluttering in your stomach, you felt a sense of comfort. This was Peter—your husband—and in this moment, it was just the two of you, figuring this out together.

Peter took a deep breath, his own nervousness clear as he rested his forehead against yours. "We’re in this together," he murmured. "No rush, no pressure. Just… us."

You nodded, your heart swelling with warmth at his words. Slowly, you allowed yourself to relax again, leaning into the closeness between you, knowing that you were both equally vulnerable, both equally new to this—but equally willing to explore it together.

When he pulled back again, there was a soft smile on his face. "Let’s go slow," he whispered. "We have all the time in the world."

He moves closer to the bed, pulling back the covers before motioning for you to join him. You hesitate for a second but eventually follow, your feet sinking into the plush rug as you walk. The bed is impossibly large, and as you climb in, you feel a rush of anxiety again. This is really happening.

You settle under the covers, feeling the cool fabric against your skin. Peter climbs in beside you. He hovers over you, admiring you in the dim light.

The warmth of the bed felt foreign to you as the night unfolded, your heart racing with each passing second. You had married King Peter, and now, in the quiet stillness of your wedding night, you both lay together, trying to navigate this new reality.

Peter leaned in and kissed you. His lips were soft, gentle, as though he was afraid to push too far. The kiss was tender, innocent, but it sent a warmth spreading through your body. You felt his hand on your waist, pulling you closer, and you let yourself fall into the moment.

As the initial awkwardness melted away, Peter had been gentle, kind, and patient—his touch tentative, as though he was afraid to move too quickly. Your heart raced not from fear, but from the sheer intimacy of the moment, the connection forming between two strangers.

When your bodies intertwined, it wasn’t rushed or forceful. Peter had taken his time, checking in with you every step of the way, his eyes never leaving yours as he asked, “Are you okay?”

You had nodded, feeling a blend of nervousness and excitement, and as the night deepened, your new bond solidified. There was passion but also care, a tenderness that neither of you had expected. And when it was over, you lay there, your body still trembling in the aftermath, Peter’s arm wrapped protectively around you as you both drifted off into an exhausted sleep.

__________

The first sensation that stirred you from sleep was warmth — Peter’s warmth, to be precise. His body was nestled against yours, your legs tangled together beneath the soft, silk sheets. Your cheeks flushed when you felt his bare skin pressed intimately against your own. As your eyes fluttered open, you saw Peter, still asleep, his arm loosely draped over your waist, his peaceful expression making him look completely at ease.

The events of the night before rushed back into your mind, sending a wave of embarrassment through you. You and Peter had been newlyweds for just a few hours when everything had led to a night full of intimacy. It was beautiful and overwhelming all at once. Now, in the morning light, the reality of it all made your heart race.

You shifted slightly, trying not to disturb him, but the smooth fabric of the sheets slid over your skin, making you more aware of how exposed you were. Naked. Both of you. Your face burned, and you quickly tried to pull away from him, but Peter stirred beside you, his eyes lazily blinking open.

“Mmm, good morning,” he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep, his lips curling into a soft, sleepy smile as he pulled you closer. “Why’re you up so early?”

“Peter,” you whispered urgently, biting your lip. “The maids might—”

Before you could finish, there was a soft knock at the door.

"Your Majesties?" Came the polite but firm voice of a maid from the other side of the door. The sound sent a surge of panic through you.

Peter groaned, still half-asleep, his hand tightening around your waist as he murmured, “Too early... Go back to sleep.”

The knock came again, louder this time. "Your Majesty, we've come to help you prepare for breakfast," the maid’s voice called.

You froze, your eyes widening in alarm as you shook Peter more insistently. “Peter! The maids are here!” You hissed, feeling your pulse quicken. The thought of them walking in now, finding the two of you like this, was mortifying.

Peter blinked, clearly still waking up as he sat up, rubbing his eyes. "Right... Uh..." His face flushed as he became more aware of the situation. “We should—”

But before either of you could do anything, the door creaked open. You barely had time to react before two maids peeked their heads inside. Their eyes widened immediately, taking in the sight of you both tangled in the sheets, your clothes nowhere in sight.

“Oh!” One of the maids gasped, her face turning bright red as she quickly averted her gaze.

“We’re so sorry, Your Majesties!” The other maid exclaimed, trying to hide her shock behind a polite tone, but her voice wavered with amusement.

Peter’s face turned a deep shade of crimson, and you felt your cheeks heat up as well. You quickly pulled the sheets over both of you, hiding your embarrassment. “What are you doing here?” Peter stammered, trying to regain some semblance of dignity.

“We were sent by the court to check on you,” the first maid explained, barely able to contain her laughter. “There’s a tradition to ensure that the marriage is… successful.” She gestured around the room, her eyes dancing with mischief.

The second maid nodded, “We didn’t mean to barge in, but the court is quite curious about the wedding night!”

Peter sighed, running a hand through his messy hair. “Okay, okay, we get it. Can you please… give us a moment?”

“Yes, of course!” Both maids hurried to leave, though not before you caught a glimpse of their stifled giggles. They quickly pulled the door shut behind them, but you could hear their excited whispers and laughter retreating down the hall.

Peter groaned again, burying his face in his hands. "Well... that’s one way to start the day," he muttered, his voice muffled.

You let out a nervous laugh, feeling a mix of embarrassment and relief that it hadn’t been worse. “They’re going to tell everyone, aren’t they?” You asked, already knowing the answer.

Peter dropped his hands and shot you a sheepish smile. “Oh, definitely. The whole court will know by lunch that the King and Queen consummated their marriage.” His tone was laced with sarcasm, but there was a glint of amusement in his eyes.

You groaned, covering your face with your hands. “This is so embarrassing! I can’t believe they just walked in!”

He laughed softly, pulling you into his arms. “Hey, relax. It’s fine. Let them talk. We’re married — this was supposed to happen.”

“I know, but…” You peeked up at him through your fingers, feeling shy. “I didn’t expect them to actually come in.”

Peter smirked, his confidence showing more now that he was fully awake. “Well, they’ve got to confirm it, right? It’s their job to report that everything went according to plan.” His eyes softened as he gazed at you, his hand gently stroking your arm. “Besides, last night was… perfect.”

Your heart skipped a beat at his words, and you couldn’t help but smile, feeling the embarrassment melt away. “It was.”

Peter nodded, leaning closer to press a soft kiss to your forehead. “I’m glad it was you,” he murmured, his voice low and sincere. “I know we didn’t have much choice in the matter, but… I think we can make this work.”

Your breath caught at his words. You looked into his eyes, seeing the warmth and affection there, and suddenly, all your nerves and worries about the marriage seemed to vanish. “I think so too,” you whispered, reaching up to touch his cheek.

Peter smiled, leaning down to capture your lips in a gentle kiss. His touch was soft but full of emotion, and you melted into him, feeling a sense of closeness that had only begun to form the night before. When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, the both of you just soaking in the quiet moment.

Peter pulled back slightly, his gaze wandering over you. “You look beautiful, you know that? I could get lost in your eyes.”

You felt your cheeks heat up again at his compliment. “Thank you.”

“How about we get some breakfast? I could definitely use some food after last night.” Peter said after a few moments.

“Sounds perfect,” you agreed, though you didn’t make any immediate move to untangle yourself from him.

Reluctantly, you both started to get up, reaching for the scattered clothing that had been left in a trail from the night before. As you dressed, you couldn’t help but glance over at Peter every now and then, feeling a sense of comfort and warmth in the easy way you both moved around each other. It felt… natural, even though everything was still so new.

Once you were both dressed, Peter wrapped his arms around you from behind, resting his chin on your head. “You know,” he began, his voice soft, “I never really imagined what this would be like… being married to you.”

You tilted your head slightly, curious. “Oh? And now that you are?”

Peter chuckled, pressing a kiss to the side of your neck. “Now that I am… I think I’m really lucky to have you.”

Your heart swelled at his words, and you turned in his arms to face him, smiling up at him. “I'm lucky to have you too.”

He grinned, his eyes sparkling as he leaned in for another kiss, this one deeper, more passionate. When you finally pulled away, both of you were breathless, and you couldn’t help but laugh at the giddiness you felt.

“Okay, we really should get breakfast before the maids come back again,” you joked, trying to regain some composure.

Peter nodded, though his grin didn’t fade. “Agreed. But first…” He gently tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, his eyes full of affection. “Thank you for last night. It meant more to me than you know.”

Your chest tightened with emotion, and you leaned into his touch, whispering, “It meant a lot to me too.”

With one last kiss, you and Peter finally left the bedroom, hand in hand.

__________

Aunt May was waiting at the breakfast table for the royal couple. You and Peter hurriedly got dressed in appropriate attires, and made your way to the grand dining hall.

When you entered the dining room, you were greeted by Aunt May—Peter’s aunt and one of the most influential women in his life. She was seated at the head of the table, sipping tea with a knowing smile on her face.

“Well, well,” May said with a playful grin, her eyes twinkling as she looked between the two of you. “Look who finally decided to show up. You two must’ve had a long night.”

Peter blushed immediately, his cheeks turning bright red as he stammered, “Aunt May, please—”

“So,” she said, a teasing smirk playing on her lips. “I hear the marriage was quite the success.”

Peter nearly choked on his tea, his cheeks flushing red as he shot you a quick, embarrassed glance.

“Aunt May…” he muttered, clearly mortified.

May chuckled, clearly enjoying her nephew’s discomfort. “Oh, don’t be so shy, Peter. It’s a good thing! Everyone’s been waiting to hear about the royal union.”

You couldn’t help but smile, though your cheeks were just as red as Peter’s. The tension from the night before had melted away, replaced with a growing sense of comfort around your new husband.

“So, how was your wedding night, my dear nephew? I need to hear it from you.”

Peter flushed, a mixture of embarrassment and amusement crossing his face.

You couldn’t help but giggle, feeling a sense of comfort in the familial teasing. “I-It was beautiful,” you replied, trying to maintain a straight face.

“Beautiful, huh?” Aunt May raised an eyebrow, a playful smirk on her lips. “I expected nothing less from my boy. You both look positively glowing.”

“Can we not, please.” Peter groaned.

“Okay okay, let’s eat! I made your favorite, Peter��pancakes and berries.”

The delicious aroma filled the room as Aunt May led you to the table, where a feast awaited you. As you settled into your seats, you felt a sense of warmth enveloping you, the bond between you, Peter, and Aunt May growing stronger.

As you ate, Aunt May continued to tease Peter about his new responsibilities as a husband and king, and you joined in on the fun, feeling more at ease with each passing moment.

‎∗ ࣪ ˖༺ 𓆩☆𓆪 ༻˖ ࣪ ∗

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fangirltrash15 · 5 hours ago

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fangirltrash15 · 5 hours ago

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ଘ(੭*ˊᵕˋ)੭* ੈ♡‧₊˚

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fangirltrash15 · 7 hours ago

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You can't just leave me here and go, Loki.

Loki: You know there is no choice, if I don't go, everyone will die, you will die and I can't lose you, I have to.

Y/N: you will die loki

Loki:but you will live

Y/N:I can't live without you, I will die if I lose you Loki, you are the love of my life

Y/N: and you are mine and that's why I have to do it, for you, for me, for us

Y/N: I can't lose you, not again

Loki: I love you

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fangirltrash15 · 7 hours ago

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oh ok

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fangirltrash15 · 7 hours ago

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Tiny god of destruction gives his ward questionable dating advice

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fangirltrash15 · 20 hours ago

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Alec 🌊

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fangirltrash15 · 20 hours ago

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I didn't go into this as much in my last post b/c it's tangential to the point I was making but it really is funny to me how fandom people are so much more insane with their hornyness than everyone else. Like before I got into fandom shit I thought I was a very horny person. One day I gave one of my friends who reads a lot of m/m (but is attracted to women) access to my NSFW Twitter and she said she had to unfollow because it was "boring". What do you mean boring??? How are fat titties and assess boring??? Would you get bored of watching the sunset? Bored of The Mona Lisa??? Bored of Beethoven's 5th????? What level of gooning are you people on!!!!!!

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fangirltrash15 · 20 hours ago

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fangirltrash15 · 24 hours ago

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Light in the darkness

Pairings: grumpy!bucky x sunshine!nurse!f!reader

Warnings: little bit of angst, a bit of asshole bucky, hurt to comfort, kind of enemies to lovers but it’s mostly buck, no reader physical description so can be read as any appearance, female reader

A/N: got inspired to write this one after i came across @apparentlytheproblem account and enemies to lovers prompt list. there is a lot of good stuff there so i thank her for motivating me to write this, I used some of the prompts from that list, they will be highlighted in the fic. also got the trope inspiration from @buckyalpine (I absolutely love your writing) this fic here I absolutely love it, with perfect amount of angst and cuteness please go read it!! anyways enough of my yapping, enjoy reading!!<3 (also please listen to these two in this order for more feels, I myself was listening to them while writing this and omfg it got me in the feeeels)

The infirmary of the Avengers compound is a well-lit, sterile environment, but you've managed to make it warm with your presence.

Cute little potted plants all over that were practically your babies, small fidgeting gadgets for anyone to fidget with (particularly for Bruce and Tony), small snacks placed in different containers scattered around the infirmary (frequently emptied by Tony), and a few stuffed animals placed here and there, all meant to make the space less intimidating.

You’ve always been a naturally optimistic person, someone who sees the best in everyone and everything. The Avengers compound, with its high-stakes missions and often tense atmosphere, was a perfect place for you to share your sunny disposition.

The team appreciated it—your laughter, your kindness, your unwavering positivity. They said you were a breath of fresh air, a light in the often dark world they navigated.

Every day, you greet the team with a cheerful smile, your laughter echoing through the corridors like a soothing melody. Everyone seems to love you—everyone except for Bucky Barnes.

From the moment Bucky set foot in the compound, he knew he was out of place. Haunted by his past, he kept his distance from everyone, preferring the silence and solitude of his own company, he mostly stuck to Steve and would occasionally have a Sam-sized problem hanging behind him.

He barely speaks to anyone, and when he does, it’s usually to snap or grumble. With you, he’s even worse. There’s an edge to his voice, a coldness in his eyes that seems to cut through your sunny disposition like a knife.

When he first saw you, with your bright smile and cheerful demeanor, he felt a strange pang in his chest—a mix of longing and irritation.

You were everything he felt he could never be again: light-hearted, carefree, a beacon of hope in a world that still felt foreign and hostile to him.

A world where he was still hated by some- or many.

Every time you laughed, it reminded him of what he had lost, of the darkness that had claimed his tortured and scarred soul. He hated that feeling, that reminder, and by extension, he hated that you were the one to evoke it.

From the moment you met him, he seemed determined to extinguish your light. His coldness was a stark contrast to your warmth, his gruff demeanor a perpetual challenge to your cheerful one.

At first, you chalked it up to his history, his need for time to adjust and heal. You were patient, giving him space while still trying to make him feel welcome.

Every day, you made small efforts to connect with him. You brought him coffee with extra sugar, hoping the gesture would soften his grumpy exterior. You cracked light-hearted jokes, trying to coax a smile out of him. You even complimented his metal arm, not out of pity, but genuine admiration. Yet, every attempt was met with indifference or a sharp retort.

Your jokes were often greeted with a curt nod or a dismissive grunt, and your compliments seemed to make him even more uncomfortable, his eyes narrowing as if questioning your sincerity.

Despite your efforts Bucky kept his distance and rejected. When you brought him coffee with extra sugar, he grumbled about preferring it black.

“I prefer my coffee black,” he would say, barely looking at you as he set the cup aside, not noticing the hurt look on your face.

When you made light-hearted jokes, he responded with curt nods or dismissive remarks. When you complimented his metal arm, he saw it as pity, a reminder of his brokenness. Your persistent cheerfulness was like a spotlight on his scars, and he resented you for it.

But deep down, Bucky knew that his anger wasn't really directed at you. It was aimed at himself, at the man he used to be and the man he thought he could never become again.

Your presence forced him to confront emotions he had buried deep within himself—emotions he didn't know how to handle. Every time you tried to break through his defenses, it was like a chisel chipping away at the walls he had built around his heart, and it terrified him.

Each brush-off, each cold response, chipped away at your resolve, leaving you more confused and hurt.

It wasn’t just the rejection that stung; it was the feeling that you were the only one he treated this way.

Everyone else seemed to get along with him fine, or at least, they didn’t bear the brunt of his sharp edges. You couldn’t understand why you were the exception, why he seemed to harbor a special kind of disdain just for you.

You tried not to let it show, maintaining your sunny facade for the sake of the team. But inside, every encounter with Bucky left a small, invisible wound.

You would smile through the pain, and laugh through the hurt, but the weight of his rejection grew heavier with each passing day.

Nights were the hardest, lying in bed replaying your interactions, wondering what you had done to earn his ire. Wondering and thinking where you went wrong, blaming everything on yourself.

And yet, despite the pain, you found yourself drawn to him. Maybe it was the challenge he represented, the mystery of his cold exterior, and the glimpses of vulnerability you occasionally saw.

There were moments, fleeting and rare, where you caught a glimpse of something softer in his eyes—a hint of sorrow, a flicker of regret. Those moments made you wonder about the man beneath the armor, the soul behind the scowl.

Gradually, your frustration and sadness turned into something more complex.

You began to care for him, despite his harshness.

You noticed the way his jaw clenched when he was upset, the way his eyes softened when he thought no one was watching, the way he fiddled with either his dog tags around his neck or his sleeve when he would get anxious, the way the sound of any whirring machine close to him would subtly make him jump.

You saw the pain he carried, the ghosts that haunted him, and your heart ached for him.

You wanted to reach out, to comfort him, to show him that he didn’t have to face his demons alone.

But every time you tried, he pushed you away, and it hurt more than you cared to admit.

Your feelings grew in the quiet moments, in the way you found yourself thinking about him even when he wasn’t around, in the way your heart raced at the sound of his voice, even when it was laced with irritation.

You realized you were falling for him, despite his best efforts to keep you at arm’s length.

You were falling for James Buchanan Barnes.

And he hated you.

One evening, after a particularly brutal mission, you’re restocking the infirmary when the door slams open. You jump, nearly dropping a box of gauze.

When Bucky stumbled into the infirmary, bleeding and in pain, he didn't want to admit to himself why he came to you. He could have gone to anyone else, but something—an instinct, a need—drove him to seek you out.

Bucky stumbles in, clutching his side, blood seeping through his fingers. His face is pale, eyes dark with pain and something else—frustration? Anger? It’s hard to tell.

“Barnes!” you exclaim, rushing to his side. “What happened?”

A strange mix of emotions flooded you. Concern for his well-being, of course, but also a glimmer of hope. Hope that maybe, just maybe, this would be the moment he finally let you in.

He grunts, shaking his head as if to dismiss your concern. “Just patch me up.”

You guide him to a bed, your hands surprisingly steady given the state he’s in. You quickly gather the necessary supplies, your mind racing with questions.

Why did he come to you? He usually avoids you like the plague, very often going to Helen instead of you no matter the severity of the injury.

As you begin to clean his wound, he hisses, muscles tensing under your touch.

“Sorry,” you murmur, your tone soft.

He doesn’t respond, just watches you with those intense baby-blue eyes. It’s unnerving, but you refuse to let it shake you. Instead, you focus on your work, your movements gentle yet efficient.

Bucky watched you work with a mixture of frustration and awe. Your hands were gentle, your touch soothing, and for a moment, he allowed himself to feel vulnerable in your presence.

As you stitch him up, the silence between you grows heavier, filled with unspoken words and unexpressed emotions.

Finally, you can’t take it anymore. You wrap up the last of his wound and look him straight in the eye. “Bucky, why do you hate me so much?” your voice trembled with frustration and hurt.

He blinks, clearly taken aback by your question and his response took you by surprise. “I don’t hate you.”

You blink for a second and then scoff, shaking your head, trying to process his words. “You could’ve fooled me. You’ve been nothing but cold and an asshole since the day we met. I just don’t get it. Everyone else likes me, but you. You go out of your way to avoid me like I'm some plague! You always brush me off rudely and call me a bother when I try speaking to you only to speak with the others like it's nothing! You can't even give me the decency of respect, you pretend that I don't even exist!."

You stop, realizing you have almost gone to shouting, and take a deep breath in.

"Why?" your voice is quiet and broken, hurt and horse. Your eyes glazing with unshed tears,

Bucky felt a surge of conflicting emotions. He wanted to push you away, to keep you at a distance where you couldn't hurt him. Where he couldn't hurt you with his broken soul, and the demons from his past.

But the heart-shattering sadness on your usually lit-up face, made him also want to pull you closer, to let you in and see the parts of him he kept hidden. It was a battle between his fear and his longing, and for the first time, he felt the fear of losing.

Specifically, losing you.

“I’m not...used to feeling this way, okay?” he snaps, the admission seeming to cost him. His jaw clenches, and he looks away, refusing to meet your gaze.

For the first time, you saw something other than anger in his eyes.

Vulnerability.

Fear.

“Feeling what way?” you press, your voice shaking slightly, your frustration bubbling over. “What did I ever do to you?”

He’s silent for a long moment, the tension in the room almost suffocating. Finally, he lets out a long breath, his shoulders slumping, his emotions pressing down on him. “I feel the opposite of hate...towards you,” he admitted, his voice raw and honest.

The revelation left you breathless. All this time, you thought he despised you, but in reality, he was struggling with feelings he didn’t know how to handle. Your heart ached for him, for the battles he fought within himself.

He watched your eyes widen in surprise, your mind trying to process his words.

The words hang in the air, and you can hardly believe your ears. “You...what?” your voice barely a whisper.

Bucky turns to face you, his expression a mix of vulnerability and determination. “You heard me. I don’t hate you., far from it. You’re always so...bright and happy. It messes with my head. Makes me feel things I thought I’d forgotten how to feel. You make me realize that I can feel a romantic attraction towards someone, you make me realize that I can have some goodness in life. You make me feel want. To want something and not feel selfish.”

You blink, trying to process his confession. “You...want me?” you asked, hardly daring to believe it.

Without hesitation, he answers, “You know I do.”

A slow smile spread across your face, and for the first time in a long while, Bucky felt a glimmer of hope.

The weight of his confession settled over you, bringing with it a mixture of relief and tenderness. You smiled a slow, genuine smile that lit up your face. “Such a pretty liar, mhmm. And here I stressed over that you hated me.” you teased, your eyes sparkling with mischief.

He couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at his lips, his usual gruff demeanor softening.

He grumbles, his cheeks flushing slightly. “Shut up and kiss me.”

You don’t need any more encouragement.

You leaned in, your lips meeting his in a sweet, tender kiss. It’s hesitant at first as if you’re both testing the waters, but it quickly deepens, the pent-up emotions of the past months pouring out in that one perfect moment. It was a kiss that spoke of all the unspoken words, the hidden feelings, the pain and hope intertwined.

When you leaned in and kissed him, it was like a dam breaking. All the emotions he had bottled up for so long—fear, longing, hope—flooded out in that one perfect moment.

Your lips were soft and warm against his, and for the first time since he could remember, he felt at peace.

As the kiss deepened, Bucky knew that things wouldn’t be easy. He still had a long way to go, and there were still demons he needed to face. But with you by his side, he felt a renewed strength, a reason to keep fighting.

When you finally pulled back, breathless and smiling, Bucky felt something he hadn’t felt in years: happiness. Maybe, just maybe, he could be more than the sum of his past mistakes. With you, he could be the man he once was—the man he wanted to be.

You pulled back, breathless and smiling, and a little dazed, you knew that this was just the beginning. It wouldn’t be easy, but for the first time, you felt like you had a chance to break through his walls, to reach the man behind the mask.

You can’t help but laugh softly. “Maybe you’re not such a grump after all.”

Bucky smirks, a rare but genuine smile lighting up his face. “Don’t push your luck.”

You giggle, the sound like music to his ears.

As you finish bandaging his wounds, the atmosphere between you has shifted. There’s a new understanding, a connection that wasn’t there before. Maybe things won’t be easy, and maybe Bucky will always be a bit of a grump, but you’re determined to be his sunshine, to bring light into his dark world.

And maybe, just maybe, he’ll let you.

Bucky's confession had changed everything. In the days following that night in the infirmary, his demeanor towards you began to shift.

The once icy wall he maintained seemed to melt slightly, and while he wasn't exactly warm, there was a newfound softness in his eyes when he looked at you.

Still, the past months of his coldness and hostility left a lingering tension between you, a wound that needed healing.

You knew that a kiss and a confession would not be enough to cure his long-standing hostility toward you; you knew you both needed to have a conversation.

One evening, you stayed late at the compound, finishing up some paperwork in the infirmary. The sun had long set, casting the room in a dim, serene glow from the soft lights overhead.

You were engrossed in your work when you heard a knock at the door. Looking up, you saw Bucky standing there, looking hesitant and unsure. Your heart skipped a beat, a mixture of anticipation and wariness flooding you.

“Hey,” he said quietly, stepping inside.

“Hey there you,” you replied softly, setting your pen down. “What’s up?”

He took a deep breath, his expression serious. “I need to talk to you.”

You nodded, gesturing for him to sit in the white chair, that currently had a cute Dumbo plush placed on it. Bucky grabbed the plush before sitting down and placed it in his lap, fidgeting with the ears, his large frame taking up more space than usual, his presence filling the room.

There was a moment of silence, and you could see he was struggling to find the right words.

“I’ve been an asshole,” he finally said, his voice low and earnest. “I’ve treated you terribly, and you didn’t deserve any of it.”

You watched him, your heart aching at the sincerity in his eyes. “Bucky-”

He held up a hand, stopping you. “Please, let me finish, I've been wanting to say this for a while because you deserve an apology. You’ve been nothing but kind and patient with me, and I repaid you with coldness and cruelty. I pushed you away because...because I was scared. Scared of what I was feeling, scared of getting close to someone again. I know my behavior is not to be excused but I'm being honest doll." he pleaded.

You swallowed hard, the raw honesty in his words touching something deep inside you. “I get it, Bucky. But it still hurt.”

“I know,” he said, his voice pained.

He stepped towards you, gently taking your gentle hands into his calloused ones and continuing to speak while tracing patterns on your skin with his thumb, the gesture comforting him. “And I’m so sorry for that. I wish I could take it all back, but I can’t. What I can do is promise to make it up to you. I want to show you that you won’t regret giving me a chance.”

Your heart fluttered at his words, a tentative hope blooming within you. “How do you plan to do that?”

He looked at you with such intensity that it took your breath away. “By being there for you, by treating you the way you deserve to be treated. I want to make you happy, sweetness. I want to be the man you see in me, the man you’ve been so kind and patient with.”

You felt tears prick at the corners of your eyes, overwhelmed by the sincerity and determination in his voice. “Oh Buck…”

“I crave you, doll,” he said, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. “I crave your touch, your smile, your laughter. Every part of you. I’ve tried to fight it, but I can’t anymore. I need you.”

The intensity of his confession left you breathless. You placed a hand on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm.

“I need to know you mean it,” you whispered, searching his eyes for any sign of doubt.

He covered your hand with his, his grip firm and reassuring. “I mean it, Y/N. I’ll spend every day of my life proving it to you if I have to.”

Before you could respond, he leaned in, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that was both desperate and tender. More intense than the last one. His hands found your waist, pulling you closer as if he needed to feel every inch of you against him. The kiss deepened, filled with all the pent-up emotions and longing that had been building between you.

When you finally broke apart, both of you were breathing heavily. You looked up at him, your heart pounding in your chest. “You really want this? You really want me?”

“More than anything,” he said without hesitation. “You have no idea how much.”

A slow smile spread across your face, a mixture of relief and joy washing over you. “Well then, show me, Barnes.”

He grinned, a rare and genuine smile that made your heart soar. “With pleasure.”

He kissed you again, this time with even more passion and intensity. His hands roamed your back, pulling you impossibly closer, any distance in between being excruciating. You responded in kind, your fingers tangling in his hair as you poured all your emotions into the kiss. It was a promise, a beginning, and for the first time in a long while, you felt truly hopeful.

As the kiss ended, Bucky rested his forehead against yours, his breath mingling with yours. “You won’t regret this, doll. I promise.”

“I believe you,” you whispered, feeling the truth of his words in your heart.

The moment of intimacy is shattered by the sound of cheering and whooping from the doorway. Startled, you both turn to see Tony, Natasha, Steve, and Sam standing there, grinning like a bunch of mischievous teenagers who had just witnessed their friends’ first kiss.

“Finally!” Tony exclaims, clapping his hands together. “I thought I was going to have to script it out for you two. Turns out Terminator actually has the balls to confess." he snickered, seizing a snack packet of dried blueberries and munching on them.

Natasha smirks, crossing her arms over her chest. “Took you long enough, Barnes. We were beginning to think you’d never make a move.” the redhead pauses and winks at you.

Steve steps forward, a proud smile on his face. “About time, punk. I knew you had it in you.”

Sam laughs, shaking his head. “And here I was thinking the Winter Soldier was all cold and no heart. Looks like our sunshine melted the ice.”

You feel your face heat up, a mix of embarrassment and amusement washing over you. Bucky, on the other hand, rolls his eyes, his cheeks slightly flushed. “Do you guys mind?”

Tony steps forward, still grinning and munching on his snack. “Not at all. We’ve been waiting for this moment for months. I mean, the tension was practically killing us.”

Natasha nods in agreement. “It was like watching a bad rom-com where the leads are too stubborn to admit they like each other.”

Bucky sighs, shaking his head but there’s a small, genuine smile tugging at his lips. “Well, enjoy the show. It’s over now.”

Steve chuckles. “I don’t think it’s over. I think it’s just getting started.”

You laugh, feeling lighter than you have in weeks. “Alright, alright. You’ve had your fun. Now, can we have a moment?”

Tony raises his hands in mock surrender. “Fine, fine. We’ll leave you lovebirds alone. But don’t think we’re not going to talk about this later.”

He turns to you and points at the packet in his hand, "Also thanks for this sweets," and struts out.

As the group begins to disperse, Natasha gives you a wink. “We’re happy for you, babe. You deserve it.”

Steve pats Bucky on the shoulder. “Good job, Buck.”

Once they’re gone, you turn back to Bucky, who’s shaking his head, a look of exasperated affection on his face. “I swear, they’re worse than a bunch of kids.”

You smile, wrapping your arms around his neck. “I think it’s sweet. They care about us.”

He sighs, pulling you closer. “Yeah, well, as long as I get you to myself now.”

You lean in, brushing your lips against his. “You do. And I’m not going anywhere.”

As you kiss him again, the echoes of your friends’ teasing fade away, leaving just the two of you in the warm, comforting glow of newfound love.

With that, you knew that this was the start of something new, something beautiful. It wouldn’t be easy, but together, you felt ready to face whatever came your way. And with Bucky by your side, you knew you could handle anything.

Note: gifs, pictures, and header DOES NOT belong to me. CREDITS TO THE RIGHTFUL OWNERS!! Feedback and reblog is appreciated.<3

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fangirltrash15 · 1 day ago

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small worlds.

✩ read on ao3 ✩ steven g. rogers masterlist ✩ forget-me-not creative campaign ✩ library blog

‣ pairing — 1940s!steve rogers x f!reader

‣ contents — one-shot, hurt/comfort, somewhere between fluff and angst, implied smut, established relationship

‣ summary — all he ever wanted to do was the right thing. it never occurred to him that doing the right thing could possibly hurt someone he loves.

‣ word count — 1.5k

‣ notes — this is my submission for my own creative campaign lmao 😅 i just got inspired looking at those prompts again, okay? and these are my missing pre-serum!steve hours 😭 and after the week i’ve had, i need some comfort~

prompts used: ✩ geranium = returning joy ✩ plumeria = “well, this is new.” ✩ zinnia = mourning your absence

Bucky had been wrong.

His best friend predicted that you would be thrilled to see the new him. After all, the girls at the SSR couldn’t seem to stay away, nor could the flight nurses out on the frontlines, no matter how many times he told them he had a girl back home and just wasn’t interested.

Howard was the only one who knew well enough to warn him; given how Steve had left things with you before he took off on his tour across the country, he shouldn’t expect everything to be sunshine and rainbows when he got back.

The two of you had fought, the biggest one in the history of your relationship, and hadn’t spoken to each other in days before he had to leave. His efforts to lie his way into the army was always a source of friction between you, and this, being selected as the subject for Project Rebirth, was just another straw on the camel’s back.

Steve knew you were just afraid for him, as anyone who mattered to him would be, but it was something he knew he had to do. Unfortunately he couldn’t be convinced, but it didn’t mean he wasn’t also terrified of facing the consequences.

“Be prepared to grovel, Rogers, like you’ve never done before,” Howard warned, giving him a grave look before waving him off. “Hell hath no fury.”

So, he showed up at your door only days before he had to leave for Italy, holding a bouquet of flowers and shuffling nervously on his feet as he waited. Steve didn’t know what to say when you opened the door, feeling a little awkward himself at nearly two feet taller and about a hundred fifty pounds heavier.

You stared at him for a moment, almost as if you didn’t recognize him.

“Hi,” he said sheepishly, giving you a hesitant but hopeful smile. You looked like you might reel back and punch him, no doubt still angry about the way things went down and how he’d returned to you looking like an entirely different man, but then your face crumpled.

There were downsides to the serum, he realized, as he could smell the salt of your tears before they even reached your lashes. He leaned down, bending at the waist, something he never had to do before, letting you wrap your arms around his widened shoulders. He could taste the relief in your tears as he kissed them away.

In the hours that followed, however, you remained distant. He caught you staring thoughtfully at him from across the kitchen, only to quickly avert your eyes when he looked up from the hearty dinner you made him.

You pulled away subtly when he reached for your hand or the soft dip of your waist, flinch when he moved to kiss your cheek, and returned all his dumb jokes with tight smiles.

“Well, this is new,” he grinned softly as he stepped behind you, his chest firm against your back, grabbing a jar on a high shelf that you were struggling to reach.

It took you a few moments too long to turn towards him, your lips curving upwards ever so slightly but it never quite touching the rest of your features.

Even when he lay next to you that night, it felt like you were miles away. He was leaving soon, all the way to Italy and then to god knows where else, and he didn’t want to leave things this way. He didn’t want to go yet, not while he was uncertain about whether you’d welcome him back next time.

But as always, it’s like you hear the thoughts in his head without him ever needing to speak them. It’s why this works; he broods and you see through him, as though you have a map directly to his heart.

“It feels strange,” you confess in hushed tones, the two of you lying in the darkness of your bedroom. When the two of you touch, it feels foreign. You feel guilty, as though you were somehow being unfaithful to a version of him that would never come back.

“I know,” he says, reaching for you. His heart sinks when you pull away. He lays there in silence, his enhanced vision capturing you so clearly in the dark, staring up at the ceiling as your bottom lip quivers.

“You took him from me,” you whisper, eyes shining so brightly with anguish in the moonlight. It takes a moment for him to realize what you mean. He can hear the tears sliding down your temples and dripping onto the pillow.

All he ever wanted to do was the right thing. It never occurred to him that doing the right thing could possibly hurt someone he loves.

“I’m still me,” he murmurs, his fingers desperate to wipe them away, his arms itching to find their place around you once again.

“To everyone else, even to you, he was always just that scrappy little nobody from Brooklyn. But to me?” You are weeping now, your voice thick with grief even though he’s right next to you. “To me, he was everything. I don’t want Captain America. I want Steve. My Steve.”

Steve swallowed hard. You always were the only one who did.

“He’s still here,” he pulls you close and this time, you don’t fight him. You fold yourself against him, crying harder when you are met with the hard sharp planes of his new body, instead of his usual soft edges that always seemed to embrace you right back. “I’m right here.”

He lets you cry into his chest until, after what seems like hours, you finally drift off into an uneasy sleep, the front of his shirt still damp with your despair.

But it doesn’t take much longer to find a new normal.

He still smiles at you the same way as the day you met, a little sheepish and a little shy even after all this time.

He still does that thing where he intertwines his fingers with yours, his touch a little evasive, teasing you a bit before finally pressing your palms together.

He still holds you for as long as you need, always letting you be the first one to pull away.

He still quietly fills the pages of sketchbooks that he hides on your bookshelf.

He still eats so slowly, taking his time at your dining table because even a slightly bigger portion than normal used to make him sick.

He still looks at the most terrible parts of humanity and decides that the world is worth saving.

You slowly get used to the fact that he can reach the higher cabinets in your kitchen now, that he no longer falls ill at each turn of the season, and that while you will never get to see your Steve again—even though you think of him often—this Steve is right: he never really left.

And when you’ve forgiven him, because there really was no question about it, when you’re ready to give yourself to him again, you’re both a bit nervous and awkward.

It takes a little bit of dancing to get used to each other’s bodies again; you’re much smaller compared to him now, and he’s afraid he’ll forget his newfound strength and inadvertently hurt you somehow.

But, much like you did before when he was small and inexperienced, he guides you and you eagerly follow. He lets you come to him, allows you to set the pace and boundaries of how far you’re willing to go, and he always looks at you the same. He even says it again—

“I can’t believe you’re here with me,” he croaks, so close you can smell his aftershave.

It’s moments like these when you fully realize that while the serum changed him on the outside, it never touched what was inside. As always, he handles you with the utmost care, pulling you cautiously onto his lap, his hands gently cradling either side of your face as he drinks you in, eyes darting back and forth across your face before he finally leans in to kiss you.

His eyes never once leave yours, even as you abandon your dress and undergarments on the bedroom floor. His fingertips slide down your sternum in a featherlight touch, down the valley between your breasts, before turning his hand over to brush his knuckles lightly over your rib cage, raising goosebumps in his wake.

You stare into his familiar eyes, the ones that fill your vision with the clearest blue—as if you’re looking into a cloudless summer sky, just like the day you met the boy with a heart ten sizes too big for his chest—and you sigh in relief.

“There you are,” you purr against his lips.

His lips stretch into a smile, coaxing yours into doing the same. He remembers a promise he’d made to someone else not that long ago, and he promises it again—to you this time.

That you will stay who you are.

That he will never lose your Steve.

fin.

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