#i love him in 1940s fashion

[inkedberries]

sanguineterrain left this tag from my previous art post about bruce being 40s heartthrob coded and they are SO right!!!!!! can't stop thinking about it!!!!!

men don't know if they want to be him or own him

this man is a single mother

[spaceycat]

It was Reader and Bucky's one year anniversary of them dating, Bucky didnt really know what to do considering he hasn't dated since the 1940's but he knew one thing - you give flowers to people you love.

Bucky Barnes who goes to a local flower shop in a market, realising he didnt even know what your favourite flowers were - he silently cursed himself.

Bucky Barnes who texted one of your friends to ask, what a boyfriend he was for not knowing such a simple thing.

Bucky Barnes who settled for grabbing a bouquet of a mix of flowers, bound to see on of your favourite flower through the roses, tulips and sunflowers.

Bucky Barnes who comes home, finding you on the couch - on your computer. He placed the bouquet of flowers behind his back, moving close your computer to get your attention.

"I got you something--" "Oh-- Buck, you didnt have to." "No, I needed to. It's our anniversary."

Bucky Barnes who hands you the flowers, watching your eyes light up as you grab them from him.

"You're old fashioned." "I'm just old." He said with a smile, placing a soft kiss to your lips.

[rayveneyed]

continuation of this au

cw: mentions of cheating/infidelity/disloyalty; vague allusions to sex

“so, like, what’s his deal?”

two months into your relationship with sukuna ryomen, you’re personal-assistant-turned-friend carries a bouquet of a hundred red roses into your dressing room. they’re so large that they eclipse her entire top half, and she pants as she sets them down on the table, cursing to herself.

it’s the first night of your mini-tour, your first performance in a good few months, and you don’t bother pretending that the sight of the flowers doesn’t soothe your nerves immediately. there’s a little note attached to the pale-blue cellophane that hugs the flowers; in his chicken-scratch, a love letter. i already know you’ll knock it out of the park. blow their minds, baby.

you read it over and over again, mind flitting between the set list for the night and where you’d been just days earlier — in his home, in his bed, in his arms. he’d sent you off well and truly satisfied, called you almost every day since, and hadn’t missed a single good morning text. and now, this. you fight a swoon.

hair laid — 1940s pin curls — and makeup done (a deep, oxblood red lip, really selling the whole vintage aesthetic), you lift your head to peer at her in the mirror. karmen really would kill you if you got foundation on your neckline — the first dress of the concert is white, glimmering with rhinestones and embroidery, a more virginal jessica rabbit moment. you force yourself to hold your chin up and away from it. “hm?”

“you know.” unscrewing the lid of her water bottle, nina waves it in a vague shape in front of her. “sukuna. ryomen, that is.”

“is there any other?” you joke. she sends you perhaps the most unimpressed look she’s ever bequeathed you with.

“i just never thought he’d be your type,” she continues, casual. “like, real oil and water vibes. i don’t know. but the roses are a nice touch.”

you hum. you’ve known her long enough to not take offence to most of what nina says -- she's wonderfully blunt, and you value that greatly. instead, you pick up your phone and open the camera app, zooming in and out to snap a couple of pictures of your flowers. exposure up, down, up, down -- should you take one at an angle? “oil and water?”

“yeah, i guess." there's a moment of silence, and then: "like — you’re always talking about how you wanna settle down and get married and, like, be loyal to someone, y'know? and he’s just — look, i’m not saying that he’s not loyal to you, i’m just—”

she makes a noise of frustration, and you snort. "he's just, like, a little bit of a whore, right? sorry, i don't mean to be mean -- but has he had a serious relationship in the past 10 years? and all of a sudden he’s talking about you to anyone who will listen — allegedly. allegedly.” she pauses. “how are you taking this so lightly? i'm literally bagging on your man."

finally, you set your phone down, and actually take a second to heed her words.

in truth, you had been extremely cautious when sukuna first showed an interest in you -- sat beside each other at a fashion show, never having met before. you'd be stupid to call it mere coincidence -- nothing in this industry ever really is, and the organisers had definitely gotten the photo op moment they'd hoped for. you're almost 100% sure they hadn't expected for him to stare at you like an idiot, or for you to shoot him your most demure smile, or for the actor to pull out his most casanova-esque moves.

you're not stupid, and what nina says isn't wrong. you're not into hooking up, or one night stands, or being another notch on someone's bedpost -- you weren't before you got famous, and you sure as hell aren't now, when there are cameras around every corner and gossips at every table. and sukuna isn't exactly known for his long-standing relationships or his monogamy -- it's almost like a rite of passage, you think, for a girl to have a shadowy nightclub picture taken with sukuna. if not a shadowy nightclub picture, then a steamy pool shot, or a sensual beach picture, with his hands up her t-shirt and her's down his pants.

despite his general bad-boy appearances in the media, you'd heard that he was quite… kind, if that’s the word. brash, but kind. a little hardheaded, but hard-working, and not too difficult to work with. you've met music video directors that had sung his praises and trusted producers that had called him a good friend. maybe that's why you'd spoken to him when you caught him staring, instead of sending him a smile and continuing on.

"is this your first time at a mugler show?" because it had been yours, and you didn't know what else to say. you wouldn't call yourself shy, but you're certainly not the most adept at small talk -- and you're not ugly, but sukuna is intimidatingly pretty for a man. and the tattoos, and the hair, and those smouldering eyes and long lashes...

"not my first,” he'd replied, seemingly unbothered that he had been caught staring. "y’know, i don't think we've met before."

"no, i don't think we have.”

and yet, there’d been no need for introductions. you were both aware that the other knew who you were.

"you, uh — you doin' somethin' after this?" the question had come out of nowhere -- at least, to you it did. what you didn't know is that he'd been repeating the question to himself from the moment he'd sat down beside you. and while his face didn't betray anything -- his jaw set and his eyes in their usual half-lidded state -- if you'd reached out and placed a palm over his chest, his heartbeat would have rabbitted against your hand.

you had allowed yourself a smile, and tilted your head. of course, his reputation proceeded him — but you were nothing if not a risk taker. maybe that’s why, instead of outright denying his invitation, you said: “i don’t do casual, darling. sorry.”

his eyes had been almost piercing. that wasn’t a no. “who said anything about casual?”

you’d quirked an eyebrow. “really? you want to go steady with me?”

“why not?”

“you don’t even know me.”

“i want to.”

and fuck. it wasn’t the smartest decision in hindsight, leaving the show so openly with him — but you did, arm in arm, and he hadn’t yet broken your trust. perhaps stupid of you, you didn’t believe he would.

“y’know,” you say, snapping out of your memories. you’re back in your dressing room, clutching his card in hand, staring at your reflection. “i don’t know what it is. i don’t know why he suddenly changed his tune. i don’t know why it was with me. and — well, i know he won’t, but if one day he leaves me for some waify scandi model, i’ll know he didn’t really change at all.”

nina nods, slow, like she finally understands. “you’re going in headfirst.”

“yeah, i guess.”

“that shit’s scary.”

“yeah.” you lift the card to your face again, thumb smoothing over where he’d scrawled your name, the little heart where he signed his love. your cheeks feel hot. you know there’s a facetime call waiting for you when you’re back at the hotel, tucked into bed and sleepy. “it’s really not so bad, at the end of the day.”

[batbabydamian]

I was reading some of your tags and I love the idea of Damian adding on layers of clothes to appear bigger lol because in my head Damian becomes more lithe and lean as he gets older so him doing that just makes perfect sense to me

it’s an idea that came from Damian’s fashion choices for some of his suits! he kinda gives off the vibe of wanting to appear bigger LOL

Batman (1940) #666 cover and Batman and Robin (2011) Annual 1

especially his Batman 666 suit’s flared collar and padded shoulders!! his child-sized version… he’s barely taller than Titus 😭

Batman Incorporated (2012) #4

his Redbird suit’s a bit of a stretch but the feathery neckpiece kills me, i like to think it fluffs up 🥺

Batman (2016) #106 backup

and then the pointy shoulders of his “Demon suit”! look at his lil cape flare 😭

[chubbeh-seel]

tfatws!Bucky Barnes will do everything in his power to keep you safe from John Walker and Zemo, making sure to call you when he is in Madripoor to help you relax and know he is as safe as he can be at that moment. 

soft!Bucky Barnes who always has his hands on you while you are together in the room, either around your waist or holding your hand, he needs to be touching you. He doesn’t care if others are around or not, he will have his hands on you either way. 

tfatws!Bucky Barnes is the type of man to get you flowers “just because” like how he would if it was still the 1940’s. He is an old fashioned man, not much for dating apps, he doesnt understand them. 

40’s!Bucky Barnes who carries a picture of you in his wallet and shows the picture of you off to anyone. When other women try to ask him anything, the first thing he says is “I’m not interested, I have a wife” and shows her your picture, even though you two aren’t married……. Yet.

House-husband!Bucky Barnes who always has dinner ready for you when you get home from work, he never was too good at cooking but he learned a few recipes that he gets perfect every single time. He is secretly trying to learn how to cook your favorite food while you are at work and he wants to surprise you with it on your birthday. 

Bucky Barnes who always puts an effort during the holidays and your birthday. Getting you all your favorite snacks and making you your favorite meals and later having you as his meal. He may keep a stoic front, but when it comes to you, he is a loving and caring person who always makes sure you are happy and properly cared for, in and out of the sheets.

[m4rv3l-girl]

an idea for “You made a List?”, a roleplay where she dresses up as a 40s housewife. I love your stories, if you could do it I would be very grateful

“You made a List?” - Part 5 (40s Roleplay)

Bucky x Y/N

Y/N made an interesting to-do list, Bucky wants to tick them all off..

Warnings: Smut. Roleplay. Fingering. Oral f!receiving. Unprotected p in v sex.

Bucky had no idea what he was walking into.

That much was clear from the moment he stepped into the apartment and inhaled the scent of something warm and buttery drifting from the kitchen. It wasn’t the usual kind of dinner Y/N whipped up after a long day, though. No, this smelled… old-fashioned.

The second thing he noticed was the sound of a record playing softly in the background—something classic, something he hadn’t heard in decades. His brow furrowed as he set down his keys, gaze flicking toward the soft golden glow filtering in from the dining room. That’s when he saw it.

Y/N.

Standing in the middle of the room, wearing the most perfect little 1940s number he had ever seen. A delicate, powder-blue dress cinched at the waist, the fabric hugging her just right before it flared out in a swirl of nostalgia. A dainty apron was tied around her middle, and—Jesus, did she really have her hair pinned up like that? Like a real doll straight out of his memories.

“Welcome home, darling,” she said sweetly, her voice laced with playful charm as she turned from the table, holding a glass of whiskey in one hand, a warm smile on her lips.

Bucky blinked.

His mouth opened, then shut again.

He swallowed thickly, his fingers flexing at his sides as his mind struggled to catch up with what his eyes were seeing.

“Doll…” he started, stepping closer, his voice a little hoarse. “What—?”

Y/N’s smile turned coy. “You work so hard, sweetheart. I thought I’d take care of you tonight.” She stepped forward, offering the glass to him with both hands, tilting her chin up to look at him through her lashes. “Go on, sit down. I made dinner. Your favorite.” Bucky exhaled a short laugh through his nose, shaking his head in disbelief. “You serious?”

“As a heart attack.”

A slow, warm grin pulled at his lips. His heart was pounding, and he wasn’t even sure why. Maybe it was the effort she’d put into this—the way she had transformed their apartment into a portal to his past, just for him. Maybe it was the way she looked, the way she said sweetheart like it belonged to her, like it belonged to them.

“Doll,” he murmured, his voice softer now. He reached out, curling a hand around her waist, pulling her in. His vibranium fingers traced along the fabric of her apron, feeling the warmth of her beneath it. “You really did all this?”

She nodded. “I wanted to do something for you.” Her smile faltered just slightly, turning a little shy. “I know sometimes… you miss it. I thought maybe, just for one night, we could bring a little bit of that time back.”

His chest tightened, something deep and unspoken settling in his ribs.

He thought about the war. About Brooklyn before everything changed. About how, once upon a time, this kind of life had been all he wanted—a warm home, a loving wife, a soft place to land after a long day. He’d buried that dream decades ago, along with the boy who had it. But somehow, in the way Y/N was looking at him now, it didn’t feel so distant.

It felt real.

“Come on, soldier,” she teased, stepping back, tugging his hand toward the dining table. “Eat first. Then, we’ll see what else I can do to take care of you.”

Bucky chuckled, shaking his head, but the way his grip tightened around her waist told her exactly what he was thinking. “Doll,” he murmured again, voice lower now, almost reverent. He leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of her ear as he whispered, “You have no idea what you’ve just started.”

She giggled. “This…may have been on the list.”

The list.

That’s what it was. The list she’d been following for weeks, her little collection of ideas to spice up their life together. He’d caught her scribbling things down as ideas came to her, her cheeks always going little pink when he asked what she was adding. Knife play, temperature play, role play—each one more surprising than the last. And now this, a step into a time that was almost as much a fantasy to her as it was a memory to him.

He took the whiskey, the warmth of the liquid spreading through him as he sat down, his eyes never leaving her as she swayed back to the kitchen, her hips moving to the rhythm of the music. The apron strings swished against her legs as she walked, and he couldn’t help but feel a swell of something in his chest that was equal parts fondness and desire.

When she returned with a platter of steaming meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and gravy, Bucky felt like he’d been transported.

The way she served him, with such gentle care, reminded him of the moments of peace he’d stolen in the chaos of his past. It was a stark contrast to the cold efficiency he’d been taught, the way he’d learned to survive in the decades that followed.

“Dig in, darling,” she urged, placing the plate before him with a flourish.

The food looked and smelled heavenly, but Bucky’s gaze remained on Y/N. He took in every detail of her transformation—the pearls around her neck, the red lipstick that matched the color of her nails, the way she’d even put on stockings that reveal a hint of her bare thighs. It was like watching a movie, one he’d seen before but hadn’t realized he missed.

As they ate, the conversation flowed easily, filled with laughter and gentle teasing that felt both familiar and fresh. Y/N had done her homework, peppering her speech with 40s lingo that made him smile, and Bucky found himself slipping into the role without even trying. It was as if the walls of their modern apartment had thinned to let in the warmth of a bygone era.

The whiskey helped, too. It burned a smooth path down his throat, reminding him of the whiskey rations they’d had in the barracks, a rare comfort in the cold nights before a mission. But here, in the warm glow of the candlelit dinner, it tasted different—sweeter, richer, because it was shared with her.

He watched as she cleared the dishes, her hips swaying to the music, her smile never once slipping.

“You really had this all figured out, huh?” he said, his eyes lingering on her, his voice filled with a soft awe.

Y/N turned to him, her smile widening. “I just wanted to make sure it was perfect for you, darling.”

Her words hit him like a punch to the gut, the affection in her tone resonating deep within him. This wasn’t just a game to her; she truly wanted to give him a taste of what he’d lost. And for a moment, he let himself believe that maybe, just maybe, it was possible to reclaim a piece of that life.

As she cleared the last of the plates, Bucky’s gaze trailed over the living room they’d converted into a 1940s dream. The couch had been rearranged, now with a small, round table between them, a vintage lamp casting a soft glow over the scene. He could almost see himself and Y/N as they would have been in that time—she, a housewife with a heart full of love and strength, and he, a man just trying to hold on to what he had left.

“You know, I’ve always wondered what it was like back then,” Y/N said, placing the last plate in the sink before turning back to him.

Bucky’s smile grew, a hint of sadness in his eyes. “It wasn’t all like this, doll. But the good parts—this, us—it’s something I’d give anything to have had for real.”

They moved into the living room, the record spinning a slow, romantic tune. Y/N took his hand, leading him to the couch, her touch gentle and sure. They sat, the cushions sinking beneath them, and she placed his hand on her knee, her eyes shimmering with a mischievous excitement.

“How about we take you all the way back, honey?” she suggested, her voice low and sultry.

Bucky’s pulse quickened as he looked into her eyes, seeing the spark of excitement. He knew what she meant—the role play was about to take a turn, and his mind raced with the possibilities. He swallowed, his throat dry.

“What do you have in mind, darling?” he asked, his voice dropping an octave, slipping into the character she’d painted for him.

Y/N leaned in closer, her breath hot against his ear. “Well, my hubby’s been at work all day. So, I’m gonna help him de-stress.” She outlined the story of her well thought out roleplay.

The room was now their stage, the couch their intimate corner in a 1940s movie.

Y/N’s hand slid up Bucky’s arm, her grip tightening as she leaned closer, her breath warm and tantalizing against his cheek. “You’ve had a long day, haven’t you?” she murmured, her eyes shimmering with anticipation.

Bucky’s heart thudded in his chest as he nodded, his eyes never leaving hers. He felt a thrill at the thought of the intimate scenes they were about to play out, scenes that would bring him a bit of comfort, a bit of warmth from a past that had been so cruelly stolen from him.

“Oh, I have,” he agreed, his voice a low rumble. “I’ve missed you all day, doll. What’s a man to do when his best girl’s not around?”

Y/N giggled, her cheeks flushing a pretty pink. “Well, I’ve got just the thing to help you unwind, darling.” She reached for his tie, her movements slow and deliberate as she untied it, her eyes never moving from his.

The air grew thick with tension as she worked, her hands shaking just a little. Bucky could see the nerves playing across her features, the anticipation making her pupils dilate. She was so earnest in her desire to give this to him, to make him feel alive in a way that she knew he hadn’t in a very long time. It was a gift, and he was going to cherish it.

When she had the tie free, she let it hang loosely around his neck, her fingertips grazing the collar of his shirt. “Let’s get you out of this monkey suit,” she whispered, her voice a seductive purr.

Bucky felt his body respond to her touch, the years melting away as he allowed her to help him out of his jacket and unbutton his shirt. He hadn’t felt this alive, this human, in so long. It was like she’d reached into his soul and pulled out the man he’d once been, the man he’d thought he’d lost forever.

Once his shirt was open, she straddled him, her dress hiking up just enough to expose the tops of her stockings. Her hands roamed over his bare chest, exploring the contours of his muscles with the feigned curiosity of a woman discovering a new lover, despite knowing him better than anyone. The soft fabric of her dress brushed against his skin, sending shivers down his spine.

“You’re so strong, darling,” she cooed, tracing her finger around the edge of his vibranium arm.

Bucky’s chuckle was warm and rich, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he pulled her closer. The weight of his arms around her felt like home—like safety, like everything good he’d ever known. He could feel the warmth of her skin through the dress, the softness of her body pressed against his.

“Is that right?” he asked, playing along, his voice thick with desire. “What is it you want from me, dollface?”

Her smile grew, a hint of mischief in her eyes. “Oh, I want to make you feel like you’re home, darling.” She leaned in, her breath a warm tickle against his neck. “I want to make you feel like you never left.”

Bucky’s grip tightened around her waist, pulling her closer as he felt his heart swell with affection. This was a side of Y/N he hadn’t seen before—softer, more vulnerable. It was intoxicating, a lovely blend of passion and tenderness that made him want to protect her as fiercely as he wanted to claim her.

“You’ve got no idea what you do to me, dollface,” he murmured, his voice a low growl of desire.

Y/N’s eyes lit up with excitement as she slid her hand up to the back of his neck, her thumb tracing the line of his jaw. “You’ve been such a good husband, working hard for your country, for us.”

Bucky felt the weight of her words, the acknowledgment of his past, the acceptance of the man he had been, and the love she had for the man he was now. It was a balm to his soul, a gentle reminder that he wasn’t just a relic from another time, but a cherished part of hers. “Thanks, Doll. You know what else a good husband does?”

Y/N’s smile grew grew, her eyes dancing. “What’s that, darling?”

“A good husband makes sure his wife is satisfied,” he said, his voice dropping even lower, the vibranium hand on her waist sliding up to cup her cheek. The fabric of her dress was like silk under his calloused palm.

Y/N’s eyes darkened, a small smirk playing on her lips. “Is that so? Well, I’ve had quite a day myself, darling. Maybe you should show me how you take care of a lady after a hard day’s work around the house?”

Bucky’s smile grew as he leaned in, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw before sliding around to the back of her neck, his grip firm but gentle. “I’d be more than happy to show you, Mrs. Barnes.” He dipped his head, capturing her lips in a kiss that was a promise of everything to come. Her mouth opened for him, welcoming him with a soft sigh, and the world outside their apartment melted away, leaving only the two of them and the rich taste of whiskey on her tongue.

The kiss grew deeper, more demanding, and Bucky’s other hand slid around her waist, his fingers digging into the soft flesh there. Y/N’s breath hitched, her body arching into his touch, and she felt a thrill at the heat. She had been worried that the role play would be awkward, that he would feel uncomfortable with her playing the part of a woman from his past, but as their bodies melded together, she could feel his tension dissipating, his shoulders relaxing as he gave in to the fantasy she’d crafted for him.

Bucky’s hand moved up her back, finding the zipper of her dress, and he pulled it down slowly, feeling the fabric whisper against her skin. The dress pooled around her, leaving her in a delicate lace slip that left little to the imagination. He took in the sight of her, his eyes dark and hungry, and she felt a rush of power at the desire she saw reflected in them. She was giving him this, bringing him a piece of himself back, and she reveled in it.

He slid the slip off her shoulders, letting it fall to the floor, and his eyes took in the fullness of her breasts, the softness of her belly, the curves of her hips. His touch was delicate, his fingers tracing the lines of her body as if he was discovering something precious. She shivered under his gaze, her skin coming alive with every brush of his thumb.

“You’re so beautiful, doll,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “Always were, always will be.”

Y/N’s heart skipped a beat at the sincerity in his words. She had never felt more cherished than in that moment, her body laid bare before him, her soul laid bare in the way she’d tried to bring a piece of his past to life. She leaned into his touch, her breath shallow as his vibranium hand skimmed over her skin, leaving trails of electric warmth in its wake.

With a gentle nudge, Bucky stood up, lifting her off the couch with surprising ease, and carried her to the bedroom. The role play was more than just a game now—it was a tether to a past he’d lost, a bridge to a time when love was simple and fierce and all-consuming. He laid her down on the bed, the softness of the comforter enveloping her.

He hovered over her, his gaze lingering on her curves, his hand trailing along her side, feeling the heat of her skin. “You’re my best girl, doll,” he murmured, his voice a mix of affection and possessiveness that sent a shiver down her spine.

The bedroom was a sanctuary from the outside world, the heavy curtains drawn, the only light coming from a single lamp casting a warm glow across the room. It was as if they’d stepped into a time machine, the modern world forgotten. The sheets were soft and cool beneath her as Bucky settled between her legs, his weight pressing her into the mattress.

He kissed her neck, her collarbone, his teeth grazing her skin in a way that made her gasp. His vibranium hand cupped her breast, his thumb brushing over her nipple, teasing it into a tight peak. The sensation was exquisite, a blend of pain and pleasure that made her arch into his touch.

“You’re the best little housewife a man could ask for,” he murmured against her skin, his voice gruff with desire. “Always waiting for me with dinner on the table, looking so pretty for me to come home to.”

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat as she felt his vibranium hand slip between her thighs, the coldness of it a stark contrast to the heat building in her core. She wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him closer, her eyes fluttering shut as he began to explore her with a gentle but firm touch.

“Best little wife for me,” he whispered against her skin, his teeth grazing the sensitive spot just beneath her ear. “Taking care of me, making sure I’m happy. You know what happens to good little wives who do all that, don’t you?”

Y/N shivered, her eyes fluttering shut as Bucky’s hand continued its journey down her body, his vibranium fingers skimming the waistband of her panties. “What happens?” she breathed, her voice barely a whisper.

“They get what they deserve,” he growled, his teeth sinking into her earlobe just enough to make her gasp. His hand slipped under the fabric, finding her wet and ready. He groaned in approval, his thumb circling her clit with a precision that sent waves of pleasure crashing through her.

Bucky’s touch grew more demanding, his vibranium hand moving faster as he whispered sweet nothings about how good she was, how much he needed her. Y/N’s hips rolled, meeting his hand with eager movements that spoke of her own desire. She could feel herself building, her body tightening around the promise of his touch.

“Love you so much, Sweetie,” he murmured, his breath hot against her neck as he kissed and nipped at the sensitive skin there. “The best thing that ever happened to me.” His voice was a mix of reverence and need.

Y/N’s eyes rolled back in pleasure as she felt his vibranium fingers slide into her, his thumb still circling her clit with a maddening rhythm. It was as if he was trying to reclaim every lost moment, every touch that he’d missed out on. His movements were firm, sure, like a man who knew exactly what he wanted. And what he wanted was to make her cry out his name, to feel her come apart in his arms like a satisfied wife.

Bucky’s eyes searched hers as he moved, watching her face as if it was a map to his own pleasure. He whispered sweet things in her ear, calling her his good girl, his best little housewife, his everything. The words were a caress, a gentle reminder of the love that existed between them, even in the heat of the moment.

Her body responded to his, arching and writhing under his touch. She could feel his need for her, the way his heart raced against her chest, the way he gripped her hips as if she was the only thing anchoring him to the present. She wrapped her legs around his waist, urging him closer, her nails digging into his back as he thrust his fingers into her with a passion that was fierce and tender.

And then, as if reading her mind, he stopped, his hand stilling, his breath ragged. He looked down at her, his eyes searching hers, and she knew what was coming next. He’d done his research, knew what she liked, and was eager to pretend he was more than just her soldier. He was her husband in every sense of the word.

With a gentle nudge, he moved her thighs apart, his vibranium hand sliding away to be replaced by the soft press of his lips against her stomach. She watched in wonder as he kissed a trail down her body, his eyes never leaving hers, the intensity in his gaze making her squirm with anticipation. His mouth reached the junction between her thigh and core.

Bucky took a moment to breathe in the scent of her arousal, his eyes fluttering closed as if savoring it. He’d always enjoyed going down on her, but tonight was different. Tonight, he wanted to worship her, to show her just how much she meant to him, how much he appreciated the care she’d put into this. He parted her folds with his index and middle finger.

When he finally brought his mouth to her, Y/N’s hips jerked upward, a surprised gasp escaping her lips. His tongue was warm and wet against her clit, sending pulses of pleasure through her body. He’d never done it like this before—so focused, so intent. It was like he was trying to memorize the taste of her, the way she quivered and gasped under his touch.

Bucky took his time, his mouth moving against her with a gentle urgency that was almost painfully sweet. His tongue traced her folds, exploring every crevice, every sensitive spot with a tender thoroughness that had Y/N’s toes curling in her heels. He’d always been good at this, but tonight, it was like he was trying to claim a part of her that no one else had ever touched.

Her hands found their way to his hair, tangling in the soft strands as she held him to her, urging him on with her breathy whimpers.

Bucky's movements grew more confident, more possessive. He knew exactly what he was doing, his tongue flicking and swirling in a dance that had her back arching off the bed. She could feel the tension building within her, a tight coil that was threatening to snap at any moment. He alternated between stroking her clit with the tip of his tongue and sucking on it, the gentle pressure and the warmth of his mouth sending her spiraling closer and closer to the edge.

Her moans grew louder, filling the room, and she knew that he enjoyed the sounds she was making. It was like he was feeding off her pleasure, using it to fuel his own desire. She could see the hunger in his eyes, the way he watched her with an intensity that was almost feral.

Bucky’s tongue delved deeper, licking and lapping at her with a primal need that had her panting his name. He was sloppy, messy, unabashed in his worship of her body—like a starving man finally given a feast. And she was the banquet laid out before him, ready to be consumed.

Y/N’s eyes rolled back in her head, her body tightening with each stroke. She’d never felt so desired, so cherished. His Vibranium fingers grazed her inner thigh lightly, the coolness sending shivers up her spine. He knew exactly how to play her body, each touch a masterpiece of sensation. He suckled on her clit, his tongue flicking and swirling in a delicious rhythm that had her hips bucking against his mouth.

The wet sounds of his tongue against her flesh filled the room, punctuated by her breathy moans. Bucky’s grip on her thighs grew firmer, his eyes never leaving hers, as if he was daring her to look away from the passion he had for her. But she couldn’t—his gaze held her captive, a silent promise of the climax to come.

And then with a sudden, deep slide of his tongue, he buried it in her completely, and she shattered. Her orgasm hit her like a tidal wave, a peak of pleasure that made her back arch and her eyes roll back in her head. She screamed his name, the sound echoing in the room, a declaration of the intensity of her release.

Bucky’s eyes never left hers as he felt her clench around his fingers, her thighs tightening as she rode out the wave of pleasure. “So His heart swelled with love and pride, feeling the tremors of her body beneath his mouth, knowing that he’d given her that.

Slowly, tenderly, he made his way up her body, kissing a trail of heat along her stomach, her breasts, her neck, until he reached her mouth. He took her in a deep, soulful kiss, tasting himself on her, her sweetness on his tongue. The passion between them grew with every second, the lines between past and present blurring until all that was left was their love, their connection.

With trembling hands, Bucky reached for the buttons on his own shirt, his eyes never leaving hers. He watched as she took in the sight of him, her gaze traveling over his muscled chest with a hunger that mirrored his own. He shrugged out of his shirt, his vibranium arm gleaming in the soft light. For a moment, the metal was a stark reminder of his past, but then she reached out, her fingertips grazing the cool metal, and it was just another part of him she loved.

Her touch was gentle, as if she was afraid to break the spell that had been woven between them. Her soft palm slid over his heart, the warmth of her skin a stark contrast to the cold metal of his arm. His own hand moved to cover hers, pressing it closer, feeling the steady beat beneath his skin.

“You’re so warm,” she whispered, her eyes wide with wonder, and he felt a swell of affection for her, this woman who had brought him so much peace in a world that had been so cold and unforgiving.

Bucky’s eyes searched hers as he lowered his body onto hers, his weight a comforting presence that grounded him in the here and now. He kissed her softly, their tongues dancing in a rhythm that spoke of their shared history and the promise of what was to come. Her hands roamed over his shoulders, his back, her nails digging into his skin.

He reached for her hips. His eyes never left hers as he positioned himself at her entrance, his cock aching for the warm embrace of her sex. Y/N’s thighs fell open, welcoming him in with a soft sigh. He pushed inside her, inch by inch, watching the way her eyes widened and her breath hitched with each gentle push. Her walls clenched around him, a sweet embrace that made his heart ache with the intensity of his longing.

As he filled her completely, Bucky couldn’t help but feel like he was coming home—to a place that was warm and safe and his. He began to move, his hips rocking in a slow, steady rhythm that had her arching into him with a need that was almost desperate. Her legs wrapped around his waist, her heels digging into his ass as she urged him deeper, her nails scoring down his back.

Her moans grew louder, the sound of them a siren’s call that had his blood singing in his veins. He’d missed this, the raw passion that came from a place that was untouched by the horrors of his past. Y/N was his beacon, the one who had brought him back to the light, and in that moment, as he claimed her, he knew that he’d do anything to protect her, to cherish her.

Their bodies moved together in a collage of desire, their limbs tangled, their hearts beating in time. The bed creaked softly beneath them, the only sound in the room other than their mingled breaths and the faint crackle of the record playing in the background. Bucky’s vibranium hand gripped her hip, guiding her movements, his other hand cradling her head, holding her close as if she might vanish at any moment.

He felt himself growing closer to the edge, the pressure building, the pleasure winding tighter with every stroke. He could see the need in her gaze, the want, the love, and it was all too much.

“Fuck…My pretty little wife…” He grunted.

Bucky’s hips began to move faster, his strokes more urgent as he chased his release. Y/N’s legs tightened around him, her heels digging into his lower back, her nails scoring his shoulders as she matched his rhythm, her own desire building to a peak.

And when he finally came, it was with a roar that seemed to shake the foundations of their home.

His cock pulsed with the force of his release, filling her with a warmth that was as much emotional as it was physical. Y/N’s eyes widened, her body clenching around him, her own climax rushing over her in response to the intensity of his. Her nails dug into his back, her teeth sinking into her lower lip as she felt her walls being coated with his cum.

They stayed there, panting and tangled, the aftermath of their passion hanging heavy in the air. Bucky’s heart hammered in his chest, the beat of it echoing in his ears, as if trying to remind him that this wasn’t a dream. This was real. This was his life. Well, most of it.

And then it hit him, like a bolt from the blue—or rather, a whisper from the heart that had been beating for her since the moment they’d met. He pulled back slightly,. “Marry me, doll,” he blurted out, the words surprising even him.

Y/N’s eyes went wide, her breath hitching as she searched his face, looking for any hint of jest or doubt. But all she found was love - deep, unshakeable love that had been building between them despite the chaos of their lives.

“Bucky?” she whispered, her voice trembling with hope.

He took a deep breath and kissed her softly. “I know this isn’t how you pictured it. Hell, I know it’s not what I had planned. But here we are, in our own little slice of the 40s, and it’s just hit me, I…I want to spend every moment with you. I want to wake up next to you every morning, come home to you every night. And grow old with you.”

Y/N’s heart skipped a beat, her eyes brimming with tears. She’d never seen this side of him, never knew he could be so open, so vulnerable. She nodded, her voice shaking. “Bucky, honey..yeah, I’ll marry you. Of course I will.”

——————————————————————————————————

Hope this is what you had in your amazing brain, anonymous reader! I really enjoyed making this one. 🫶

[rootedinrevisions]

Forever Begins in Manhattan

Summary: A whirlwind romance blossoms between two people who were never supposed to meet. When a chance encounter brings together a charming and successful man named Mark and a thoughtful, independent woman, their connection sparks an undeniable attraction. As they navigate their growing feelings, they share intimate moments, heartfelt conversations, and a deepening love, all while balancing their personal dreams, desires, and a promise to wait for marriage. Set against the backdrop of theater dates, picnics, and cozy moments in the city, this love story reminds us that the most extraordinary romances are often the ones that feel like fate.

Warnings: Alcohol Use in Social Settings, some slight sexual tension but no direct smut. Some references to more traditional values and old-fashioned courtship based on this being set in the 1940s.

Word Count: 9,712

A/N: This was inspired by Mark Reynolds, the character from The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society, whose charm, quiet strength, and deep capacity for love left a lasting impression on me. And I loved the idea of giving Mark the ending that he deserved.

***** indicates a time jump or different day.

THE FIRST NIGHT

The clink of glasses and the hum of conversation blend with the soft, sultry notes of a jazz band filling the air. The ballroom is alive with elegance. Women in sleek satin gowns and men in crisp tuxedos, the flicker of candlelight reflecting off the crystal chandeliers hanging from the high ceiling. The sound of heels tapping against the polished floor dances in rhythm with the music, while the sharp scent of perfume mingles with the faint trace of cigar smoke.

You sit at a table tucked near the far side of the room, nursing a glass of champagne, the bubbles tickling your throat as you smile politely at your companions. The conversation drifts, lighthearted but distant, as the crowd swirls around you. People exchanging pleasantries, laughing, stealing glances from across the room.

The flickering candlelight catches your attention, drawing your gaze to the far side of the room, where a man enters the ballroom. 

He’s not quite like the others. He’s tall, with a presence that commands the space without trying. He is wearing a white tuxedo jacket that’s sleek and hugs his shoulders just so. The white shirt beneath compliments his tanned skin. He has darker blond hair. It’s neatly styled, slicked back with a side part. There's an effortless elegance about him. His movements are fluid, as though he belongs in this space, in the midst of this world.

He glances across the room, and in that instant your eyes meet. A flicker of recognition, but you can't quite place it. He’s a stranger, but there’s something familiar in the way his gaze holds yours for just a beat too long.

His mouth curls into a slight almost imperceptible smile. It's polite, but there's something in it. An invitation. You can’t bring yourself to look away.

For a moment the room seems to fade out, the noise blurring into the background as you try to steady your breath. He’s a little older than most of the other men here. He’s more refined. There's something about him that suggests he's lived a life of stories. He’s probably been to places you've only heard about. He’s the kind of man who might just know how to dance without tripping over his own feet.

He's not flashy. Not the type to flaunt attention, but there's a quiet confidence in the way he moves. He takes a step toward you, and before you know it, he’s right there. 

“I hope I’m not interrupting,” his voice is smooth, rich with an accent you can’t quite place, but it feels comfortable, like velvet against your skin. He’s not one to rush into introductions, though; he’s measured, his smile warm but tempered.

Your pulse quickens, and you find yourself nodding almost automatically, “Not at all.”

“Mark Reynolds,” he says, his hand extending toward you with practiced grace. “And you are?”

You hesitate, a bit unsure of how to play it. Something about him feels too easy, too perfect for a moment like this.

“I—” you start, the words slipping from your mouth like silk. Then you softly say your name.

His eyes flicker with something unreadable before he looks toward the dance floor. “Would you care to dance?”

The question hangs in the air like an invitation to something more than just the music. Without waiting for an answer, his hand rests gently at the small of your back, guiding you toward the floor.

As the band picks up the tempo, you find yourself swept into the rhythm of the night, your steps following his with an ease that surprises you. There's a feeling in his touch, a subtle assertiveness in the way he leads, making it impossible not to follow, not to fall into the moment with him.

Your fingers brush against his, and the room, the music, the crowd, they all seem to fade as he twirls you around the floor. You’re acutely aware of the heat of his hand on your back, the smoothness of his movements, the way he makes even the most delicate steps feel like something more.

As the song comes to an end, he doesn’t let go right away. His thumb brushes lightly against your hand before he finally releases you, the absence of his touch leaving behind a strange sort of longing.

"You're a natural," he says, voice warm with amusement.

You laugh softly, tilting your head. "I could say the same about you."

The band shifts to a livelier tune, and another couple takes to the floor, but neither of you make a move to leave just yet. Someone passes by offering champagne, and Mark plucks two glasses from the tray before handing one to you. His fingers graze yours again as you take it.

You step off the dance floor together, lingering at the edge of the room where the city lights cast long shadows against the gilded walls. You talk—about nothing and everything. He tells you he’s just returned from London, you tell him about your life here in New York. He listens in a way that makes you feel as if your words matter.

The conversation shifts, turning quieter, more personal, and there’s something in his expression. It’s something soft yet intent like he’s considering the weight of this moment. You’re wondering if it’s meant to be fleeting or if it could become something more.

Hours slip away unnoticed, until you realize the crowd has thinned, the energy of the party mellowing into the late night hush of whispered conversations and lingering glances.

Mark tilts his head slightly. “Let me walk you home.”

You should refuse. You should insist it’s not necessary, but the words don’t come. Instead, you find yourself nodding, drawn to the way he’s already offering his arm. There’s something about the easy confidence in his posture as if this was always the natural next step.

The cool night air greets you as you step outside. The streets are quieter now, the distant hum of the city softened by the late hour. 

The warmth of him seeps through the fabric of his suit, steady and reassuring. You find yourself leaning into him ever so slightly. Not out of necessity, but because it feels right. It’s as natural as the way the night has unfolded.

The walk to your building feels too short, the night slipping through your fingers faster than you’d like. As you reach the stoop, you slow your steps, reluctant to break the spell that’s settled between you.

You turn to him, still holding onto his arm, your fingers grazing the fine fabric of his sleeve before finally letting go. The streetlamp overhead casts a soft glow, catching the sharp angles of his jaw, the glint of something unreadable in his eyes.

“I had a wonderful evening,” you say, meaning every word.

Mark exhales a quiet laugh, his smile tilting just slightly. 

“So did I.” But there’s something in the way he says it—low, almost hesitant, like maybe, just maybe, he doesn’t want to leave either.

For a moment, neither of you move. The city hums faintly around you, but it might as well be silent. He shifts just a fraction closer, his hand resting lightly against the curve of your waist, not pulling you in, just…there.

You should say goodnight. You should turn, step inside, let the night end here. But instead, you linger, your gaze flickering between his eyes and the line of his mouth, wondering if he might kiss you.

Mark’s fingers twitch against your waist, his breath just barely brushing your cheek. He studies you like he’s memorizing the moment, like he’s weighing whether to take that step or let you go.

Finally in a voice softer than before, he murmurs, “May I?”

Your pulse stirs, and though you barely nod, it’s enough. He leans in slow and sure, his lips meeting yours in a kiss that is as much a question as it is an answer. It’s gentle, and lingers just long enough to leave you breathless. When he pulls away, he stays close, his forehead nearly resting against yours. 

“Goodnight,” he murmurs.

You step back, fingers still tingling where they had rested against his coat. “Goodnight, Mark.”

As you slip inside, closing the door behind you, your heart races not just from the kiss, but from the undeniable feeling that this is only the beginning.

* * * * *

THE FIRST DATE

The soft rustle of an envelope slipping through the mail slot draws your attention the next morning. You glance up from your morning coffee, setting your cup down as you rise from the table. When you reach the door, a neatly wrapped bouquet rests just outside. It’s filled with dark red roses, simple yet elegant.

A flutter of excitement stirs in your chest as you pick them up. You lean in, and their delicate fragrance hits your nose. Nestled among the petals is a small note, the handwriting neat and confident.

Last night was lovely. May I steal you away for dinner? - Mark

A smile tugs at your lips as you read it again, warmth settling in your chest. The night before had been…unexpected. A whirlwind. A spark. But this? This was intentional. Thoughtful, even. A gesture meant just for you.

And as you stood there with the roses in your hand you thought to yourself that there was something undeniably thrilling to you about a man who knows what he wants and isn’t afraid to show it.

* * * * *

Food rationing has made dining out a luxury, so when Mark suggested dinner at his place it felt both practical and intimate. The sun has just begun to set when you arrive at his apartment, a refined yet welcoming space that reflects his personality well.

He greets you at the door, his sleeves rolled up, and a dishtowel slung over his shoulder. He looks far too charming for a man who insists he’s ‘not much of a cook’. A jazz record hums from a gramophone in the corner, and the air is filled with the warm scent of something savory coming from the kitchen.

“I will admit I had a little help,” Mark confesses with a grain as he motions toward the neatly set dining table. “But I promise, it’s edible.”

You laugh, following him into his home. “As long as it’s now powdered eggs and canned meat, I’ll consider it a success.”

“Then I think we are off to a promising start.”

You take in the scene. The elegantly set table with a white linen cloth and a candle flickering softly at the center. Two plates are set with what looks to be roast chicken, potatoes, and fresh greens. It’s an impressive feat given the state of rationing.

You raise a brow as you settle into your seat. “I have to admit, I expected something a little more…wartime appropriate. Canned beans, perhaps.”

Mark smirks, pouring you a glass of wine. “Let’s just say I pulled some strings. A man in my profession knows people.”

You accept the wine, tilting your head curiously. “And what did you have to promise in return for such luxuries?”

He leans in slightly, voice low, teasing. “That darling, is classified.”

The warmth in his gaze sends a pleasant shiver through you, and you find yourself smiling as you take a sip of wine. The conversation flows as easily as it had the night before, effortless and engaging. Mark has a way of making you feel as though you’re the only person in the world worth listening to, his attention never wavering.

Between bites of dinner, he tells you about his work—about the manuscripts he’s been reviewing, about the writers who fascinate him and the ones who drive him mad. He speaks with a passion that makes you want to lean in closer, to absorb every detail.

“And what about you?” he asks, resting an elbow on the table, his expression genuinely curious. “What’s something you haven’t told me yet?”

You smile, considering. “Something I haven’t told you…” You tap your fingers lightly against your wine glass. “I once dreamed of traveling the world. Seeing Paris, Rome, all the places I’ve only read about.”

His lips curve slightly. “And what stopped you?”

“The war,” you admit, voice softer now. “Then life.” You glance down, then back up at him. “But I suppose there’s still time.”

Mark watches you for a moment, then lifts his glass. “To Paris, then.”

You hesitate, then clink your glass against his. “To Paris.”

Once dinner is  finished and the plates pushed aside, the record shifts to a slower tune. Something soft and dreamy. Mark stands, offering you his hand with an easy confidence.

“Dance with me?”

You glance at him, amused. “Here? Now?”

“There’s music, isn’t there?” His tone is playful, but his eyes hold something more, a quiet invitation.

After a brief moment of hesitation, you take his hand. He pulls you into him, one hand at your waist, the other enveloping yours. The two of you move slowly, the dim glow of the candlelight casting shadows on the walls. He leads with ease, each step sure and unhurried, as if he has all the time in the world.

“You dance well,” you murmur, glancing up at him.

He smirks. “You sound surprised.”

“Not surprised,” you tease. “Just…impressed.”

Mark chuckles, pulling you just a fraction closer. “Careful. Keep flattering me, and I might start thinking you like me.”

You arch a brow, playing along. “What if I do?”

His grip tightens just slightly, and his voice drops to something softer. “Then I’d say you have excellent taste.”

The words settle between you, their weight undeniable. For a long moment, you simply sway together, lost in the quiet intimacy of it all.

When the night finally winds to a close, Mark walks you home, just as he had the night before. This time, there’s no hesitation in the way you loop your arm through his, leaning into the warmth of his side as you stroll through the quiet streets.

Outside your building, you slow your steps, reluctant to say goodnight. The city hums faintly in the distance, but here in this little pocket of time, it feels as though the world has narrowed down to just the two of you.

Mark watches you, his expression unreadable yet intent. The way his eyes trace your features makes your heart skip, like he’s memorizing every detail.

His lips quirk at the edges, though there’s something almost solemn in his gaze. “Good. I was hoping you would.”

Mark moves first, his hand lifting, fingers brushing along your jaw in the gentlest of touches, tilting your chin up ever so slightly. His thumb lingers at the corner of your mouth, as if he’s considering something.

The first kiss is soft. Deliberate. His lips are warm, patient, and yet there’s a tension beneath it. There’s  something restrained, as if he’s holding himself back.

You exhale against him, your hand coming to rest lightly against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your fingertips.

He starts to pull away. Just barely, but the moment his lips leave yours something stirs in you. Something instinctive. Without thinking you follow the movement, your fingers curling against his lapel as you press forward, seeking him again.

Mark exhales a quiet laugh against your mouth. He catches your waist, drawing you in as he tilts his head slightly, deepening the kiss just enough to leave you dizzy.

His other hand cups the back of your neck, his thumb brushing just below your ear as his lips move with an aching slowness, drawing you under, and making you forget everything but him.

The world around you ceases to exist. There is no city, no streetlamp, no distance between you. Just warmth, and the quiet, breathless give and take of a kiss that neither of you seem willing to end.

When you do finally part, it’s only by the barest fraction. Your foreheads rest together, both of you lingering in the space between breaths.

Mark’s voice is low, rough at the edges. “That was…” He exhales a quiet laugh, as if at a loss for words.

You smile, your fingertips still resting lightly against his lapel. “Yes. It was.”

A silence follows, the kind that makes you wonder if he might kiss you again. But instead, Mark lifts your hand, presses a kiss to your knuckles. It’s a gesture both tender and maddeningly restrained before murmuring, “Goodnight.”

And then with a final lingering glance, he steps back.

You watch him disappear down the street. Your pulse is still racing, and your lips are still tingling.

And for the first time in a long time you wonder if maybe, just maybe, this could be the beginning of something worth holding onto.

* * * * *

THE SECOND WEEK I THE SECOND DATE

The city is alive with a kind of magic that only New York can conjure at night. Streetlights glow against the damp pavement, reflecting off the black iron railings and golden window panes of the grand theaters lining Broadway. The air is crisp but not cold, filled with the hum of conversation and the occasional laughter of couples dressed in their evening best, hurrying toward their seats before the curtain rises.

You step out of the taxi, smoothing your gloved hands down the front of your dress, the rich fabric catching the light as you move. Mark is already there, waiting for you at the entrance of the theater, looking impossibly handsome in his dark suit. His hair is neatly combed, and his posture is relaxed but poised, like a man completely at ease in the moment. The instant he sees you, something shifts in his expression. His easy smile falters for just a breath, his eyes sweeping over you as if trying to memorize the sight.

“You’re stunning,” he murmurs, offering his arm.

Your fingers slip into the crook of his elbow, the warmth of him seeping through the layers of your gloves. 

“You’re not so bad yourself, Mr. Reynolds” you tease lightly though there’s no denying the way your heart skips at the way he looks at you, and guides you effortlessly toward the grand entrance, his hand covering yours just for a moment.

Inside, the theater is all rich velvet and golden chandeliers, an opulent escape from the world outside. The murmur of excited patrons fills the air as ushers in pressed uniforms lead guests to their seats.

Mark’s presence beside you is steady and reassuring. As you settle into your seats which are perfectly positioned in the orchestra section, you glance over at him.

He’s watching you instead of the stage, his lips tilted in the faintest smile.

“You’ve been holding out on me, Mark,” you say, raising a brow. “How did you manage to get seats this good?”

He chuckles, tilting his head slightly toward you. “Let’s just say I have a few connections.”

“Impressive.”

“I like to think you deserve only the best.” His voice is softer now, almost lost beneath the growing swell of music from the orchestra pit. 

And just like that, the play begins

As the curtain falls for intermission, the theater buzzes with excitement. Conversations rise around you in a mix of murmurs of praise for the performances, speculation on what’s to come in the second act. But you’re only half-listening

Mark shifts beside you, stretching slightly in his seat before turning toward you. “Well?” he asks, his voice warm with amusement. “Are you enjoying yourself?”

You glance at him, your lips curving into a smile. “Very much. The show is wonderful.”

“But?” he prompts, eyes glinting.

You hesitate, then admit, “I think I might be enjoying the company just a little more.”

His smile deepens, something knowing and pleased flickering across his face. “Is that so?” He leans in just slightly, his voice lowering so only you can hear over the din of the theater. “I was just thinking the same thing.”

A soft warmth blooms in your chest at his words, but before you can respond, an usher steps through the aisles offering refreshments. 

Mark rises smoothly to his feet. “Let me get you something.”

You start to protest, but he silences you with a playful look. 

“Let me,” he insists, then disappears into the crowd before you can argue further.

Left alone for a moment, you exhale and glance around, taking in the grandeur of the theater once more. It truly is breathtaking, but even now, your thoughts linger on the man who just left your side.

Minutes later, Mark returns with two glasses of champagne, handing you one as he settles back into his seat. 

“To a lovely evening,” he says, lifting his glass slightly.

You clink yours against his, the delicate sound ringing between you. “To lovely company.”

He watches you over the rim of his glass as he takes a sip, and you wonder how it’s possible for a simple gaze to hold so much intensity.

The lights flicker, signaling the end of intermission, but before you can turn your attention back to the stage, Mark leans in, his voice a quiet promise against your ear.

“After the show, let’s take a walk.”

It’s not a question, it’s an invitation, one you have no intention of refusing.

As the second act begins, you try to focus on the performance, but it’s no use.

The final curtain falls, and the theater erupts into applause. Mark stands with the rest of the crowd, clapping politely, but his attention drifts back to you. There’s a glow in your expression, the lingering magic of the performance still in your eyes.

He offers his hand as the audience begins to shuffle toward the exits. “Shall we?”

You slip your fingers into his, allowing him to guide you through the throng of elegantly dressed theatergoers spilling out onto the bustling streets of Manhattan. The city is alive with a different kind of energy now—the hurried footsteps of late-night wanderers, the distant hum of a saxophone from a street performer on the corner, the golden glow of lamplight reflecting off rain-dampened pavement.

Mark doesn’t let go of your hand as he steers you away from the main crowd, his pace unhurried. “How about that walk?” he asks, glancing at you.

You nod, smiling. “I’d like that.”

Together, you stroll down the sidewalk, the sounds of the city wrapping around you like a familiar melody. The air is crisp but not cold, and you lean into Mark’s warmth just slightly as you walk side by side.

He chuckles under his breath. “What?” you ask, glancing up at him.

“I was just thinking,” he says, his voice smooth with amusement, “this is the kind of night people write about. A perfect evening—Broadway, champagne, good company.”

You arch a brow. “Good company, huh?”

“The best,” he confirms, his gaze lingering on you before he looks ahead again.

A comfortable silence settles between you, punctuated only by the sound of your footsteps and the occasional distant car horn. The streets are quieter in this part of the city, lined with elegant brownstones and charming streetlamps casting soft pools of light onto the sidewalk.

At a street corner, Mark slows his pace and turns toward you slightly. “Tell me something,” he says, tilting his head. “If you could do anything right now—go anywhere in the world, no limits—where would you go?”

The question catches you off guard, but you don’t mind. You take a moment to think before answering. 

“Right now?” you muse. “I think I’d still be right here.”

Mark’s expression shifts, something unreadable flickering across his face before he exhales a soft chuckle. “Careful,” he teases, “say things like that, and I’ll never let you leave my side.”

The words feel lighthearted, but there’s a weight beneath them, something real that neither of you acknowledge outright. Instead, you just smile, allowing the moment to stretch between you.

You walk a little longer, the conversation meandering from the play to favorite places in the city, to childhood memories, each new topic peeling back another layer of the man beside you.

Eventually, you reach your building, stopping just before the stoop. 

For the first time all night, you hesitate, reluctant to end the evening. Mark seems to feel it too.

“Thank you,” you say softly, glancing up at him. “Tonight was…wonderful.”

His lips curve into a knowing smile. “It’s not over yet.”

And before you can ask what he means, he takes your hand again then gently and deliberately he brings it to his lips. The kiss is brief but lingering, his gaze never leaving yours.

Your breath catches, your heart pounding, but before you can react, he takes a step back, his smile turning slightly mischievous. 

“Goodnight,” he says, his voice rich and warm.

Then, with one last glance, he turns and walks away, leaving you standing on your stoop, lips tingling, pulse racing, already wondering when you’ll see him again.

* * * * *

THE THIRD WEEK

The following week passes in a soft haze of daydreams and stolen smiles, memories of your last evening with Mark replaying in your mind more often than you care to admit. You find yourself looking for him in passing moments, a glimpse of a crisp suit in a crowd, the scent of cologne that’s almost but not quite his. You tell yourself not to expect anything, not to get ahead of yourself. But when a knock sounds at your door one evening, your heart betrays you, leaping with an eagerness you can’t quite suppress.

You smooth your dress before opening the door, but nothing could have prepared you for the sight before you.

Mark stands there, a fresh bouquet in his hands, dressed impeccably as always, his smile teasing yet sincere. 

“I’m beginning to think flowers might be the way to your heart,” he muses.

Your breath catches at the sight of the elegant blooms which are a mix of deep red roses mixed with delicate cream ones, all beautifully arranged. 

You laugh softly, reaching to accept them. “You may be onto something.”

He watches you for a moment, his expression warm. “I was hoping to steal you away again,” he says, his voice low, inviting. “Friday evening. Dinner at The Stork Club?”

The Stork Club. The most glamorous, star-studded place in the city. Your fingers tighten slightly around the bouquet as you glance up at him, touched by the gesture. “You don’t have to keep trying to impress me, you know,” you tease lightly.

Mark smirks. “Oh, but I do. And besides, I like seeing you somewhere you belong.” His gaze sweeps over you, lingering just long enough to make your skin warm.

You shake your head, smiling. “Alright,” you say, meeting his eyes. “Friday it is.”

His smile deepens, as if he expected nothing less. Then, with his usual effortless charm, he takes your hand, brushing his lips over your knuckles before murmuring, “Until then.”

And just like that, he’s gone, leaving behind the lingering scent of his cologne and the undeniable thrill of anticipation.

* * * * *

THE THIRD DATE

Friday arrives with a sense of eager anticipation, the hours slipping by in a blur of preparation. When the clock nears seven, you smooth down your dress. It’s a stunning number in silk, its fitted bodice and flowing skirt chosen carefully for the evening. A touch of lipstick, a final glance in the mirror, and then the sound of a car pulling up outside sends your pulse quickening.

Mark steps out of a sleek black Cadillac, dressed in a sharp dinner jacket and tie, exuding the effortless charm that seems second nature to him. When he sees you, his eyes sweep over you with unmistakable admiration. 

“You look…” He exhales, shaking his head slightly. “I was going to say stunning, but that hardly seems enough.”

You smile feeling the warmth of his gaze as he steps forward, offering his arm. “Shall we?” he asks.

The drive to The Stork Club is filled with easy conversation, but the moment you step inside, the air shifts. The club is alive with energy. Jazz music hums through the space, mingling with the soft clink of glasses and the murmur of conversation. The scent of perfume and cigars lingers in the air. Chandeliers cast a golden glow over a room filled with New York’s most fashionable, from celebrities to socialites, all draped in elegance and intrigue.

A maître d' greets Mark with familiarity, leading you both to a table near the dance floor. The crisp white tablecloth gleams under the soft lighting, a waiter immediately arriving to pour champagne into delicate crystal glasses.

Mark watches you over the rim of his glass, a knowing smile playing at his lips. “You belong in places like this,” he murmurs.

You arch a brow. “Oh? And why is that?”

He leans in slightly, voice just above the music. “Because when you walk into a room, people notice.” His fingers graze over the back of your hand, sending a shiver up your spine. “I certainly did.”

Your cheeks warm, but before you can respond, the band shifts into a sultry, rhythmic tune, and Mark sets his glass down with a decisive gleam in his eye. “Dance with me.”

The music swells, and he spins you effortlessly before guiding you back against him, his arm firm yet gentle at your waist. Your breath hitches slightly, and for a moment, you forget about the other dancers, the elegant surroundings, the clink of glasses and hum of conversation. It’s just you and him, caught in a moment that feels suspended in time.

As the song winds to an end, Mark doesn’t let go immediately. His fingers graze over yours before he finally releases your hand, though his gaze remains locked on yours.

"You’re full of surprises," you say, your voice quieter now.

He chuckles, guiding you back toward your table. "That makes two of us."

The evening lingers in a haze of laughter and lingering glances. Dinner is exquisite, each course a perfect indulgence, but nothing compares to the warmth of Mark’s company. The conversation flows effortlessly, his wit sharp yet easy, his attention unwavering. 

As the last of the champagne is poured and the plates are cleared, the band shifts into a slower tune, the kind that invites something softer, something deeper. The sultry notes of a saxophone weave through the air like a whispered secret, and before you can even think to hesitate, Mark stands, extending his hand once more.

"One more dance?" he asks, though the gleam in his eye suggests he already knows your answer.

This time when you step onto the dance floor, the energy has changed. The earlier dance had been playful and teasing. But this one is something else entirely. Mark draws you in close. Closer than before. His hand settling at the small of your back in a way that sends a delicate shiver through you. Your hand rests lightly on his shoulder, your fingers just barely brushing the nape of his neck.

The world narrows to the warmth of his touch, the slow sway of your bodies. Mark moves deliberately, each step unhurried, as if prolonging this moment is all that matters. Then, as the music swells, he dips his head, his lips grazing the edge of your temple as he murmurs,

“You make it dangerously easy to lose myself in you.”

Your breath catches, heart hammering in your chest at the confession. You tighten your grip on his shoulder instinctively, but you don’t pull away.

Neither does he.

For a moment, you wonder if he can feel the way your pulse flutters beneath his fingertips, if he knows the effect he has on you. Judging by the way his thumb strokes absently along your spine, you suspect he does.

The song drifts toward its final notes, but neither of you moves to part just yet. You linger in his arms, letting the moment stretch just a little longer before reality creeps in.

Mark finally exhales, his breath warm against your cheek. 

“Come take a walk with me,” he says softly. It isn’t a question. It’s an invitation, one you have no intention of refusing.

With your hand still in his, he leads you toward the exit, the golden glow of the club fading behind you. The night air is crisp but pleasant, carrying the distant hum of the city. There’s a mix of laughter, the occasional honk of a car horn, and the ever present melody that is New York City at night. Streetlamps cast a glow on the pavement, their soft flicker making the world feel a little more intimate.

Mark doesn’t let go of your hand as you step onto the sidewalk, his grip warm, steady. There’s something intoxicating about walking through the city like this—after an evening filled with fine dining, music, and stolen moments, now there’s just quiet companionship, the simple pleasure of being beside him.

“You do this often?” you ask, tilting your head up to look at him. “Take a girl to a beautiful dinner, steal a few dances, then whisk her away on a midnight stroll?”

Mark smirks, the corner of his mouth lifting in a way that sends a flutter through your stomach. “Only when the company is worth it.”

Your laughter fills the space between you, and Mark watches you with something unreadable in his gaze—like he’s tucking the moment away, savoring it. You reach a crosswalk, pausing as the street empties before you. When Mark glances at you again, there’s something softer in his expression.

“Tonight was perfect,” you say before you can stop yourself.

His fingers flex around yours slightly. “That’s because you were there.”

You let out a breathy laugh, shaking your head, but you don’t deny how your heart stumbles over itself at his words. You look ahead, eyes drawn to a small park just up the block—a pocket of quiet in the midst of the city. Without thinking, you tug him toward it, stepping off the sidewalk and onto the winding path lined with trees and empty benches.

Mark follows easily, his pace never faltering, as if he’d walk with you anywhere.

For a moment, neither of you speak, content in the peaceful hush of the night. The city may be alive around you, but in this little corner, it feels like it belongs to just the two of you.

After a few steps, Mark slows, turning to face you. “You realize I’m not ready to say goodnight yet,” he admits, voice lower now, more intimate.

The confession makes something warm unfurl in your chest. You meet his gaze, the deep blue of his eyes softened under the glow of the lamplight. “Then don’t,” you murmur.

He exhales a quiet chuckle, shaking his head like you’ve just made it impossible for him to resist you. Then, with the kind of certainty that makes your breath catch, Mark lifts your joined hands and presses a slow, lingering kiss to the back of yours.

“Dangerous,” he murmurs against your skin.

You swallow, your heart racing. “What is?”

“The way you make me want more time with you.”

The words settle between you, heavy with meaning, yet thrilling in their honesty. Neither of you move for a moment, the world around you shrinking until it’s just the two of you, standing in the middle of a quiet city park, on the cusp of something undeniable.

The first raindrop lands softly against your cheek. Then another. A cool mist begins to fill the air, and above you, the dark sky rumbles with quiet warning.

Mark tilts his head back, glancing up. “Ah, perfect timing,” he muses, his lips quirking into an amused smile.

You laugh, shaking your head. “Think we can make it back before it—”

Before you can finish your sentence, the sky opens up. A steady drizzle turns into a full downpour within seconds, the rain soaking through your dress, your hair, your skin.

Mark lets out a surprised chuckle, already pulling you forward. “Come on!”

You grasp his hand, lifting your skirts slightly as the two of you break into a run, darting through the park as the rain spills over you in torrents. Your laughter mixes with his, breathless and giddy, as if you’ve both been caught in something far more thrilling than just a summer storm.

By the time you reach the sidewalk near your building, you’re drenched. Water clings to every inch of fabric, droplets glisten on Mark’s cheekbones, and his usually impeccable hair is tousled from the rain. He pushes it back with one hand, shaking his head with another laugh.

“Well,” he says, breathless, his tie now hanging loosely around his neck, his jacket thoroughly ruined. “So much for keeping up appearances.”

You giggle, brushing damp strands of hair from your face. “I don’t know… I think it suits you.”

Mark huffs a small laugh, watching you closely, his eyes flickering over your rain-soaked form. There’s something in his expression—a quiet reverence, a moment of hesitation, like he’s trying to decide something.

The rain still pours, drumming against the pavement, soaking into your shoes, but neither of you move.

Then, without thinking, you lift a hand to his face, brushing a stray drop of water from his cheek. It’s the smallest of touches, but it’s enough.

Mark exhales, slow and unsteady, his hands coming to rest lightly on your waist. “You are,” he murmurs, “absolutely breathtaking.”

Your pulse flutters wildly.

Before you can even think of a reply, he closes the distance between you, capturing your lips in a kiss that is both heated and unhurried, as if he’s savoring every second of it. The rain falls around you, cool against your skin, but Mark’s kiss is warm—achingly warm.

You sigh against him, your fingers curling against the damp fabric of his shirt. He pulls you closer, deepening the kiss just slightly, like he’s memorizing the feel of you, like this moment is something he never wants to forget.

After a few long, lingering seconds, he pulls away, resting his forehead against yours. You’re both breathless, your lips tingling, your body still pressed against his.

Mark chuckles softly, his voice rougher now. “I should get you inside before you catch a cold.”

You nod, though you don’t move just yet. Neither of you do.

Because standing here, in the middle of a rain-drenched New York street, wrapped in the warmth of Mark’s embrace, you can’t help but wonder if you’ve just fallen in love.

Stepping into the warm glow of your apartment, you shiver slightly as the chill of the rain finally settles over your skin. Mark follows close behind, droplets still clinging to his lashes, his soaked shirt clinging to the shape of his broad shoulders.

You both laugh softly, breathless from the dash through the storm, the moment electric between you.

“You’re dripping all over my floor,” you tease, voice hushed in the quiet of the room.

Mark arches a brow, smirking. “So are you.”

You shake your head, wrapping your arms around yourself as another shiver runs through you. Mark notices, and without hesitation, he steps forward, hands moving to the buttons of his jacket. “You need to get out of these wet clothes,” he murmurs.

“So do you.”

It wasn’t meant to sound quite so breathless, but the way Mark stills at your words—the way his gaze darkens just slightly—sends warmth curling low in your stomach.

Neither of you rush. It’s slow, deliberate. His fingers make quick work of his tie, loosening it from his collar before shrugging out of his soaked jacket. You do the same with your outer layers, carefully unfastening buttons, peeling away fabric that clings to your skin.

By the time you both settle onto the bed, you’re stripped down to your basic layers, your damp clothes left draped over a chair to dry. Mark lays beside you, his arm resting beneath your head, drawing you effortlessly against him. The warmth of his body, the steady rise and fall of his chest—it all feels so impossibly safe, so intimate in a way that goes beyond just physical closeness.

For a moment, neither of you speak. You simply listen to the rain outside, the distant hum of the city beyond your window, the quiet sound of your own breathing as Mark’s fingers trace idle patterns along your arm.

Then he tilts his head, catching your lips in a slow, searing kiss.

It starts soft—just the faintest press of his mouth against yours, unhurried and sweet. But then his hand slides along your waist, fingers splayed against the thin fabric of your slip, and heat sparks between you once more.

You sigh into him, your own hands roaming—up his chest, along his shoulders, over the damp strands of his hair. His breath hitches when you shift just slightly, pressing closer, your legs tangling beneath the covers.

The kiss deepens. His hand grips your waist, pulling you against him, and your own fingers find purchase against the bare skin of his back.

But then—

You stop.

Your breath is uneven as you pull back just enough to meet his gaze. His lips are parted, his pupils dark with longing, and you can feel the way his chest rises and falls beneath your touch.

“Mark…” Your voice is barely above a whisper. “I want to. I do.” You swallow, tracing a gentle line along his jaw. “But I want to wait. Until marriage.”

Mark exhales, his forehead pressing against yours as his grip on you loosens—just slightly, just enough to let the tension in the air shift.

After a beat, he lets out a soft, almost breathless chuckle, shaking his head. “You are going to be the death of me,” he murmurs, though his voice holds nothing but warmth, nothing but reverence.

You smile softly, your fingers brushing over his cheek. “But you’ll wait?”

He leans in, pressing the faintest kiss to your temple, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth. “I’ll wait,” he promises, his voice rough with sincerity. “For you? I’d wait forever.”

And the way he looks at you then—the way his thumb traces the curve of your hip, the way his lips linger just shy of yours, tells you exactly how much he wants you. But more than that, it tells you just how much he loves you.

As the quiet between you stretches, the weight of the moment settles deep in your chest. The warmth of Mark’s body, the soft rise and fall of his breath beneath your fingertips, the way his hands hold you as if you’re something precious. It all feels so right. So inevitable.

Your heart pounds as the words press at your lips, unspoken for far too long. You don’t plan to say them, but they slip free before you can stop them, a whisper against the hush of the room.

“I love you.”

Mark stills. But he doesn’t pull away, doesn’t tense, but he does go quiet, his thumb brushing absentminded circles against your waist.

For a moment, you wonder if you’ve said too much. If you’ve ruined this fragile, beautiful thing between you.

Then, Mark exhales, slow and measured, as if he’s been holding his breath. He shifts, tilting his head back just enough to meet your gaze, and in the dim glow of the streetlights filtering through the window, you see something tender flicker in his expression.

Something certain.

“I love you,” he says, his voice low and unwavering.

Your breath catches, your fingers curling slightly against his chest as his words sink in.

Mark smiles then, and leans in to press a lingering kiss to your forehead. 

“I think I’ve loved you for a while,” he murmurs, his lips ghosting over your temple then your cheek.

Mark’s gaze lingers on you, something unspoken passing between you in the dim light. Then, without hesitation, he lifts a hand, his fingers grazing your cheek with the same reverence as someone handling something fragile.

It’s different this time. Deeper. More certain.

You feel it in the way his lips move against yours, the way his hand cradles your jaw, anchoring you to him. There’s no rush, no urgency—just a quiet intensity that steals the breath from your lungs. It’s as if he’s pouring every unspoken thought, every promise, into this moment. Into you.

Your fingers curl against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your palm, mirroring your own. He exhales against your lips with a soft, shuddering breath that sends warmth curling through you.

When he finally pulls back, just enough to rest his forehead against yours, you barely have time to catch your breath before he murmurs, “I love you.”

The words settle deep, threading into the very fabric of your heart.

Your chest tightens, your eyes fluttering closed as a soft, almost breathless laugh escapes you. “Say it again.”

Mark smiles, and he tilts his head just enough for another kiss, slower this time, savoring the moment.

“I love you,” he whispers against your lips. “And I’ll keep saying it for as long as you’ll let me. Until you’re tired of hearing it.”

A warmth blooms in your chest. Something vast and consuming, and as you tighten your hold on him you pull him impossibly closer. And you know you’ll never tire of hearing it.

* * * * *

THE ONE MONTH DATE

The sun is warm against your skin, a soft breeze rustling the leaves overhead as you stretch out on the picnic blanket, utterly content. Mark is beside you, propped up on one elbow, his tie loosened and his sleeves rolled up, looking at you like you’re the only thing worth paying attention to in the entire park.

“You’re staring,” you murmur, tilting your head to meet his gaze.

“Can you blame me?” His voice is lazy, edged with amusement as his fingers trace idle patterns against the fabric of the blanket. “You’re quite the sight.”

A flush warms your cheeks, but before you can tease him for being so sweetly shameless, he shifts onto his back beside you, exhaling as he stares up at the sky.

For a while, neither of you speak. There’s no need to. The city hums in the distance, but here, in this little pocket of peace, it’s just the two of you. The afternoon stretching long and slow like the golden light filtering through the trees.

Mark reaches for your hand, threading his fingers through yours with a soft squeeze. “I could get used to this,” he says, his voice quieter now, more thoughtful.

You turn your head, watching the way his expression softens as he gazes at the sky. “Used to what?”

He glances at you, a slow smile tugging at his lips. “Sunday afternoons with you. Stealing you away from the rest of the world.”

Your heart tightens, warmth spreading through you. You squeeze his hand in return. “Then I suppose I’ll let you steal me away a little more often.”

Mark’s fingers trace lazy circles against your palm, his touch warm and steady as you both lie there, staring up at the sky.

“What do you want?” Mark’s voice is low, thoughtful, his thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles.

You turn your head to look at him, finding him already watching you. “In what sense?”

His lips curve, but his expression stays serious. “In every sense.”

You exhale, shifting onto your side to face him more fully. “I want a life that feels… full,” you admit softly. “I want a home that’s warm and filled with love. I want a marriage where we’re partners in every way. And I want children—someday.”

Mark studies you for a long moment, his gaze searching, intent. Then he nods, as if locking away your words somewhere deep inside him. 

“That sounds like a good life,” he murmurs.

“What about you?” You squeeze his hand, needing to know if his dreams align with yours.

His smile is slow, but there’s something deeply certain about it. “I want the same things,” he says simply. “A home that feels like a sanctuary, not just a place to sleep. A marriage where love isn’t just a feeling, but something we choose, every single day.” He pauses, his gaze flickering over your face. “And if I’m lucky, a family to come home to.”

Warmth spreads through your chest, settling deep. “You’ll have all of that,” you whisper.

Mark’s expression softens, and he lifts a hand to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, his touch lingering at your jaw. “With you?”

Your breath catches, but there’s no hesitation in your heart when you answer. “Yes.”

His thumb brushes lightly over your cheek before he leans in, capturing your lips in a slow, lingering kiss—one that speaks of promises not yet spoken aloud, but understood all the same. 

When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, his breath mingling with yours as he whispers, “Then I’m the luckiest man in the world.”

* * * * *

THE PROMISE OF FOREVER

The soft glow of sunset casts golden light across the shoreline, the waves rolling gently against the sand as you and Mark walk side by side. His fingers are laced with yours, his grip warm and sure. But there’s a tension in him tonight, something beneath the surface, as if he’s holding onto a secret.

The weekend away had been perfect. Long walks, quiet mornings with coffee on the veranda, nights spent wrapped in each other’s arms whispering about the future. 

But tonight feels different. 

Mark had suggested a walk along the beach before dinner, and now, as the sun melts into the horizon, he slows his steps, guiding you closer to the water’s edge.

You glance up at him, feeling the way his thumb absently strokes over your hand. “You’re quiet,” you murmur, tilting your head. “What’s on your mind?”

Mark exhales a soft laugh, shaking his head as if in disbelief. “You.”

The single word sends warmth through your chest. “Good thoughts, I hope?”

“The best,” he says, stopping in the sand. 

You turn to him, and that’s when you see it. The way his eyes shine, and the way his chest rises and falls as if he’s bracing himself. He reaches for your other hand, holding both in his, his thumb tracing slow, deliberate circles against your skin.

“That night,” he begins, voice steady but thick with emotion, “when I saw you across the room, I thought you were the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen.” His lips twitch, as if remembering. “I didn’t know then that you would become the best thing that ever happened to me.”

Your breath catches, your heart pounding as realization sinks in.

Mark takes a deep breath, then drops to one knee in the sand.

“Marry me,” he says, his gaze locked on yours, full of certainty, full of love. “Let’s not wait any longer. I don’t want another day to pass without knowing you’ll be my wife.”

Tears blur your vision, but you don’t hesitate. Not for a single second. 

“Yes,” you whisper, then laugh as the joy bubbles up inside you. “Yes, Mark. A thousand times, yes.”

The words barely leave your lips before Mark exhales sharply, as if he’s been holding his breath, and in the next moment, he’s surging to his feet, pulling you into his arms. Your feet barely touch the ground as he lifts you, spinning you once before holding you close, burying his face in the curve of your neck. 

You can feel his heart hammering against your own, his breath warm against your skin as he murmurs, “You’ve just made me the happiest man in the world.”

Your arms tighten around him, your fingers threading into his hair as he pulls back just enough to look at you. His eyes are shining. Then his hands cradle your face, reverent and steady, his thumbs brushing away the tears that have slipped down your cheeks. 

“I love you,” he whispers, and before you can respond, his lips are on yours.

The kiss is soft at first, slow and deliberate, as if he wants to savor this moment, to commit it to memory. But then you melt into him, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, and he deepens the kiss, pouring everything into it. You feel all the emotions in a single kiss. The joy, the longing, and the promise of forever.

When he finally breaks away, he reaches into his pocket, retrieving the small velvet box. His hands are steady, but you can see the emotion in his expression as he opens it, revealing the most beautiful ring you’ve ever seen. A delicate band, timeless and elegant, with a sparkling diamond that catches the fading sunlight.

Mark takes your left hand, his fingers warm as they brush over your skin. 

“May I?” he asks softly, his voice filled with quiet reverence.

With infinite care, he slides the ring onto your finger, the cool metal settling against your skin like it’s always belonged there. It fits perfectly, and for a moment, you both just stare at it—at the symbol of the promise you’ve made to each other.

Then Mark lifts your hand to his lips, pressing a lingering kiss to your knuckles. 

“Now it’s official,” he murmurs, his smile tender.

The waves crash behind you, the salt air swirling around you, but all you can feel is him. The warmth of his body, the way his hands slide down to your waist, holding you close, anchoring you in this moment.

When you finally break apart, your foreheads rest together, your breath mingling in the cool evening air. Mark chuckles softly, pressing another lingering kiss to the corner of your mouth before murmuring, “We should probably head back before I forget how to be a gentleman.”

You laugh with a giddy, breathless sound, and shake your head. “I don’t think I’d mind.”

His grin turns lopsided, his thumb stroking over your cheek again. 

“Careful, darling,” he teases, his voice low and tender. “I promised to wait until marriage, and you’re making it impossible to keep that promise.”

You arch a brow, a playful smile tugging at your lips. “Are you saying I’m too much of a challenge, Mr. Reynolds?”

Mark shakes his head with a soft, almost reverent laugh. “Not a challenge. But I must admit the wait is becoming harder and harder.”

You lean in, brushing your lips against his. “Well, that’s the point, isn’t it? Making the wait worth it.”

He sighs softly, pressing his forehead against yours once more. “And you will always be worth it, darling.”

With that, hand in hand, you walk back toward the lights of the grand estate, the future ahead of you, filled with endless possibilities and a love that feels like it was meant to be forever.

* * * * *

THE FOREVER DATE

You reach the door of the church, your father standing proudly by your side. Mark is just beyond, his back to you, but you can feel his presence even now. The air seems charged with expectation, with the kind of quiet anticipation only a wedding can bring.

Taking a breath, you glance up at your father. He smiles down at you, a look of pure love and pride in his eyes. He doesn’t say anything, but the warmth of his hand on yours speaks volumes. With one final look at him, you nod, and the doors swing open.

The world outside blurs as your focus narrows on Mark. He stands before the altar, his handsome face filled with wonder. His eyes are locked onto you with such intensity that for a moment, the whole room falls away. His gaze makes your heart race, and you swallow, fighting the emotion welling in your chest.

As you take those first few steps toward him, the soft click of your heels echoing in the stillness, you can’t help but feel that this is the moment you’ve always dreamed of. 

Mark doesn’t take his eyes off of you, his hands clenched by his sides, but his smile is a quiet promise. You finally reach the altar, your father giving you one last kiss on the cheek before he steps back to sit in the front row, giving Mark his place beside you.

The minister begins, his voice steady and sure as he speaks the familiar vows. Mark’s eyes never leave yours, his hand slipping into yours as if to ground you both in this beautiful, surreal moment.

When it’s your turn to speak, your voice is calm but filled with the weight of all the love and years of waiting. “Mark,” you begin, looking directly into his eyes, “I promise to stand beside you, to love you, and to walk with you through this life we’ve already built together. I will always choose you, just as you’ve chosen me.”

His hand tightens around yours, the simple touch filled with years of shared moments, both difficult and joyful. You swallow, suddenly overcome with emotion, and his expression softens, a silent reassurance in his eyes.

The minister continues, and you slip a delicate ring onto his finger, as he does the same for you. Then, in a soft whisper, Mark says, “I will always love you. And I promise, now and forever, that I will never let you go.”

The room is still, but the energy between you both is palpable, a connection that transcends words.

The minister smiles at both of you, a warm, kind expression. “Mark, you may kiss your bride.”

For a moment, you both hesitate, caught in the weight of the promise you’ve just made. And then, slowly, you lean in, his lips brushing yours for the first time as husband and wife. It’s soft at first, gentle, the kiss slow and filled with reverence, as if both of you are savoring the culmination of everything that’s led to this moment. His lips are warm, reassuring, and as he deepens the kiss, you feel the world around you disappear.

When you finally pull away, there are no words needed. Mark’s grin is everything you’ve ever wanted, and his hand in yours feels more certain than it ever has before.

[mintyys-blog]

Steves shock and awe at his wedding day with f.d reader as shes in a 40s inspired wedding dress ^^ . A quiet wedding with the team and her family plus the two being the sweetest couple.

Y/n was being interviewed at vogue the next month and asked about the ring and prior to the interview steve let her spill the beans cause they are married . Many awe sure theres haters yet shes faced harsher critics . Her and steve are adorable!!!

DESIGNER LOVE— steve rogers x fashion designer! reader

WARNINGS: none

Steve had been through countless battles, faced enemies beyond imagination, and even survived being frozen in ice for decades. Yet, nothing—nothing—had ever made his heart stop like the sight of Y/N walking down the aisle.

She was breathtaking.

Draped in an elegant, 1940s-inspired wedding dress, she was the embodiment of timeless beauty. Delicate lace sleeves clung to her arms, and the flowing skirt trailed behind her in a way that felt almost ethereal. The vintage silhouette perfectly accentuated her form, paying homage to the era he once called home. Steve felt as though he had stepped back in time, back to a dream he never thought he’d live to see.

His fingers clenched at his sides as a wave of emotions crashed over him. Love. Awe. Absolute adoration.

Bucky, standing beside him as his best man, smirked and elbowed him slightly. “Close your mouth, punk.”

Steve barely heard him. His blue eyes were locked onto Y/N’s as she moved forward, her father guiding her toward him. Her own gaze shimmered with unshed tears, lips curving into the softest, most loving smile.

When she finally reached him, Steve let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. His hands instinctively reached for hers, his thumb brushing against her knuckles as he whispered, “You are stunning.”

Y/N’s smile widened. “I wanted to wear something you’d love.”

Steve’s jaw clenched as he swallowed down the overwhelming emotion swelling in his chest. “I love you.”

The ceremony was intimate—just the way they wanted it. The Avengers sat amongst Y/N’s closest family, all of them witnessing a love that had withstood time, battles, and the weight of the world. There was no press, no grand spectacle—only them, promising forever.

As they exchanged vows, Steve could see nothing but her.

And when he kissed her, with her arms wrapped around his neck and his hands firmly at her waist, he knew this was the greatest victory of his life.

One Month Later – Vogue Interview

Y/N adjusted her blazer, smoothing down the fabric as she sat across from the Vogue interviewer. This was nothing new—interviews, press, cameras. She’d built a name for herself in the fashion industry, her designs gracing the pages of every major magazine. But today felt different.

Because today, she wasn’t just Y/N, the fashion designer. She was Y/N Rogers.

The interviewer leaned forward, her sharp eyes catching the glint of Y/N’s ring. “That’s a gorgeous ring. Tell me, is there a story behind it?”

Y/N glanced at the engagement ring and wedding band stacked on her finger, warmth spreading through her chest. She knew this moment was coming. Steve had told her before she left that she could finally spill the beans.

With a grin, she lifted her hand, letting the light catch the diamonds. “Actually… there is.”

The interviewer’s brows lifted. “Oh?”

Y/N leaned in slightly, as if sharing a secret. “I’m married.”

A beat of silence. Then—

“What? To who?”

Y/N chuckled, tilting her head knowingly. “Steve Rogers.”

The interviewer’s mouth fell open. “Captain America? The Steve Rogers?”

“The one and only.” Y/N smiled, twirling the ring slightly. “We had a small wedding last month. Just close family and friends.”

The internet would be in flames by the time the interview aired. Y/N could already picture the reactions—shock, excitement, and, of course, the inevitable hate.

But she had faced harsher critics before.

Let them talk. She had Steve.

And they were happy.

Absolutely, perfectly, incandescently happy.

[ell0ra-br3kk3r-writes]

Valentine's Day

pairing: steve rogers x fem!wife!reader

genre: fluffff

requested: yes

el's thoughts: a verrrryyyyy late valentine's day fic but here you gooo haha

Steve and Y/N’s love story was one of patience, devotion, and an old-fashioned kind of romance that made even the busiest Avengers stop and notice. They met shortly after Steve had adjusted to the modern world—Y/N was an agent working alongside S.H.I.E.L.D., someone who had always admired Captain America for more than just his reputation. She saw the man behind the shield, the soldier with a heart too big for the battles he had to fight.

Their connection was instant but slow-burning. Steve, ever the gentleman, took his time courting Y/N, despite how much she teased him for it all being very old-fashioned. Writing her letters even when texts would have been easier, bringing her flowers "just because," and insisting on walking her home no matter how many dangerous missions they'd both survived. She adored his kindness, his sense of duty, and the way his blue eyes softened whenever he looked at her.

After a few years of dating, Steve proposed in a way only he could—under the stars on the Brooklyn rooftop where he once dreamed of a life beyond war. They got married with a small ceremony, surrounded by friends who had become family. Life as Steve Rogers' wife came with challenges of its own, but Y/N never wavered in her love for him. She made sure that Steve, the man who had sacrificed so much, always felt loved, cherished, and seen.

~

Valentine’s Day had always been something Steve Rogers liked to keep simple. A quiet dinner, maybe some flowers, but nothing too extravagant. Y/N, however, had different plans this year.

She wanted to give him a night to remember—something reminiscent of the 1940s, a time Steve still held close to his heart. So, she went all out. A candlelit dinner, a tailored suit just for him, a beautifully decorated space with red and gold accents, and even a dance floor set up in their living room with a playlist of old jazz classics. She told him to come home dressed in his black suit. That was her only hint at her surprise for him. 

When Steve walked through the door that evening, his blue eyes widened in surprise. “Doll… what’s all this?”

Y/N grinned, stepping forward to greet him with a soft kiss. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Steve.”

He looked around, taking in the roses, the table set for two, and the soft glow of string lights overhead. “You did all this… for me?”

“Of course, I did. You deserve to be celebrated, too,” she said, smoothing her hands over the lapels of his suit. “I even got you this.”

She held up a neatly wrapped box, and Steve carefully unwrapped it, revealing a vintage pocket watch. His fingers traced over the engraving on the inside: My heart, forever yours – Y/N.

Steve swallowed hard, his throat tight with emotion. “Doll… this is…”

“Do you like it?” she asked softly, searching his face for a reaction.

He nodded, pulling her into his arms. “I love it. And I love you.”

Dinner was filled with laughter, conversation, and reminiscing about stories from the past. But the real magic happened when Y/N reached for his hand and pulled him toward the small dance floor.

“May I have this dance, Captain?” she teased, her eyes twinkling.

Steve chuckled, shaking his head fondly. “I think I’m supposed to ask you that.”

“Well, times have changed,” she said, stepping closer.

With a small smile, he placed his hand on her waist while she rested hers on his shoulder, and together they swayed to the soft sounds of Ella Fitzgerald. It felt like they had been transported back in time, just the two of them in their own little world.

“You always make me feel like I belong,” Steve murmured, resting his forehead against hers.

“You do belong,” Y/N whispered. “Right here, with me.”

He kissed her then—slow and deep, pouring every ounce of love he had for her into that moment. When they pulled apart, he grinned. “Best Valentine’s Day ever.”

Y/N smirked. “Good, because next year I might just top it.”

Steve laughed, spinning her around before pulling her back into his arms.

[chonkykitkatart]

Hello- Hi! Back again with more Family members! Thanks again to @n0t-aj4x as they're the one I've been discussing the details of these characters with- and Let me grace you with Two sisters from two of our boys! First off

Our Lovely Kida Tanaka and His older sister we decided he deserved, Sachiko Tanaka. And then!

Marcoh and His lovely little sister Graziella!

Like always, more information under the Cut ☺️

First of all the Tanakas. I have an Alt little sketch of them:

We know Tanaka's Dad is pretty strict so- I'd like to think he's a bit traditional and stresses the two out- when he isn't around they're much more at ease. Also since They come from an era where clothing is just changing, meaning, western fashion is taking over, I'd like to think they have varying opinions on it: Tanaka doesn't like how stuffy and tight western suits are, he prefers his traditional clothing, while Sachiko really likes western dresses and Finds Kimonos too heavy and frustrating to wear. Another thing you may have noticed is that They both have a Flower theme- It started when I made Tanaka's sprite and gave him a flower pin on his hat as a reference to his sister- then it derailed into being some sort of family crest- I wanted to give them a more meaningful pattern but I discovered that a lot od the patterns that were going around in the 1940s was disguised War propaganda and... 😟 I'm not drawing that-

Anyway Ages!

Kida Tanaka - 34

Sachiko Tanaka - 37

Now Marcoh and Graziella again!

Marcoh De Angelis - 31

Graziella De Angelis - 28

God I love them they look so sweet. Anyway- since they are Street kids from what is implied to be Sicily, I tried to dress them in outfits that would evoke that #countryfeel yk? Especially Marcoh- But since Yk- Graziella gets involved with the Mafia, and the Mafia is rich as Hell, I also wanted to give them a certain level of Class and Prestige. Richness if you will- and you can see that best on Graziella. Anyway! That's all for now, I love these Mofos and I hope you all enjoyed my little infodumps! Notes keep me alive, Love y'all ☺️

[stellar-collective]

//blood

buncha ghost designs i whipped up for a new au i’m working on (yes another one this is how i have fun)

it’s a ghost hunters au! Reginald and Phoenix both work at the Ghost Hunter Agency in a world where ghosts are like. a pretty common and established problem and they have to go in and investigate them Phasmophobia style! more details about them and the ghosts under the cut :3

cw for usual ghost/true crime stuff (gruesome murders/deaths and all that)

ok i have a whole story behind how these guys are all connected and why Reginald and Phoenix are visiting them all (basically Doctor Zor is a ghost so vengeful that they became a serial killer from the afterlife and they’re the victims that also became vengeful ghosts) but let’s focus on them individually first! they’re all from different eras and died in a variety of ways. in the actual story, most of them are invisible 90% of the time, so some of these designs are just for fun!

starting from the top left, the Fabricator was a fashion designer and one of Zor’s oldest recorded victims, dying around the 1910s. got shot by her own bear archer, L. she’s one of the most frightening ghosts to deal with because she’s fully aware of her surroundings and isn’t lashing out from confusion/fear, she just really loves scaring people to death. she haunts her old workshop and enjoys chasing people around with pins and scissors and setting up elaborate traps for them

below her is John Juniper, a 1940s starlet who was killed in a theater via electrical “accident” (Zor wrecked the wires) and happily haunted said theater for seventy years before Plot came along and riled him, prompting the GHA (Ghost Hunter Agency) to try and figure out why he was suddenly acting up. he’s normally fairly chill, but flies into a frenzy if you touch his masks or do classic bad luck theater things (whistling on stage, saying Macbeth, etc). he’s really scary when he’s hunting; dropping stage lights, making mirrors shatter, causing visual and auditory hallucinations, making spotlights go crazy, etc. Phoenix found this out the hard way lol

to his right is Commander Solaris, who died working on a project for the Space Race in the late 50s. the radioactive materials she was working with exploded, and now she haunts the remains of her lab. she is TERRIFYING to get near and extremely radioactive; the surest way of tracking her movements being a geiger counter. she fritzes out any electrical equipment nearby, glows in the dark, and has odd effects on the human body (shortness of breath, adrenaline spikes, plus the radiation). she’s the ghost that got the closest to killing Phoenix and probably took a few years off their lifespan.

moving upwards, we have Caliente and Hivemind, who died exactly how you’d expect: Hivemind was allergic to bees and simply supremely confident in his ability to keep them pacified (too bad Zor riled them up) and Caliente died in a welding “accident” that burned his house down. they both died in the 70s.

then we have Ollie (<3), who starved to death in a lighthouse in the 80s and, driven to madness by Zor, eternally guards something important to them. although he’s the least murderous of the bunch, he has one of the most visually frightening power sets; going absolutely ballistic with the howling and wailing and chains rattling and huge dark shapes slapping their tentacles against the windows and making the air go cold and the lights crazy if you even THINK about going to the top floor. but once Phoenix gives him an otter pop and snaps him to the present day, he calms right down.

there are a couple other ghost characters who i didn’t draw (like Anna Ulanova, who died in a train crash and fills the valley with haunting violin music on clear nights, and Daniel Sans, who fell to a chemical accident) but those are all the main ones i think! um, other important stuff— Roxana is still very much alive and kicking (she’s the same age as Reginald) but ends up catching Zor’s attention and almost becomes their latest victim before Phoenix and Reggie step in. i’ll probably draw the living characters later when i’ve properly visualized how i want the GHA uniforms to look. and yes, Phoenix has thrown themselves onto a pentagram and shouted “rock n roll, buckaroo!” because they do not feel fear. oki enough rambling for now :P

i feel like there HAS to be some absolutely genius title for this since it’s literally about ghosts and it’s the game I Expect You To Die but… i can’t think of anything. currently taking suggestions lol

[ineffableigh]

The costume details in Good Omens never cease to amaze me

I was working on cosplay research and looked up 'men's dress shirt rounded collar' since I noticed Aziraphale's blue dress shirt collar is rounded, not pointed:

So it turns out...

"The rounded collar was part of Eton College‘s dress code beginning in the mid-1800s. Because men wanted to be perceived as belonging to this exclusive club, the rounded, or “club” collar was copied by the masses." (Source)

Between that and the fact that Aziraphale's waistcoat, from what I can find, most closely matches shawl collar waistcoat designs from the 1830s, and his waistcoat at Saint James Park in 1862 is the first one we see him wear that most closely resembles his 'modern day' one, it's safe to say our lad is stuck at the start of the 19th century.

Which COULD be hilarious given undergarment styles of the time:

Through the late 19th century - union suits! Lovely for cold London winters.

1907...

However, I suspect 1940s style to be most likely, as it seems to be what he emulated when pretending to be Crowley at the end of Season 1.

1940s undergarments:

Anyway this has been your fashion history dork brain dump LOL

[patriottruth]

Every male trump voter in the United States is about to learn the truth about the deeply-rooted genetic rage that all living American women and girls of all ages have toward any and every male who voted, or who even would vote, for donald j. trump...

Luke 11:51 from the blood of Abel to the blood of Zechariah, who was killed between the altar and the sanctuary. Yes, I tell you, this generation will be held responsible for it all.

Every generation of American women have been victimized by trash like donald j. trump, nick fuentes, and every worthless piece of shit like them. It's like in Kamala Harris' presidential campaign vs. donald trump's presidential campaign:

Is her laugh perfect? Are her hair, clothes, and makeup flawless and has she avoided wearing a similar-looking outfit and/or fashion accessory more than once? Is she physically fit and pretty? Is she perfectly spoken at all times while being simultaneously pleasant and non-offensive? Is she enunciating perfectly at all times? Is she presenting herself in a refined, sophisticated, and high-class manner at all times, while simultaneously coming across as a lady of the common folks, without sounding fake, forced, condescending, or patronizing?

But donald trump? Lazy, fat slob with caked and greasy spray-on fecal application, wearing the same thing every time, and then there's all of that no-class, low-class, low-IQ, no-IQ, uneducated, boorish, word-slurring, mindnumbingly boring, retarded screaming-at-clouds, hateful Nazi grandpa routine showcasing extreme cognitive decline...and he and everyone like him in the United States gets a free pass, patted on the back, congratulated, awarded, rewarded, glorified, and celebrated as the living avatar of "American Exceptionalism" and genetic perfection while calling any women they work with their "work-wives" and expecting them to dress and act as a 1930's, 1940's, 1950's, 1960's, and 1970's wife should for her "loving" husband (whom she's entirely dependent on and thankful for).

Kamala Harris is being brutalized and treated as if she's the worst failure in American history, yet, if we can actually trust the swing state results, it's possible that trump may have only won each of the swing states by tens of thousands to less than 150,000 in most cases; and at this time, donald trump only has around 3,000,000 more popular votes than Kamala Harris nationwide (Hillary Clinton beat donald trump by 3,000,000 popular votes in 2016 with 5,000,000 less votes than Kamala Harris received in 2024). Why wasn't donald trump brutalized in all the same ways for losing to Hillary Clinton by 3,000,000 votes in 2016?

And then there's the lie that no one showed up to vote for Kamala Harris because of a whole host of reasons you normally hear coming out of the mouths of male domestic abusers; but it's coming from men and women talking heads at the main media outlets. And let's not forget about how those domestic abuser insults include being incapable of managing money (a man's job, a breadwinner's job, but never a woman's job or entitlement). Kamala Harris is receiving massive 1930's, 1940's, 1950's, 1960's, and 1970's misogynistic abuse from every possible outlet that was cordial to her until the last poll closed on November 5, 2024.

American Women Have Only Had a Legal/Constitutional Right to Vote to Advance the Human and Civil Rights of All American Women and Girls Since August 26, 1920 (104 years).

American Women and Girls Have Only Had Access to Real Financial Independence Since October 28, 1974 (50 years).

American Women and Girls Have Only Had Access to Real Business Ownership Since October 25, 1988 (36 years).

The entire American story of real human and civil rights for American women and girls is only as old as most living American grandmothers and their daughters, granddaughters, and great granddaughters.

American males of all ages are about to be tested for their character, qualities, truth, and honor; and the ones who fail the tests they'll never realize they're taking won't be reproducing more donald trumps, nick fuentes', and trump voters.

There are stories all over Reddit about American Thanksgiving and Christmas get-togethers being cancelled and people cutting trump-voting family members and former friends out of their lives for voting to end their human and civil rights, freedoms, privileges, and entitlements that American women and girls of all ages have only started to really enjoy for the last 50 years.

American women in their 90's and 80's placed all their hopes and dreams in their daughters who are now in their 60's and 50's; and those daughters placed all of their and their mother's hopes and dreams into their daughters who are now in their 30's and 20's; and those daughters placed all of their hopes and dreams into their daughters; but because of every last trump-voting male in the United States, all of those American women and girls' hopes and dreams are in the process of being completely and permanently destroyed; and all of those pre-K and K-12 daughters now have less rights than their great grandmothers.

You can't treat other human beings that way and think they're not gonig to feel certain ways about it.

I really wouldn't want to be a male trump voter right about now...

After nick fuentes made his little "Your Body, My Choice," "Men Win," and "There Will Never Be a Female President...NEVER" speech, women doxxed him, showed up at his house, he pepper-sprayed one and kicked her down a flight of brick stairs, police and EMS showed up to care for the woman, and now little nick fuentes is hiding in his mommy's basement so she can protect his "Alpha Male" self.

Fool around and find out is definitely the phrase of the day.

[fayes-fics]

When The World Is Free: Chapter 4 - Le Rideau Tombe Avant La Fin

MASTERPOST PREV | NEXT

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader, WW2 AU.

Warnings: none.

Word Count: 2.6k

Author’s Note: Multi-chapter fic based on a request by the lovely @amillcitygirl! Please see the masterpost for a synopsis of this story. This is reader and Eloise's farewell to Paris. Thanks to @colettebronte for beta reading. Enjoy!

Paris, September 1939

The next three days are a blur, fleeting but at once memorable, lived on borrowed time. 

Knowing the inevitable is happening - that you will need to leave Paris soon - you give notice at work; so sad to have only been there for a matter of weeks rather than the planned months. On a brighter note, however, you are able to spend the days with Benedict, showing him all you have learned about art in the city in the short time you have had. Many a happy hour is spent in galleries. Both of you tripping over your words to share what you know about the art and the artists in a breathless, excited fashion. Kindred spirits in your appreciation of the works. Sometimes lost in a reverie as you stand in front of a canvas as large as your entire living room, the scale and complexity literally dumbfounding. 

And, of course, a little of your heart is stolen with each moment together - the first person you have ever met who truly seems as enthused as you about the subject matter. That it's all wrapped up in that handsome face adds more complexity and confusion. You can't deny the skip in your pulse when he looks at you, weighted, a touch of reverence, so focused as you speak passionately on the subject you love. And you are certain your face is a picture of devotion as he waxes lyrical, too. You know you are getting swept up into the almost cliched romance of it all - the city of love, a handsome stranger, the no doubt impending invasion giving a sense of urgency and finality to every hour- it's a powder keg that feels dangerous as it is intoxicating. 

—

Early evening of the second day, as you wander back from the Louvre, you pass by the offices of the cruise company you came from America with. 

“Oh! I should speak to them about swapping my return ticket,” you comment, seeing the men standing outside in the smart red livery of the company, speaking in English to crowds of people inquiring about escaping France.

“See if you can move it to the day after tomorrow,” Benedict counsels. “That is the day we are due to set sail. We can all go to the coast together on the train.”

“That would be nice,” you admit, realising it will be lovely to have someone to wave farewell to, even if there is a little stab in your chest at the idea you may never see Benedict again. Or, of course, darling Eloise.

So, a couple of hours later, after an early dinner, you are back on this same street, your ticket in hand, waiting patiently to speak to one of the young men in uniform. 

“Mademoiselle?” he beckons you forward.

“Good evening. I have a ticket to New York for eleven months, hence, 12th August 1940. I am hoping I can swap to a sailing in a few days? Ideally, the day after tomorrow?”

The men exchange glances, and there seems to be a swirl of excitement as they crowd around you.

“A real ticket?” one of them pipes up, an excitement in their tone which strikes you as rather odd.

With a nod, you hand it over, and they all seem to confer, then grab a pad of tickets and transfer some details. 

“Not a problem at all, Mademoiselle. Here, this is for a sailing two days hence. Thank you for travelling with us!”

They seem inordinately pleased as you walk away clutching your new ticket, a mix of emotions swirling. The finality of your time in Paris suddenly so real, the date on the newly issued ticket, ink still drying, sinking in.

—

When you push open the door to your apartment, still with a tinge of melancholy, you are taken aback by the whirlwind you encounter.

“How did I amass this many mugs?” Eloise decries, standing amidst a complete bomb of possessions scattered all over the surfaces of your apartment.

“Well, you can't take them all home,’ Benedict points out wearily, “you have your case, and that trunk there, Eloise, and that is all.”

Eloise rolls her eyes. “Well aware of that brother…” holding a blue and red mug in each hand, assessing which she likes more.

“I suppose I'm lucky I've only been here a matter of weeks,” you pipe up as they both turn to look at you, Benedict shooting you a lopsided grin as Eloise barges forward and loops your arm in hers, dragging you across the room.

“Just the person I need!” she declares. “Help me! What mug screams, ‘I had a life in Paris once, and it was amazing’?” She gestures to the array of drinking vessels she has pulled out to the cupboard.

You ponder the question with a thoughtful pout. “Why not just leave them all for the next tenant? I'm sure Solene would appreciate the ability to rent out the apartment with kitchen supplies?” you try to be diplomatic.

“Yes, I know that,” Eloise sighs, “there were mugs when I got here. That, of course, got mysteriously broken after a few days, which is a blessing as they were all hideous…”

“You broke some perfectly good mugs?” Benedict frowns disapprovingly.

“Do you live here?” she shoots back pointedly, raising an eyebrow, “I am only seeking the counsel of those who live here… not a squatter,” she sniffs.

You share a look with Benedict -  yours contrite, his bemused - as if this is just another day with Eloise. Which, to be fair, it sort of is.

“If I had to choose one…” you point to the cherry red earthenware mug that looks French in a way you can’t quantify; it just does.

“You’re right as always,” Eloise grins, seizing it. “Much better help than that one,” she adds, sticking her tongue out at Benedict as she wraps the chosen item in yesterday's newspaper.

“Packing going well?” you breeze, your eye again meeting Benedict’s as he pulls a face that makes you giggle hard.

“You try cramming nine months of freedom into a teeny trunk,” Eloise grumbles, heading towards her bedroom.

“I am just taking my clothes…” you admit. You only have a few additional items you purchased since you arrived in Paris that should all fit if you pack smart enough.

“That’s yours, by the way…” Eloise gestures to Benedict’s painting on the wall before she disappears out of sight. “I have no room for it, and it seems strange to carry a picture of a house I'm headed to…” she calls out down the corridor.

“I would love it…” you inhale, looking at the artist imploringly as if somehow you need his permission.

“Y-you want it?” Hesitant, disbelieving almost. 

“If you will permit me,” you confess, clasping a hand over your heart.

“It is yours,” he replies, his face a mixture of pleasant surprise and humble acceptance.

You rush forward and take the painting off the wall, reverentially cradling it between your hands. 

“Thank you, Benedict,” you sigh, a little fizz in your stomach at the idea he wants you to have it. Like you will always have a piece of him with you once you are apart.

“I can paint you others...” he offers quickly, in a rush of exhaled breath. “Whatever you want…”

Something in the tumbling sincerity of his words has your heart beating fast.

“I can think of nothing more appealing than a wall full of your works…” you confess while trying not to think that room would be thousands of miles away.

He blushes adorably, casting his eyes down until suddenly, his head jerks up again. “Wait I…I have something I want to give you, actually,” He scurries across the room and gathers a sketchbook. “I'm sorry it's not framed, but here…”

He carefully tears out the page from his pad. And your heart stops.

It's you from two days ago. Sitting on a bench overlooking the Seine, the Eiffel Tower over your shoulder as you read a book. You wondered what he was doing sitting a few feet away that day as you took a lunch break. Now you know. It's a perfect pencil rendering of the scene, each sketched line a wondrous recreation of that sun-soaked afternoon.

“Benedict….” all other words fail. 

“I want you to have it,” he murmurs, “your time in Paris may have been unexpectedly brief, but you deserve a memento of the happiness you found here, however fleeting it had to be.”

Tears prickle in the corner of your eyes; you want to rush to him, to throw your arms around him, thank him profusely, but you are scared to. Scared that in the moment you would get carried away, press your lips to his…

“Thank you...” is all you can struggle out, inadequate and awkward.  

“De rein…” Again, that perfect accent has you practically swaying

But the spell is broken when Eloise reappears, complaining loudly about the size of her trunk, and part of you is grateful for it. Guilt floods your being as you think how bad of a person you must be to covet your best friend’s brother when you have a fiance back home. One you will, in fact, likely see in a matter of days now… tamping down that disquiet, you excuse yourself to your room, placing your ticket on the mantel and refusing to look at it as you pick up a book to read.

—

Solene’s hug is so tight you feel like she is crushing your ribs. Or perhaps it's that you feel a little too fragile today.

“I shall miss you, ma cherie,” she mumbles into your hair before pulling back and seizing your jaw. “You will come back when this is all over, oui?”

“Oui,” you agree, knowing it’s more of a wish than a promise.

Once again, she pulls you in for a tight hug before turning to Eloise and clinging to her just the same, lingering longer.

“Souviens-toi, ma sœur,” she reminds Eloise, having told you the previous night that her sister lives just outside the port city of Le Havre should you need a place to stay for any reason.

It's two days later, the day of your departure, and your eyes ping around the now-tidy apartment, only furniture left where once there was a jumble of life. It looks much less like home, making handing over your key a little less painful. One final wistful glance at the Eiffel Tower out of the window is all you can manage before picking up your case and walking out, scared to look back.

Benedict is loitering in the corridor outside and shoots you a sympathetic glance as you exit, eyes glassy.

“You will return,” he offers solemnly, even as you both know it's just a platitude, before turning his attention to the apartment door. “Hurry up, Eloise, we need to get to the train…” he calls.

You start to move towards the sweeping staircase, preferring a long amble down its winding loop than the lift, your case feeling much heavier than when you arrived mere weeks ago…

—

You watch the puffs of steam float past the window as the train picks up pace, pulling out of Gare Saint-Lazare. Perhaps aptly, it begins raining soon after, streaks of water lashing the glass as you rest your head back into the seat.

“I can't bear to look at it,” Eloise sighs, closing her eyes so as not to see Paris slipping away.

You reach over the table between you and grasp her hand, and her eyes open to give you a nod of thanks before closing again. 

“Why do you have to be American?” she whines. “I would do anything to have you come to England. We could get a little place together in London…” She winds her feet around yours like a vine, needing the connection in your last few hours together.

“If only…” you agree, a weight akin to a heavy boulder settling in your stomach at the idea you will soon be back on Long Island, a world that seems so…. staid to you now.

Benedict shoots you a sympathetic look across from his seat next to Eloise on the aisle but says nothing, going back to reading his book as it's your turn to sigh, the city now a blur outside the window as you speed towards the end of your time in France.

–

Half an hour later, Eloise is sleeping, her head lolling lightly on the glass with the gentle rocking motion of the train, now following the meander of the Seine just outside Poissy.

“She didn't sleep well last night,” Benedict observes, looking up from his book and following your line of sight. “I don't think she wanted her last night in Paris to ever end.”.

His words take you back to just hours ago, a rousing evening in your favourite local bistro filled with wine, camaraderie and song. Benedict didn't accompany you and Eloise, preferring to stay home and read, he said, but part of you wishes he was there to help commiserate and toast your final night chez Paris.

“You should have come out,” you opine with a slight pout, which makes him chuckle.

“It's not me who had to have the fitting farewell,” he points out with a sympathetic smile.

“Still, it would have been nice if you were there…” The idle thought is out of your lips before you can think about how that might sound, and you know you are blushing when his mouth opens a fraction in surprise, a dot of colour on his cheeks, too.

“I'm sure you still had a wonderful time,” he placates demurely.

You smile and nod, feeling a little twinge in your ankle from all the dancing you have done.

“Are you excited?” he asks, changing the subject.

You frown. “Why would I be excited to leave Paris?”

To be reunited with your fiance?” he answers slowly, a look of puzzlement on his face that it had not occurred to you.

“Oh…” you pause, your mind recalling Stanley’s smile, although somehow it seems faded now, like an out-of-focus photograph, as if you cannot wholly remember it now.  “I… I suppose…”

His face is a picture of concern again. “You do not sound certain…” he hedges.

“I am not, to be honest,” you sigh for what seems like the hundredth time today. “These few weeks have… shown me so much of the world,” you explain, “I have had so many novel experiences, met so many wonderful new people…” you can't help but let your gaze meet his as you say it. “It makes my life before seem… small? Parochial?” you are clutching for the right words as his hazy eyes track your every facial move.

“Like an old shoe that used to be comfortable but now suddenly feels too tight?” he offers a metaphor that is so apt you can't help but nod.

“Exactly!’ you agree, enthusiastically waving your hand. 

There is a quiet moment where your eyes meet again, a tingle over your skin, a pulse of energy so enlivening.

“Do you feel there is perhaps something out there better for you?” his ask feels loaded, a quiet murmur that carries so much hidden meaning but is nearly lost in the rhythmic sound of the train clattering over the tracks. So much so you could likely pretend you didn't hear, but you don't. 

“I just might…” you answer softly, even as you are unable to look away. Something about this man makes you daring, unwilling to do anything but be bold.

Long, elegant fingers reach out over the table and are about to brush the back of your hand when Eloise suddenly startles awake between you. His hand disappears rapidly, pulling back as if burned. All you can concentrate on is the ashy taste of regret at your best friend’s timing.

Benedict taglist: @foreverlonginguniverse @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @benedictspaintbrush @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @truly-dionysus @fictionalmenloversblog @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz @panhoeofmanyfandoms @kinokomoonshine @causeimissu @delehosies @m-rae23 @last-sheep @kmc1989 @desert-fern @starkeylover @corpseoftrees-queen @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23 @how-many-stars-in-the-sky @amygdtjhddzvb @sya-skies @balladynaaa

[m4rv3l-girl]

Since you smashed my other request👏🏻 I was wondering if you could do this one as its nearing Christmas🫶🏻

Reader keeps asking bucky what he wants for Christmas but bucky keeps saying nothing, reader is stuck for ideas then she comes up with this idea; https://www.facebook.com/share/r/AS8RZtHRrSf9KTre/

She's gets all dolled up like she's from the 40s and does a photoshoot and puts a picture in a pocket watch for him and bucky opens it and is shocked and tears up alittle because its part of his past and future all in one🥹🫶🏻

A Timeless Christmas

Warmings: None, just utter fluff.

The first flakes of snow dusted the streets of Brooklyn. Y/N hustled through the shops, her scarf pulled snug around her neck.

Christmas was around the corner, and while the lights and music filled the city with cheer, she felt a pang of frustration. For weeks, she had been trying to coax an answer out of Bucky about what he wanted for Christmas, but his responses ranged from vague to downright unhelpful.

“I don’t need anything, Doll,” he’d said the last time she asked, his steel-blue eyes soft but unwavering. “You’re all I need.”

Sweet? Absolutely. Helpful? Not in the slightest. Y/N loved Bucky with all her heart, but the man was impossible to shop for. He wasn’t materialistic and didn’t care for modern gadgets. She wanted to give him something meaningful, something that bridged the gap between the man he used to be and the man he was now. The question was, what?

Later that evening, she flopped onto the couch with her phone, scrolling aimlessly through social media. A video popped up in her feed: a woman dressed in vintage 1940s attire, complete with pin curls and a red lip, posing for an old-fashioned photoshoot. Y/N paused, her heart skipping a beat as an idea took root. It was perfect. A tribute to the time Bucky grew up in, combined with a personal touch just for him.

Y/N’s mind raced as she began to plan. She’d need the right outfit, hair, and makeup to pull it off. And a photographer who could capture the look she was going for. Excitement bubbled in her chest as she realized how much he’d love it—a reminder of his past, but with her in it, blending their worlds together.

The next week was a whirlwind. Y/N scoured thrift stores and online shops for the perfect 1940s-style dress: a deep emerald green tea dress with a nipped waist and a flowing skirt. She paired it with seamed stockings and vintage kitten heels. A delicate pearl necklace and matching earrings completed the look. She booked an appointment with a local salon that specialized in vintage hairstyles and found a photographer whose studio was decked out with props from the era.

The day of the photoshoot, Y/N felt a mix of nerves and excitement. The stylist pinned her hair into perfect victory rolls, and the makeup artist gave her a classic red lip and winged eyeliner. When she looked in the mirror, she hardly recognized herself. She looked like she’d stepped out of a time machine.

“You look incredible,” the photographer said as she adjusted the lighting. The studio was set up with a retro armchair, an old phonograph, and a small Christmas tree adorned with tinsel. “This is going to be stunning.”

Y/N posed shyly at first, but as the session went on, she grew more comfortable. She laughed as the photographer encouraged her to twirl in her dress, the skirt flaring out around her.

By the end of the session, she felt like a Hollywood star.

When the photos were ready, Y/N selected her favorite: a shot of her sitting in the armchair, one leg crossed over the other, her hands delicately holding a wrapped gift. Her smile was soft, her gaze slightly averted, as if she were waiting for someone—waiting for him. She had the image printed and carefully placed inside a vintage-style pocket watch she’d found online. The watch was silver, with intricate engravings on the outside. It was timeless, just like the gift.

Christmas morning arrived with a blanket of fresh snow covering the city. Y/N woke early, the nerves from her surprise making her stomach flutter. She and Bucky exchanged small gifts by the tree, the living room glowing with the warm light of the fairy lights. He’d gotten her a soft cashmere scarf in her favorite color and a book she’d been eyeing for months. She couldn’t stop smiling, but she kept glancing at the small box under the tree, waiting for the right moment.

Finally, after their second cup of coffee, she handed him the box.

“What’s this?” he asked, his brow furrowing slightly as he took it from her.

“Just open it,” she said, unable to keep the grin off her face.

Bucky unwrapped the box carefully, his large hands surprisingly delicate. When he opened the lid and saw the pocket watch, his breath hitched. He ran his fingers over the engravings before pressing the clasp to open it. The photo inside made him freeze.

“Y/N…” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. His thumb brushed over the image, as if he couldn’t quite believe it was real. “Doll, this is…” He trailed off, blinking rapidly as his eyes glistened.

“Do you like it?” she asked softly, her own heart in her throat.

He looked up at her, his expression a mixture of awe and tenderness. “Like it? I… I don’t even know what to say. It’s perfect.”

Bucky closed the watch carefully, holding it in his hand as if it were the most precious thing in the world. Then he pulled her into his arms, holding her tightly. “You didn’t have to do all this for me,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “But I… Thank you. It’s like… it’s like you took my past and made it part of my future. I don’t know how you do it, Doll. You always know exactly what I need, even when I don’t.”

She smiled against his shoulder, tears pricking her own eyes. “You deserve it, Bucky. You deserve everything.”

They stayed like that for a long moment, wrapped up in each other, the pocket watch resting safely in his hand. Later, when they went for a walk through the snowy streets, he carried it in his coat pocket, his thumb occasionally brushing over it, a silent reminder of the woman who had brought light and love into his life.

As the day went on, the watch found a home on the bedside table, right next to a framed photo of the two of them. Bucky caught himself glancing at it often, the image inside grounding him in a way he hadn’t felt in decades. The lines between his past and present blurred, leaving him feeling whole for the first time in years.

That evening, as they curled up on the couch, Bucky tilted his head back to look at Y/N. “You really are somethin’ else, you know that?”

She laughed softly, resting her head on his shoulder. “You’re worth it.”

His hand found hers, fingers intertwining. “You gave me more than a gift today. You gave me a piece of myself I thought I lost forever. I’ll never forget this, Doll. Never.”

She squeezed his hand, her smile widening. “Merry Christmas, Bucky.”

“Merry Christmas, My best girl.”

The snow continued to fall outside, filling the city with a peaceful silence. But inside their small apartment, the warmth of their love filled every corner much like the man who held it so dearly in his heart.

——————————————————————————————————

Hope you enjoyed this one too, Dear! Have a great Christmas! 🎄🎁

[blood-red-ocean]

The Soul Always Remembers.

Warnings: angst, death, angst, sad lesbians, angst (but hopeful ending??)

Tagging @winterfireblond because I know you love your angst bestie

1940's.

The small, quaint yet elegant bar was alive with the sound of music and laughter, its dark oak interior almost glowing with the light of several lanterns. You slid your glass across the bar, catching it as it slid back, refilled anew with golden liquor. You raised it to the bartender with a nod of thanks before turning back to tonight's main attraction - another lively performance by Lady D and The Pallboys. Everyone was enraptured by her - because of course they were, who wouldn't be? - but you found that her eyes were only trained on you. As if she had been singing solely to you. It had been this way the last few nights, but you had yet to get a chance to introduce yourself to her. As soon as she finished her set, she would disappear backstage, only to reappear the next night.

Not tonight, however.

Tonight, you would get your chance.

It went how every night went. The last notes of their final song were drawn out, her lilting voice wavering at the very end in her own unique fashion. Then, one by one, they took a bow and disappeared behind the silky red curtain behind the stage. The bar patrons started to dwindle after this, those who did not immediately leave choosing to request one more drink. You took your chance, now. You slunk along the side of the room, to the edge of the red curtain. You peered inside, breath hitching as you saw her. As she bid the last of the Pallboys goodnight, it was now or never.

You took a step behind the curtain.

"Alcina?"

Damn, those eyes were even more intense from this proximity. With a sly smile, she strode to you and took your hand, pulling you with her.

1950's.

You wiped the sweat off your brow as you stood up, your back aching from moving bags of dirt around. Your father had employed you to help him with his gardening business, thankfully sparing you from the nightmare of factory work. The feeling of cool metal against your face reminded you of the golden ring that lay on your finger, and you couldn't help but blush.

Alcina had slid it onto your finger after several endless nights of passion. A reminder, she said it was, of her love for you. A reminder that wherever she may be, she'll always be yours. And that, of course, was followed by her hands once again exploring your body in the candlelight. You'd be lying if you said you didn't dream of those nights every night since.

Your father told you that you'd have a special client come to visit today, a VIP client. Someone of high status who wanted to get some information for landscaping their abode. When you asked why someone so wealthy would be asking about his humble gardening service instead of hiring someone privately, he just shrugged.

Thankfully, you didn't need to wonder about it much longer when the VIP client arrived. When you saw Alcina's eyes peering at you from across the garden, a smile on her face.

This time, you wouldn't let her slip away. You were going to make the most out of the very few years left that the Sickness had afforded you.

1980's.

You were different this time. Different hair. Different smile. Different eyes. Different voice. But the same soul. She could tell.

Alcina could always tell.

She spied you walking across your college campus one evening after classes, laughing with some other people your age. At first, she didn't want to believe it was you. She didn't want to believe that the one person she had loved most, the one loss that had affected her most, that had led her down the chain of events she had experienced, was here again. Especially not since the last time she saw you, you were frail and deathly. She took a drag of her cigarette and breathed out slowly.

Just like you had taken your time to work up the courage to see her after her show decades ago, so she had taken her time to approach you after classes. Every night she had the chance to, but every time, she just walked away.

Not tonight.

Tonight, as she watched you and your friends part ways at a fork in the path, she extinguished her cigarette. The path you were following curved towards her, and it would be so easy for her to approach you... But she couldn't. How could she lay her hands on you again, knowing they'd been swimming in the blood and viscera of her victims? How could she even look in your innocent eyes after all that she had done, waiting for a death that would never come, waiting to come back to you in another life? How--

"Wow, I love your dress!"

Alcina snapped out of her thoughts and looked towards you. Her eyes met yours, and something akin to primal recognition flickered through them. Her dress was dark scarlet, trimmed with golden thread, not quite appropriate fashion for the decade. Alcina smiled and stepped forward, taking your hand in hers and bringing it to her lips. She was surprised that she held her trembling back long enough to kiss the back of your hand.

"Thank you, draga," she murmured.

"Have... Have we met before...?" You shook your head, laughing at yourself. "Sorry, it's probably crazy, I just--"

"Not crazy." She smiled. "I feel the exact same way."

1990's.

"No! NO, DAMN YOU!"

Alcina could only watch as her creator held her beloved by the throat in a single hand. So close, we were so close this time-- "Let her go!" Alcina roared.

"This? This is what has been distracting you, this is what has been causing you to disappoint me again? This... This... Mortal?" Miranda sneered at you as you clawed at her hand, trying futilely to free yourself. "I thought you were better than this, Dimitrescu."

"Let her go, damn you!" Alcina attempted to leap up to Miranda, but her mutation hadn't quite finished yet, and her wings were as effective as a baby bird's. "Damn it, Miranda, she did nothing wrong."

"I don't care." Miranda's cruel laughter cut off and she looked directly at Alcina below her. "We have one goal. I created you - all of you - with one goal in mind. And you have forgotten it - for a mortal?"

A flick of Miranda's wrist had you flying through the air, slamming into a nearby wall with a sickening crunch before falling to the floor. As Miranda scoffed and turned away, Alcina ran to you, dread and panic in her every heartbeat. You were barely alive when she reached you - but barely. You whimpered, reaching for her, coughing feebly.

"Shh, I know, draga. I know. I'm so, so sorry." She brushed strands of hair from your face with the back of her gloved fingertips, shushing you gently. "I know." She did know, as she felt your pulse fluttering. She knew. "You can rest. It's okay. I've got you."

She remained bent over your lifeless form for some time, unable to move, shoulders trembling out of anger. You two had almost made it. Almost.

"I'll find you again. I promise."

2020's.

The coffee shop was unusually quiet for this time of day - and semester. To be fair, it had been raining, so maybe nobody wanted to come out in the drizzle. The round table before you was covered in textbooks, each open to a certain page as you tried to study them all at once. There were numerous empty coffee cups to the side, another one warming your hands. With a heavy sigh, you pulled your phone out of your pocket, hoping a quick peruse of social media would help clear your mind.

There was a rattle as a teacup and saucer were set down on a small, non-textbook covered portion of the table. You looked up at the sound, smiling at the waiter. "This is from the rich as fuck lady in the corner," He said. "She says that you need to drink something that won't make your heart explode for once."

"Rich as fuck?" You enquired, eyebrow raised.

He shrugged. "She's elegant, so I just assumed. Anyway, she's been here at the same time as you for weeks. I think she wants to get to know you."

"Oh then by all means, bring her over here!" You exclaimed. You gestured to your textbooks and added, "Anything would be better than this right now."

Admittedly, you had been feeling eyes on you for some time, but you were too concerned with your studies to try and discern who it was. The chair on the opposite end of the table pulled back with a scrape, the rustling of clothes signalling that whoever it was had come to meet you.

"Hey, thank you for the tea, you really didn't have to do... That..."

You trailed off as your eyes met her golden ones. She looked like someone who should be at a glittery socialite party, not at a humble little cafe on your campus. She quite literally took your breath away - it took you a moment to realise that she was much taller than she should've been, and her skin far too pale. But you didn't care. While all eyes were on her, she had eyes only for you.

"I-- Have we...?" You shook your head, cursing at yourself inwardly. "Have we met?"

She smiled then, reaching her hand out. Without thinking, yours found its way into hers, and she responded as she stroked her thumb across the back of your hand, "I know exactly how you feel, draga."

All notions of studying were forgotten, then. The two of you sat in that coffee shop until the sun began to dip below the horizon, talking about everything and anything. You were almost sad to see that it was time to go home. The rain had stopped by the time the sun set, though, so the two of you stood outside in the street for a while longer. Beneath the glow of an old streetlight, she looked even more beautiful, hauntingly so. There was something in her eyes, something ancient, but you couldn't quite put your finger on it.

There was a lull in the conversation, and you found yourself lost in her gaze. She reached up and gently caressed your cheek, murmuring, "Different again, but..."

"W...What did you say?" You asked, eyes flicking between her gaze and her lips.

She simply shook her head. "Nothing, draga." She whispered with a smile. Her other arm snaked around your waist and, in an instant, her lips were upon yours, your hands in her hair. You melted into her as she did into you, and the same thought ran through your heads - hers with purpose, and yours for reasons unknown to you.

This time, we'll get it right.