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sha-n-dowbannedlol · 1 day ago

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Phainon — My Way Of Life

read this first!

cw: knight!phainon, fem!princess!reader, animal cruelty, manipulation, grooming (but not sexually), emotional abuse

an: to be honest i've been writing bits and pieces of this au since i finished 3.0 (the same day it was released) because phainon is such a sweetheart that i cant help but feel like he's too good to be perfect, thus, this au. and i havent really wrote a sequel yet, to be honest, but what i do have written up is the prologue, which is this... practically just parts of what i've already written compiled into one lol. im assigned to the OR so im not sure if i can write up a sequel soon but i do have ideas already hehe

The infant’s wail echoed through the marble‑lined corridors, the sound bouncing off vaulted ceilings until it spilled into the royal nursery. In the obstetrician’s arms—swaddled in linens still warm from first breath—the newborn finally quieted, and at the sight of such, Her Majesty’s lips curved into a rare, unguarded smile.

Moments later, attendants had bathed and bundled the child in soft blanket. The newborn slept now, cheeks flushed, unaware of the world he'd entered. Beside him lay another babe, barely a few months older, yet already every inch a princess; Her gown an explosion of pastel silks and seed‑pearled lace. Tiny fingers fluttered from the ruffles, reaching instinctively for the newcomer.

"Look at them," the Queen whispered quietly, as if she might shatter the spell if she spoke a little louder. The princess’s chubby hand closed around her companion’s.

"Have you chosen his name?" Her Majesty turned to the young woman—her maid, still resting on the bed, the sheets pooling around her waist.

"Phaenon," The maid said, voice velvet‑soft. "He will be called Phaenon."

"Phaenon," the Queen repeated, letting the syllables roll off her tongue. "The Bright One."

Her gaze lingered on the intertwined hands of her daughter and the maid’s son, a tender cradle of fingers—royal lace against humble clothing.

The Queen leans closer to the toddlers until her words brush the downy curls of both children, whispering.

"Phaenon... May your light forever chase away my little princess’ shadows."

Thus, marks the beginning of two lives fated to always be intertwined.

They grew up within the same garden walls, the princess and the boy named Phaenon. Raised under two very different ceilings but always ending up beneath the same sun-dappled canopy—feet muddied, laughter echoing off marble columns, the air between them always thick with make-believe kingdoms and imagined rebellions.

It was innocence, in the purest form of the word. Two children, barely old enough to count past twenty on their fingers and toes, who didn't yet understand borders or bloodlines, only the strange gravity that drew one to the other.

"P-H-A-E-N-O-N," he spelled it slowly, crouched beside her in the dirt, a twig scratching the letters into the soil between them.

"You spelled it wrong." The princess frowned, brows furrowing.

"No, I didn’t." He responds in protest.

"You did." The little girl tilted her head, braid slipping over her shoulder. "It’s Phainon. Like phaíno, to shine. I heard it in Father’s study. Your name is Greek. That’s how it’s supposed to be."

He hesitated, glancing down at the letters.

"But… my mother said..."

"Besides, I like it better with the i," she interrupted. "It's prettier."

And that was that.

He stared at the name in the dirt. And then, with a sigh that almost sounded amused, he watched as her little hand was already scribbling again in the dirt, the stroke of the 'i' tall and proud.

"Fine," he muttered, a little too easily. "Phainon, then."

The princess beamed, victorious.

That night, he carefully crossed out the old spelling on the little wooden tag he kept hidden under his pillow, carving a wobbly 'i' in its place.

Their mothers often watched them from the veranda, sharing quiet conversations behind gloved hands, their laughter soft like silk rustling in the breeze. Her Majesty insisted the two play together, said it was good for the princess to have someone constant, someone who didn’t look at her and see a throne.

So, they had play hours in the garden, poetry lessons shared between two cushions instead of one, toys not handed over, but passed between small fingers.

And for a time, they were safe. Phainon laughed freely, and the princess learned how to give as much as she received. There were tea parties with unevenly poured cups and games of hide-and-seek that always ended with both of them giggling under the same curtain, their tiny feet sticking out.

But not everyone agreed.

They weren't supposed to be friends, that much, the King clear with every tightening of his jaw.

"You are not equals," the king growled to the little boy one day, voice as cold as the steel of his crown. "She is of royal blood. You are not her friend, you are hers. She commands you."

Phainon stood still beneath that glare, hands clenched behind his back after his hand was ripped away from the princess's own. His own father stood beside the king, face unmoved. A wall of tradition and stubborn loyalty.

Phainon didn’t understand all the words, but he understood the tone. And the way the King’s hand lingered on the hilt of his sword even while speaking to children.

Later, when the King was gone, silence filled the space he left behind, until Her Majesty gently broke it. She kissed her daughter’s forehead, then turned to Phainon and combed his snowy white hair with her own fingers.

"You are more than what they say," she told him, voice quiet like prayer. "And to her, you’re more than even you know. And her thoughts are all that should matter."

Behind her, the maid stood quietly, a flicker of something knowing in her eyes. She had always understood the cost of being near royalty, and as much as she worried for her son, she trusted in Her Majesty more.

But childhood does not protect against the cruelty of the world forever. The quiet world they’d built of play and storybooks eventually shattered.

It happened in the same week.

The Queen’s room was sealed first, rumors fluttering through the castle like moths drawn to flame: an illness, a poison, a betrayal. By the time they carried her body out under black velvet, the maid was gone too—disappeared without a trace.

Not even a funeral, not even a grave.

Phainon cried the first night. Curled up beside the princess on her bed, he clenched the hem of her nightgown in his fist, as if it could keep him tethered to something that hadn’t vanished.

Both were still too young to understand death, but were old enough to feel the emptiness it brought. The princess reached out and ran her fingers through his hair.

"She said you were bright," she whispered. "So don’t go dim."

Phainon didn’t answer. He only cried quieter.

Time, as it always does, moved forward—uncaring.

The laughter that once echoed between the hedgerows wilted like the roses left untended. The princess no longer ran barefoot across the grass with Phainon trailing behind her, no longer insisted they chase fireflies until their fingertips glowed.

They were growing up... and apart.

It wasn’t sudden. It was slow. The space between them grew not with a single moment but with a thousand small silences, like frost creeping over a windowpane, easy to miss until everything was cold.

The princess became a fixture in court: upright, poised, learned in the languages of diplomacy and cruelty alike. Every step she took was watched, weighed, recorded. Every mistake was punished before it could become rumor.

Phainon, too, was growing. But unlike her, he grew like a shadow that had forgotten how to be a boy.

Without his mother’s hand to smooth back his hair, no warm voice to remind him that he was more than what they told him he was, there was only the King.

And the King was merciless.

"She is your purpose," he would say, voice like steel scraping bone. "You are not her friend. You are not her equal. You are hers. You exist because she lets you. Because I let you."

"You’re the sword sheathed at her side. Her creature. Her proof of power."

Phainon would nod, like he understood. He was still so small then—barely taller than the armrests of the thrones—but the words lodged in his ribs like splinters, festering.

"She doesn’t need your friendship," the King would sneer when Phainon dared to ask why she no longer looked at him the way she used to. "She needs your loyalty. Your obedience."

And when the King judged Phainon ready, he gave him a lesson, one he would never forget.

"Now, Phainon."

The 9-year-old looks up with big eyes, his face framed by a mop of snow-white curls. His Majesty towers over him, regal and imposing, but Phainon’s gaze quickly drops to the table. There, cold and gleaming, lies a small knife.

His hands twitch at his sides.

From across the table, the soft, terrified hissing of a kitten echoes. It's chained now—an iron collar around its tiny neck, the other end of the leash held in the King’s hand.

"This kitten hurt the Princess, didn’t it?" the King asks, his voice calm, but weighted, the kind that makes your stomach twist into knots.

Phainon’s lips twitch into a frown. His eyes glisten, wide with guilt. He doesn’t want to look. Doesn’t want to answer. But he nods, just barely.

"He did," he admits, voice trembling, nearly swallowed by the stillness of the room. A pout pulls at his mouth, quivering like he’s holding back tears. "I’m sorry, Your Majesty. I was supposed to protect her."

"No, no. Keep your tears, boy."

The King’s voice is quiet but firm, sharp enough to halt the trembling in Phainon’s lip. He doesn’t raise his voice, instead, he lowers himself, crouching just enough to meet the child’s eyes across the heavy oak table.

"Let this be a valuable lesson," he continues, gaze locked on the boy’s wide, blue eyes—eyes that are too young for what he's about to see, and yet too old to ever forget this moment. "You can't always protect her. She's bound to get herself hurt, one way or another... but..."

The word hangs there, a sharp hook in the air. The King watches him, making sure the boy doesn’t miss a single word.

"...There’s always something you can do to whoever dares to hurt her."

His Majesty’s voice never rises, but the tension behind it tightens like a drawn bowstring. Then, slowly, deliberately, he pushes the blade across the table, and the hilt stops just inches from Phainon's trembling fingers.

And then, with terrifying ease, the King lifts the hissing kitten and drops it on the table.

The creature scrambles, chain rattling as it claws at the polished wood. It’s small. Helpless. Hissing. Ears flattened. Tail lashing.

Phainon flinches.

"It's your job to ensure the Princess is safe," the King says, no longer a lesson but a command. A command that Phainon has carried since he first learned what her name was. "Or, at the very least... get revenge on those who hurt her."

The boy stares.

The blade.

The kitten.

The King.

"...You know what to do, don’t you, Phainon?"

His breath hitches.

The color drains from his face.

Still, the knife waits.

Phainon trembles.

His tiny shoulders shake as he stares at the blade, then at the King, and finally at the man standing silently behind His Majesty—Phainon's father. There’s no comfort in his presence. The man doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. His expression is unreadable, even as Phainon's eyes shimmer with unshed tears.

"I-I can’t." Phainon chokes out, voice cracking like thin glass. Terror wraps itself around his words. "I can’t."

Blue eyes flick to the kitten again, its fur puffed in fear, its hiss now a desperate whimper.

"He didn’t mean to hurt her," Phainon pleads. "He was just scared."

The King doesn’t blink.

"I’m afraid you don't have a choice," he says, still with that eerie calm. A cold decree wrapped in velvet.

"It hurt the Princess," he continues, voice unflinching. "The moment it did, it stopped being a living being."

He leans on the table, not getting any closer, but his words, his presence felt heavier. Like it was enough to fill the room, to crush the air from the boy's lungs

"It’s a monster now. Do you hear me, Phainon?"

The boy swallows hard, blinking past the blur of tears. He looks at the kitten again—still hissing, still trembling.

"But he..." Phainon begins, voice soft, breaking.

"The moment it hurt the Princess," the King cuts in, low and final, "it gave up its right to live."

His voice doesn’t rise, but it sharpens like the blade between them.

"Think of her cries. The pain in her voice. Her tears—" his tone dips into something dark, something that coils around Phainon’s heart and squeezes. "—and all because of those claws."

The kitten whines.

Phainon stares.

And the knife waits, still, and terribly patient.

Phainon doesn’t move.

He just stares. At the kitten, at the chain, at the trembling bundle of fur crouched on the table before him. But as the King’s voice continues, low and relentless, something begins to shift.

He’s no longer seeing the animal at all.

Instead, it’s the Princess he sees.

All he sees is the scratch on the Princess’s cheek.

The red that soaked into her sleeve.

Her lip quivering.

"It hurt her." The words fall from his lips, quite and hollow. His voice no longer shakes. His hands no longer tremble.

"It hurt her."

"That's it," the King says, voice like silk.

He watches as the boy reaches for the blade. Small fingers close around the hilt. The metal gleams.

The kitten hisses again, louder now, as if it's sensing something.

Phainon leans in, drawn not by hatred—no. Not even by rage. But by something... colder. Something he just learned.

Duty.

"...Now," the King murmurs, like a prayer or a curse, or perhaps, both. "I'll ask you again."

"You know what to do to those who hurt the Princess, don’t you, Phainon?"

The boy doesn't answer.

Not with words.

At the age of nine, Phainon took a life for the very first time.

And thus, he became her shadow. Silent, swift, ever-present. He followed her everywhere now—not as a companion, but as an extension. An arm. A blade.

He stopped asking for stories at night. Stopped humming the lullaby his mother used to sing when she brushed his hair. He stopped spelling his name in the dirt.

All he knew was how to wield a sword.

All he knew was being a knight.

All he knew was being hers.

The King was pleased.

The shadow had taken shape.

Phainon was never meant to shine. He was meant to burn—for her.

But beyond the palace—far from the King's gaze—Phainon wore a different face.

To the townspeople, he was kind. The kind of kind that never asked for thanks. The kind that carried baskets for old women and walked street children home during storms. He remembered their names. Remembered birthdays. Helped patch broken fences with his bare hands and paid out of pocket for medicine when a healer couldn’t be summoned in time.

When he smiled, it was real, soft at the edges, like morning light peeking through shutters. They called him The Perfect Knight. A flicker of warmth in a place where royalty rarely stooped low enough to see dirt on their boots.

"Such a good boy," the bakers would say, handing him extra rolls. "That’s a noble heart, that one."

He wasn't sure why he was doing what he did, but perhaps it was a shadow of what his mother once taught him, echoes of a time before the King rewrote him from the inside out.

But there is one thing he's sure of....

He's in love with the princess.

He loved her the way the King taught him to. The way a blade might love its sheath. The way a shrine loves the god it houses: devotion soaked in dread, worship steeped in dependency.

He consumes her with his eyes from a distance, always from a distance, because that was what shadows did. Though she barely noticed him. Not truly. Not like before.

She had grown into her crown. Her voice sharp, her spine steel. Her eyes, once full of sunlight and laughter, now held the weight of ruling too early, of losing too many things too soon.

Sometimes, he wondered if she missed their garden days. If she remembered how she used to trace letters into the dirt, if she remembered every smile she gave him before her mouth learned how to frown with dignity, every laugh before it was replaced with silence, every touch before she stopped reaching for him at all.

But he never asked. And she never said anything.

He just served. Always.

Anything for his light, his star, his sun.

And like all things that orbit too close to their star, he was burning from the inside out.

Phainon was in the room when the King said it.

He hadn’t been summoned; he never was, but he stood by her as he always did. Unmoving, unacknowledged.

"Her betrothal will be announced at the Festival," the King said, voice clipped and final. "A prince from across the sea. Wealthy. Fertile. That’s all that matters."

The words left the King’s mouth like a verdict.

Phainon didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

But inside, something cracked.

He looked at her—at her—sitting tall beside her father, silent and unreadable. Her hands were folded in her lap like a good heir. Her eyes forward. Her crown, a little heavier than usual.

She didn’t protest. Of course she didn’t.

She had been taught not to.

And so, quietly, something began to stir in him.

It started small.

A slip into town disguised in worn clothes, no insignia on his shoulder. Then another. And another. Phainon slipped out of the palace, and none of his fellow knights stopped him. No one ever did. They all knew him as the loyal one, the sword at the princess’s side. A boy who would die before he disobeyed.

The townspeople gathered at the edge of the square when he called. He stood beneath the statue of the old Queen, the one whose smile he barely remembered, but whose absence carved the path to where he now stood. His cloak pulled low, moonlight silvering his hair.

He never used the word rebellion. Not once.

He called it restoration. Correction. A return to what should have always been.

He didn’t want blood. Gods, he didn’t. Not hers. Not ever.

"We do this quietly," he told them. "No blades unless you must. No fire. We win hearts, not wars."

Because if she ever looked at him with fear in her eyes, if she ever thought him a traitor instead of a savior... He was sure he wouldn’t survive it.

This wasn’t just about the kingdom. It was about her. It had always been about her.

And even as he planned her father’s downfall, Phainon still prayed she’d understand. That one day she’d look at him not as the shadow she outgrew but as the light that refused to leave her side.

But things didn't go quite as he planned, there was a variable in his plan that he didn't expect, didn't think of happening...

The princess was meant to smile. To nod. To accept the prince’s jeweled hand and become a symbol, not a sovereign.

But she stood now, right there in the throne room, her voice sharp, unwavering, cutting through generations of obedience like a blade through silk.

"I refuse the betrothal."

She didn’t flinch even when her father turned to her. Didn’t lower her gaze.

"I will not marry him," she repeated. "I will not tie myself to a man I do not know to please a throne I am already an heir to."

Those words were like a balm to Phainon's soul, for the first time in years, he felt something bloom in his chest. She was still in there. His princess. The girl who made him spell his name in the dirt.

The King, however, did not feel the same.

The back of his hand cracked across her face.

A gasp tore from the maids in the throne room, sharp and ugly. She staggered—staggered—and Phainon moved without thinking, his footfall silent, breath caught like prey in a snare, and was quick to keep his liege on her feet.

As his sapphire gaze turned to look at the one across them, he didn’t see a man anymore. He saw a threat.

"You know what to do to those who hurt the Princess, don’t you, Phainon?"

The plan was supposed to be bloodless. But now? He stopped thinking of it as prevention. As resistance. He started calling it what it was.

Revolution.

And this time, there would be blood.

He made use of his status and privileges as the crown heir's personal knight; He knew where the guard loyalties fractured, knew which generals still grieved the Queen, which councilmen resented the King, and most importantly, the people trusted him.

Phainon was practically everywhere. Whispers in corridors, secret meetings in cellar taverns, folded letters inked with the sigil of a sun.

The night they rose, it was quiet. No drums. No banners.

Phainon planned it perfectly. The guards loyal to him moved swiftly through the corridors, disarming without killing where they could. He had studied the castle like a living body: where it bled, where it healed, where it could be broken.

And at its heart, the King.

"You traitor. I made you." the King hissed. "You would kill your King?"

"No," Phainon said softly, drawing his blade.

"I would kill the one who raised its hand against her."

But revolution, he learned, doesn’t end with a king’s death.

It spreads.

The man's blood had barely dried on the stone when the castle doors were thrown open, and the people surged like a tide. Phainon had expected fire, but fire with purpose. Order, not chaos.

A clean slate.

He had orchestrated everything down to the breath: which gate would fall first, which noble to spare, which guard to bribe, which lie to whisper into which ear.

It was supposed to be over—The King was dead.

But the revolution had grown teeth he hadn’t sharpened......

And now, they're about to bite her.

#phainon #phainon x reader #phainon hsr #phainon honkai star rail #honkai star rail #honkai star rail x reader #hsr #hsr x reader #phainon x you #phainon x y/n #yandere phainon

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r66dusthewriter · 3 days ago

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The forbidden fruit

Pairing: Simon Riley x fem!reader

Masterlist | Who am i? | REQUESTS ARE OPEN!

a/n: I had to close my legs while writing this.

Genre: Smut

Warnings: Little to no plot. Explicit sexual content (18+), voyeuristic themes, masked man, dry humping, (sort of?) paid sex, strip club setting.

Word count: 1.3k

You’d been a night dancer for four years, moving from uneasy to owning it, with a found family of women nearly as close as sisters. The job paid well, the security was tight and after a while, you realized you liked the power, the control of where eyes landed, who got close and when. With that power in mind, you chose to only dance and maybe talk. Ironically, that restraint, that refusal to be available on demand, only made you more desirable.

For the last six months, everything about your nightly stage felt different because of him.

He always sat at the back and the same table. Massive, masked and imposing, the kind of man who drew stares even in a club built for spectacle. He never drank, never accepted a dance or even a chat then.

But two months in, after seeing a creepy customer cross a line with you, he stepped in with just enough force to make the message clear. From that moment on, everyone started calling him “your guy” and he acted like it, tipping hundreds just to sit there two hours and say nothing at all to anyone but you.

“Y/n… your guy’s back,” Ani grinned as she strolled into the changing room, her voice sing-song with mischief. Around her, a chorus of teasing sighs and shoulder shimmies erupted from the other girls. You rolled your eyes, trying not to smile.

“He’s not my guy.”

“Oh, but he is,” Ani shot back, stepping closer with a raised brow. “He doesn’t pay for a single service, won’t even take a drink! Just sits at your stage like some brooding statue. Won’t look at anyone, won’t talk to anyone except you.”

She leaned in, voice dropping playfully. “Right now, he’s out there looking like a lost puppy because you’re not on yet.”

Laughter rippled through the room as a few of the girls chimed in their agreement.

“That’s your guy,” Ani said, winking.

You shook your head, brushing the last bit of powder from your face and rising from the makeup chair. You couldn’t suppress the warmth curling in your chest, though you kept your tone neutral.

“Same table?”

“Same table,” she confirmed, still smiling.

When you arrived, he offered quietly and for the first time ever, a seat beside him. His raspy voice and thick accent sent a shiver up your spine.

“Nice to see you again,” he simply said.

You flirted, you bantered and let the tease slip into your eyes but every time another customer tried to pull you away, you saw the way his gloved hands tensed on his thighs and how his shoulders squared. And when you stood up to go chat with another client, he dropped five grand onto the table, flat and easy. “What does that get me?”

You arched your brow, heat coiling in your belly. “What do you want?”

His eyes glittered behind the skull mask. “To talk.”

Except the game changed when you suggested the massage room. Inside, he stripped off his shirt and your breath caught. His body was scarred yet beautiful with tattooed muscle on pale skin even under harsh light. You took a deep breath and let your hands roam, learning every inch as you straddled his lap.

You massaged his chest with slow, lazy circles, feeling his heartbeat thumping strong under your palms. His gaze burned into you, unmoving.

“I don’t usually do this,” you whispered, voice shaky, suggesting to get one of your coworkers to give him a proper massage.

“It’s good,” he rumbled, voice thick with want.

You grew bolder then. His hands found your thighs, strong and warm on your skin, thumbs pressing just enough to make you gasp and accommodate over him. That’s when you felt his cock, hard and hot under you, causing a sharp ache to throb between your legs, making it hard to ignore how you’d been starved and untouched for so long it almost hurt.

His fingers tightened, pupils blown out as he met your eyes. “Want to get off?” he asked, low and serious.

You shook your head, breath trembling, but not with fear.

His gaze lowered to your parted lips, ears straining to hear how you softly sighed. “Or move?”

Your hips answered for you. Slowly at first, you rolled against him, feeling every contour of him through your thin panties and his jeans. Even like this you could tell his cock was hard, thick and impossibly big. The friction quickly sent a bolt of pleasure straight through you, causing you to tilt your head back and moan aloud.

He groaned at the sight, a raw and needy sound while his hands gripped your ass under your ridden up dress, guiding your movements. It was obscene, the slide of your slick center over his clothed cock, the drag of denim against silk and the unmoving eye contact, all while every grinding thrust sent waves of heat through you.

The air soon filled with desperate sounds, your soft whimpers and sighs mixed with his deep grunts and the harsh rasp of his breath behind the mask. You pressed closer, grinding down harder and his cock twitched against you, leaking through his jeans and making a delicious wet spot that matched your own.

Your hands rested on his firm, toned abdomen, the heat of his skin grounding you as you moved. You took your time, savoring the moment, every rise and fall of your hips a slow climb, every subtle shift drawing you closer to the edge. His muscles tensed beneath your palms, each breath he took syncing with yours, heavy and hungry. You rocked against him with growing urgency, letting the minutes stretch, letting the pleasure build until your body trembled with the promise of release.

He tilted his hips up to meet your rhythm, his grip strong but worshipful. You could feel yourself getting wetter, soaking through your panties with every pass.

“Fuck—” he growled.

“Uhhh!—” You moaned, walls contracting around nothing. Being an absolute slut for vocal men didn’t help your case, you couldn’t hold it back any longer. Sparks shot through your core, pleasure mounting higher and higher while your clit ground perfectly against the ridge of his cock. “Fuck, I’m—”

“Let go,” he ordered roughly. “Want to watch you come for me.”

Your orgasm hit hard, knees shaking and body shuddering while a strangled moan tore from your throat as you ground down and rode the wave out on his lap. You felt yourself gush even more, soaking him and your panties, the heat between your bodies almost unbearable.

He cursed again, grabbing your hips and rocking you harder against him, forcing you to match the pace burning in his blood. His cock throbbed against your soaked panties as he did, keeping a sinful rhythm until he went rigid under you. With a deep, muffled groan, he came hard. His body tensed beneath you, cock straining as his orgasm surged through him. The heat of it soaked his jeans, messy and uncontrolled but he didn’t care. His head fell back with a heavy exhale, fingers still gripping your hips like he couldn’t quite let go, like he didn’t want to.

You slumped down against his massive chest, catching your breath while his hands stayed on you, fingers denting your flesh.

For a long moment, the only sound was your ragged breaths and the steady thump of his heart against your cheek. You’d never been this undone without a single piece of clothing truly removed, never felt so wanted or so fucking satisfied.

“Simon,” he panted, the name falling from his lips like a confession, knowing you’d never ask due to the rules of the club.

“Pleasure to meet you,” you murmured against his skin, voice threaded with something dangerously close to comfort.

“Likewise.”

If anyone had heard the sounds coming from behind that closed door, they’d know whose girl you really were now.

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springismss · 2 days ago

Note

Baby mine but with Dabi?

ᱬ⛧ baby mine ~ dabi

pairing: dabi x fiancée! reader

content: slight nsfw if you squint, but mainly sfw - established relationship, pregnancy, just an overview. fluffy and sweet. slight spoilers regarding dabi for new fans.

word count: 2.8k

links: requests masterlist | bnha/mha masterlist | masterlist

a/n: another post making two in a row! this time i'm here with a request from anon - dabi’s version of my shoto work baby mine. thank you so much for requesting, i had fun writing this! i hope you all enjoy! part at the end inspired by this video by an amazing moot of mine. as always, likes, comments and re-blogs are deeply appreciated.

Picking at your fingers, you glanced at the door, waiting for a figure to walk back through. Time seemed to be against you, the minutes passing agonisingly slow, almost mocking you. The way your stomach churned didn’t help how you were feeling, the way the sickening feeling took over your body. Tearing your eyes away for a moment, you closed them, sucking in a breath before exhaling it slowly.

The sound of the door clicking shut made you open your eyes, gaze turning to the figure that stood there. Eyes looked over you before their owner walked forward, bag in hand. "Here, I managed to get quite a few different ones 'cause I know you'd only complain if I didn't".

Tutting, you rolled your eyes before grabbing the bag, a small smile tugging at your lips as you stood. Resting your hand on the figure's arm, you stood on your tip toes and placed a kiss on their cheek. "Thank you, my love. I won't be long".

Quickly walking out of the room, you made your way to the bathroom and shut the door behind you, eyes scanning for a container. Once you managed to find one, you did what you needed to do, placing the yellow liquid on the side.

One by one, you dipped the tests, placing each one to the side to complete.

By the time you finished dipping the last one, dumping the liquid and washing your hands, the first few tests you took were finished. Sucking in a breath, you glanced at the sticks, eyes widening. "Fuck!".

There, as clear as day, were lines and words. Lines and words that were all telling you the same thing.

You were pregnant.

Letting out a sigh, you placed your hands on the counter, head hanging low as you tried to come to terms with the news. The news that inside you was a child who was half you and your fiancé. You didn't know how he would take it, and naturally, you were scared to find out.

The clicking of the door opening caused your head to shoot up, looking over your shoulder at the figure that stood there. "Well?". His voice lulling you slightly. Pushing yourself off the counter, you turned around and motioned behind you. "Take a look for yourself".

Heavy footsteps thudded on the floor as the figure walked towards you, stopping just short of you as they looked over your shoulder. "Well fuck". Crossing your arms, you rolled your eyes. "Exactly, fuck".

The pair of you stood there in silence for a few moments, neither of you daring to say anything until he broke the silence. "How the fuck did this happen?".

Raising your brow, you looked at him. "Are you serious? How else did you think it happened? I told you the fucking condom broke. I got caught up in that week long mission before I could get the morning after pill".

Bringing your hands up to your face, you ran them over your skin as you breathed out. "What are we going to do?". The crack in your voice became evident. You were scared, scared that he would leave you to deal with this all by yourself.

Arms wrapped around you as you felt your body being pulled closer to your fiancé. Kisses were placed on top of your head as he rubbed your back. "Whatever you choose, doll, I'll stand by you".

Pulling back, you looked up, tears lining your eyes as you scanned his face for any sign of a lie. "You mean that Touya?". Humming, he nodded his head. "I do".

⛧ Month 2 ⛧

Things changed almost overnight. You were rarely out on missions, and if you were, Dabi was always by your side. The pair of you decided to keep things quiet for now, trying to get used to the fact that you were going to be parents.

It wasn't an easy choice; you both talked things through. Given his past, what he went through and who he was now, Dabi struggled with the possibility of being a dad. But he didn't let that stop him.

At every chance he got, he spent time reading and researching. How to cope with his feelings, how to help you with yours and ultimately, how to give the best life he could for your little one.

Looking down at your still soft tummy, you let your hand over for a moment, still scared to touch where your child was growing. "Tou, what if I'm kidding myself? What if I'm a failure to them?".

Kisses silenced your words, eyes closing as you wrapped your arms around his neck. After a few moments, you felt the sensation leave, eyes opening to gaze at turquoise ones. "You'll be the best mother there is to our little button".

⛧ Month 3 ⛧

Opening the heavy door, it let out a loud groan as you stepped into the room. A variety of different tubes, equipment and wires were scattered all over the place. With another heavy groan, the door shut behind you before you walked forward, gripping onto Dabi's arm as you walked further into the room.

Eyes glancing around, you took in everything around you until you reached the screens at the front. There sat a lone figure, an older man who you weren't too familiar with, at least not face-to-face. "I see you made it, Dabi. Wasn't too much trouble for you, I take it?".

The clicking tongue of the figure beside you caused you to look up at him. "Not at all. Now, where do you want her to lie?".

The sound of a chair scraping the floor caused you to look forward, eyes landing on the old man. "Ahhh, yes. We haven't properly met but you've heard my voice before. I'm Kyudai, but you can call me Doctor. Now, this way, little one".

Feeling a squeeze on your hand, you looked at Dabi and smiled slightly, stepping forward to follow the doctor to a pristine-looking bed. Something that seemed oddly out of place in this environment.

Once motioned to get onto the bed, you did just that, unbuttoning your trousers and pulling them just below your tummy before you got comfortable.

Cold jelly was placed onto your skin, causing you to hiss slightly. "Now, let's have a look, okay?". Nodding your head, you stared at the screen as the probe glided over where the jelly was applied, feeling a hand grip yours as you swallowed a lump.

Ba-bump. Ba-bump.

The sound made your eyes widen, tears lining as you stared at the screen. There, in black and white, was a tiny figure. Little arms and legs. Small head with a tiny heartbeat just visible in its chest. "Such a strong heartbeat, this little one will be strong".

Tearing your gaze from the screen, you looked over to Dabi, whose eyes were fixed on the image. His face was hard to read to the untrained eye, but you saw it. The way the corner of his lip moved up, a small smile tugging at his lips.

A smile directed at the baby he saw that made some part of his heart swell even more with love.

⛧ Month 4 ⛧

Another month had passed, and your body was starting to show signs of the life growing within you. Your clothes began to feel tight, and your tummy and breasts began to swell.

Toga was the first to notice. You'd been out for the day, helping her gather some bits needed for an upcoming mission, when you stopped, one hand against the wall as you caught your breath, the other resting on your small bump. "So, when were you going to tell me?".

Blinking, you looked at her confused before looking down, face softening as you smiled. "I'm not too sure. We're still not used to it ourselves".

Needless to say, when you returned to the hideout and sat down on the sofa, you were inundated with questions. Toga letting it slip to the rest of the league that you were pregnant.

By the time Dabi returned from what he was doing, he found you in the middle of both Toga and Twice, who wouldn't stop chattering about names and everything else.

Clicking his tongue, the raven-haired male stepped forward and pushed his way between you and Twice, pulling you closer as he let his hand go under your top, resting it on your tummy, thumb slowly stroking the skin just above where your child was.

⛧ Month 5 ⛧

You know this was around the time when most expectant parents would be going for scans, finding out the gender of their babies, meaning they were able to plan every last detail.

Both you and Dabi had decided you didn't want to know, opting for scans now and then to make sure everything was going okay with the life within.

The sight of the small figure on the screen never failed to amaze you, eyes watching how it wriggled, the butterflies deep within accompanying each movement.

Dabi, on the other hand, sat and watched as he struggled to come to terms with what was happening. It was hard for him to admit that the thoughts he's been having lately weren't helping with how he felt.

Doubts plagued his mind whenever he was alone, doubts that melted away the moment you took hold of his hand. Thoughts that became non-existent as he watched your body change.

The pair of you may be villains, but you were certain your child would want for nothing and wouldn't be dragged into the life you were living.

⛧ Month 6 ⛧

Somehow, life began to change for you and Dabi. Things seemed to fall into place. From living in the hideout to finding a home long abandoned tucked out of the way, you couldn't believe your luck.

Looking around the room you were standing in, you took in the sight of all the items in front of you.

Toys, clothes, furniture.

While you knew where this stuff had come from, you weren't about to argue, especially when Toga and Twice showed up with a teddy bear that was twice the size of you.

Arms wrapped around your waist, hands resting on your swollen tummy as you leaned back, eyes closing, feeling the small thumping of their tiny feet kicking. It only took a moment before you felt tears slip down your cheeks, the feeling of everything overwhelming you all at once. "Baby doll, what's wrong?".

At the sound of the words, you sobbed harder, much to the panic of Dabi.

That was the day he found out that being pregnant meant that you were at the mercy of your hormones, the mood swings making him chuckle slightly.

⛧ Month 7 ⛧

Dabi loved seeing the way your body changed as the days passed. The way your figure grew fuller, tummy rounding more as you kept your child safe and breast swelling with milk.

Something about the way you looked stirred something within him. The way people would stare at you both when you were out, his pride swelling knowing he was the one responsible for having you in this state. Pride that no one else would ever fill you in the same way.

He couldn't keep his hands to himself. He loved the way you were overly sensitive at the best of times, how you would whine and moan out for him, begging him to help put out this fire you felt deep within. The fire that led to you being in this situation in the first place.

And while you both had no family that seemed to care, the way the league would rally around you both made you both smile in gratefulness.

The way Toga would touch your bump carefully, using her quirk to speak to your unborn child in a variety of different voices. The small gesture made Dabi wonder what his mother and sister would be like if they ever knew about him and you.

How would they embrace the pair of you? What stories would they share to embarrass him?

⛧ Month 8 ⛧

The weight of your unborn child began to take its toll on you. Your body ached, and you felt tired. Every time you moved, you felt pressure, pressure that made your breath hitch in your chest.

While you felt sore, you couldn't stop the nesting that came along with it. The overwhelming need to clean and make sure everything was prepared properly for when you brought home your baby. "Not too long now, doll".

Your tired eyes looked at Dabi, a weary smile tugging at your lips as you rested your hand on your swollen tummy. "I know Tou, I just want this to be over with already".

Arms wrapped around your waist as a kiss was placed on top of your head, you felt your bump being lifted. A sigh of relief passed your lips as you leant back, hand moving to cup one of the ones that cradled your tummy.

Dabi hated not being able to help you, to take away the heaviness you felt. He may be a villain who enjoyed watching the way people suffered at his hands, but seeing you suffer, it broke him. He knew you both wanted this, but it still didn't stop him from worrying about you.

⛧ Month 9 ⛧

A loud cry rang out in the room, piercing the silence as you looked at Dabi, tears falling from your eyes as you smiled tiredly. After a long labour, you finally welcomed your child into the world. Nearly every emotion hitting you at once as you gripped onto your fiancé. "My sweet doll, you've done it".

Closing your eyes as you felt a kiss on your head, panting softly for breath as the adrenaline continued to course through your veins. Eyes opening slowly, before a small bundle was placed into your arms. "Hello there, our perfect little angel".

A soft cry sounded from the baby before it snuggled up to your chest, beginning to suckle as it took its first feed from you. A sight that Dabi would burn into his memory. "So, Tou, are you ready to find out what this little one is?".

Looking down, you stroked the cheek of the baby on your chest. Once settled, you moved the blanket slightly, a smile tugging at your lips. "Well, why don't you come over here and say hello to your son, Touya?".

You glanced at Dabi, who looked back at you, taking a moment to catch up with your words. The villain's walls tumbling down as he walked over, eyes gazing at his son.

The child who would hold the deepest parts of him like you did.

⛧ The first few years ⛧

While the feeling of being on cloud nine didn't leave, the long nights felt like they'd never end. The countless feeds and the endless changes made the first few months seem overwhelming.

Touya was the first to admit it was hard. Harder than he thought it would be. He spent many nights questioning himself when his son wouldn't calm down for him. Self-conscious of his looks, feeling like it was the main reason why.

He struggled at the best of times, but he never had the idea of leaving. This was something you both wanted; he just had to adjust. He lost three years of his life, and it took him a while to get used to growing up again.

With words of encouragement from you, he slowly became more confident.

As time passed, things got easier. The way his son would smile at him, run his tiny fingers over his scars as he giggled out. The way he would reach out for his daddy, giving cuddles and kisses like he was the most amazing person in the world.

To this little boy, he was everything.

Then came the days he began walking and talking. The first time Dabi heard him say "Daddy", the blue-flame villain broke down. To everyone out there, aside from you and the league, he was a villain

But to this little boy, he was the most amazing person in the world. The one who would right all the wrongs.

Even when the youngster's quirk awoke, Dabi took his time to guide the little boy, showing his own blue flames off much to the wonder of the young child. Making sure to give him the childhood he never had.

All while you watched, a contented smile on your face, your figure swollen with another child to carry on his legacy.

"I'll burn the world just to see you smile. I'll always be the hero in yours, your mommy's and baby sister's lives".

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burningember0802 · 21 hours ago

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Three's Company Ch. 5

A/N: So I know I literally *just* posted about how I was going to try and write this chapter within the week but I started it and swear I got possessed or something and suddenly I was done and it was 2.7k words.

so we are back again with our stupid attendings who fucked up reallll bad. We’re also learning a little bit more about reader and her past! And about why she possibly acts the way she acts! Let the groveling begin!

Warnings: sexual content in some chapters, cursing, medical inaccuracies, suicidal tendencies, mention of death, PTSD, yelling, heavy angst, domestic violence, mental breakdown, injuries (let me know if I'm missing anything!)

Word count: 2.7k words

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Ever since the incident between the three of you where both Jack and Robby yelled at you on the same day things haven’t been the same, as expected. The next time they each worked with you they couldn’t help but notice the way you entirely pulled back from them. How your comfortability with them had taken one small step forward to take six steps back and it was all their fault. The guilt ate at them. You were like a completely different person, a shell of the girl they had known, the light that once filled the room when you walked in dimmed.

You had not only pulled away from them, but everyone in the ER. Robby and Jack got the worst of it of course. There was no more casual conversation with them, no more smiles, no more coffee exchanged with Jack in the middle of shifts, no more playful bickering over patients with Robby. You seemed like you were walking on eggshells around them, acting like a scared doe waiting for the second the shoe is going to drop and they snap at you again. You had pulled away from everyone else in the ER too, acting much more reserved and quiet than before, no longer the confident, intelligent resident everyone in the Pitt loved. Mel and Samira had noticed it too, noticing how you talked to them less, didn’t stick around to chat after shifts or texting in between shifts. You still talked to people, trying not to worry anyone too much, but your smile didn’t quite reach your eyes like it used to, that light behind them gone, anxiety left in its wake.

This was eating Robby and Jack alive, the guilt and shame gnawing at their stomachs, twisting and turning with every glimpse of you. They knew they shouldn’t have acted the way they did and that they needed to apologize but they didn’t know how, didn’t know how to get you to listen to them, trust them. They had been watching you closer in the ER during your shifts with them, observing you, trying to dissect your presence, trying to find something to help them make this up. Even Dana had noticed the shift in you, watching you closer than normal, knowing your past and how it can affect you sometimes. She even confronted Robby and Jack during a shift change once, cornering them in the family room.

“What the hell did you two idiots do to our best resident?” Dana asked them sternly, hands on her hips, no greeting, no ‘hello, how are you?’, just straight to the point. Both men ducked their heads like dogs getting scolded for getting in the trash, Jack’s lips tightening into a fine line and Robby’s face twisting in what almost looked like pain, his hand rubbing the back of his neck. “We fucked up really bad…” Jack mumbled, feeling like a child in trouble, but he knew he deserved it. “No shit, now what did you guys do?” Dana asks, her eyebrows raised in expectation. “We both yelled at her badly in front of everyone on the same day while she was working a double…” Robby mumbles quietly. Dana pinches the bridge of her nose, letting out a strained sigh. “God you two fucked up worse than I thought. You have to fix this, and soon.” She says poking a finger at the two men, a pointed look on her face. They both nod, shame riddled on their faces. Dana gives them another look before leaving the two of them to do their normal shift change briefing.

The next day had gone on normally, or as normal as things can be for you in the ER right now while you’re constantly avoiding whatever attending you’re working with, ignoring the concerned glances you’re getting from your coworkers, and the way said attendings keep staring at you. The day seemed like it was going to be a decent one until you were pulled aside by Dana while you were walking through the ER, pulling you aside to the nurses station. “Hey, could you possibly do me a favor?” Dana asks hesitantly, both of you leaning on the nurses station counter. “Sure? What is it?” You asked, brows furrowed in confusion. “Well we have a girl in exam room 3, here for what seems to be domestic violence injuries. She seems really scared and is hesitant to let us get Kiara for her to talk to.” Dana says, a soft look on her face.

Robby hadn’t meant to eavesdrop, he really didn’t. But still he found himself standing at the nurses station going through patient charts over and over, his back towards you and Dana just so he could hear the seemingly sensitive conversation between the two of you. “I was wondering if you could possibly talk to her? I think talking to someone who has experience with it will help ease her anxiety, especially someone her age range.” Dana explains to you, worry on her face. You stand there for a moment, taking in her words, contemplating her question before you take a deep breath and nod. “Thank you so much hun. You don’t know how helpful this is. So while you talk to her Robby and I will stand in there with you to help with things as needed and unfortunately it’s typically policy for attendings to be there when broaching a topic that will involve the social work department.” Dana explains, a nervous smile on her face. She knew that things between you and the main attendings weren’t great but she hoped this wouldn’t stop you from doing this.

When she told you Robby was going to have to be there when you talked to her your stomach dropped to your toes, your heart rate picking up slightly. You knew you needed to do this though, for the patient’s sake, so you took a deep breath and nodded again. Dana stepped away long enough to grab Robby who was still standing at the nurses station acting like he wasn’t listening. Then the three of you walked into the exam room where the patient was. She had multiple bruises on her arms and a broken wrist, many of the bruises being in the shape of someone’s hands or from someone gripping her arms. She was a similar age to you, around 25, only a few years younger but she looked so small right now. The girl was sitting in the hospital bed wearing a gown from the examinations they had to do, a scratchy hospital blanket thrown across her legs, her hands in her lap. It was obvious she had been crying, her eyes red and glassy, her figure shaking slightly.

You walked into the exam room quietly and sat in the chair next to her bed facing her, Robby and Dana standing to the side. You offered her a weak smile, one that wasn’t returned. “So I heard that someone in your life might be hurting you?...” you say softly, your own hands planted in your lap firmly, a soft look on your face despite the tension radiating in your body. The girl looked at you, her face scrunching a little. “Did they send you in here to tell me how stupid I am for getting myself in this situation and that I need to just leave?” She says, frustration in her voice. You shake your head softly. “No…I’m a doctor here…a 3rd year resident. I’m here to talk to you for a little, be an ear to listen if you want…someone who knows what it’s like.” You explain quietly, the patient’s face softening slightly. “What do you mean you know what it’s like?” She asks, her voice wavering slightly. You swallow the lump in your throat, letting it join the anxiety twisting deep in your gut. “When I was around your age, from when I was 21-25, I was in a domestic violence relationship and let it get worse than it should’ve…” You say, your voice steady and calm, your gaze locked on your hands in your lap. You could feel the eyes of the patient, Dana and Robby on you.

“He said it was an accident…that he’d never do it again…he said he loved me…” The girl in front of you said, her voice strained and her eyes watering. “They say that but they don’t mean it hun. It isn’t an accident. It will only get worse. It starts with the anger during small arguments, and then comes the yelling, then comes the name calling, then comes the throwing of items around the house, then comes them throwing items at you, and then they put their hands on you. The first time it happens they cry and scream that it’s an accident, that they love you, that it won’t happen again…but it will. It’ll happen again and again. I let myself fall into that trap of manipulation and it ended with me covered in bruises, a broken cheekbone, a broken collarbone, and two broken ribs. I’m lucky I wasn’t beaten to death honestly. It got this bad because I believed him, believed he loved me, that it was my fault, that it wouldn’t happen again…but it was a lie. He didn’t love me, not really. He loved the control he had over me. No one who truly loves you will ever lay a hand on you without consent.” You explain, meeting the girl's gaze. She started crying softly as you spoke, the weight of her words hitting her like a bus. “I’m scared…I don’t know what to do…” She whispered through her tears. “That’s why we’re here. I didn’t leave because I thought I couldn’t. I had nowhere to go, no one to talk to, no support system. We’re here to help though, we have resources for this, people who can help. Do you have anyone you can talk to about this? Anyone you can stay with right now?” You ask the girl softly, placing your hand on her gently. She nods through her tears. “Good, that’ll help a lot. We have our social worker Kiara coming down to talk to you, show you some resources, some people to talk to that can help. It’ll be okay. I promise. It may not feel okay today, maybe not tomorrow, maybe not even in a week, but one day it will. I promise. Here…here’s my number, call or text me if you need anything or someone to talk to.” You say softly, grabbing a paper from nearby and scribbling your number on it before handing it to her.

“Thank you…” The girl sitting in front of you whispers. “How do you move on from it? How do I become okay again?” She asks quietly. You let out a sigh, looking at her again. “Well it’ll probably take awhile, a lot of work, a lot of therapy but my biggest thing was not letting him hold me back, not letting him stop my life because I was scared, because I was upset. That just proves him right, shows him the control he still has over you. So my biggest piece of advice is to feel your feelings, but don’t let them control you. There will be times where they take over, where you feel like you’re right back in that situation again, flashbacks coursing through your head, but those will get better over time.” You explain to her, a soft, empathetic look on your face. The girl nods again, taking in your words. Then at perfect timing the social worker, Kiara, enters the room quietly. You introduce Kiara to the patient in front of you, making sure the patient is okay before you, Robby, and Dana leave the room.

As Robby listened to you talk about your experience with domestic violence he felt sick to his stomach, the bile bubbling up in the back of his throat, begging to get out, to expel the awful feeling in his gut. He knew that wouldn’t fix it though, and wouldn't take the guilt and shame that filled his being away. He felt anger building up in himself as well, his jaw ticking at your words as he clenched his teeth. He couldn’t believe someone could do that to anyone, let alone you. You, who lit up every room you walked into, who was the kindest and empathetic person he ever met, who had a special skill for making everyone feel comfortable no matter the situation, who made funny faces at the kids in the ER to cheer them up while they got tests done, who lit up his world. The mental image of you battered and bruised in the way you described hurt him, made his chest twist and ache in a way it never has before. He wanted to take you into his arms and never let you go, protect you forever, show you that he’d never let it happen to you again, that he’d never do that to you. He knew he couldn’t though, that he had no right to, especially after what he and Jack did.

As he listened it hit him exactly what he and Jack did, how bad they really fucked up. He realizes that he and Jack had most likely triggered you and the trauma response and fear you had gained from your experience. This realization hit him like a bus, the guilt and shame worse than ever. He understood now why you had acted the way you did, why you completely drew back from everyone, especially them. You were doing the only thing you knew how to do to protect yourself, to keep yourself from getting in that situation again. He knew he needed to talk to Jack as soon as he got here for shift change, and that they needed to figure out how to make it up to you, to apologize for their actions.

Once you left the room you left no time for Dana and Robby to talk to you, ask you any questions about what you said. You knew Dana knew the story of everything, she’d been a close family friend for years, a mother like figure to you. But you could see on Robby’s face that he was itching to talk to you and you knew you couldn’t handle it right now. Once you were clear of the exam room you quickly walked to the staff bathroom, shutting and locking it behind you, praising whatever deity was out there that it was a single stall. The door shut and the lock clicked and everything hit you. Every ounce of tension, anxiety, PTSD, etc. hit you…hard. You walked quickly to the toilet, your knees barely hitting the ground before the contents of your stomach were emptied into the toilet in front of you. After it was over you wiped your mouth and sat there for a few minutes, your chest heaving, almost hyper ventilating. The room felt like it was closing in on you, like you couldn’t breath and everything felt heavy. You stood up and leaned on the bathroom sink, staring at your figure in the mirror, your chest heaving, your face flushed, your eyes brimming with unshed tears. The girl in front of you in the mirror scared you…you looked like the girl who was beaten by someone she thought loved her, who was too scared to say anything. Your thoughts were rushing in your head, a headache already coming on. You turn on the sink and splash your face with some cold water, drying it off with your shirt, hoping it would bring you back to reality, save you from the impending breakdown. As much as you wished it worked you still found yourself curled into yourself in the corner of the bathroom, the feeling of the cold tiles under your skin. Your knees were drawn up to your chest, your head shoved against your knees, hands over your ears, your figure rocking in an attempt to comfort yourself as your body wracked with quiet sobs, trying to make yourself as small as possible. The world felt like it was closing in, like it was too loud, too much, and you were all alone.

#jack abbot x reader #michael robinavitch x reader #the pitt #abbot x robby x reader #dr abbot x reader #dr robby x reader #the pitt fandom #the pitt fanfiction #rabbot x reader

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avengxrz · 1 day ago

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the difference between love and longing ; steve rogers

pairing: steve rogers x reader

word count: 10.5k

chapter summary: you know that you will never be peggy carter. you are not her, and steve rogers is not the same man he used to be, but even when your heart tries not to hope, his gaze still lingers. his hands still find yours. his voice still softens when he says your name. so what do you do when the man you love still dances with a ghost… but holds onto you like you're real?

warnings: angst, slow burn-ish tension, emotional hurt/comfort, bittersweet longing, one bed trope (kind of), found family dynamics, telepath/empath reader, mentions of peggy carter, interrupted kisses, soft confessions, steve rogers being sad and soft, reader being tony stark’s daughter (with overprotective dad energy), hopeful ending, and a lot of quiet moments that might just feel like love.

note: i am back on tumblr, baby. this is me giving steve rogers the softness he deserves and also projecting a little bit (a lot). english is not my first language so pls be kind. this is all brain and vibes. thank u for reading and i hope it made your heart hurt in the good way. enjoy <3

masterlist

The Quinjet rumbles to a halt like it's sighing in relief. The doors creak open to reveal a world too quiet, too normal, too... soft for the blood on your boots and the ghosts still trailing behind you.

You step onto the gravel, gravel that crunches like it's trying not to break under the weight of six exhausted Avengers and one very pregnant secret.

“Is this a safe house?” Thor asks, clearly scandalized by the quaint barn and white fence vibes. There’s hay. Real hay.

Tony gives a dry chuckle. “Let’s hope.”

Clint, already halfway to the front porch, calls out with the most domestic line you've ever heard him say: “Honey, I’m home.”

You almost choke on your own tongue.

From the kitchen emerges the enigma herself—Laura Barton, barefoot, beautiful, glowing. The kind of peace you’d murder to experience for five whole minutes.

“Company. Sorry I didn’t call ahead,” Clint adds, like he didn’t just bring a war into her living room.

She welcomes him with a kiss like this is just another Tuesday. The others shift uncomfortably, and your brain’s already starting to ache from the noise—the storm of emotions coming off your teammates like static electricity. Regret, fear, confusion... whatever that enhanced woman did back there, it cracked them open like glass jars.

But not you. Not all the way. You’re an empath and a telepath, which is either a cosmic joke or a tragic combo depending on the day. You didn’t see a dream because your mind is locked up tighter than Stark’s old lab vaults. But you felt everything.

Still do.

When Cooper and Lila come running out, all legs and laughter, it pulls a ghost of a smile from you. Cooper beams when he sees you.

“Y/N!”

You crouch to ruffle his hair before he can tackle you. “Hey, Coop, buddy. Missed me already?”

He nods too enthusiastically and your heart does a weird lurch. He has a tiny crush on you. He’s like… eight, or nine? You pretend you don’t notice, because what are you gonna do, crush a child’s soul?

“This is an agent of some kind.” Tony, meanwhile, is trying to process the domestic bombshell that’s just gone off. “These are... smaller agents,” he mutters to you as Clint sweeps his daughter up in a hug.

You tilt your head. “You say that like you didn’t just meet my kid pen-pal.”

Tony’s head snaps toward you. “Wait—you knew about all this?”

You blink. “What, you never asked?”

The look he gives you is somewhere between betrayed dad and malfunctioning toaster. You rolled your eyes.

Laura pulls Natasha in for a warm chat, touching her bump. Nat lights up for a second—she’s better with kids than she lets on. You lean into the doorway and try not to grimace at the ache behind your eyes. The emotional noise is deafening. Someone should really invent empath earplugs.

Outside, you catch Thor hesitating. His shoulders are stiff, like he’s seeing something none of you can. Then—woosh. Mjolnir lifts, thunder cracks softly in the clouds, and the god of thunder disappears into the sky.

You wince, because the second he’s airborne, the silence in his wake is loud as hell. Steve turns to follow him, but stops. You feel him freeze.

And then—Peggy.

You don’t hear the voice, but the emotion is strong enough to slam into your ribcage: longing, loss, the cruel comfort of almost.

Steve doesn’t go inside.

You don’t follow either.

Eventually, Clint rounds you all up. “Alright, listen up. House rule: no exploding, breaking furniture, or turning the fridge into a science experiment. Rooms are tight, so you’re bunking up.”

You’re about to throw your bag next to Natasha’s when she tosses a glance at Bruce and casually says, “I’ll bunk with Banner.”

You turn slowly. “You traitor.”

Nat just smirks.

You scoff dramatically, arms crossed, then glance to your right—only to see Tony perking up with that hopeful dad-face.

“No,” you say immediately.

“But I thought maybe—”

“I said no.”

His face falls like a kicked Roomba.

You don’t even look at Steve. You just grab his hand like it’s a totally normal thing to do and march toward the stairs.

“I’m with Steve.”

Steve lets you lead him up the staircase without a word, but you feel the way his surprise flares for a second—then settles into something warm. You don’t comment.

Clint watches you both, then shrugs. “Alright. Don’t break the bed.”

“No promises,” you call back, just to watch Tony short-circuit.

“Fine!” he yells. “More room for me since PointBreak bailed! Ugh!”

You and Steve follow Clint, Bruce, and Natasha up the stairs.

Your hand stays in his a little longer than it should.

And yeah, maybe—just maybe—your walls aren’t that high when it comes to him.

You were not a fool.

You knew exactly where Steve Rogers’ heart belonged, and it wasn’t here—wasn’t now. His soul echoed the name of a woman wrapped in sepia-toned memories, someone he danced with once beneath the shadow of a war.

Peggy. That name carried weight. Carried history. Carried love.

You could never compete with a ghost.

And you weren’t trying to.

You just… wanted to be near him. Close enough to feel his calm in the chaos. Close enough to steady your own mind when the screams of other people’s emotions got too loud. Close enough to pretend that maybe, just maybe, if the world was kinder or quieter, things might have been different.

But that wasn’t the game you were playing.

You knew your role.

You were the friend.

The teammate.

The one who always said “I’m fine” with a shrug and a joke and meant it less every time. You were the one who noticed when he didn’t sleep, who slipped him tea instead of coffee, who never asked him to explain the faraway look in his eyes when the world went still for a moment too long.

Because you understood silence.

And you understood pain that didn’t want a spotlight.

That was what friends did, right?

They stuck around.

Even when it hurts.

Even when your chest felt too tight and your name never sounded as sweet coming from his mouth as hers probably did. Even when he looked at you and saw loyalty instead of love.

You were still here.

Because he was still here.

And that was enough.

Or at least, that’s what you told yourself.

You don’t know how long you sat by the window, brushing through the knots in your damp hair, untangling strands like you wish you could untangle the ache in your chest. Sunset was starting to paint the sky in hues of apology—soft peach bleeding into deep gold, like the world was trying to say sorry for being so damn cruel.

The house dress Laura lent you was a bit too big, soft cotton and floral print, nothing fancy—but comfortable. You hadn’t really packed for a spontaneous countryside war recovery trip. Clint had offered it casually, like this was all normal. Like the world wasn’t unraveling outside.

You exhaled through your nose, long and slow, feeling every fray at the edge of your sanity from today. From Wanda’s attack. From all the minds cracked open like eggs around you, except yours. Except yours.

Click.

The bathroom door creaked open behind you.

Your spine straightened, brushing paused mid-stroke. You didn’t turn around immediately.

You knew it was him. It was Steve.

“I was wondering if you fell in,” you said dryly, brushing down another stubborn strand.

Steve chuckled, that low, quiet sound that always made your stomach pull tight in confusing ways. “I was debating if I should just hide in there all night.”

You turned slightly, just enough to glance at him over your shoulder.

He was in a plain grey t-shirt and sweatpants, hair still damp and curling slightly at the ends. His expression was softer now, less weighed down. For the first time all day, he looked... human. Tired, yes, but real.

You hummed. “Would’ve been a shame. This room’s got all the ambiance. Trucks on the bedspread. Glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling. Real romantic.”

He smiled, stepping further in. “Kid’s got style.”

“Cooper’s got a Star Wars nightlight,” you pointed out, gesturing to the tiny plastic Darth Vader glowing faintly in the corner.

Steve followed your gaze, grinning. “That’s actually kind of impressive.”

You finally faced him fully, folding your legs beneath you on the windowsill seat. The brush dangled lazily from your fingers. “Better than any gear Stark designed. You can quote me.”

He laughed again, but it faded quicker this time. He looked at you like he wanted to say something else. Something deeper. You didn’t press.

“I didn’t see anything,” you murmured, breaking the quiet first. “Back there. When the girl—when she got into everyone’s heads.”

Steve looked up, brows lifting slightly. “You didn’t?”

You shook your head, setting the brush down in your lap. “My mind’s... closed. On purpose. Walls thick enough to keep anyone out. But I still felt everything. Every scream. Every fear. I just didn’t get a slideshow of my worst memories.”

“That sounds worse,” he said quietly.

You met his eyes. “Sometimes it is.”

He nodded slowly, taking a few steps closer. “Is that why you volunteered to room with me?”

You smirked, leaning your head against the windowpane. “What, because you’re emotionally constipated and I assumed I’d get a full night’s sleep?”

Steve cracked a grin. “You wound me.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’ll live.”

Another beat passed. The orange sunlight spilled over his face, and you watched the way it made his hair shine gold, the way the lines around his eyes softened when he looked at you.

The bed behind him creaked when he sat down.

“You didn’t have to, you know,” he said after a while.

You blinked. “Didn’t have to do what?”

“Stay by my side.”

Your throat tightened.

You looked back out the window.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “I did.”

Steve didn’t speak at first. Just stared at the nightlight in the corner, watching Darth Vader’s tiny red saber glow against the shadows. It should’ve been funny. You should’ve made a joke about it. But something in his silence felt heavier than usual. Not tense, just... full. Like he was trying to breathe through a weight on his ribs.

You didn't push. That was the trick with Steve Rogers—he didn’t crack under pressure. He cracked under kindness.

So you waited.

The night buzzed with crickets outside, and the faint creak of the farmhouse settling into silence. You shifted slightly on the windowsill, folding your arms around your knees.

“I saw her,” he said at last.

You knew exactly who he meant. You didn’t even need your empathy to know. His voice cracked too softly to be about anyone else.

“Peggy,” you said.

He nodded.

You stayed quiet. Let him build the words the way he always did—slow, careful, like setting bricks.

“It was a dance hall,” he murmured. “Forties music. People are laughing. And she... she asked me if I was ready. Said the war was over. That we could go home.”

You looked at him then, really looked. His face was still turned away, but his jaw was tight, and his hands—his hands were clasped like he was trying not to let something shake free.

“She said we could go home,” he repeated, softer now. “And then everyone disappeared. The music stopped. It was just the two of us, dancing in an empty room.”

Your heart ached.

And you, stupid, foolish you, had the audacity to be jealous of a memory.

An old woman’s ghost had more of Steve Rogers’ heart than you ever would. And that should’ve made you bitter. But all you felt was... grief. Not for yourself. For him.

Because Steve Rogers never got to go home. He was at war. And the world never let him stop fighting.

You stood slowly, knees cracking a little from sitting too long. You didn’t know where your body was going until you found yourself walking over to him, quiet steps on the wood floor, until you were standing in front of him.

He looked up at you.

You looked down at him.

His legs were spread just slightly where he sat on the edge of the bed, forearms resting on his knees like he’d been preparing to fight something again. But you weren’t something to fight. And neither was this.

You stepped forward. Right into the space between his legs.

His eyes widened just barely, lips parting.

You hesitated.

“Can I?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Steve didn’t even blink. “Of course.”

You reached for him gently, hands rising to cradle the sides of his head, fingers ghosting through his hair with a touch so light it almost didn’t feel real. His breath hitched, just once.

Then the blue came.

It seeped from your fingertips like mist, like moonlight filtered through water—cool, soft, alive. Not the violent scarlet haze that haunted the others. Not chaos. Not fear.

This was calm.

For the first time in what felt like hours, Steve exhaled without effort. His shoulders dropped. His body stilled.

And then—his mind opened.

Not violently. Not all at once. Just... slowly. Like a flower at dusk.

You stepped inside gently, mentally and emotionally, your abilities easing you in like a tide rolling over sand. You didn’t rip memories apart. You didn’t dig. You read. Softly. Carefully. You let him show you what he couldn’t say.

And there it was.

The dance hall. The lights. The colors that looked too bright to be real. Peggy’s smile, so warm and whole. Her words: The war’s over, Steve. We can go home.

And then—emptiness. Her voice echoed in a hollow place. The ache that followed. The longing. You felt it so clearly it made your throat tighten.

He wasn’t just sad.

He was lonely.

Steve didn’t move for a long moment. Then—his head dropped forward. Right onto your stomach.

You stilled.

His arms, slow and careful, wrapped around your waist. A little desperate. A little tired. All vulnerability. He didn’t look up. Just stayed there, pressed into you, breathing like this was the first time in days he remembered how.

Your hands slid down from his hair to cradle the back of his head.

You held him there. Neither of you said a word, but you didn’t need to.

Not tonight. Not like this.

You didn’t realize you were holding your breath until he sighed against you—soft, like a man who’s been carrying the weight of the world and just now realized he didn’t have to.

His head was heavy against your stomach, but you didn’t mind. His arms around your waist were loose, but steady. Not possessive. Just... present. Like he needed to make sure you wouldn’t disappear.

His thoughts weren’t screaming anymore. The noise had gone quiet. You could still feel the edges of sorrow curling around the memory of that dream, but your presence had soothed the storm. Calmed the tide. The ache was still there—of course it was—but it wasn’t drowning him anymore.

You threaded your fingers gently through his hair, combing back the damp strands. It was still a little wet from his shower. Still warm from the steam. Still real, which is more than anything in his dream had been.

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. Neither did you.

But the voice in your head wouldn’t shut up.

Don’t fall. Don’t fall. He doesn’t look at you like that. He never will. This isn’t a moment—it’s a mercy. He’s grieving, not reaching. Don’t mistake the difference.

You closed your eyes. And you stayed.

Not because you were hoping for more, but because you couldn’t walk away from him.

Not when he let himself break. Not when he trusted you with the pieces.

After a few long, aching minutes, Steve pulled back just enough to look up at you. His eyes were glassy, but clear. Like whatever haze Wanda had left in him had been swept away by your soft little storm.

“You’re good at that,” he murmured.

You quirked a brow. “At what? Standing awkwardly while a supersoldier uses me as an emotional pillow?”

His lips curved upward, barely. “That too. But mostly... calming people down. You don’t just read minds. You make the noise stop.”

You shrugged, though your chest fluttered. “The side effect of being born weird, I guess.”

“You’re not weird.”

You tilted your head. “Please. You’re talking to a woman in a borrowed house dress with bare feet and psychic powers who just invaded your head with blue sparkles. If I’m not weird, the bar’s too low.”

His smile faltered. Not in a bad way—just softened. His hands were still on your waist, and he hadn’t moved them. You hadn’t either.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

You frowned. “For what?”

“For this. For staying. For... not looking at me like I’m broken.”

You blinked. “Steve, you’re not broken.”

He looked like he didn’t quite believe you.

So you leaned down a little, fingers brushing his cheek, grounding him again.

“You’re just tired,” you said. “You’ve been fighting a war that never ends. Everyone expects you to be made of iron—but you’re not. You’re just a man with a good heart and too many ghosts.”

His jaw clenched just a little.

“But guess what?” you added, softer now. “You’re still standing.”

You straightened again, and he stared up at you like he didn’t quite know what to say.

So you gave him an out.

“Now scoot,” you said, nudging his leg with your knee. “We’re both exhausted and this bed is like... child-sized.”

Steve let out a low chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. “I was trying to figure out how we were gonna fit.”

“You sleep like a log, right?”

He shrugged. “I can.”

“Then I’m calling dibs on not being the one to fall out.”

He moved over, lying back onto Cooper’s little twin bed, his legs almost too long for it. You climbed in next to him, careful not to crowd. But not too far either.

You faced opposite directions, backs turned, the weight of the night still pressing soft and quiet around you both.

But you didn’t feel alone.

And neither did he.

You woke up to the sound of screaming.

Not in the air. Not in the halls.

In your head.

Thoughts—dozens of them, tangled and loud, pressing in from every corner of the house. Dreams turned into nightmares. Subconscious anxieties. Fears that bled into the walls. It was like the whole farmhouse had started humming at a frequency only you could hear.

You winced and blinked hard, groggy and disoriented.

The soft blue glow of the Star Wars nightlight spilled across the room. You squinted at the little digital clock on the dresser—red digits blinking quietly.

1:00 A.M.

Of course it was.

Your body had stiffened at some point in the night, but what caught your attention more was the arm wrapped around your waist. Steve. Still asleep. Still warm. Still holding you like whatever dream he was having hadn’t dragged him under again.

You stared at the ceiling for a moment, grounding yourself. The noise was worse now. Thoughts tumbling over each other—dreams from Clint, Laura, the kids, even Bruce down the hall.

Steve’s mind, thankfully, was quiet. Like a lake after the storm.

You slid away from his arm slowly, inch by inch, holding your breath so you wouldn’t wake him. The bed creaked softly under the movement, but he didn’t stir. His brow stayed relaxed. His breathing deep.

You exhaled through your nose and gently rolled out of bed, bare feet hitting the floor silently. The nightdress swayed softly around your calves as you moved toward the door, careful not to trip over a stray action figure on the floor.

The hallway was dark, moonlight slanting in through the windows.

The stairs creaked.

You winced at each step, weight pressed into your heels to soften the sound. You didn’t need Clint waking up and scolding you like a sitcom dad.

Downstairs, the kitchen was cold and quiet. You moved on autopilot—glass from the cupboard, fridge door swinging open, the hum of it briefly masking the thoughts rattling your skull.

You poured water with shaking fingers and drank it fast, letting the cold shock snap you back into your body.

Too loud.

You pressed the heel of your hand to your forehead, willing the noise to dial down, even just a little. You weren’t sure how long you stood there, breathing slow, glass against your lips, trying to steady the tide—

“Y/N?”

You jumped.

Your heart practically launched out of your chest as you spun around. “Jesus.”

There she was. Lila Barton. Tiny in her little pajama set, hair mussed from sleep, clutching a plush unicorn to her chest with wide eyes.

You blinked hard, trying to reset your face.

“Lila,” you breathed. “You scared the psychic outta me.”

She giggled a little, then rubbed at her eyes.

“I had a nightmare,” she whispered, lower lip wobbling. “And I didn’t wanna wake Mom or Dad.”

You softened instantly. The noise in your head quieted for just a second.

You knelt down in front of her, setting your glass on the counter behind you.

“You okay, kiddo?” you asked gently.

She shook her head. “There were... monsters. Not real ones. Just... bad dreams.”

You nodded slowly, brushing a stray curl behind her ear. “Yeah. I know those.”

Her eyes were glossy. “Do you ever get them?”

“All the time,” you admitted. “But I’ve got a secret weapon.”

She leaned in, eyes curious. “What is it?”

You smiled, raised your hands to either side of her tiny face.

“I can make them go away.”

She blinked, skeptical. “Like magic?”

“Sort of,” you whispered. “But better. It’s heart magic.”

She gasped. “That’s a real thing?”

“For you?” you said. “Always.”

You let your fingers rest lightly on her temples, and with a breath, let the power flow. Not the full thing—just enough. A ripple of soft blue shimmered between your hands, a light like moonlight on still water. It touched her mind gently, soothing the fear there, brushing away the leftover shadows.

Lila’s shoulders relaxed almost instantly. Her little body melted into a sigh, and she blinked up at you like you’d just fixed the sky.

“I feel better,” she whispered.

You smiled, pulling her into a soft hug. “That’s the idea.”

She squeezed you tight.

“Thank you,” she mumbled into your shoulder.

You closed your eyes.

“Anytime, Lila.”

The water helped, but it didn’t solve everything.

Standing there in the kitchen’s pale yellow nightlight, you realized that the voices that pulled you from sleep hadn’t just been background noise. They weren’t random. They weren’t just emotional echoes left behind.

No—your teammates were dreaming.

All of them.

The house was full of nightmares.

And your head, caught somewhere between psychic receiver and emotional sponge, had taken the brunt of it.

You glanced down at Lila, now rubbing sleep from her eyes, little fingers still curled around her unicorn.

With slow, careful movement, you bent down and scooped her into your arms. She didn’t protest. She just tucked her head under your chin, small body warm and trusting, as if this was something you’d done a hundred times.

The creaking of the stairs felt louder now, but you made the climb with practiced quiet, one hand against the banister to steady your balance, Lila's tiny snores soft against your collarbone. The farmhouse smelled like cedar and old laundry detergent, warm and lived-in, faint scent of something sweet baked into the walls—maybe muffins from the morning before.

At the top of the stairs, you shifted your weight and leaned close to her ear.

“Time to head back, agent,” you whispered.

Lila gave a sleepy little nod, eyes fluttering. You opened the door to her parents’ room with your foot, inching inside on near-silent steps. Laura stirred faintly when you laid Lila down, but didn’t wake. You pulled the blanket over the small girl’s chest, brushing a thumb over her cheek.

“Goodnight,” Lila mumbled, not fully awake.

You smiled, brushing hair from her forehead. “Goodnight, baby bird.”

She turned toward her unicorn and curled into it, safe again.

You stepped back into the hallway and exhaled quietly. The house groaned gently beneath your feet—old wood and older dreams. The noise in your head still hadn't settled. You could feel it humming deeper now, like standing too close to an overloaded generator.

Your eyes tracked down the hallway, toward where the buzz was strongest.

Natasha. Bruce.

You didn’t hesitate.

Lila’s room was just a few doors down. The pink wooden sign with glitter letters hung a little crookedly on the door. You turned the knob slowly, expecting it to be locked—but it wasn’t. Of course not. It was a child’s room, and Clint was a father first. He didn’t believe in locking doors where little ones might need comfort.

The room was dim, lit faintly by the soft swirl of glow-in-the-dark butterflies on the ceiling. The air smelled faintly of baby powder and lavender, like stuffed animals and bedtime stories. There were teddy bears lined up on a shelf, some with bows. A small princess nightlight blinked from the corner.

And on the bed, Bruce and Natasha.

They were tangled up together in a way that made your chest pinch—in the sweet way, not the jealous one. Natasha had her head resting on Bruce’s chest, arm draped across his stomach. He was angled slightly toward her, forehead pressed into her hair. It wasn’t messy or suggestive. Just intimate. Familiar. Two tired people clinging to the quiet.

But their minds were screaming.

You didn’t see the dreams. Not exactly. But you felt them.

Bruce’s was full of shadows—cold, sharp, flickering memories of cages and labs and needlepoints that made your throat close. A green haze lingered at the edge, rage balled up tight in his subconscious like a caged animal pacing.

Natasha’s was colder—quieter. But somehow worse. Hers wasn’t rage. It was control. Pain masked as purpose. You felt sterile walls, red lights. Not that door, she was whispering, even in her dream. Don’t make me open it again.

You stepped closer. The floor creaked slightly, but neither stirred. They were too far under.

You didn’t want to invade. But this wasn’t about watching. This was about relief.

You stood at the edge of the bed, raised your hand, and let your fingers hover in the air between them.

The mist unfurled slowly. That soft, silken blue light—cool and quiet, like a lullaby sung by the sea. It wrapped around both of them in threads of calm, not erasing the pain, but smoothing it. Buffering it. Their breathing evened. The lines on Bruce’s forehead faded. Natasha’s grip on his shirt loosened.

The noise—blessedly—stopped.

And you stepped back, letting your arm fall to your side.

You smiled faintly at the sight of them. Somehow, it felt like seeing something sacred. You were going to absolutely tease them in the morning. Nothing cruel. Just enough to make Nat roll her eyes and Bruce stammer through a defense. You’d earned it, honestly.

You stepped out of the room and pulled the door shut behind you.

Another breath. Another heartbeat.

But the storm wasn’t over.

You turned toward the end of the hall. The last door.

Tony.

His mind wasn’t loud, not the same way. His nightmares came in like static—messy, scattered. Fragmented shards of regret and guilt. You could feel it already. You didn’t need to see his dreams to know the truth:

He never forgave himself for anything.

You padded quietly to the door. This one was cracked open slightly. Probably forgot to close it properly when he stumbled in earlier, still running off adrenaline and sarcasm.

You slipped in.

The room smelled faintly of whiskey and motor oil. Old shirts lay draped over a suitcase, a half-packed bag on the dresser. A tablet blinked low battery from where he’d left it beside the bed. He hadn’t even changed out of his shirt—just kicked off his shoes and collapsed sideways.

Tony was sweating.

Not heavily, but just enough. A faint sheen along his brow. His hand twitched every now and then, fingers curling into the blanket. His jaw was clenched.

His dream wasn’t coherent.

You felt it in fragments: a pair of hands reaching up from under rubble, a flash of a child's shoe, Pepper walking away without turning back. His dad’s voice—cruel and cold—echoing in his mind like a scratched record.

You’re not enough. You’ll never be enough.

You closed your eyes, teeth clenched. “Oh, Dad,” you whispered under your breath. “You idiot.”

You moved closer, careful not to make noise. Your feet sank into the carpet near the bed. You reached out—no hesitation this time.

Blue mist swept out from your fingertips, curling like smoke in the low light. It danced over his temples, behind his ears, down to his chest.

The noise faded.

His breathing slowed.

His hand, curled in a tense fist, unclenched slightly.

You didn’t say anything else. You didn’t need to.

You just stood there, your hand hovering above the man who built your life from scratch but never quite figured out how to show love without sarcasm. The man who once gave you a Rolex for a birthday you cried through.

The room fell quiet.

And your head, at last, stopped hurting.

You slipped back into Cooper’s bedroom just as the grandfather clock downstairs struck two, the low chime echoing up through the floorboards like a reminder that time was always ticking—too fast, too slow, never on your side.

The room was dim, moonlight cutting pale stripes through the blinds. Steve had shifted slightly in the bed. He was lying on his back now, one arm thrown across the empty space where you’d been, like he’d reached for you and missed.

You stood in the doorway for a moment, your heartbeat still steady from calming everyone else’s storms.

And now here he was.

The one storm you didn’t want to calm.

Because he could break you if he wanted to. And you’d let him.

You crossed the room slowly, the worn floor soft under your feet, and slid carefully back under the covers.

You didn’t say anything.

Neither did he.

Until—

“You okay?” he asked softly, voice thick with sleep but laced with something else. Something warmer. Something that made your stomach twist.

“I’m fine,” you lied, as naturally as breathing.

He was silent for a few seconds, and you thought maybe he’d fallen back asleep. But then—

“I woke up and you were gone.”

You hesitated. “Just needed a walk. Too much noise.”

He turned onto his side to face you, one hand supporting his head, elbow on the pillow.

“I figured that’s what it was,” he said. “It’s always noise for you, isn’t it?”

You shrugged. “Perks of being a glorified human antenna.”

His eyes searched your face, soft and unreadable. You hated when he looked at you like that—like he was trying to solve you. Like you were a puzzle he was too close to finish.

“You helped us,” he murmured. “I felt it. When you touched my mind.”

You looked away.

“It was gentle,” he continued. “Like... like someone putting their hand on your shoulder when you’re about to fall.”

You swallowed hard.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know.”

“Then why did you?”

Your fingers curled in the blanket. “Because I care about you. About all of you.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

His voice was low now. Steady.

You froze.

He shifted closer. The air between you thickened.

“You didn’t just care,” he said. “You held me together. You always do. And I’ve been lying to myself for a long time, pretending it was just friendship. That it was just... teammates sticking together.”

You closed your eyes.

“Steve,” you whispered, warning in your tone.

But he didn’t stop.

“I keep thinking about that dream. About Peggy. About how it felt to see her again. And I realized it wasn’t about going home. It wasn’t about the dance. It was about the part of me that still wants something... that feels like home.”

Your chest tightened.

“And when I woke up,” he said, voice catching, “you were gone, and the bed was cold, and I panicked because I didn’t want you gone.”

Your eyes snapped open.

He looked at you then—really looked. And he said it:

“I think I’m falling in love with you.”

The air left your lungs.

You sat up immediately, fingers trembling, eyes burning.

“No,” you said, too fast, too sharp.

Steve blinked, confusion and hurt flashing across his face.

You shook your head, heart pounding so hard it hurt. “Don’t. Don’t say that to me.”

“Why not?” he asked, sitting up too, voice strained now.

“Because I’m not her, Steve!” you snapped, louder than intended, but gods, it was too late to be quiet now.

His expression froze.

“You’re still holding onto her,” you whispered, softer this time. “Even now. You’re just trying to find pieces of her in me. Kindness. The loyalty. The sarcasm wrapped in warmth. And maybe I remind you of her. Maybe I move like her, talk like her, care like her. But I’m not her.”

Steve opened his mouth—but you didn’t let him speak.

“You want to love me? Then love me. Not the ghost of someone you couldn’t save.”

The silence that followed was thunderous.

He stared at you like you’d just punched him in the gut.

Maybe you had.

You swallowed the lump in your throat and looked away, fists clenched in your lap.

“You deserve something real,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “So do I.”

He didn’t answer.

And for once, you didn’t fill the silence.

You let it sit.

Between the two of you.

Like a wall neither of you were ready to break.

The silence in the room wasn’t just heavy.

It was crushing.

You sat on the edge of the bed, breathing like your ribs were glass—slow, careful, scared of shattering. You didn’t dare look at him. If you did, you might take it all back. And you meant what you said.

Didn’t you?

Across from you, Steve didn’t move. You could feel the tension rippling off him—could hear the thoughts in his head, loud as church bells and quiet as confessions. He wasn’t angry. That would’ve been easier. No, he was something else.

Wrecked.

You heard the way his breath hitched. The way his hands curled into fists, resting on his knees like anchors. The bed dipped under his weight, still too small for two broken people who didn’t know what to do with their pain.

“I’m sorry,” he said finally.

You flinched.

Not because of the words—but because of the way he said them.

Like he meant them for a thousand different moments he could never take back.

“For what?” you asked, still not looking at him. “For saying it? Or for meaning it?”

Steve didn’t answer right away. And that told you everything.

You turned to him slowly.

He was looking down, staring at his hands like they held answers. His jaw was clenched, the muscle ticking. His eyes were glassy, lips parted, like he had a hundred words he wanted to say but none that would make a difference.

“I don’t know how to stop comparing,” he admitted. “And I hate that. Because it’s not fair to you.”

You looked at him. Really looked.

His broad shoulders slumped. His spine curled forward slightly, like the weight on it was just too much tonight. His whole body—always so strong, so steady—looked tired in a way that had nothing to do with exhaustion and everything to do with regret.

“I keep looking for things I lost,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “And when I see them in you, it... it feels like hope. But maybe it’s just me trying to glue the past to the present.”

“Exactly,” you said, choking on your own voice. “That’s exactly what it is.”

“But it’s not just that,” he said, more firmly now. “You think I don’t see you? That I don’t know who you are?”

You stared at him. “Then why now? Why after that dream? You see her, you wake up, and suddenly I’m what—convenient?”

“No,” he said quickly. “God, no. You’re not convenient. You’re everything I’m afraid to want.”

Your breath caught.

He looked at you like he was pleading with you to understand. “You’re not soft and perfect. You’re sharp. You’re chaos and compassion all rolled into one. You challenge me. You make me feel like I’m not just a man frozen in time. And yeah, sometimes I look at you and I hear her voice, but more often than not... I hear yours.”

Your chest tightened so hard it ached.

“But I’m scared,” he said. “I’m scared because what if I’m too broken to know the difference between love and longing? What if I already ruined this by seeing ghosts in your shadow?”

Tears stung your eyes—but you blinked them away. “You didn’t ruin it. You just made it real.”

Steve looked up.

You stared at him with all the pain in your chest cracked wide open. “I’ve loved you for a long time. And it killed me—kills me—to know I’ll always be second to someone who’s not even here.”

His expression crumbled.

“I tried to be okay with it,” you continued, voice trembling. “I told myself being near you was enough. Being your friend, your anchor, your whatever you needed. But I can’t keep pretending it doesn’t hurt.”

Steve reached for you, but you flinched.

“I need you to love me for me,” you said, softly now. “Not because I’m safe. Not because I’m similar. Not because I made your nightmares go quiet.”

His hand hovered in the air for a second before falling to his side.

Neither of you moved.

The clock ticked in the background.

Outside the window, the sky was starting to hint at dawn—just barely. The kind of blue that isn’t day or night, but the ghost of both.

You sat there, side by side, not touching. Two hearts beating too loudly in the quiet.

And somehow, silence said more than either of you could bear.

You didn’t sleep after that.

Neither did he.

The silence between you stretched on, delicate as spider silk, humming with everything you wanted to say but couldn’t trust yourself to speak. You sat on opposite ends of the bed, feet dangling, bodies heavy with unshed grief.

Eventually, Steve turned away and laid down, but not to sleep. You could tell by his breathing—too steady. Too rehearsed. He wasn’t drifting off.

He was trying to disappear.

And you let him.

You pulled your knees up to your chest, wrapped your arms around them, and stared at the glow-in-the-dark constellations stuck to Cooper’s ceiling. They were shaped like tiny promises, and every one of them felt like a lie.

The room smelled faintly like the remnants of Lila’s bubblegum shampoo and Steve’s cologne. Warm cotton. Faint traces of cedar and something older, like dust on a forgotten letter. The scent of almost.

You didn’t cry.

There weren’t any tears left.

When the sky finally cracked open, painting soft gold across the old wooden floorboards, you climbed quietly out of bed, careful not to brush against him. Steve stayed still, eyes closed, one hand over his chest like he was holding himself together.

You tiptoed across the room, grabbed your jacket from the chair, and slipped into the hallway.

Downstairs, the farmhouse was still quiet. Clint’s kids weren’t up yet. Laura was likely curled into Clint’s side. Natasha and Bruce, probably still tangled in each other’s warmth—dreams finally quiet thanks to you. Tony, passed out and drooling into a pillow he pretended cost $600.

You moved like a ghost through the kitchen, fingers wrapping around a chipped ceramic mug. You poured yourself coffee—black, because anything else felt like trying too hard. The mug was warm between your palms, but it didn’t chase the chill out of your bones.

You sat at the table and stared out the window.

The barn caught the sunrise first. All golden wood and long shadows. Somewhere, a rooster crowed like it was auditioning for a movie.

And then you heard it.

Steps. Barefoot. Soft.

You didn’t turn around.

Steve entered the kitchen with that same slow, unsure quiet he always wore after a battle. His hair was a mess. He looked like hell. And somehow, he still moved like a leader trying to figure out how to ask forgiveness without words.

He stopped at the opposite end of the table.

You still didn’t look at him.

A beat.

Then another.

Then—

“Didn’t sleep,” you said softly, staring into your mug.

“Me neither,” Steve murmured, voice rough. “Didn’t really want to.”

You nodded, more to yourself than to him. “Coffee’s fresh.”

Steve moved to pour himself a cup. You heard the clink of ceramic, the slow gurgle of the pot. He sat down across from you, hands wrapped around the mug like it might burn away the things he couldn’t fix.

Another beat.

Then he said it.

“I meant it.”

You looked at him now.

His eyes were tired. Honest. Exposed.

“I don’t care if you think it’s too late,” he said. “Or if I said it for the wrong reasons. I meant it.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it again.

“Steve,” you said finally, “I can’t be someone’s second choice.”

“You’re not.”

“You just saw her. You danced with her in your dream.”

He leaned forward. “I didn’t wake up wanting her.”

You froze.

He swallowed. “I woke up missing her, yes. But I looked over and I—” He faltered. “I looked over and I needed you. Not her.”

Your heart thudded.

“I don’t know what this is,” he admitted. “I just know I’ve never felt this calm around anyone else. Never felt seen like this. You get into my head and you don’t run. You see the worst of me and you stay.”

You let the silence fill the space.

Then:

“I don’t want to love someone who’s still haunted.”

Steve’s eyes dropped.

“I want someone who chooses me. All of me. Not just the pieces that look like someone else.”

He looked up again. And this time—his voice cracked.

“Then let me prove it’s you.”

You stared at him.

Two mugs of cooling coffee. Two exhausted souls. One moment balanced on the knife-edge between breaking and beginning.

And for once, you didn’t know what to say.

So you just whispered:

“Then don’t disappear.”

And he whispered back:

“I won’t.”

away every crack in your chest with nothing but care.

Steve kissed you like you mattered.

Like you weren’t just a comfort or a memory or an afterthought—but a choice.

His lips were warm, patient, but there was something deeper beneath the softness—a tension held back, something he’d buried for too long. And when your fingers curled into his hair and your body pressed closer, he melted into you.

His arm slid around your waist. Yours moved up around his neck. The kiss deepened, slow and sweet, the kind that steals the air from your lungs but gives you back your name.

And then—

“OH. MY. GOD.”

You froze.

Steve pulled back an inch, lips still ghosting over yours.

You both turned slowly toward the voice.

Tony Stark was standing in the doorway, wide-eyed, holding a coffee mug mid-sip like he’d just walked in on a crime scene.

“WHAT IN THE NAME OF STARK INDUSTRIES IS HAPPENING HERE.”

You scrambled to sit up. Steve nearly fell off the chair. Your face went nuclear red.

“Tony—” you started, but he held up a hand like he was stopping traffic.

“No. Nope. Absolutely not. I need therapy. I need bleach for my eyeballs. I need—I need Jesus.”

Steve opened his mouth, only to immediately close it again.

Tony’s jaw dropped further. “You—you kissed my daughter?!”

“She kissed me,” Steve blurted.

You whipped around. “Excuse me?!”

Steve winced. “Okay, bad defense, but—mutual! Totally mutual!”

Tony gagged.

“OH GOD, I CAN HEAR YOU!”

That was when Natasha walked in, looking like a goddess in sweatpants, holding her mug like it was her morning sword.

“What’s happening?” she asked casually.

Bruce appeared right behind her, adjusting his glasses. “Did Tony scream ‘Jesus’ or was that my imagination?”

You were halfway to combusting.

Natasha glanced between you and Steve—your kiss-swollen lips, your guilty spacing—and immediately smirked. “Well well well.”

Bruce’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh.”

“Oh?!” Tony shouted. “OH?! You’re older than me, Rogers! Older than me!”

“Technically—” Steve tried.

“Do not say ‘time doesn’t work like that,’ I swear,” Tony groaned. “You wore suspenders unironically.”

From upstairs, Clint shouted, “Did someone die?!”

“I WISH I HAD,” Tony roared back.

You buried your face in your hands. “This is not happening. This is not real. I’m still dreaming. This is Wanda’s fault.”

Natasha walked over and ruffled your hair. “Relax, lovebird. You could do worse.”

Tony gasped. “Excuse you?!”

“Not helping, Nat!” you yelped.

Bruce patted Steve’s shoulder with tragic sympathy. “Good luck, man.”

Steve just buried his face in his hands. “I was a war hero.”

“You still are,” Natasha said, smirking. “Just not in Tony’s house.”

The kitchen exploded with laughter. Well—everyone but Tony.

Tony, who took a long, dramatic sip of his coffee, stared at the ceiling and muttered:

“God, if you’re listening… please smite me.”

Tony was still dramatically mumbling into his coffee like a man who had just watched his favorite sports team lose and then spontaneously combust. He paced the kitchen like a sitcom dad in full breakdown mode, muttering things like “My daughter’s dating a man who fought Hitler” and “Why didn’t I just build Ultron a girlfriend and retire.”

You sat back down in your chair, cheeks still a bit flushed, hair tousled from soft hands and even softer kissing, while Steve sat beside you, trying very hard to look like he hadn’t just been emotionally stripped and publicly roasted.

Natasha was still sipping her coffee, now lounging on the counter with all the smugness of a cat watching a dog get scolded.

“So, how long’s this been a thing?” she asked casually, gesturing at the space between you and Steve like it was a soap opera.

“It’s not a thing,” you said quickly.

Steve blinked. “I thought—”

“I mean not a thing thing,” you stammered, panicking. “Just a—like—we kissed. Once. That’s it. Calm your shield, Cap.”

Nat’s smirk widened. “Uh-huh. Sure. You looked like you were seconds from writing each other vows with that kiss.”

Bruce cleared his throat, ever the peacekeeper. “Let’s maybe not interrogate the new couple before coffee’s fully metabolized.”

“Not a couple,” you and Steve said in unison.

Tony groaned. “You’re finishing each other’s sentences now?! I’m gonna be sick.”

“Do you need a hug?” Clint asked, suddenly appearing in the kitchen in pajama pants and an I ❤️ NY hoodie, a cup of tea in his hand.

“I need a restraining order,” Tony hissed.

Clint looked at Steve, then at you, then at the empty coffee mugs, then back at Steve. “Huh. Took you long enough.”

Steve blinked. “You... knew?”

Clint shrugged. “Come on, Cap. You look at her like she’s the Statue of Liberty and you just came back from war.”

Tony gagged again. “He did. That’s the problem!”

Nat grinned. “It’s true. You give her the look.”

Steve frowned. “What look?”

Bruce, deadpan: “The ‘I’d jump on a grenade for you and then bake you pancakes’ look.”

“Pancakes?” you repeated, grinning now.

Natasha pointed her spoon at Steve. “He literally made you pancakes last week.”

“They were protein pancakes,” Steve mumbled, ears turning pink.

Tony dragged his hands down his face. “Great. This is how I die. Betrayed. In my own kitchen. Watching my daughter make googly eyes at Uncle Sam.”

Clint snorted. “Steve’s more like Grandpa America, actually.”

You nearly spit out your coffee.

“Okay, that’s enough,” Steve said, his voice somewhere between amused and mildly offended.

Tony pointed dramatically. “That’s my line! That’s what I say when the team roasts me. You can’t just—oh my god, are you wearing socks with sandals?!”

Steve looked down at his feet. “They’re slippers—”

“Slippers are just socks with ambition.”

Bruce leaned against the fridge and tried not to laugh. “Tony, you’ve built AI, rebuilt your heart, and flown to space. You can survive this.”

“I shouldn’t have to,” Tony huffed. “This is my daughter. This is like... betrayal. World War, Farmhouse Edition.”

Natasha raised a brow. “I mean... we do need a sequel.”

You leaned into Steve and whispered just loud enough for Tony to hear: “So, uh... wanna kiss me again just to see what happens?”

Tony shrieked, “I’M STILL HERE.”

Steve’s laugh rumbled low in his chest, and his hand found yours under the table again. This time, he didn’t let go.

The sun had fully risen now, stretching lazy golden fingers across the quiet farm. It was one of those mornings that smelled like dew and dust and warmth—like something old and kind. Birds chirped high in the trees, and everything felt like it had finally exhaled after a long, aching breath.

You stood just outside the barn, arms crossed loosely, wearing a borrowed hoodie that was definitely not yours. (Okay, it might’ve belonged to Steve. But no one needed to know that.)

In front of you, Steve was chopping firewood.

And you were... well.

You were shamelessly staring.

Not just at the strength in his arms or the way his shirt clung to his back in all the right ways (though, yeah, duh), but at the way he moved—focused, quiet, content. It was rare to see him like this, outside of the suit and the weight of a world expecting him to save it.

He lifted the axe again, brought it down with a solid thud—the wood split clean in two, scattering chips across the dirt.

You whistled low under your breath.

He paused, glanced over his shoulder, clearly trying (and failing) not to smirk. “You always make that noise when someone chops wood, or am I just special?”

You leaned against the fence post with a dramatic sigh. “I dunno. The lumberjack thing? Kind of doing it for me.”

He barked out a laugh and wiped the sweat from his brow with the hem of his shirt—lifting it just enough to reveal a sliver of toned stomach.

You blinked.

He noticed.

And grinned.

“Oh, you’re evil,” you muttered, biting your lip and trying to look anywhere else. “How dare you use your super soldier abs against me.”

He walked over to you, grabbing a bottle of water from the post. “I thought I was Grandpa America?”

You shrugged, innocent. “Gramps can still get it.”

Steve choked on his water.

“Jesus,” he coughed, eyes wide, laughing through it. “You’re unbelievable.”

You took the bottle from his hands and sipped. “Takes one to know one.”

He was still smiling when he stepped closer, hands loosely on his hips, a little dirt smudged across his cheek. “You just gonna watch, or you planning to help?”

You raised an eyebrow. “What, and ruin my new career as your personal eye candy appreciation society?”

Steve gave you a look.

You gave him one right back.

Then—slowly—you walked forward, closing the distance between you, until you were toe-to-toe. You reached up, thumb brushing the dirt off his cheek. He didn’t move—just watched you with those soft blue eyes that made your heart twist.

“Y’know,” you said gently, “I like seeing you like this.”

“Like what?”

You shrugged. “Here. Now. Not in the suit. Not saving the world. Just... you. Chopping wood and smiling at me like I’m not a complete disaster.”

He leaned in, just a little. “You’re not a disaster.”

You grinned. “I’m definitely a disaster.”

He reached for your hands, lacing his fingers through yours. “Maybe. But you’re my disaster.”

Your cheeks flushed, and your smile softened.

There it was again. That look.

Like you hung the stars in the sky. Like he never wanted to look away.

You rested your forehead against his chest and sighed. “God, this is stupid.”

“What is?”

“This,” you mumbled into the fabric of his shirt. “I’m gonna fall so hard for you it’s gonna ruin me.”

Steve tilted your chin up, eyes searching yours with that quiet intensity he always had. “Then let’s ruin each other.”

You laughed, soft and breathless, and leaned in to kiss him again—this time slow, warm, with the smell of pine and the sun on your face. His hands cupped your jaw, steady and grounding, and you melted into him like you were always meant to be here.

No chaos. No noise.

Just the two of you.

And for once, that was enough.

The work was done.

The firewood sat stacked in neat rows by the side of the porch, and Steve had finally tossed the axe aside with a satisfied grunt. His shoulders glistened slightly under the heat of the late afternoon sun, the edges of his shirt darkened with sweat. The farm had quieted—no Avengers stomping through the yard, no chaos spilling out of the house. Just birdsong, the distant murmur of a breeze, and the soft creak of the wooden fence where you now sat, legs dangling lazily over the side.

Steve leaned beside you, elbow propped up on the post, drinking the last of his water. His eyes weren't on the sky. They were on you.

"You've been quiet," he said gently.

You shrugged. “I like the quiet. It’s rare.”

He nodded. “It is.”

The sun had started its slow descent behind the trees, casting everything in that golden amber light that made even the worn-down barn look like something out of a painting. Dust motes danced in the still air. The breeze smelled faintly of hay and honeysuckle.

You sighed, leaning your head back against the wood. “You ever think about what it’d be like if this was... it?”

Steve glanced sideways. “What do you mean?”

“This,” you said, gesturing vaguely at the open field, the house, the firewood. “Peace. A normal day. No aliens. No missions. Just... existing.”

Steve’s jaw tensed slightly. “More than you know.”

You looked at him.

Really looked.

The lines around his eyes. The soft pink at the tip of his nose from the sun. The small smile he tried to hide when you caught him staring.

“You could have it, you know,” you said. “You could hang up the shield. Be done.”

His smile faltered. “You think I deserve that?”

You nodded. “I think you deserve more than that.”

He didn’t answer at first. His eyes dropped to the ground, jaw working through something heavy.

Then—quietly—he said, “I didn’t think I could ever feel something like this again.”

You swallowed. “Like what?”

He looked at you, and this time, he didn’t look away.

“Hope.”

It hit you like a whisper and a storm all at once.

You sat there, blinking up at him, heart stumbling like it had forgotten how to beat on rhythm.

“I know I’m not good at this,” he added, voice rough around the edges. “Talking. Letting people in. But you...” He reached for your hand, thumb brushing over your knuckles. “You make it feel easy.”

Your breath caught.

“I don’t know what’s gonna happen tomorrow,” he continued. “But right now—this—” He squeezed your hand. “—this feels real.”

You didn’t pull away.

You leaned in, your voice soft. “It is.”

The silence between you thickened, but not in a bad way. In a way that made your skin hum. The sunlight caught the edge of his hair, turning the golden strands even lighter. The light made him look impossibly soft—like a memory in motion.

And then—you did it.

You reached up, fingers brushing along the side of his face, thumb dragging gently across the line of his jaw.

He leaned into your touch without hesitation.

No more hesitation.

No more ghosts.

Just him.

Just you.

Just this moment.

Your forehead touched his, and for a long, sweet breath, you both stayed like that—eyes closed, hearts steady. The heat of the day melting into something calmer. Safer.

You whispered, “We could stay here a little longer, y’know.”

He smiled, barely. “I’d like that.”

Then, finally, he kissed you again.

Slower this time.

Softer.

There was no rush. No adrenaline. No fear.

Just two people who’d found something quiet and good in the middle of chaos.

And for once, neither of you pulled away.

You weren’t sure when you both ended up lying side by side on the patch of tall grass just behind the barn, but the stillness of it was a balm. The sun had begun to dip low, casting warm light across the world, catching in the strands of Steve’s hair, painting everything in gold.

You turned your head on the rough wool of the old blanket Clint had lent you and looked at him—his profile soft in the last light of day. His eyes were on the sky, calm and unreadable, but his thumb was tracing soft, distracted patterns on the back of your hand.

It was quiet. Not heavy. Not awkward. Just... peaceful.

Safe.

“Steve?” you asked softly.

“Yeah?” he murmured, not turning, but you could hear the smile in his voice.

You hesitated. Then: “Do you ever think about the future?”

He was quiet for a moment, his thumb stilling on your skin.

“All the time,” he said.

You shifted to lie on your side, propped on one elbow, watching him. His expression was unreadable at first—like he was still somewhere else. Then slowly, his eyes found yours.

“I don’t let myself get too far ahead,” he admitted. “But lately… I don’t know. It’s getting harder not to want something more.”

You swallowed. “More like what?”

He smiled, slow and unsure, like the words felt too delicate to say out loud.

“A house,” he said finally. “Quiet. Out here, maybe. Far from everything. Big porch. Two chairs. One dog.”

Your lips curled. “Just one?”

“Just one. I’ll name him something dumb like Sergeant Bark.”

You snorted. “Okay, first of all, you’re banned from naming anything.”

He laughed, head tilting toward you slightly, light in his eyes. “Fine. You can name the dog.”

Your heart clenched.

He was teasing, but there was something real under the surface. Something he wasn’t quite saying. You knew that tone. You knew what it meant to speak softly about things you didn’t think you could ever have.

You let your eyes drift to the horizon. “And kids?”

The question hung there for a second, caught on the wind.

Steve’s voice was gentler when he answered. “Yeah. I think about that too.”

You met his gaze again.

“I didn’t used to,” he added. “Back in Brooklyn, it didn’t feel like something people like me were supposed to have. Then the war happened. And after that… I just stopped letting myself want it.”

You reached out and brushed your fingers against the curve of his jaw.

“But now?” you asked.

His hand found yours again, curling around it like it was something precious.

“Now I want it with you,” he said.

You didn’t know what to say. The words hit like warmth and ache all at once. He meant it. He meant you.

“You’d be a good dad,” you whispered, the lump in your throat rising fast.

He shook his head slightly. “I’d be terrified. What if I mess it up?”

You smiled. “We’d mess it up together. That’s the deal.”

His eyes softened like he was memorizing you.

“You’d be a great mom,” he said, voice barely audible.

You blinked hard.

Then, because your chest hurt with how much this meant—this moment, this man—you tried to tease again, just to breathe.

“Let’s name one of the kids after Tony, just to mess with him.”

Steve grinned. “Only if we name the other one Natasha.”

You paused. “No joke, I actually love that.”

You both laughed. Not loudly. Not the kind that echoed. Just the soft, chest-humming laughter of people letting go.

The kind of laugh that tastes like home.

Steve rolled onto his side to face you, his palm resting over your heart now. His fingers curled there, like he could feel every beat. Maybe he could.

“Do you think we’ll get there?” he asked, eyes locked on yours.

You wanted to say yes. You wanted to scream it. But your throat was tight, and your heart was full in a way that made it hard to speak.

So you whispered, “If the world lets us, I’ll build that life with you brick by brick.”

His hand slipped to the back of your neck and he pulled you in—slow, reverent, like the world had finally stood still long enough to let you breathe.

The kiss was softer this time. Less hungry. Less breathless. Just… full. Steady. Familiar. It felt like the answer to a question neither of you had ever known how to ask.

When you pulled back, you rested your forehead against his.

You could feel his breath on your lips, warm and steady.

And then—he whispered it. Soft. Like a vow.

“I love you.”

You blinked.

Once.

Twice.

And then you smiled.

Not because it surprised you.

But because you felt it too.

“I love you,” you whispered back, voice thick with something tender and raw. “I think I always have.”

Steve exhaled like he’d been holding that breath since the war.

You both lay there under the fading sun, holding each other. No fear. No need to rush. The world was still out there. The chaos. The battles. The uncertainty.

But for now, it was just two hearts. A patch of sky. And the dream of something more.

A life not yet lived.

But close.

So close.

And maybe, just maybe—worth fighting for.

Later, as the stars carved quiet paths across the darkening sky and the barn lights flickered on in the distance, you stayed curled against Steve, the world hushed around you. There was no war at this moment.

No ghosts, no shields, no broken pieces needing to be picked up. Just skin pressed to skin, hearts aligned like constellations, and the shared breath of two people who had survived enough to finally let themselves want more.

You didn’t need promises. You didn’t need forever wrapped in certainty. What you had—this raw, beautiful now—was more than enough.

And if the future ever came with a house, a porch, a dog with a terrible name, and laughter echoing through hallways built from healing… you’d be there. Hand in hand. With him.

Building peace in the shape of each other.

#steve rogers x reader #avengers x reader #steve rogers #avengxrz #marvel cinematic universe #steve rogers angst #steve rogers fluff #the avengers #steve rogers imagine

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dustmusings · 2 days ago

Text

Hell of a Dream / Cassian Andor x Fem!Reader

summary: after an unsuccessful mission, you and Cassian hope to land somewhere comfortable for the night, but you get a bit more than you bargained for

tags/warnings: NSFW 18+ ONLY !!! only one bed trope (gasp), coworkers/friends to lovers, slight angst at the beginning, smut, pinv sex, kinda miscommunication not really, reader is just a bit of a worrier

a/n: call this an au I guess cause it doesn't really line up with anything in the series, still nailing down my characterisation as well so go easy <3

word count: 5.3k

The mission had been a complete nightmare.

Everything that could have gone wrong seemed to go off without a hitch, like the cruel joke of a cackling deity watching from the heavens. It’s really anyone’s guess as to how either of you escaped with your lives at all, but safe to say that now you need somewhere to lay low, not to mention that you’ve been to hell and back in a day, and you’re exhausted. That’s why you’re here, on some backwater planet you know not the name of, and you’re climbing the stairs of a motel with heavy footsteps.

Cassian has been in a foul mood since your near-miss of a getaway — not that you’ve been particularly perky — and the last thing you need is for one more thing to go wrong today. You can’t blame him, he had drawn up the plan for the mission himself, and it would’ve been a perfect one had the intel not have been wrong. You’ve been working alongside him long enough that you know not to say anything, to let him stew in his own self-loathing for a little while before you try to convince him that it wasn’t his fault. His dedication to the rebellion is rivalled by almost none, and oftentimes it appears as if he carries all of its burdens with him, weighing down upon him as if they sit upon his very shoulders.

He can be intense, in that way, but you know him better than most. You know his commitment stems from how deeply he cares for the people around him, for how he wishes for a better galaxy where the need for such rebellion is undone. He feels more deeply than he lets on, always surrounded by a shell of indifference to keep others at arms length. He wears it like a mask, but you see it as it is; it’s a preventative measure.

You try to bring what levity you can in the quiet moments between missions, sharing a joke and smile when appropriate, and have succeeded in getting him to loosen up every once in a while, but have found that it’s too much for just one person to shake the foundations of someone’s beliefs. Though, if he didn’t feel so deeply then he would be a different man, and you wouldn’t trade that for anything. Even when he watches you in briefings, or in the field, like he’s waiting for you to mess up, you know his intentions are strictly honourable. You know it’s not because he wants you to fail, it’s so he’ll be prepared to swoop in if you do.

Even still, he can be frustrating in his persistence to shut you out. You’ve been working closely with him for years, and sometimes it feels as if you don’t even know him at all. You’ve grown to learn his patterns, searching for clues in the way he holds himself and what each facial expression truly means to say, and you know he’s done the same for you. Most wretchedly, you know it wouldn’t be anywhere near as frustrating if you didn’t find yourself entirely infatuated by him.

For all his supposed indifference, it would be hard to look past his valour as anything less than admirable. The way he bares it leaves much to be desired, but he has let you see through the facade enough times to the point where you can’t help but let your admiration grow into something else, something more complicated. It’s tough to navigate, being attracted to someone you work with so often, but you can be objective for the most part. You know it’s not practical in any sense, so you bury it deep, reserve the feeling for fleeting moments where you can look at him and ponder how, in a different life, it may have worked out.

That is why, when you open the door to find just one bed inside the only room that was available at the motel, your heart sinks. You hope desperately that it won’t be an extra point of contention, opting just to place your pack down on a side table and see how Cassian reacts to the unfortunate circumstances. He enters the room after you, raising his gaze from his boots only when the door zips shut behind him. A heavy sigh passes his lips, and at first he doesn’t say anything, just staring at the offending piece of furniture.

“I’ll take the floor” he murmurs, dropping his own pack from his shoulder. If you weren’t so tired you feel you could laugh.

“Don’t be ridiculous” you chide and he turns to you, waiting for you to come up with a better solution, “it’s just one night. The bed is big enough for two”

His gaze remains unconvinced, eyelids heavy with weariness, and you roll your eyes to hide the slight pang of hurt in your chest.

“I’ll put a pillow between us if you’re that worried”

“I’m not worried” he says under his breath, his tone dismissive.

You don’t pay attention to it, knowing he’s still not of the mind to be entirely reasonable, and instead dig around in your pack to find the sleep clothes you had packed. You stride past him and into the refresher without another word, locking the door behind you and turning on the shower.

The steam that fills the small room seeps into your pores as you undress, and begins to unwind some of the tension that lingers in your muscles. When you step beneath the water, your body finally relaxes. The hardships of the day are washed away with every drop, anything that troubles you slips away, and your mind goes still for the first time in days.

You don’t indulge in the feeling for too long. You’re sure that there’s not much hot water to go round in this place, and if you don’t want Cassian to be in an even worse mood then it’s better to get out sooner and not push your luck. Just as quickly as you had undressed, you’re into your sleep clothes and stepping back into the room.

Cassian sat on the bed facing the refresher door, his elbows rested on his knees, one of them bouncing incessantly as he wrings his hands. He doesn’t acknowledge your presence as you step out, and your tendency to worry nags at you the longer you stand there. You call his name softly, making his head snap up. He takes in your appearance with a quick glance, unstately as it is being a large t-shirt and shorts.

“The ‘fresher is free” you mention and nod back to the open door.

“Right, yeah” he utters as he stands and grabs a bundle of cloth from his side, brushing past you to enter.

You sigh out of instinct as you switch off the light and slip under the duvet, cozying up against the wall and hoping to drift off to sleep before Cassian makes it out of the refresher. You hear the rhythmic sound of the water falling, and it’s a moment before you can tell he has stepped under the flow. The noise is somewhat hypnotic as it continues, enough to almost lull you to sleep, but soon enough the tap squeaks, and the water shuts off. You huff to yourself, hoping that falling asleep wont prove any more difficult than usual.

The door opens shortly after, flooding the room with light for a moment before it’s shut off. You’re faced away from him, but you hear his light footfalls as he pads over, and then the dip of the bed as he sits at its edge. He calls your name in a whisper and your chest tightens slightly, but you don’t reply, instead measuring your breathing so he might think that you have already fallen asleep. A sigh escapes him, and he gently lifts the covers to slip beneath. A few minutes pass, but he’s still doubtful.

“I know you’re awake”

You’re not in the mood to chat, not when your nerves are already so alert from how close his voice seems to you, how close he must be.

“Just go to sleep” you mutter as non-committally as you can.

“Fine” he mumbles, and seems to shift, “but I don’t bite”

You puzzle over the claim in your head, but quickly realise just how tightly you’re hugging the wall. You chuckle as you recognise the behaviour and relax, shuffling back the tiniest bit.

“You promise?” you jest, and he just chuckles lightly in response, a reaction that makes your heart flutter more than it should.

After a few moments, you can feel yourself drifting off to sleep.

There is only a small sliver of cold light through the curtain-less window when you wake. The planet’s moon, no doubt. Apart from that, it’s dark, and cold. You’re very cold.

It hadn’t been so as you fell asleep, but you assume the temperature had dropped since then, and perhaps it was your shower’s lingering warmth that kept you from noticing at the time. It doesn’t matter, because now it’s unbearable.

You shift your position, pulling your knees to your chest in an attempt to conserve what warmth you do have, and turn to face the other way. You’re not surprised to find that Cassian is there, but it’s a little disconcerting even still, not to mention that he’s not wearing a shirt.

You watch him for a moment to distract yourself. His chest rises and falls steadily, and his face is relaxed, that focused crease in his brow gone. He looks at ease — perhaps younger too. You go to reach out and brush a strand of hair from his face, but pull yourself back before you can make that mistake, scolding yourself. What you realise then is that he is warm. Heat seems to surround him, and you inch a little closer, feeling some of it radiating from him. You wonder briefly how that can be when his skin is exposed to the cold air, but you realise it is of little consequence.

As you try to relax, you quickly find that it’s not much better than before. You are still kept awake by the night’s preferred temperature. It would be difficult to get to your clothes without waking the man who lay next to you. Cassian was in a foul enough mood before, and you can’t imagine it would be much improved by waking him in the middle of the night. You decide that you’ll have to suffer in silence, and you hope that you can nap tomorrow on the ship.

You sigh, louder than you intended, though a true reflection of your frustration, and Cassian stirs. His eyelashes flutter, and you screw your eyes shut so he won’t catch the way you were staring at him. He shifts, then goes still, though it is rigid, not as if he has relaxed back into the mattress.

“You’re shivering” he says sleepily, his voice deeper and more rough than usual.

The tone sends a blush creeping up your neck and heating your cheeks, and you’re thankful that it’s dark enough that he won’t see. You crack one eye open to see him staring down at you with his usual frown.

“I’m fine”

He sighs aggressively, used to your stubborn ways.

“Just— come here” he says, and opens the covers slightly to invite you closer.

You feel your heart skip a beat, “I wouldn’t want to m—”

“Oh for kriff sake” he rolls his eyes and reaches for your waist, drawing you towards him, “it’s not a big deal”

A sigh escapes you as you try to accept the statement. It isn’t a big deal, not to him, and that’s what you have to remember. It doesn’t matter how your heart starts racing at his proximity, nor how you can feel goosebumps raise where his hand brushes your arm, because it doesn’t even affect him one bit. It’s just a friend helping a friend, and you know him better than to deny this help now.

Cassian keeps his arm across your waist as he settles into the mattress once more, and you’re sure he can practically hear how your heart beats faster every second. More rationally, he is close enough now that he may be able to feel it. As you shift, your foot accidentally nudges his, and his grip on you tightens marginally.

“You’re freezing” he mentions, and runs his palm up and down your back as if to warm you, “why didn’t you say?”

You remind yourself of his previous words. It’s not a big deal. You try to put to the back of your mind how gentle his touch is, how unlike him it feels despite being exactly what you expect. It is not a big deal.

“Didn’t see any point in waking you” you utter.

He hums, but it hold every bit of dissatisfaction as if you had said something completely offensive. Dropping your head forward in an attempt to hide, your forehead grazes his chest. Though you revel in the heat it brings, if even only through the violent blush that scorches your cheeks, you realise that you can feel his heartbeat too — and it seems to match yours.

It’s not a big deal, you remind yourself.

His hand runs up and down you back again, this time slower, and it takes everything within you not to give in to the shiver that threatens your spine.

“You could have woken me”

You don’t say anything, too afraid to say the wrong thing and expose something you wished you hadn’t. In a way, it feels wrong to let him offer this kindness. You’re sure that if he knew how you really saw him, he would not be doing this.

It’s not a big deal.

You manage to relax a little, and the more you relax, the more you can feel yourself slipping into unconsciousness. Cassian continues to rub your back, gently enough that it doesn’t disturb your fall into sleep, but firm enough that it’s more a comforting presence than anything. Before long, his touch is lighter, as if he thinks he’s keeping you awake. His fingers lightly trace along the curve of your spine and when your top catches and rides up, his warm skin comes into contact with yours. This time, you can’t suppress the shiver. It’s only light, but you know he notices.

His movements pause, then continue the moment after, but this time his fingers navigate the dip of your spine unfettered by clothing. He skims over the clasp of your bra before taking the path back down and it easily sets a heat burning low in your stomach, something pulling taught in anticipation. You would try to block it out and sleep, but as he continues, you can’t help but feel conflicted.

Is he toying with you? It doesn’t seem like something he’d do, but can this really mean nothing? Perhaps not to him, but he must know how his touch is affecting you, right?

You breathe out heavily as he dares to let his fingertips linger between your shoulder blades, sounding far more delighted than you expected, and Cassian freezes.

Without a beat your mind goes into overdrive, worry after worry piling up. You’ve made it weird, he knows you like him and he’ll push you away, he’ll never talk to you again. It’s a mess of insecurities that feel too juvenile to be given space, but you allow them to fester nevertheless.

Instead of heeding anything going on in your brain, Cassian relaxes his palm against your back, flexing it like he can’t decide what to do fast enough. A moment later, he slips his fingers around your forearm and directs you to hold him in a similar way. He’s tentative, uncertain, testing the waters. You’ve never known him to shy from anything, and his wavering only serves to make your nerves worsen. You’re unsure what he means to do, but when you feel his skin, soft beneath your fingers, all pretence of ignorance drops. You lightly swipe your palm across his back, settling at his waist, and feel his breath stutter.

You lift your head to look at him at last, and find that he’s watching you as he often does, but his frown is gone. His eyes are softer, less examining, and even in the dark you can see a tenderness in them. You say his name and it sounds like a question, because it’s almost as if you can’t believe it’s really him. You’re searching his eyes, looking for an answer to what’s happening.

He doesn’t answer, but lifts his hand to brush his knuckles over your cheek, settling his palm on your jaw. You can’t help but lean into it a little, trying to ground yourself. He traces his thumb over your cheekbone and just stares at you, his eyes scouring your face. You can’t understand what’s happening, but you’re happy to let it unfold. You can feel his breath over your lips, shallow and unsteady, and it dawns on you that he is actually somewhat nervous. Shifting your hand from his waist to his chest, you are rewarded with his lips finally meeting yours.

He’s slow, at first. His lips slide against yours with agonising featheriness. It feels as if he’s just out of reach, like he’s holding back, and the way his breath comes out in strained puffs confirms it.

You can’t say that you’ve never imagined what it might be like to kiss Cassian, nor anything beyond that, and it’s the reason you feel so surprised. He’s not so outwardly confident as some of the other pilots, but there’s an unacknowledged certainty of self that he exudes all the same, and an absolute familiarity within your partnership that usually means he can speak his mind, or has the freedom to be himself.

The restriction that he’s exhibiting feels unlike him. You give him more, a reminder of that kinship between you as you push forward for more pressure, and the kiss grows more heated quickly. Cassian meets your eagerness in kind, capturing your bottom lip between his as he pushes you to your back, hovering over you. His mouth is hot and heavy on yours now, and every second that passes makes your heartbeat quicken.

You respond to his newfound fervour with your own, your hand weaving through his hair as he continues to deepen the kiss. Still, his actions seem too controlled, each movement too precise. He’s still holding back, and you’re not entirely sure why.

The next moment, he’s pulling away from you, and you feel your heart sink at the sudden loss. His breath is heavy, trying to catch up with him, and your chest heaves as you stare up at him above you. There’s a flame in his eyes that’s begging to be given oxygen, and you begin to question what lit it to begin with. Neither of you says anything, but a silent communication passes between you, an understanding of what you both want in that moment, and his restraint seems to snap. You detach yourself from the more rational part of your brain that’s telling you what a foolish idea this is, and you surrender to him completely.

He brings his lips back to yours without another word, and the moments that follow are a blur. His knee is hooked under yours to position himself between your legs, his hands run over your body in featherlight touches, you back arches when he runs his thumb over the thin fabric that covers your hardened nipple. His kisses grow more insistent, more heady, and you’re happy to drown in this feeling. You hook your legs around his waist as the need within grows, and he growls into your neck, kissing slowly along your throat.

“You really want this?” he asks in low rumble against your skin.

“Yes” you breathe out shakily, “please”

You don’t know exactly what it is that you’re begging for, but Cassian seems to understand. He strips you of your shirt and bra in a few swift movements, proceeding to lavish your skin with attention as the garments falls away. Your head drops back against the pillow as you lose yourself in his touch, but you’re growing more desperate by the second. Your hands find purchase on his back, his heated skin beneath your palms. They must still be as cold as they feel to you, because he seems to flinch away. An apology is on the tip of your tongue as you retreat, but Cassian silences you with a deep kiss, shaking his head as he guides you back to touching him.

Soon enough your hands wind their way down to his waist, you tug at the waistband of his sleep trousers and he draws back momentarily to heed your voiceless wish. You slip out of your remaining clothes in the same breath, and the sensation of skin on skin as he returns is exhilirating. It’s all groping hands and unbounded desire, nothing but a ceaseless passion that drives you both, and your voice is silent to what is happening. It feels too good to be true. When he passes your entrance, sinking fully inside of you in one slow thrust, you can’t help but release a moan. Cassian swears under his breath, remaining fully seated in you before gradually pulling out.

There’s no rhythm between you. You’re both eager, and sloppy, but it doesn’t detract from the euphoria you feel. He goes slow, deep, his ministrations all-consuming in a way you’ve never experienced. Your mind almost can’t comprehend it. Any intimate encounters you’ve had previously were perfectly adequate, though had all been rushed, or rough. This is different. This feels like it’s more than that, imbued with passion. This feels like it means something.

Cassian takes your hands and threads his fingers through yours, pushing them into the mattress either side of your head. His forehead presses into yours, forcing you to look into his eyes. Heavied by lust or exertion, his eyes are half lidded as they pierce yours.

You feel so deeply connected to him. He’s gentle, but his actions are firm, certain. It’s a way of going on that makes you feel completely safe and taken care of, and it occurs to you that you have always felt that way in his presence. He’s hitting places that make you see stars with every languid stroke, and you’re sure no one has ever made you feel so incredible in your life. Still, you can’t seem to speak. You can’t tell him how much you love it, how good he’s making you feel. Even now, with him deep inside of you and staring into your eyes as if he can see your very soul behind them, that feels like a step too far. All that will pass your lips are pleasured sighs, choked breaths and moans into his mouth that he swallows with his kisses amidst quiet groans.

His pace picks up a little but it’s no less intense, and his fingers tighten in yours. Then he slows again, like his mind is catching up with his body. His mouth leaves yours but he doesn’t go far. You feel his lips press against your forehead, and it’s so gentle and tender you can’t help but melt. Against your better nature, you feel loved. In that moment, you know you’ll give him anything he wants, just to continue tangling yourself in this net of safety.

Cassian slips out of you to the tune of your whimper, the next moment flipping you smoothly to fall onto your knees. He pulls your hips back towards him and eases back in. The intensity of him, of the new angle, makes your head spin. He holds you close, one hand splayed on your stomach and the other holding the base of your neck. He kisses the back of your neck, your jaw, your temple, but you can hardly concentrate on any one sensation as you feel yourself coming undone.

You realise that you need to find your voice in this moment, but thankfully Cassian finds his for you.

“I've got you” he murmurs into your ear, voice like silk as his fingers travel down to trace you clit in tight circles. You whimper again, this time in earnest, and everything within you pulls taught. “That's it” he coos slowly, and his voice seems to echo in your head as his pace picks up with each thrust, “let go, baby”

It's his voice, his breath and lips against your ear that sends you over the edge. He guides you through it, riding out your pleasure and when you're spent, he pulls out and paints your back with his seed.

You're both breathing heavily, and you can feel each of his pants on your back as his forehead rests on your shoulder. He's still holding you close, and you're suddenly far more aware of how his skin feels on yours. You still can't find your voice, and the room seems too quiet, your breathing too loud, and you're not quite sure what's just happened. What will happen, going forward.

You feel nervous, but you take a chance and slide a hand to meet his, the one still holding you in place at your collarbones. He seems to think you're asking him to remove it, and he begins to do so, but you quickly weave your fingers between his to still the motion. His breath escapes him quickly in what feels like a sigh, of relief perhaps, and he lifts his head to press a kiss to the side of your neck.

“Let's get you cleaned up”

Cassian carefully removes you from his grasp so you won't run the risk of falling, and you settle back to sit on your feet as he makes his way to the refresher. You watch on as he grabs a clean towel from the rail beside the sink, and turns on the hot tap to run it under the warm water. His eyes trail your way, finding you still kneeling on the bed. His gaze scans your body, raking down your naked form, and suddenly you feel self conscious.

It's a ridiculous thought really, when he'd just had you pressed against him, a shuddering mess, and especially when he holds no judgement in his gaze. It does feel different now, though.

He returns to your side before your thoughts can spiral further, and drags the warm cloth across the planes of your bare back, cleaning up the mess he left behind. He’s gentle, but firm, and you know now that it’s just his way of being. His forehead drops to your back as he finishes, throwing away the towel. You feel his eyelashes flutter shut against your skin, and he exhales through his nose slowly, as if letting the weight of what has happened settle over him.

Cassian is pragmatic, you know this. You know he acts in the interest of what’s right, but also what is sensible. It’s the reason you’re scared to turn and face him now.

His hands take hold of your hips, brushing over your skin gently. Your body responds for you, curling your spine into him, and he wraps his arms around your waist and draws you between his legs, resting back on the bed’s headboard. He buries his face in your neck and breathes you in, but then it seems to catch up with him that you’re not speaking, that you’re slightly rigid in his arms.

Pulling back only an inch, he moves one hand from your stomach to take your chin and force you to look at him. You don’t know how to set your face, what you’re supposed to be feeling, so you don’t. For once you don’t try to mask your true emotions, and Cassian’s usual frown is beginning to crease his brow. He opens his mouth but doesn’t speak, like he doesn’t know what to say, or how to say it. His lips press together and he swallows, his eyes scanning your face before he meets your gaze with an unfamiliar lick of timidity.

“Was that… okay?”

You can’t help but laugh. Cassian relaxes a little, his expression softening.

“Okay might be a bit of an understatement” you mutter quietly, loud enough that only someone in his proximity could catch it.

Cassian laughs like he wasn’t expecting to, his eyes crinkling fondly, and you feel your heart leap at the sight. His arm tightens around you, but then his gaze grows serious again.

“What’s wrong?”

You smile lazily and shake your head, looking away, “nothing”

“Hey” he captures your chin more firmly and makes you look back into his eyes. You can feel that your smile is cracking around the edges, but he persists, “tell me”

You sigh and feel your cheeks growing hot, knowing that you’ve got to unearth some things that you wished would stay buried.

“I guess I’m wondering what comes next”

He nods once slowly, glancing away, openly pondering the statement. He’s taking it seriously, taking you seriously, but it’s clear that he doesn’t have an answer.

“I’m not sure” his eyes meet yours again, and you feel your heart begin to sink.

“Okay” you reply flatly, looking away.

You allow yourself the hurt that floods your system. You can at least give yourself the grace of selfishly indulging in his embrace for this moment, perhaps for this night, but then you know you’ll have to move on. Before that feeling of closure begins to fully grasp you, Cassian sighs and speaks your name.

“Look at me” he murmurs, “please”

You hesitate, but ultimately give in and turn to him. He runs his nose along yours as he captures your gaze in his dark eyes, widened by what feels like a longing, or a muted desperation.

“I only mean that it won’t be easy” he explains and threads his fingers though yours, “but I want this, whatever it is. If you’ll have me”

The sincerity in his voice is hard to miss, and the way he’s staring past your irises and into the cavity of your soul is enough to convince you of the conviction behind his words. Your body melds to his as your heart melts, and you press your lips to his in a lingering kiss.

“Of course”

Cassian’s eyes remain closed as he rests his forehead against yours, taking a deep breath and drawing you even closer with an arm across your waist.

“Do you have any idea how long I’ve wanted this?” he rumbles, disbelief framing his words.

“Since when?” you challenge, and his lips lift somewhere between a smile and a smirk before his eyes meet yours.

“The mission on Klatooine” he tells you, “I’d only known you for a couple weeks, and you pushed me and called me an arrogant bastard”

You chuckle dryly at the memory. You remember the look in his eyes when you’d done that. At the time you had chalked it up to shock, but now the scene plays differently in your mind. Somewhere in the back of your head, you’re floored that he’d felt this way for so long, but you can’t concentrate on it right now.

“Was I wrong?”

“Perhaps not” Cassian raises a brow, his head cocking at what he takes as a challenge, and you feel his grip loosen. His hand then trails down your stomach and dips between your thighs, lazily draws his fingers around your entrance, “shall we find out?”

Your head lolls back onto his shoulder and your eyes slip closed as he brushes over your clit. Cassian takes advantage of your position and maps a path of kisses down your neck, teeth grazing over your collarbone and drawing a heavy breath from your lips.

“I feel like I’m dreaming” you speak candidly.

Cassian chuckles, a pleasing buzz against your skin, “let’s hope we don’t wake up, then”

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