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plushiebunni · 24 days ago

Note

🍁 Fall Vibes 🍁

Are you having apple cider with Bucky?

Or making pumpkin pie with Steve?

Rogers Family Recipe

(The Fall Edition)

Steve Rogers x Fem!Reader

< < PART 1 (The Cookie Edition)

Summary: As the season changes to a rustling fall, a new wave of homesickness overcomes Steve.

Warnings: homesick Stevie, a tinge of angst for like 0.5 seconds, hurt comfort, fluff, implied sex

Word count: 1.5k

A/N: this is my entry for the beatiful @jadedvibes’s Falling In Love writing challenge. This can absolutely be read on its own, even though it’s technically a sequel. Thank you for this lovely ask Navy 🧡 this actually gave me inspiration which I have been severely lacking lately. Banners by @maysdigitalarts

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The sweltering and bright summer transitioned almost overnight to a crisp and vibrant fall. A layer of orange leaves crunched underfoot everywhere you went and the scarf and pair of gloves which had migrated to the back of your closet over the warmer months saw the first rays of daylight since the frosty winter thawed to a blooming spring earlier in the year.

With the change in season, also came a shift in Steve’s mood. He had been making progress in adapting to life in the twenty-first century, but in the week since temperatures started declining and the leaves turned orange, he had locked himself in his apartment and not spoken a word to anyone.

As you opened Steve’s front door with the key you used a lot more than just for the emergencies you had initially been bestowed with it for, you noticed the state of disarray his kitchen was in. Messy bowls and spoons littered the sink, flour sprinkled the floor and splotches of sticky pastry dough were smeared on the countertop.

“Stevie, it’s just me.” You called into the otherwise silent apartment, hesitating a moment at his front door to hear his usual response welcoming you further inside. However, his reply never came.

As you walked slowly into the sitting room, it hit you how much effort Steve had made in the past few months to incorporate more modern, yet cosy furnishings in his apartment, which gave the feeling that it was indeed his home rather than a temporary safe house, something he had struggled to come to terms with after waking up from the ice.

A twinge of guilt speared into your stomach at the thought that perhaps your suggestion of updating his decor when he wasn’t quite ready for that step was the reason for this new wave of homesickness.

The creek of a door opening pulled your attention back into reality. A large figure emerged from the bedroom, shoulders slumped, dragging wool sock covered feet along the hardwood floor, bundled up in an oversized sweater.

With a distinct forlorn expression, Steve’s eyes finally met with yours. Though his eyes remained sad, the twinkle of recognition that you were the one coming to check on him was hard to miss.

He mumbled his greeting from the other side of the room and mentally you scolded yourself for not coming around sooner.

“You wanna talk about it?” You asked in a soft tone, and with a quiver of his lower lip, Steve shook his head. As if you were capable of predicting the future, in the moment before his eyes brimmed with tears, you had bound over to him, wrapping your arms around his waist in a tight hug and snuggling into his cosy sweater.

With a sniffle, Steve buried his head in the crook of your neck, hands reaching around you and grasping onto your sweater for dear life.

You slowly rubbed circles on his back, whispering sweet nothings into his ear until he felt comfortable to either speak or let you go. You were determined to be there for as long as he needed you - the past week you had wanted to keep your space as to not overwhelm him, he had asked for time that day you both acknowledged your feelings a couple months ago, and you didn’t want to pressure him, or overstep in your position as a friend. But now seeing how miserable he truly was, you cursed yourself for not following your instincts.

“Ma’s favourite season was fall. Bucky too.” Steve disclosed tentatively without pulling away from the warmth and comfort of your body. After a moment of further hesitation, he continued with a crack of vulnerability in his voice. “Would you help me make Ma’s famous pumpkin pie? She always made it once October came around, and I’ve tried to recreate it, but failed miserably.”

Suddenly the mess in the kitchen made much more sense.

You weren’t sure you would ever be able to say no to your Stevie, but when he allowed you to pull back from his embrace, the desolation flooding his eyes fractured your heart, and you were positive you’d sell your soul for him to be happy again.

“Of course we can, today’s all about curing your homesickness.”

After doing a hasty clean up of the kitchen, and a quick run to the grocery store for more ingredients, Steve was already looking more at ease. You both had fun making the pie together, hands occasionally touching as you went to grab the same item, and smearing pastry dough on each other's noses. There were multiple moments throughout the day where you genuinely thought Steve had forgotten about being homesick.

Though you spent the afternoon reminiscing about the 40’s whilst making his Ma’s pumpkin pie recipe from scratch, Steve’s mood had completely inverted from that morning by the time the pie was placed in the oven. Your theory was because he finally had some company and wasn’t wallowing around his messy apartment by himself. If you had asked Steve, he would have advised that it was because he was spending time with you, the woman he had fallen in love with over the past few months.

It was as you were cleaning up the mess in the kitchen that Steve could finally reflect on the events of the day, and the progress he had made since finding himself in this modern age. You had been an instrumental part of him acclimatising to this new world - Steve would never have made as much headway without your patience and consideration, and now he had experienced life with you, he didn’t want to go back to a time where he was without you.

“Thank you for consoling me today, I didn’t even have to ask for you to come over, and yet you came anyway. Sometimes I need to remind myself that I don’t have to go through everything on my own.” Steve said over his shoulder as you were by the sink and he was wiping the counter.

Taking your hands out of the warm, soapy water, you turned to him, wiping the suds off with a hand towel as you spoke.

“Progress isn’t linear, Stevie - there will be harder days, where absolutely everything reminds you of the past, good days where you think there won’t be any more bad days, but I promise you, you have come so far from that day in Times Square, and I will be here in any capacity you need me to be.”

“In any capacity?” A cheeky grin spread on his face.

“You can have me however you want me, Captain.”

“Doll, you must know that I want you in every way.” Steve stated with such sincerity that your knees felt weak. “In a world that is so foreign to me, that’s full of daunting new milestones, and where I feel so out of place sometimes, I always feel safe with you.” With a jubilant smile, Steve reached out and grabbed your hands, pulling you closer to him.

You could have kissed him, you wanted to kiss him, but you had made a promise with yourself that you would take it slow with Steve, let him set the pace.

“Part of me feels guilty for moving on with my life, and that I haven’t rightly earned my place here. But having spent today with you after isolating myself for the last week wishing I was back in the 40’s, it's helped me realise that it doesn’t matter what time period I’m in, it’s not until I’m with you that I truly feel at home.”

Warmth rose up through your chest and butterflies fluttered in your stomach. You were his home, as he was for you.

You wanted to find the right words to convey exactly how you felt, though you thought saying you had fallen in love with him might just scare him off before he was actually yours.

“Stevie, I have never cared about anyone more than I care about you.” You squeezed his hands and poured all your earnestness into making sure he believed your words. “But I don’t want to rush you - I’m not going anywhere, you take all the time you need, I know you’ll be worth the wait.” If it were possible Steve’s smile grew even wider, and the tips of his cheeks flushed bright red.

“I don’t want to wait any more, doll. It took me almost a hundred years to find the girl of my dreams, I don’t plan on wasting any more time with you.” Steve Rogers was no liar, and this instance was no exception. True to his word, in that moment he wrapped his arms around your waist, pulled your body flush with his, and kissed you.

As his tongue slipped into your mouth, his hands found their way under your sweater, cool against your back. It wasn’t long until he lifted you to sit on the counter, and you were fiddling with the hem of his sweater as Steve placed teasing kisses down your neck.

When the buzzer of the oven timer finally sounded, the pumpkin pie fully cooked, you were both too caught up in each other to notice.

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plushiebunni · 24 days ago

Text

Rogers Family Recipe

(The Cookie Edition)

Steve Rogers x Fem!Reader

PART 2 > > (The Fall Edition)

Summary: Steve is homesick for the 40’s and the best cure is his mothers old chocolate chip cookies.

Warnings: mostly fluff, a tinge of angst cause it’s me, a homesick Stevie

Word count: 1.4k

A/N: this is a little something I whipped up for @mayasreadingnook’s Cookie Celebration. Maya you are a sweetheart, thank you for being such a nice and supportive friend - I love and appreciate you so much

Banners by @maysdigitalarts

Masterlist | Ask me anything! | Library

The delicious smell of melting butter and chocolate filled the kitchen and wafted throughout the apartment, and for the first time that morning you heard Steve stir in his bedroom.

With a click of the door opening, he shuffled along the hallway to the kitchen where you finally noticed his scruffy hair and sweats that looked as though they had been slept in the past couple days.

At least you got him out of bed. Your plan was working so far.

“Morning sleepy head.” You greeted with a smile as you continued cleaning the mess you had made in his kitchen. Before responding Steve took a sneak peak at the tray of chewy chocolate chip cookies baking in his oven, a suppressed smile crossing his face.

“You know, this wasn’t the reason why I gave you a key to my place.” Steve motioned to his counter that was currently covered in flour and dirty dishes. “For emergencies only.”

“This was an emergency though! You haven’t been out of this apartment all week so I made the executive decision that you needed a pick-me-up.” You rationalised fervently, and Steve’s mouth twitched into an amused smile before reverting just as quickly.

“You keeping tabs on me now?” He simply asked, an air of amusement in his voice rather than irritation.

“Isn’t that what friends are for?” You regretted the use of the word ‘friend’ instantly as the pang in your chest burned with such a ferocity that you were sure the pain was clear on your face.

If Steve noticed your affliction, he didn’t mention it.

Although, from your experience, he was just about the most oblivious man when it came to any romantic pursuits - whether that had been from multiple SHIELD agents who didn’t even wait a week after he emerged from the ice before attempting to seduce him, or any of the flirty conversations you had shared which only led to your further confusion concerning if he reciprocated your feelings.

“I don’t know, seems like all that results in is you breaking into my place and using the last of my butter.” He chucked, the action loosening his shoulders, as if they now bared slightly less weight than before.

“I promise I’ll buy you more, as long as you promise to venture out to the mystifying land of the supermarket with me to get it.” Steve chuckled again, bringing a smile to your face. Though his presence itself had a habit of doing that.

“So that was your plan all along, use up all my food so I have no option but to leave the apartment. Sneaky.” He raised his eyebrows at you, a grin curving on his lips.

“Oh no, you’ve foiled my evil plan to get you to go outside.” You feigned chagrin, rolling your eyes in jest but matching the smile he expressed when your eyes fell upon him again.

“Doll, you know I’d go anywhere with you.” He commented with a seriousness that your joking conversation hadn’t previously held.

Not knowing how to respond to that in a way which didn’t have your face heating up hotter than the oven currently baking the cookies, you let the room fall into silence, taking that as a cue to continue cleaning the used dishes.

Reaching for the bowl you mixed the cookie dough in, your hand brushed Steve’s as he had the same thought, causing goosebumps to race up your arm

“I made the mess, I’ve got it.” You assured him, but the words clearly weren’t convincing enough as he didn’t move a muscle. “Stevie.” His name fell as a plea from your lips. It was only then that he reluctantly pulled his hand away, however, he refused to break the steady eye contact you shared, causing a kaleidoscope of butterflies to awaken in your stomach.

It wasn’t until a few seconds later, when the timer for the cookies went off, did either of you look away.

Steve grabbed the hot hands before you could reach for them, and pulled open the oven door prior to you being able to open your mouth in protest.

While the cookies cooled down, you and Steve cleaned the rest of the dishes. It took slightly longer than it should have given you decided to splash soapy water at him, but by the time you were finished, the chewy chocolate chip cookies had cooled sufficiently to start eating.

“Now don’t sugar coat it, if you hate them, you can tell me.” You knew Steve was too much of a gentleman to ever say anything negative about a favour someone had performed for him, but the small huff and shake of his head you received, as if to say of course I’m not going to dislike something you made for me was reward enough for saying it.

As soon as he took a single bite, you could tell he had been transported back home to when he was a young boy eating his mothers cooking. Closing his eyes, he let out a strong hum of satisfaction and the biggest smile you had seen from him in weeks blossomed on his face.

“How on Earth did you manage to find Ma’s recipe?” He asked unprompted, which was about the highest compliment you could have received when imitating someone else’s recipe. “No one else could ever get them as gooey as she could until now.”

“That’s for me to know and you to never find out.” You joked and the genuine smile which he returned made your heart flutter. “So you like them?”

“I love them.” And I love you, you thought, though you didn’t give voice to the feeling. “They’re exactly like the ones Ma used to make to try to fatten me up. Was forever telling me I was too skinny.” A reminiscent smile pulled at his lips before he took another eagar bite.

You watched him for a minute as he enjoyed each mouthful of warm, gooey chocolate chip cookie before grabbing one for yourself. After taking a keen bite of the sugary goodness, Steve suppressed a laugh before using his thumb to wipe something from the corner of your mouth.

“Chocolate.” He justified rather shyly in response to what you only could have assumed was a stunned expression on your part.

You each chewed your cookies in comfortable silence, and all you could notice was how Steve’s shoulders were now infinitely more relaxed than when he made his first appearance that morning.

When you both finished eating, feeling too full to take another bite, Steve looked at you with a mixture of admiration, something which resembled deep longing, and hesitation.

“What?” You asked with a nervous chuckle.

“Just… thank you.” Steve said sincerely, pulling you into his chest, his soft sweats feeling comfortable under your skin and his strong arms around your shoulders making you feel protected, secure. “No one has ever done anything like this for me before.” He whispered into your ear as the embrace lingered, neither of you moving to pull away.

“I’m glad I could bring back a piece of your past to cure a bit of your homesickness.” You matched his soft tone, running your fingers along the contours of his muscular back, relishing being this close to him for the first time before he would inevitably leave your arms.

Steve pulled away ever so slightly so he could look you directly in the eye before he spoke.

“Doll, as much I appreciate the kind gesture, and as wonderful and accurate as the cookies are, it’s really you who makes this world feel like home.” You could have sworn in that moment your heart stopped completely.

“Steve…” Your mind was racing so fast that your speech couldn’t keep up.

“I’m not sure I’m quite ready for whatever this is between us, or what it could lead to - I’m still adapting to life here and you more than anyone has seen how difficult it has been for me, but what I do know is you’re the reason I want to learn and adjust. You give me purpose.” The pure conviction in his voice, and the certainty in his dazzling eyes made you glad he was supporting your weight, in fear of your knees giving out otherwise.

“I’m with you every step of the way Stevie.” You reminded him, trying to replicate the sincerity in his own voice and convey how devoutly you felt the sentiment.

His soft lips placed a lingering kiss to your forehead, the apples of your cheeks warming in response to the intimate act.

Maybe he wasn’t entirely ready for anything more at this stage, but for the meanwhile, his embrace was the perfect place to call home.

Part 2 > >

I will be scrapping my taglists soon. To be notified of all fic updates, please follow and turn on notifications for my library blog

Everything taglist: @imagining-harrypotter @tripletstephaniescp @asgardwinter @demonpoxballad @nagygreta @libbymouse @mayasreadingnook @thecraziestcrayon @hallecarey1 @sea040561 @chrisfucksblog @smallmercies33 @buckysbirdie @moongoddessmox @coolbeans32 @foreverindreamlandd @pitifulbaby @seitmai @emi11ie @princessphilly @daydreaming-lightly @440mxs-wife @brasspistol

Steve Rogers taglist: @mansaaay @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @badassbaker @patzammit @rqmanoff @gitasor @tenaciousperfectionunknown @ajeff855 @buggy14 @leyannrae @blackwidownat2814 @cevanslady @highlyintelligentblonde @kthynes @babybluebuck @twinerd14 @tlcwrites @multi-fandom-s @mimilh @fluffycutecevans @awaywithtime @scarletbich @snufflet @erynnnn

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plushiebunni · 24 days ago

Text

Stages of Barnes' arm swing

Bucky Barnes as the Winter Soldier

Bucky Barnes Recovering

Bucky Barnes Recovered

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plushiebunni · 24 days ago

Text

Crying Wolf

This fic can be read as a standalone, or as a part 2 to Fearless

synopsis: You notice Bucky pulling away from everyone. Steve says the best way to help is be yourself - to not treat him any differently. But now, thanks to Loki, teasing Bucky might come with some consequences.

pairing: Bucky Barnes x female reader (flirtatious), Loki x reader (platonic)

cw: swearing, ruthless tickling of the reader, mentions of trauma, inappropriate jokes

word count: ~5700

minors dni: this fic does not contain smut, but contains a suggestive storyline between the reader and an adult-aged character. I am not comfortable with engagement from anyone under the age of 18. Thank you for your understanding and respect.

note: I've had quite a few of you in my inbox and replies kindly asking for a sequel to Fearless, and it's been on the prompt list for a very long while. This is both a sequel and a standalone; you don't need to read Fearless to read this, but the story might make more sense if you do. I wrote Fearless several years ago, so please forgive me if this feels like a big departure from the initial tone. I hope you enjoy it all the same.

special thank you to sunflower anon for the plot idea 🌻

Bucky hasn't come to group training in three weeks.

He's quieter than usual, which is really saying something. You’ve seen it before, in the eyes of others who’ve been through the wringer; that distant stare, the haunted look that never quite leaves. You know it well enough to recognise it on him.

But the thing with Bucky is that he doesn’t want help. He doesn’t want to talk about it, and he sure as hell doesn’t want to be seen as a victim or a burden.

So, you're standing there, fists clenched around the worn-out edge of your training gloves, eyes locked on Steve, the only one who might have any insight. You're working through your own sparring drills, but your thoughts keep flickering back to Bucky. His absence from this moment. You can’t get him out of your head.

Steve is sweat-slicked and a little breathless, but still as composed as ever. You throw a quick jab. He easily dodges.

"Hey," you say, standing down, shoulders dropping. "What’s going on with Bucky? Why isn't he here?"

He drops his guard. "He’s been through a lot," Steve says, like that wasn’t the understatement of the century.

You roll your eyes, shaking your head, but Steve keeps going, voice quieter, more measured. "He’s... isolating."

"Yeah, I’ve noticed." You pick at the tape around your hands and then pull your firsts back to fighting stance. Steve is ready for you. You throw a hard punch at him this time, the impact sharp against his arm, but your mind is elsewhere. "Is there anything I can do?"

Steve steps back, wiping his brow with the back of his hand, and looks at you like he's searching for something. You don’t know what, but you can feel the weight of it, the way his gaze lingers. "Just… be yourself. Just show up, treat him like you normally would." He tilts his head to the side, a wry smile pulling into his cheek. "Push his buttons. Y'know, like you usually do."

You let out a humourless laugh, wiping some sweat off your forehead. "I didn't want to push him. Antagonising a super soldier doesn’t seem like the best way to go about it."

He cracks a grin, one of those rare smiles you’ve seen from him, and his eyes soften. "That’s the point. He’s tired of being that guy. The super soldier. He needs to feel normal again. Don't pull back - you won't push him away. He’ll come around."

You stare at him for a second, trying to decide if he’s being serious. He’s got that look in his eyes, the one that says he knows exactly what he’s talking about. But you’re still skeptical.

"If you say so," you mutter, tying your gloves tight.

Steve chuckles, patting you on the shoulder. "Good. Now run drill twenty-two."

The next morning, you walk into the kitchen expecting the usual chaos of breakfast prep and clinking plates. But it's quiet today. Too quiet. You see Steve and Bucky sitting at the table. Steve’s holding a mug of coffee, but Bucky… Bucky’s got a book in his hands. It’s a small thing, but the fact that he’s holding it, actually reading, is a rare moment of peace.

You pause, leaning against the doorframe, studying them for a second. It’s not often you get to see the two of them like this. Calm, together, in a room bathed in morning light.

Bucky’s got that unreadable expression. He’s focused on his book, but you can tell it’s more out of habit than actual engagement. His eyes keep flickering to the edges of the pages. His mind is elsewhere.

And then, an idea comes to you.

You walk in like you own the place - a quiet confidence that comes from knowing exactly how to mess with someone. You grab the coffee pot, pouring yourself a cup, but you don’t take your eyes off Bucky.

"Hey, Bucky," you call out, cocking an eyebrow, "you want some more coffee with your smut?"

Bucky’s brow furrows, and he looks up from his book, confused. "Smut?" he asks, the word foreign on his tongue. Steve glances up, and they both just look at you, genuinely clueless.

You take a casual sip of your coffee, leaning against the counter like you’ve got all the time in the world. "You know, smut," you say with a smirk. "Spice."

He blinks. "Spice?" He looks back at his book, flipping the page like he’s searching for something.

You chuckle. "Yeah, sex scenes. In books. The dirty stuff."

Bucky’s face flushes a deep red, his eyes darting back to the pages, and his lips start to part as if he’s about to protest.

"No need to lie," you say, giving him a mock look of doubt. "I’ve read it. No judgment."

Bucky’s face looks like he might combust. "There’s nothing like that in here," he says quickly, eyes shifting between you and Steve like he’s about to combust, but Steve’s choking on his coffee, trying not to laugh.

You bite the inside of lip, trying to hide your grin. "Are you sure? Because I swear I saw you flick to the page where it gets real spicy."

He looks between you and Steve, horror creeping into his features. "You’re… you’re joking," he says, half in disbelief.

You smirk, lifting your coffee to your lips. "It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Buck. It's popular. Hell, you’re probably the only one who’s hiding it."

Steve’s snorting into his coffee, clearly enjoying this, and Bucky’s still looking between the two of you like he’s caught in some bizarre fever dream.

You take another sip of your coffee, pretending to be nonchalant, even though you’re holding back a laugh. "Not gonna lie, I’ve read far worse than what's in that book you're holding."

His face flushes deeper, and his gaze snaps between you and Steve, who’s barely holding in a snicker behind his coffee mug. There’s a moment where Bucky just doesn’t know what to say, his lips parting like he’s about to spill something out, but the words don’t come.

And then, like a switch, the realisation hits him.

You watch as the corner of his mouth twitches in that small, tight smile you’ve seen before, the one that doesn’t come around often. But this time, there’s something more in it. A shift. You’ve broken through just a little, and now the teasing, the banter - it feels different. The air between you is charged, in a way you can’t quite put into words. It’s the first time in weeks you’ve seen any kind of genuine expression on Bucky’s face.

"You’re messing with me," he says, voice dropping to something lower, darker. The challenge in his tone makes your heart race just a little faster.

You lean back against the counter, your coffee cup held loosely in one hand, your expression deliberately neutral. "I’d never mess with you, Bucky," you say, a sly grin tugging at the corners of your mouth. "I’m smarter than that. Just trying to start a book club."

He doesn’t respond right away, just watches you with those penetrating steel-blue eyes, and you feel something twist in your chest. He points a finger at you, glaring with a mix of annoyance and amusement. "Tell Steve you’re joking."

There’s a tension in the air now, something that wasn’t there before. Something unspoken. Maybe it’s the way he’s looking at you, or maybe it’s the fact that for the first time in a long while, you’re really looking at him.

Steve’s chuckle breaks the moment, and you glance at him, a little relieved for the distraction. But Bucky doesn’t look away. His gaze doesn’t soften, but it’s sharper now - focused, intent. There’s an edge to his stare that makes your pulse quicken, and you can’t decide whether it’s because of the game you’re playing or something else entirely.

"You’re ridiculous," he mutters, his voice warmer than before, though still carrying that familiar edge.

Your breath hitches for a moment, and you can’t tell if it’s the sudden softness of his voice or the way his proximity makes everything seem a little bit… closer than it should be. But you stand your ground, meeting his eyes head-on.

But then, Steve clears his throat loudly, and just like that, the moment snaps back into place. The tension fades, but it doesn’t disappear. Not entirely.

Bucky looks at Steve, then back to you, and finally sighs in defeat. You smile to yourself, trying to hold in the satisfaction as Bucky gives you a glare with an undeniably playful edge. "I’ll let you off the hook. For now."

But as Bucky grabs his book again, his fingers brushing over the pages, you can feel it - the warmth that's simmering. It’s fragile, but it’s real. And for the first time in days, Bucky looks like he’s in the moment, not lost in the past.

He's here.

You’re mid-sentence, arguing that the protagonist’s internal conflict didn’t pay off, when the quiet creak of the library door pulls both your and Loki’s attention.

Bucky steps inside, the dim lamp light cutting across his face. His jaw’s tight, but his eyes gleam with something unreadable. He’s got the book in hand - the book - and you already know what he’s going to say before the words even leave his mouth.

He lifts the novel slightly, dark gaze flicking from Loki to you. "No smoot."

Your mouth twitches. "You mean smut, Buck."

Loki, of course, is the first to speak. He closes his own book with deliberate flair, settling into the leather wingback like a king on a throne. “What's this?”

Bucky's eyes don't leave you. "Not a single sex scene in here. Not even a kiss."

You exhale slowly, fighting to keep your expression neutral. "Must’ve been reading the wrong edition," you murmur, reaching for your tea.

Loki gives you a look that could be called gleeful if it weren’t laced with such dry malice. "Please, darling," he drawls. "If you’re going to gaslight the poor man, at least try to make it subtle."

Bucky watches you, head tilted slightly, his brow raised in amusement. "So you were joking," he says slowly. "Trying to get a rise outta me."

You lift your brows. "Trying?"

You don’t mean to sound breathless, but you kind of are. Because Bucky isn’t just amused - he’s focused. The kind of focus he gets when he’s squaring up with someone. His weight shifted just forward enough, like he’s waiting for something.

Loki, however, is thriving on the mischief. He conjures another book from thin air, holding it aloft between his fingertips, the cover glinting with gold leaf and something entirely indecent on the front.

"If you're is truly disappointed by the lack of literary debauchery," Loki says to Bucky, tone smooth and unbothered, "you might prefer this. Popular on Midgard, I hear. Something about dukes and corsets."

You cough into your tea, trying to keep it together. "Shit. Not sure I'd take Loki's suggestion for this stuff, Buck."

Loki's glare swings to you. "And why not?"

Bucky huffs a laugh, but it’s short-lived. His attention’s on you, too, gaze narrowing. "You should be careful who you're messing with."

Before you can respond, Loki cuts in, his voice sly and dangerous with the air of someone about to set the room on fire.

"If you’re struggling with her mouth, Barnes..."

You snap your head toward him. "Don’t."

Loki’s smile turns slow and wicked. "Oh? He doesn't know?"

"Know what?" Bucky asks, now looking to Loki.

"Loki," you growl, the warning sharp now.

But he ignores it entirely, already too far gone. He gestures lazily toward you, his tone almost sing-song. "She’s incredibly ticklish, Barnes. Mouthy little thing until you find the right spot. Then it’s all helpless laughter and desperate apologies."

Your heart lurches. "Loki-"

But the trickster’s already leaned back, positively smug. "Writhing, squealing," he continues, voice full of mock nostalgia. "It's delightful, really. Highly effective. I suggest you try it."

Bucky’s attention snaps to you. Sharp. Curious. Dangerous.

And then he moves.

Not fast - not overt. But his steps are steady, and your breath hitches the second he crosses into your space. You sink deeper into your armchair, instinct or gravity, you can't say which.

Bucky follows, slow and calculated, until he’s bracing one hand against the back of your chair, the other resting casually on the armrest, caging you in with practiced ease.

His head dips just slightly as he leans over you.

Your spine locks up. Your pulse is a drum.

You force yourself to tilt your chin up, meet his gaze. But it’s not easy - not with the way he’s looking at you, not entirely amused anymore. This is something else - playful, yes, but edged with something sharp. Something primal.

You don’t dare move.

His voice is low when it hits you. "You ticklish, sweetheart?"

Your skin lights up like static.

You don’t flinch. You can’t. He’s too close. Close enough to see the tendons in his neck, the glint of his dog tags, and the faint smirk pulling at his stubbled mouth.

You swallow, hard. "Bucky, I-"

"One more word about smut," he murmurs, "and I’ll make you regret it."

Your lips twitch.

Because this - this - is good. Bucky, letting loose. Teasing. You could almost cry from the relief of seeing him like this. Not haunted. Not withdrawn. Just a guy giving you hell.

"Understood?" he adds, voice low and rough.

You nod, trying to keep your grin in check. "Cross my heart."

He studies you a second longer. And then, without another word, he straightens and walks away - calm, controlled, leaving the scent of coffee and leather and adrenaline in his wake.

You exhale once he’s gone, sagging into the chair like your bones gave out.

And then, of course, Loki.

The bastard crosses one leg over the other, examining you with a look that says he’s just found his favourite soap opera and you’re the main character.

"Well," he says, smiling like a serpent. "That was electric."

"Don’t," you say quickly, pointing at him.

He raises a brow. "I’m merely observing. Stark’s infrared sensors probably picked up the heat signature."

"You’re such a dick," you mutter, crossing your arms tightly across your chest as you glare at him. You can't keep the edge from your voice. "Seriously, telling Bucky to tickle me? What the hell?"

Loki’s eyes flick up from the book in his hands, his lips twitching like he’s trying to hold back an insufferable grin. He doesn’t even flinch under your stare, too amused by your annoyance. Of course he is.

"Oh no," he says with exaggerated sympathy, looking up just enough to give you that devilish grin of his. "The handsome super soldier might pin you down and place his hands all over you. How ever will you survive?"

You glare harder and pick up your tea. "Whatever. You're still wrong about Hotchins in the third act."

Loki takes the cue and picks up your argument from where it left off as you try, and fail, to suppress the flutter of heat low in your belly.

It's the very next morning that you walk into the living room with the sort of easy confidence that comes from a good night’s sleep, a hot shower, and no immediate need to duck for cover... and you walk straight into a trap.

Steve and Banner are seated across opposite couches, coffee mugs in hand, data pads in the other, discussing something in quiet tones. Loki lounges like a bored cat - how he manages to drape himself across furniture like it was carved for him, you’ll never know. And Bucky...

Bucky’s seated on the end of another couch, boots planted on the ground, body relaxed but alert in that way of his. His eyes are lowered, reading. The book’s balanced in one hand, and the moment you see the cover, your steps slow.

Because you’ve read that one.

And that one is definitely not PG.

A laugh huffs out of you before you can stop it. "Oh my god. That book?"

Bucky doesn’t look up. But he goes very, very still.

You continue across the room, grin widening, genuinely excited. "How far are you? Wait - don’t answer that. Let me guess. Chapter fourteen?"

Steve chuckles into his mug, glancing over. "We know you were just messing with him the first time."

"I was, the other day," you say, hands up. "That book was clean. But this one..." You giggle, but you're actually kind of excited to discuss it with him- uh, the plot, that is.

But Bucky closes it slowly and tosses it down onto the table like it just insulted him.

He stands.

And something shifts.

It’s subtle. Just the tension in his shoulders, the way his head tips slightly to the side. But your stomach drops all the same.

Because you remember. His voice in your ear.

"One more word about smut, and I’ll make you regret it."

You laugh - nervously, this time. Hands up. "Hey now, hold on. This isn’t a repeat offence. I'm genuinely curious."

"Sure," Banner chuckles from the couch, not looking up from his data pad. "Totally sounds like curiosity. Not at all like a joke at his expense."

"Okay, wow, betrayal from all sides," you mutter, taking a small step back as Bucky starts toward you. "I’m just saying, I didn’t expect you to be reading that book of all books, I-"

He says nothing. Just takes another step.

Measured. Intentional.

You keep backing up. "Seriously, Bucky, I’m innocent this time. Genuinely. I wasn’t teasing you, I swear. I was-"

"Don’t run. Don't make me chase you," he says, voice low. "Just come here and take it."

Your heart spikes so hard it echoes in your ears. "Okay, see - that right there? That’s terrifying."

He takes another step. You bolt.

You turn, trying to whip around the couch-

-and slam full-speed into Loki’s chest.

Your breath leaves your lungs in a hard puff, and before you can untangle yourself, his fingers coil around your wrists. He ensnares you with far too much grace, and far too little resistance.

Then you glance over Loki’s shoulder. See the version of him still seated casually, still sipping tea.

Until it shimmers, and vanishes.

"Oh you son of a-" you gasp, already squirming. "You set me up - this was a trap!"

Loki chuckles, low and serpentine, in a voice only you can hear. "Who, me? Would I truly give Barnes a book I knew would provoke some commentary from you?"

Your stomach drops, you look up at him, breathless and flushed. "No..."

You tug at your arms, but Loki just tuts and holds you in place.

"C’mon," you try, turning to Bucky. "Truce. I didn’t mean anything this time. Just honest commentary."

Bucky smirks as he reaches you, the look in his eye somewhere between wicked and indulgent. "You always talk this much when you’re nervous?"

"I’m not nervous," you lie. "I’m smart. There’s a difference."

The two of them exchange a look, one that sends heat down your spine and makes your hands twitch in Loki’s grip.

"Let’s get her seated," Loki says lightly, dragging you toward an empty couch. "I’d hate for her knees to give out from anticipation."

"Oh fuck," you groan.

They ease you down - not rough, but not exactly gentle either. Before you can sit properly, Bucky swings a leg over your hips and settles, his weight pinning you in place.

"Steve? Bruce!?" You wriggle against your captors to no avail, shooting a desperate look to the bystanders. But they merely toast their mugs, a sign you're on your own. Your heart stutters as you turn back to Bucky and Loki.

You buck a little, instinctive panic fluttering in your stomach. "Guys- wait. Hang on-"

"Reasoning window closed," Bucky says calmly, adjusting his position. "You were warned."

Loki chuckles and pins your wrists above your head. "I believe Barnes has earned this one."

Bucky looks down at you, one eyebrow raised, the picture of mock deliberation. “Well? Where should I start, Loki?”

"Bucky, please-"

Loki smiles. "I’d hate to deny you the delight of discovery."

And then-

Bucky presses his fingers to your stomach.

You jerk violently and screech, the sound raw and high-pitched before devolving into a helpless laugh that rips from your chest like it’s been waiting days to break free.

"Fuck! No- Bucky!"

"Wow. You are so ticklish," he says, incredulous, like he’s just uncovered a national secret. He presses again, harder, and you twist, laughing uncontrollably as he digs into your sides.

Your muscles spasm. Your feet kick the cushions. Loki’s grip on your wrists is annoyingly effective.

"Wait, WAIT! I’m sorry!" you gasp, voice cracking from laughter. "I-I take it back! I take everything back!"

"Too late," Bucky says, smirking now, barely breathless himself from the effort.

Your laughter pitches higher as he shifts lower, targeting your hips, and your brain starts short-circuiting from the overload.

And through it all, even as your cheeks burn and your lungs scream, the warm, sharp heat of it stays with you-

He's laughing with you. Not at you.

He’s open. Present.

Alive.

So you brace to take your medicine.

Bucky's fingers scuttle lightly along your sides, dipping just beneath the hem of your shirt where skin meets air and nerves light up like a damn Christmas tree.

You lose it.

Your laugh is immediate - loud, cracked, breathless - and your entire body lurches like it’s trying to escape its own skin. You twist, squirm, kick, all of it completely fucking useless under the weight of a super soldier and the iron grip of a literal god.

"No- fuuuck, Bucky! I swear- I’m gonna-"

"Going to what?" he challenges, voice calm, maddeningly measured as he drags his fingers up your ribs, slow and deliberate. "Be more careful with your commentary next time?"

You shriek through another peal of laughter, your legs flailing against the couch cushions. "I was genuinely curious!"

Steve snorts from the other side of the room. "Sure you were."

Banner still doesn't even look up from his tablet. "This is what happens when you antagonise assassins with trauma and downtime."

You try to scream something back but all that comes out is a garbled, breathless sob-laugh as Bucky zeroes in on that brutal little spot just beneath your ribs, one hand holding you down by the hip while the other dances back and forth across it in merciless zigzags.

It’s not fair - he’s too strong, too steady, too fucking good at this.

"Buck, I swear-" you gasp between giggles, "-you’re gonna kill me!"

“You’ll live,” Bucky says dryly. But there’s a twitch at the corner of his mouth, that rare ghost of a grin that’s less threat and more reward. Like he’s enjoying this more than he’s letting on.

You glare up at Loki, who's still got your wrists pinned above your head, effortlessly casual.

"You traitorous bastard," you wheeze. "Let me go and fight me like a god."

Loki raises a brow. "And risk being thrashed by a ticklish mortal writhing like a fish on a dock? I think not."

Bucky hits a weak spot and you squeal, lashing out at Loki - “You glittery frostbitten motherfucker!”

"Language," Steve calls from behind his coffee cup.

Loki smiles cold and bright. "I wasn't planning to get my hands dirty, but seeing as you insist on dragging me into this..."

He moves your wrists to one hand and slides the other down your arm. You suck air through the giggles, eyes going wide, and shake your head.

"W-w-wait! No! I'm sorry! I didn't- SHIHIT!"

His fingers glide with awful precision into the hollow of your underarm, just a featherlight stroke to start.

You scream.

Your body convulses violently, torn between twisting away from Bucky’s maddening fingers at your lower ribs and Loki’s devastating scrapes along your underarms.

"No - oh my god - fuck, Loki, don’t-!"

"Oh, we’re well past don’t," Loki says smoothly, fingers trailing in tight little circles, never fully lifting, just skating and brushing and tormenting.

It’s like they coordinated this. The way Bucky’s hand shifts lower again, teasing at the crease of your hipbone with just the pads of his fingers - sweeping side to side, unpredictable and effective. The way Loki keeps his strokes light, fluttering, like he's writing a damn poem on your skin in ancient runes.

Your stomach jerks every time Bucky’s touch flirts with your waistband, and the pressure of him straddling your hips pins you in place no matter how hard you buck.

You try to thrown him off, but he just shifts his knees, anchoring you harder. The muscle under his jaw twitches with restrained laughter. He’s trying to look serious. He’s failing.

You gasp, flailing weakly. "I’m gonna die-"

"Can’t die from tickling," Banner says absently. "Elevated heart rate, maybe. Definitely some stress on the diaphragm. Oh, and laughter-induced fatigue is a thing, too."

"I hate science!"

"Noted," Steve says, grinning now. "We’ll put it in your file."

"She might pass out, though," Banner observes mildly, finally looking up.

"She’ll be fine," Steve says, sipping his coffee. "She needs the cardio."

You’re laughing so hard your voice is almost gone, hiccuping now, tears sliding sideways down your cheeks. "I- I swear- I’ll kill you both-"

"Already tried," Loki murmurs, deadpan, still tracing maddening circles under your arm. "Failed spectacularly, if I recall."

"Yeah," Bucky adds with a tilt of his head, "You’re not in much of a position to be making threats."

His fingers walk back up your ribs again, slowly, rhythmically, like he’s feeling each one - tracing the outlines like he's mapping you.

It’s unbearable.

It’s warm and raw and intimate in a way you didn’t expect, in a way that’s short-circuiting your brain and turning your limbs to jelly. It’s playful - but layered under that is a weight you can feel: that he's choosing this. Choosing you. Not mocking. Not hurting. Just being, here, with you, present and real and alive.

And that’s when Bucky leans in, face close to yours, his voice low and rough with amusement. "You bring up smut again," he says, "and next time I’m starting at your feet."

You wheeze. You actually wheeze.

Then he shifts his position just slightly. The movement is barely noticeable - just a subtle shift of weight, a lean forward - but it frees his right hand, which now dips lower.

You feel it coming before it lands. The anticipation alone has you screeching.

"No! No no no- not there-!"

But he does. His hand slips past your waistband, just far enough to press into the soft spot at your lower belly, fingers drumming lightly before grabbing at the hypersensitive nerves beneath.

You go feral.

Your scream dissolves into breathless, chaotic laughter, your entire body spasming under the onslaught. You thrash, but you’re caged by both of them - Bucky pressing you down, Loki above holding your arms in place like a steel-boned statue. You can’t breathe. Can’t think.

You’re just nerves and heat and helpless, writhing laughter.

Steve watches it all unfold, biting back a grin. "You know, this is probably against several peace treaties."

"Oh, absolutely," Banner replies. "But it’s compelling television."

You’d kill them too, if you could.

"Alright-okay-I’m dying," you gasp, choking on laughter, trying to twist away as Bucky’s fingers keep tormenting that same damn spot. "Mercy! Please, fuck - I mean it, I can’t-!"

"You sure?" Bucky cocks a brow. "Sounds like there’s still plenty left in you."

Your eyes close as you try to suck in enough air to speak. You kick the couch cushions blindly, and Loki’s fingers resume teasing your ribs, climbing up toward your armpit again, and your breath fractures.

"OH MY GOD- OKAY! I’M SORRY - FUCK - UNCLE, TRUCE, WHATEVER YOU WANT! I'M SERIOUS!"

Bucky finally stops. Slowly. His fingers ease off, dragging lightly across your stomach once more before retreating, and you melt into the cushions, panting, your body shivering from residual laughter.

Loki releases your wrists and stands, dusting his hands like he’s just completed a satisfying day’s work. “I’d say we’ve done a public service.”

You gasp like you’ve surfaced from underwater, cheeks on fire. You blink up at the ceiling and rasp, "I’m gonna have nightmares about fingers."

"Splendid," Loki says pleasantly.

"I hate you both," you croak.

Steve chuckles. "She’s lying."

Banner taps his tablet. "Endorphins through the roof. She’ll forgive you in five."

"Three," Steve corrects.

You let out a muffled groan, pressing your hands over your face. "I hate this entire team."

You don’t even realise when Bucky shifts - just feel the weight lift off your hips, the heat of him pulling away, the absence of torment like stepping out of a rainstorm.

Then his hand slips under your elbow and he’s tugging you upright, gentle but firm. Your limbs are jelly. Your lungs barely work. Your chest heaving with the aftershocks of too much laughter and too many nerves frayed to the edge.

You try to sit straight, but your body betrays you and you fall - helplessly, gracelessly - against his side where he sits.

Bucky lets out a low, amused huff as you slump against him like a puppet with its strings cut.

You mumble into the shoulder of his t-shirt. "I think I saw the light. Pretty sure it told me to go back to bed."

Steve snorts. "Not a chance."

You peel your face from Bucky’s shoulder just far enough to shoot a bleary glare toward the couch across from you.

Steve’s grinning around a mouthful of coffee. "It’s training time. Get your caffeine, get your gear, let’s go."

You groan and swiped a hand down your face. "I’ve already done my cardio."

Loki smirks faintly, straightening the cuffs of his shirt. "You’re welcome."

Bucky chuckles low, then pushes off the couch, offering you a hand. "C’mon. I’m game for some sparring."

You blink up at him. It takes a second to register what he’s said.

He hasn’t trained with the team in weeks. Not since things got dark again, and he started retreating into the corners of the compound like a ghost in the walls.

But now... he’s standing here, hand out, relaxed in a way you haven’t seen in too long. A flicker of light back in his eyes. Not all the way there. But present. Here.

You slide your hand into his, let him pull you to your feet, your legs still wobbly as hell.

As he turns toward the kitchen, you look past him - catching Steve’s eye across the room.

You don’t say a word. You don’t have to.

Steve gives a small nod.

You let out a slow breath and follow Bucky, faintly buzzed, breathless, nerves still crackling from the aftermath.

But warm.

An involuntary smile etches into your lips, eyes stinging as you blink back tears of relief.

It was worth every second.

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plushiebunni · 24 days ago

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plushiebunni · 25 days ago

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Homecoming | steve rogers

Summary: the key in the door is his favourite sound // established relationship hurt-comfort fluff, fem!reader, no use of (y/n), minor description of minor injuries // word count: 1.3k

enjoyed? please like/reblog! you can find my masterlist here <3

The key in the door was one of his favourite sounds. It's melodic, jingling tone reverberated through the quiet, empty halls of their home and he found himself on his feet through muscle memory alone.

The old door squeaked open — shit, he had forgotten to oil the hinges again — and there you were. In all your sweaty, dirty, bloody glory.

"Stevie." You breathed, feeling your shoulders relax at the sight of him. Your feet ached and the cut on your forehead throbbed with every pulse of blood. Before you could even say hello, he had enveloped you in his arms, the warmth of his body melting away the tension in your body.

He sighed "I missed you." His hands made their way from your shoulders to your head, and concern softened his eyes as he smoothed your crusted hair away from the gash on your forehead. He frowned, the pads of his fingers gentle as he traced the wound. You winced, and he immediately muttered a soft apology.

"Sorry, sweetheart." He whispered, barely audible. "Let's get you cleaned up — you kind of stink." He chuckled, a teasing glint in his eyes.

You couldn't help but smile, despite the ache that pulsed through your body. He placed his broad hands on your shoulders and steered you to the bathroom, placing a kiss on your cheek, and then your neck as he undid the many zips, clips and buttons of your tac suit.

Upon the reveal of several more gashes and a couple of still-appearing bruises, he tsked, his concern deepening. "I thought the mission was supposed to be an easy one?"

You stepped out of the suit fully, shivering as the cool air met your skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake. "It was more complicated than we thought," you answered, voice heavy with exhaustion. "The base had about double the amount of men than intel had indicated. Ended up being a firefight."

He nodded, quietly, eyes flicking over the damage. He quickly asked; "Everyone else good?"

"Yeah, Sam's got a pretty decent shiner over his right eye, but we all made it out with only minor injuries."

He nodded in response, still in that familiar quiet, protective state, as he moved away from you to turn on the shower. This was like clockwork, now. Someone came home from a long mission, the other took care of their wounds, helped them shower, and then it was snacks and movies under the sanctuary of the duvet.

It was the only time Steve let you eat in bed, the poor soul hating crumbs enough for it to be one of the very few sacred rules in the house. But you could get away with it when you had been apart for a while, and he didn't care at all whether there were crumbs in the bed, as long as you were there too.

He moved deftly through the often-used first aid cabinet, finding the antiseptic and cotton pads with a well-practiced ease.

"It's gonna sting." He held up the cotton pad, and you frowned at him in resignation. "I know, you hate it. But it's important." He raised his eyebrow, tilting his head to tell you that it was going to happen whether you liked it or not.

You scowled, but moved your hair out of the way for him to get into the gash. "There we go, I'll be gentle."

His touch was gentle as he wiped over the cut, but you couldn't help but whine as the alcohol burned through the encrusted blood, your fingers curling around Steve's strong bicep for comfort. He murmured gentle reassurances at you through the whole thing; soft, lilting tones of nearly there, sweetheart, you're doing so well.

"All done." He kissed your forehead just next to the cut, and then one more kiss over your eye for good measure. "Come on, get in the shower."

You peeled off the rest of your clothes, each piece revealing more bruises, more injuries. Your body ached for warmth, and when the water hit your skin, it felt like you could finally exhale. You sighed in contentment as you felt human again for the first time since you left for the mission, a week ago.

"Better?" He asked, his voice soft, as he watched from the doorway. He leaned against the frame, arms folded, just to be there with you.

You watched the pink-stained water spiral down the drain, as your body finally relaxed under the near-massage level pressure. "Much better," you responded. "thank you."

He smiled a tender, slow smile. "You don't need to thank me, angel."

You stayed there a little while longer, eyes closed, the gentle din of the water hitting the tiled floor all the background noise you needed.

Eventually, when the water was all but running clear and you finally felt clean again, you turned off the shower. As you turned off the water, you turned around to see him already standing with your towels prepared.

"Fresh out the dryer, just the way you like them." He said with a wink.

You hadn't even seen him leave, wrapped up in the bliss of the hot shower. You stepped out, and he wrapped you in the towels, almost as if he were swaddling you. The softness of the fabric was a comfort beyond words, and you almost melted into his embrace.

He gently dried your shoulders, taking care with each motion, his hands moving with practiced ease. "Stay warm," he murmured, his voice low and comforting. "I’ll be back."

You heard him scrambling around in the other room for a few moments, before his footsteps receded. A beat later, he returned, a smile already playing at his lips.

"Close your eyes," he instructed, his voice playful.

You obeyed, still wrapped in the warm, fluffy towels. "Okay?" you giggled.

You heard him moving around, and then the smile was clear in his voice as he called, "Open them!"

When you did, your laughter bubbled up immediately, uncontrollable. He was holding up a onesie, the kind of ridiculous outfit that could only come from Steve. You couldn’t help it — your laugh filled the room.

"Is it… a onesie?" you asked, barely able to speak through your giggles.

He unfolded it with a flourish, holding it up against his chest as though it fit him perfectly, despite the fact it would never in a million years. The Captain America design was unmistakable, complete with wings on the hood and the bright white 'A' proudly displayed in the center.

"I love it," you said, your voice dripping with humor as you peeled your towel off and slipped into the ridiculously warm, thoughtful gift. "But where's yours?" you teased, still laughing.

"Well, that's the best part," he said, his grin wide and utterly shameless. He pulled a second, larger onesie from behind his back, and you nearly lost it. The absurdity of it was too much — the familiar green hue, the faux straps that looked nothing like your actual tac suit, and the look of pure mischief in his eyes. Tears sprang to your eyes from laughing so hard.

"Oh my god, Steve," you gasped, clutching your stomach as your sides ached from both your injuries and the laughter. "Is that supposed to be my tac suit?"

With a sheepish laugh, he quickly pulled off his sweats and wriggled into the onesie, spinning dramatically for you.

"How do I look?" he asked, giving you a full view of the poor imitation of your high-tech gear.

"You look amazing," you joked, barely able to breathe through the laughter. "You might actually suit it more than I do."

He pulled you into a hug, the wings of your onesie tickling his face as he squeezed you tight. "I could never do that, sweetheart."

He pulled you to the bedroom, where he had already brought through the snacks for your traditional homecoming movie night. He laid you down in the freshly made bed, tucking you in carefully with the plush duvet.

"Steven, you didn’t have to do all this," you said, your voice soft with appreciation, though the warmth in your chest was undeniable.

He gently pushed you back into the bed, settling beside you and pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "Angel, I’ll do this for you for the rest of our lives."

He grabbed the remote and pressed it into your hands. "Pick a movie— nothing scary," he said with a pointed look. "I’ll get the tea brewing."

You glanced up at him, already feeling the soft glow of contentment settle over you as you whispered, "Steve? I love you."

As he turned, his face flushed, even though you’d said it a hundred times before. "Not as much as I love you, sweetheart."

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plushiebunni · 27 days ago

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hiii!

I am a huge fan of your stories! And especially with ‘One Letter At A Time’. I was wondering if you could write another one like it but a Steve Rogers x female reader? And maybe with a plot twist at the end where the reader is reincarnated? Thank you!

Thank you for your request! I’m so glad you loved ‘One Letter At A Time’. I hope you like this new Steve Rogers fic! 💕

The Girl Who Looked Like Home~Oneshot

Summery: After Steve Rogers disappears in the 1940s, his fiancée Y/n L/n writes him a heartfelt letter every year from 1945 to 1990, refusing to accept his death. Decades later, her niece Venus discovers the letters and delivers them to Steve, who survived frozen in time. As Steve reads Y/n’s final words, he visits her grave — only to encounter a young woman who looks exactly like the love he lost

Characters: Steve Rogers x f!reader

Note: All characters except Steve and Natasha are mine!

||Master List||

The attic smelled like cedarwood and old books—dust motes dancing in the golden light filtering through the tiny circular window. Venus L/n had never liked this space growing up. It had always felt a little too quiet, a little too forgotten. But now, at forty-eight, standing beneath the slanted rafters of her late aunt’s house, she realized it wasn’t forgotten. Just… waiting.

She had come to clean the house after decades of neglect. Since Aunt Y/n passed in 1990, the house had remained closed, almost preserved in time like a museum to a life paused. The outside had begun to surrender to nature—ivy on the walls, paint peeling from the windowsills—but inside, everything remained untouched. Every picture, every book, every trinket still sat exactly where her aunt had left it.

Venus sighed and dusted her hands on her jeans. She had no real plans that afternoon, no expectations. Just clean a little, maybe box up some old clothes, see what could be donated or archived for the local historical society. Her aunt had been something of a local legend—an artist, a teacher, a woman whose heart had once belonged to a man who’d never returned.

At the back corner of the attic, something caught her eye. A small wooden box, tucked beneath a yellowing quilt, its edges carved with gentle floral patterns. It looked handmade, old, and deeply personal. Venus knelt beside it, brushing off the years with gentle fingers. When she opened it, the soft creak of the hinge echoed like a whisper through the room.

Inside, resting delicately on top of neatly stacked envelopes, was a black-and-white photograph.

Venus picked it up with reverent care. The photo was of a young woman—her aunt, unmistakably, even if she’d only known her as an older woman—and beside her stood a tall man in uniform, eyes bright, smile warm. He held her like she was the only thing in the world that mattered.

Steve Rogers.

Captain America.

Venus’s heart skipped a beat.

She’d heard the stories as a child. About how Aunt Y/n had once been engaged to the man who would become a legend. But like many tales passed through generations, it had always felt abstract. Romantic. Sad. Distant.

Now it was suddenly real.

Her eyes moved to the envelopes beneath the photo. Each one was dated—painstakingly so—written in looping cursive on the front:

To Steve.

1945. 1946. 1947…

The years continued, one for each year, all the way to 1990.

She didn’t open any of them.

Something about the way they were arranged, preserved, protected—it didn’t feel right. These weren’t for her. They weren’t meant to be read by anyone but him.

But how could they be delivered? How could a letter written by a woman who’d died twenty-five years ago reach the man she’d spent a lifetime writing to?

That night, Venus couldn’t sleep. She lay in the old bed in the guest room of the house, the wooden box sitting beside her on the nightstand, as if it had its own gravity pulling her in.

The next morning, she did what any woman with an unanswered question and a strong Wi-Fi signal would do: she searched.

Steve Rogers, Avengers Tower, New York City.

She stared at the search result on her laptop, heart pounding. He was alive. He’s alive.

Her aunt had never been wrong.

⸻

Getting in touch with Steve Rogers wasn’t exactly simple. The Avengers Tower wasn’t open to the public, and most of the press inquiries were managed by PR teams that seemed immune to emotion. But Venus had never been a woman to back down easily—not when it came to doing right by her family.

She sent emails, left voicemails, and even mailed a handwritten letter addressed to Steve Rogers himself, marked Personal and Confidential.

In it, she had written:

Dear Mr. Rogers,

My name is Venus L/n. I believe you knew my aunt, Y/n L/n, during the 1940s. She passed away in 1990. I recently found a box of letters she wrote to you—one every year from 1945 until her passing. They were never mailed. I don’t know what to do with them, but I believe she would have wanted you to have them. I don’t know if this is the right way to reach you, but if it is… please contact me. This is my number XXXXX-XXX97.

With deep respect,

Venus L/n

Venus waited, checking her email compulsively, hoping for a sign.

Two weeks passed with no response.

Then, one rainy afternoon in October, her phone rang. A unknown number.

“Hello?”

“Is this Venus L/n?” a calm voice asked.

“Yes, speaking.”

“This is Steve Rogers.”

She nearly dropped the phone.

“I got your letter,” he continued after a pause. “If this isn’t a hoax—and I apologize if that sounds unkind—then I’d like to meet. Tomorrow, if you’re available.”

Venus found herself agreeing before she could think. “Yes. Of course. I’ll be there.”

⸻

The Avengers Tower stood like a glass sentinel over Manhattan, sleek and modern. Venus felt like an imposter walking into the lobby, clutching the wooden box to her chest as if it were a lifeline. She passed through security, was guided to a private elevator, and ascended into a part of the building reserved for legends.

When the doors slid open, he was waiting.

Steve Rogers.

Older than in the photograph—but only slightly. His hair was shorter, blonder. His posture straight and proud. But his eyes—those same eyes from the picture—held something more now. Grief. Time. Experience.

“Miss L/n,” he said gently. “Thank you for coming.”

Venus could only nod. “Thank you for seeing me.”

They sat across from each other in a private lounge, the city sprawling outside the floor-to-ceiling windows behind him.

She placed the wooden box on the table between them.

“I didn’t read them,” she said softly. “But I found them in my aunt’s attic. She… wrote to you every year. After the war. After you went missing.”

Steve didn’t say anything for a long time. His hands hovered over the lid like he was afraid of breaking it.

“She never married,” Venus said. “Never even dated. Everyone told her you were gone. But she… never believed it. She always said you were out there somewhere. Waiting.”

Steve’s jaw tensed.

“I don’t know what she would’ve wanted, exactly,” Venus continued. “But I think… she would’ve wanted you to have them.”

He finally opened the box.

His breath caught.

Dozens of letters. All addressed to him. All written by the woman he thought he’d lost forever.

He lifted the photograph from the top. A shaky smile touched his lips.

“I remember this day,” he whispered.

Venus watched him with tears in her eyes.

“Would you like me to give you some privacy?” she asked.

Steve looked up, his eyes glassy. “No. Please. Stay.”

The box felt heavier than it looked.

Not because of the wood or the age of it, but because of what it held—time, love, grief pressed into fragile paper. Steve Rogers had seen countless things in his long and strange life, had fought wars across decades and galaxies, had faced gods and monsters and time itself. But nothing had prepared him for this.

Letters.

Dozens of them.

Written in Y/n’s handwriting.

Her scent had long faded, but her essence lingered in the folds of every envelope. It took everything in him not to tear them all open at once, to hear her voice again. But he respected the weight of the moment. This was not a battlefield. This was something sacred.

He reached for the first letter, dated December 1945, trembling fingers brushing the soft, worn paper.

Venus sat across from him, silent and patient. Her eyes were filled with empathy, but she didn’t intrude. She simply watched as he unsealed a letter that had been waiting seventy years for a reader.

⸻

December 25, 1945

Dear Steve,

Merry Christmas, my love.

I don’t even know how to start this. It’s been seven months since you disappeared into the ice, and I still wake up every morning hoping it was all a mistake—that maybe I’ll hear your voice downstairs, or see you at the door with that smile of yours, holding hot cocoa and complaining about the snow getting in your boots.

Everyone keeps telling me to move on. That you’re gone. That I should accept it and try to live again. But I can’t, Steve. I can’t. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

The world celebrated today. The war is over. The papers say we’ve won. But it doesn’t feel like victory without you. There was a parade in Brooklyn—flags, music, people cheering in the streets. I went, you know? Just to see. Just to feel something. But I stood there in the crowd and all I could think about was the way your hand used to fit around mine. I swear I saw a man who looked like you for a second. My heart stopped. But it wasn’t you.

I miss you, Steve. Not just the big things—your voice, your laugh—but the small ones too. How you’d tilt your head when you were trying to understand something. How you’d hum old songs under your breath. How your fingers would brush mine when you passed me a coffee.

I still wear your dog tags. Every day.

I don’t know why I’m writing this. Maybe because it helps to pretend you’ll read it. That somehow, you’re out there. That these words will find you.

You once told me hope is a good thing. That it kept you going even in the worst of times. I’m trying to hold on to that, Steve. I’m trying so hard.

Come back to me. Please.

Yours, always,

Y/n

⸻

Steve didn’t realize he was crying until one of the tears hit the letter, the ink blurring slightly on the edge of her name.

He sat there, still as stone, the letter trembling in his grip.

Venus spoke gently. “I’ve never read them. I didn’t want to invade her privacy. But I can see now how much she loved you.”

He looked up at her, eyes red-rimmed and glassy. “She wrote this… thinking I’d never read it. But she wrote it anyway.”

“She never stopped,” Venus said quietly. “There are forty-five more letters in there.”

Steve placed the first letter back in the box, reverently, as though it were the most precious thing he had.

“I don’t know how to thank you,” he said. “For finding these. For bringing them to me.”

“You don’t have to,” Venus replied. “She loved you. I think… this was always meant to find its way to you. One way or another.”

They stood, the unspoken weight of time between them. He walked her to the elevator.

“I’m sorry she’s not here,” Venus added as the doors opened. “I think she’d have liked to see you again.”

Steve smiled faintly. “She is here. In every word.”

With a nod, she stepped into the elevator.

As the doors slid shut, Steve clutched the box tighter to his chest.

⸻

(Later that night…)

Steve sat alone in his quarters, the city glittering below. The wooden box sat beside him on the couch, untouched since Venus left.

He hadn’t told anyone yet.

Not until his comm buzzed.

Natasha.

“Hey, Cap. You busy?”

He hesitated, then answered. “Come up.”

Minutes later, Natasha stepped into the room, her eyes immediately going to the box.

“You look like someone just punched you in the heart,” she said, walking over to him.

“In a way… they did.”

He told her everything—Venus, the attic, the letters. Natasha listened silently, as she always did when it mattered.

Then she sat beside him. “Do you want to read the next one together?”

Steve looked at her. “You sure?”

She nodded. “If you’re okay with it.”

He reached into the box of letters resting between him and Natasha. The faint hum of the city could be heard outside, but inside the room, everything felt quiet—suspended in time. The first letter had torn open a wound in Steve’s heart that he didn’t know still existed. Yet, in the same breath, it had breathed life into him. Y/n’s words, so full of hope and sorrow, had reminded him of a love that he thought had been lost forever.

Now, Natasha sat beside him, watching him as he reached for the second letter. The room felt too small, the weight of seventy years of history pressing in. He wondered how many people could ever say that they held pieces of the past like this—letters that had been waiting for him, written with love, with pain, with everything he’d left behind.

Natasha spoke quietly. “You sure you want to read this now?”

Steve hesitated for a moment. He could feel the tug of the past, the ache that had always lived in him. He wanted to keep going, to understand more about what Y/n had experienced after he left, but there was a fear too—what if these words were too much? What if they broke him?

But he knew he couldn’t stop. Not now.

“I have to,” he said softly.

With a slow breath, he opened the second letter. This one was dated Christmas Eve, 1946. He unfolded the paper carefully, his fingers trembling as he read the familiar, beautiful handwriting.

⸻

December 24, 1946

Dear Steve,

Another Christmas without you. I try to keep busy, but there’s always that empty space, that silence where your laughter should be. I still wait for you, even though everyone tells me to stop. Even though the years keep stacking up, and the world moves on.

I think about you every day, Steve. Not just the soldier, not just the Captain America everyone keeps telling me about. I think about the man you were to me. The man who held me close and promised that we would be together someday. I hold on to that promise, even when it feels like the world is telling me to let it go.

I’m getting better, Steve. I’m healing. Slowly. I’ve made new friends, and I’ve been able to find some peace, but every night, I still pray for you. I pray that you’re somewhere, that you’re alive and that we’ll have our chance at a life together.

But then I wake up in the morning, and I see the news. I see the world moving on without you, and I wonder if I’m the only one left who still holds on. I hate that. I hate that I can’t let you go. But how can I? How can I when everything inside of me still believes in us?

I haven’t told anyone this, but sometimes, when I’m alone, I talk to you. Just like I used to. I ask you how your day was, I tell you about mine. I tell you how much I miss you, and how I keep hoping to see you again. I know it sounds crazy, but I don’t care. Maybe I’m crazy. Maybe I’m just holding on to something that isn’t there anymore.

But I need you to know, Steve. You’re never far from my heart. And if the world keeps telling me to forget you, I’ll tell them they’re wrong. Because I’ll never stop loving you.

Forever yours,

Y/n

⸻

Steve sat in stunned silence, the letter slipping from his fingers as his eyes blurred with tears. He hadn’t expected it to hurt this much. It was like Y/n was speaking directly to him, the words so familiar and so painfully real. His chest ached with longing for her, for the life they never had.

“Steve?” Natasha’s voice cut through the fog in his mind. “You okay?”

Steve wiped his eyes, shaking his head as though he could shake off the emotions that were swirling inside him. “I… I didn’t realize how much she felt it. How much she held on. It’s been so long, Natasha. So long…”

Natasha nodded, her expression soft. “She loved you. There’s no doubt about that.”

“Yeah,” Steve muttered, leaning back in his chair. “I know. I know she did. But I couldn’t give her anything, could I? I couldn’t come back for her.”

“You were lost. You were frozen. It wasn’t your fault.”

“I know,” Steve whispered. “But she never gave up. She waited. All those years…”

He looked at the letter again, holding it up to the light as though it might reveal something more. “I don’t even know how to handle this, Nat. It feels like she’s still here, like I’m hearing her voice again.”

“Maybe you are,” Natasha said quietly. “Maybe she never really left.”

Steve took a deep breath and looked at Natasha. “What do I do now? I can’t go back to the past. I can’t undo any of it. But I don’t want to just put this away and forget about it.”

Natasha crossed her arms, leaning against the table. “You don’t have to forget, Steve. But you have to live. You have to keep moving forward.”

He nodded slowly, his gaze fixed on the box of letters. “I’m not sure I can ever truly move on from her. From the life we never had.”

“You don’t have to,” Natasha said. “But you can find peace. Maybe reading the rest of the letters will help.”

Steve stared at the letter in his hand. Y/n’s words were still echoing in his mind, the voice of a woman who had waited for him without question, without hesitation. But he wasn’t the same man anymore. He hadn’t been that man in a long time.

“I think I’m ready,” he said, his voice steady now.

Natasha gave him a reassuring smile. “Then let’s keep going. There are more letters, right?”

Steve nodded. He reached for the third letter.

The third letter felt slightly thicker than the others. The paper was yellowed but well-kept, the ink a little faded. Natasha noticed Steve’s hands pause before he opened it. He seemed steadier now—less shell-shocked—but his heart was still heavy. She could see it in the way he inhaled before slipping his finger beneath the seal.

This one was dated July 4, 1951.

Steve gave a small, breathy laugh. “She always loved this day. Said it felt like a day that belonged to us.”

“You mean because of your birthday?” Natasha asked.

He nodded. “She always said I was born to carry the stars on my shoulders.”

Natasha smiled faintly. “That sounds like something she’d say.”

Steve unfolded the letter and began to read aloud.

⸻

July 4, 1951

Dear Steve,

Happy Birthday, darling.

You’re thirty-three today. Can you believe it? I sometimes try to imagine what you’d look like now. A few silver strands? Maybe deeper lines near your eyes from all the smiling you’d do if we were still together? I think you’d still be handsome as ever. Probably even more so. You were always timeless to me.

I made your favorite cake today. Chocolate with vanilla buttercream. No one to eat it with, of course. But it didn’t feel right not baking it. I lit a candle and sang to you. Out loud. Even made a wish. My neighbors probably think I’ve gone mad.

I still dream about you. Last night, you were sitting on the porch of our little house. Remember the one we used to talk about building in the woods, with that big front swing? You were there—older, smiling. And you looked happy. You asked me to sit beside you, and we just rocked back and forth in silence. I didn’t want to wake up.

I’ve kept your letters. All the ones you sent me during the war. I re-read them every now and then. Sometimes, I forget that you’re gone. I trick myself into believing you’ll write again.

I’ve turned down every man who’s tried to court me. That’s something I never tell anyone, but I’ll tell you. They’re kind, some of them. One of them even brought me white roses—my favorite. But I couldn’t do it. They’re not you, Steve. And I want you. Only you.

People say I’m wasting my life waiting. Maybe they’re right. But I’m not waiting out of denial. I’m waiting because a part of me believes—no, knows—you’re still out there. That somehow, one day, the impossible will happen, and I’ll see you again. If not in this life, then the next. And I’ll wait as long as it takes.

Because you, Steve Rogers, are worth waiting for.

With all the love in my heart,

Y/n

⸻

Steve closed his eyes and pressed the letter to his chest. “She didn’t forget a single detail,” he whispered. “She remembered the swing. The cake. The sunflowers…”

Natasha reached over, her hand lightly touching his. “She remembered everything because she loved you more than anything. You don’t forget that kind of love.”

Steve stared out the window, his voice quieter now. “I feel like I failed her.”

Natasha’s brows furrowed. “Steve…”

“I left. I didn’t come back. I promised her forever, Nat. And then I fell into the ice and never gave her a word. Not even goodbye.”

“You didn’t choose that,” she reminded him gently. “You sacrificed yourself for millions. For the world.”

“I know,” he said, barely audible. “But I still broke her heart.”

Natasha’s grip on his hand tightened slightly. “And she still chose to love you anyway. Not just once—but every year. That kind of love doesn’t come from blame, Steve. It comes from faith.”

He took a shaky breath and nodded. “It’s just… I’ve always felt like I was out of place. Like I came back to a world I didn’t belong in. But reading these? It’s like I’ve found the part of me I left behind.”

Natasha glanced at the box of remaining letters. “Maybe it’s time you let that part come back. You don’t have to keep it buried anymore.”

Steve looked at her, his expression softer than she’d seen in years. “Thank you. For being here.”

“I wouldn’t let you do this alone,” she said, voice just as soft. “Not now. Not ever.”

⸻

Hours passed. They sat in silence for a while, letting the weight of Y/n’s words settle into the quiet space. Steve didn’t rush to open the next letter. He didn’t need to.

He just sat there, staring at the skyline.

“You know,” he said suddenly, “I always thought if I could go back… if I could change anything… I’d go to her.”

Natasha tilted her head. “Would you?”

“I would. In a heartbeat.”

“And now?”

Steve looked at her, his eyes clearer than before. “Now, I think she’s giving me a second chance. Not to change the past… but to carry her memory into the future.”

Natasha gave him a small nod. “Then carry it. For both of you.”

The box was still half full.

Steve sat curled on the couch now, the third letter folded neatly in his lap. The city outside was darker, the sun long set, and only the soft golden light from the nearby lamp bathed the room in warmth. Natasha had stayed—quiet, grounded, steady.

They hadn’t spoken much since the third letter. Not because there was nothing to say, but because sometimes grief doesn’t need an audience—it just needs space. And Natasha gave him that.

After a moment, Steve reached for the fourth envelope. His fingers moved slowly, reverently. The date caught his breath before he even opened it.

August 28, 1963

It was familiar. Heavy. Steve furrowed his brow and looked up at Natasha.

“That was the day of the March on Washington,” he murmured.

She gave a small nod. “I thought it sounded familiar.”

He opened the letter, eyes scanning the opening lines, and then he began to read aloud—his voice just above a whisper.

⸻

August 28, 1963

Dear Steve,

I wish you could have seen the world today.

I stood shoulder to shoulder with thousands of people in Washington, D.C. People of every shade, every story, marching together, singing together, fighting together for something better. There was so much power in the air. You would have loved it, Steve. You would’ve stood right at the front, holding a banner and shouting louder than anyone.

Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. gave a speech. The “I Have a Dream” speech—it’s going to be remembered for centuries, I just know it. I stood there listening to his words, and I felt… hope. Real, breathing hope. The kind you used to make me believe in.

But then I looked around, and I didn’t see you.

You weren’t there to see the world shifting.

You weren’t there to hold my hand when the tears came, or when the songs started.

It’s strange, isn’t it? Living through history without the person you want to share it with. I used to imagine growing old with you—watching the world change, helping it grow. I think we would’ve made a good team.

I walked home alone after the march, the city buzzing behind me. And I realized something.

I’m not the same girl you left in the 40s.

The war changed me. Losing you changed me. But the fight for justice, for equity—it’s made me stronger. Bolder. You always told me I had fire in me. You were right.

But even with all that strength, even with all the fire, I still miss you every single day. I still ache for the sound of your laugh. I still reach across my bed in the dark, hoping to find your hand.

So much is changing around me, Steve. But inside? I’m still yours.

Always,

Y/n

⸻

Steve pressed his lips together, unable to speak for a long while. His throat felt tight. The silence stretched between him and Natasha—filled not with distance, but with reverence.

“She marched,” he finally said, his voice breaking. “She marched, Nat.”

“She was brave,” Natasha said. “Always was.”

“She kept going without me. Through everything. She was still fighting—for herself, for others.” He blinked rapidly. “And she still thought of me.”

“She never stopped loving you,” Natasha said gently.

Steve stood and walked toward the window, the letter still in his hand. Below them, cars rushed by in miniature. Lights flickered across the skyline. The same city. A different century.

“She said she wasn’t the same girl I left,” he murmured. “But I think… I think I would’ve loved the woman she became even more.”

“You would have,” Natasha said. “And she would’ve loved the man you’ve become.”

Steve turned back to her, eyes red-rimmed. “How did she manage to carry all this? For decades, Nat.”

“Because she loved you. And because maybe… holding onto you was how she stayed strong.”

Steve nodded slowly. He turned back toward the coffee table and gently set the letter beside the others. Each one now felt like a relic. A miracle. A whispered secret from a different life.

He didn’t need to open another letter right away. Not yet. Y/n’s voice was still echoing in his mind.

⸻

Steve stepped out onto the balcony for some air. Natasha followed, holding two mugs of tea. She handed one to him.

“Still breathing?” she asked softly.

He gave a half-smile. “Just about.”

The wind tugged at his hair, and the stars above the tower flickered faintly in the dark sky. Steve stared at them.

“I used to wonder what kind of life I missed,” he admitted. “I thought maybe it was just the war, or baseball games, or a house somewhere with a dog and a swing on the porch.”

He looked down at the letter in his hand again.

“But now I know exactly what I missed. I missed her. All of her. Every version.”

“She wrote you into every part of her life,” Natasha said. “You were never really gone for her.”

He turned toward her slowly. “I think she deserves to be remembered, Nat. Not just as the girl I left behind—but as the woman who lived. Who fought. Who loved.”

“We’ll remember her,” Natasha promised. “We’ll tell her story. Yours too.”

Steve looked up at the stars once more, then took a long sip of the tea. His chest still ached, but the weight had shifted. It wasn’t just grief now. It was awe. Gratitude. Reverence.

Y/n had carried him through her decades. Now, it was his turn to carry her.

⸻

(The Next Morning)

Steve Rogers hadn’t slept much.

The letters were still on the table—delicately stacked like relics of a time capsule cracked open. Morning light streamed through the tall windows, casting long golden rays across the hardwood floor. His shield hung silent on the wall. A relic too.

He sat in the same place as last night, one hand wrapped around a warm mug of coffee Natasha had quietly placed before him hours ago. She was nearby, cross-legged in the chair across from him, reading something on her tablet—but every so often, her eyes drifted to him.

He looked older today. Not in years, but in gravity.

And when Steve finally reached for the next envelope, Natasha silently set her tablet aside.

“July 7, 1973”

The year lingered in Steve’s mind. Something about it pulled at him. He opened the envelope slowly. The handwriting was still neat but slightly more mature—more measured.

He began to read.

⸻

July 7, 1973

Dear Steve,

Today I became an aunt.

A little girl. Her name is Venus. Isn’t that just the most magical name? She came into the world screaming like a storm—and I loved her instantly.

She’s got this thick black hair, eyes like stardust, and when she calms down, she makes these little hiccuping sounds that somehow make the whole world quieter. I held her in my arms today, Steve. I looked down at this tiny life, this little spark, and I thought: The world keeps going. Even when you think it shouldn’t, even when your heart is caught somewhere decades behind—it keeps going.

I think… I needed her.

For so many years, I’ve been pouring love into a void. Every year I write to you and send my words into the air like dandelions in the wind. I’ve kept my world small. Safe. Untouched. Like a museum dedicated to a boy in stars and stripes.

But today, something cracked open inside me.

When I looked into Venus’s eyes, I saw a thousand tomorrows. I saw the kind of future you used to fight for.

Steve, she’s beautiful. And she has the tiniest fingers you’ve ever seen. She gripped my pinky like it was the most important thing in the universe. And maybe it was—for her, for that moment.

I’ve been writing you these letters for almost three decades now. Thirty years of memories you never got to make. But holding Venus today… I think, maybe, some part of you is still here. Still watching.

I’ve told her stories about you already. Even though she’s just a baby. I told her about the man who believed in kindness more than power. About the boy from Brooklyn who gave everything and smiled anyway.

I think I’ll keep telling her. She’ll grow up knowing your name, even if the world forgets it. Even if I’m not around forever.

I don’t want to be sad anymore, Steve. I want to remember you with joy. I want to be the woman you would’ve come home to, not the ghost I’ve become.

So this year, for the first time, I let myself feel something close to peace. I held a new beginning in my arms, and I let it fill the cracks in my soul.

I still love you. That hasn’t changed. That won’t ever change.

But maybe now… I can also love what’s here.

Always yours,

Y/n

⸻

Steve’s hands trembled slightly as he folded the letter back.

He didn’t cry this time—not like the first or third. But something in him had shifted. There was a quiet exhale in his chest. A softening.

“Venus,” he said aloud.

Natasha sat forward. “The girl who gave you these letters right? From yesterday?”

Steve nodded. “But this… this is when she was born.”

He reached for the old black-and-white photo that had been tucked in the box. Y/n and him—dancing, blurry with laughter. On the back, in Y/n’s familiar handwriting: The day he kissed my nose and made me laugh like a fool.

“She made a life,” Steve whispered. “Even if she never married. She still made a life.”

Natasha nodded, eyes soft. “That’s what people do. They survive. They build new things out of the broken ones.”

He looked out toward the sky beyond the tower. “I missed so much, Nat. So much.”

“But you’re here now,” she said. “And you have her words. That’s more than most people ever get.”

Steve’s grip tightened gently around the letter. “She told Venus about me.”

“And you’re telling the world about her, just by reading these,” Natasha said.

There was a long pause. Steve was quiet. Then, finally, he smiled—just a little.

“She named her niece Venus. Of course she did.”

Natasha raised an eyebrow. “Fitting. Planet of love and beauty. Strong orbit. Kind of poetic.”

“She always did have a soft spot for the stars.”

⸻

(A few hours later)

Steve sat alone now, the letter beside him, a pen in hand. A blank page on the table.

He had never been good with words. Not the kind that mattered. But this time… maybe he could try.

He wrote just a few lines.

Dear Y/n,

She’s beautiful. I saw her name and I knew—just knew—you would’ve been the best aunt in the world. You always loved fiercely. Even in silence.

I wish I could’ve seen you with her. Wish I could’ve been there to see that crack of peace in your heart.

I’m here now. And I’m listening.

Love always,

Steve

⸻

The Rose Hill Cemetery was quiet, the only sound the soft rustling of leaves in the breeze. The sky was overcast, a blanket of gray that seemed to settle over the world as though it were holding its breath. A few rays of sunlight managed to break through the clouds here and there, lighting up patches of the earth, adding warmth to an otherwise somber day.

Steve Rogers stood before the grave, the weight of the moment pressing down on him. He ran his fingers over the cold stone, tracing the familiar name etched into it, the name that had haunted his dreams for years.

Y/n L/n

1920 – 1990

“The stars wait for no one, but she made the world stop and listen.”

Forever loved. Never forgotten.

The words seemed so final. He had never thought he would be here, in front of her grave, reading those words out loud, knowing he could never change the past. He had failed her once. He had failed to keep his promise.

But the letters… the letters she had written to him all those years, year after year, somehow had made her feel closer. They had kept a part of her alive in his heart, even when he’d believed it was long dead.

He placed the last of the letters—Y/n’s final letter to him—gently on the grave, his hands trembling as he did so. His voice was low, almost a whisper, as he spoke the words he had held onto for decades.

“I don’t know how to say goodbye, Y/n. I don’t know how to let go, even after all these years. But I’m trying. I think, somehow, you knew I would need to hear these things from you, to find my way back to the light again. So… thank you. Thank you for waiting. I only wish I could have been here for you. I’m sorry.”

A small sob caught in his throat, but he held it back. He didn’t want to break down here. Not now. Not in front of her. Instead, he reached down, picking up a single white rose from the bouquet Natasha had set nearby. He placed it gently on the grave, next to the letter.

Steve stood there for a moment longer, eyes closed, his thoughts wandering to the past. He could still remember her face so clearly, her laughter, the way she made him feel like the world had stopped turning when they were together. He had never gotten the chance to tell her how much she meant to him. How much he loved her.

He felt a presence behind him and turned to see Natasha standing at a respectful distance, her head slightly bowed. She had not spoken much since they arrived, knowing the weight of the moment. She was holding something small in her hands—a medallion she had found earlier, something she had meant to give to her mother. Instead, she placed it gently on the ground beside the rose.

“You don’t have to say anything,” she said quietly, her voice steady, but her eyes were soft with understanding. “I know what she meant to you, Steve.”

He nodded, grateful for her quiet support. “I’ll never be able to forgive myself for not being here for her when she needed me.”

“You were fighting for a better world,” Natasha said softly. “She knew that. And she never blamed you.”

Steve didn’t respond, his gaze fixed on the grave, his heart heavy. He was only starting to grasp the full weight of the years lost. Years where Y/n had waited, writing to him year after year, never once giving up hope. His fingers curled around the white rose, and he stood there, allowing the moment to wash over him.

Finally, Natasha placed a hand on his shoulder. “It’s time to go. We have to keep moving forward.”

Steve took one last, long look at Y/n’s grave before turning away. He was reluctant to leave, but he knew it was time. Time to face the rest of his life. He had carried the weight of the past for far too long. Now, it was time to lay it down and finally start living again.

The two of them walked slowly down the path that led out of the cemetery, the wind picking up slightly, carrying the faint scent of spring with it. Steve kept his eyes on the ground, the weight of everything still pressing on his chest. Natasha walked beside him, her steps light but steady.

As they neared the gate of the cemetery, something caught Steve’s eye. A figure in the distance. A woman. She was standing by the park, near the edge of the road, her back to him.

Steve stopped walking, his heart suddenly racing in his chest. There was something about her. Something so familiar, yet impossible.

She turned, just slightly, as if she sensed his presence. And in that moment, everything seemed to stop.

Steve’s breath caught in his throat.

It couldn’t be. It was impossible.

“Y/n?” he whispered, his voice cracking.

The woman turned fully, her eyes locking with his, and for a split second, time itself seemed to stand still.

The way she looked at him, the way her eyes gleamed with recognition—those were the eyes he had once fallen in love with. The same eyes. The same warmth. The same soul.

The woman’s lips parted slightly, and she took a step toward him. Her expression was one of surprise, but there was no mistaking the familiarity in her gaze.

Steve’s heart hammered in his chest, his legs moving on their own. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing, but the pull was undeniable. He walked toward her slowly, each step feeling like an eternity.

“Y/n?” he said again, louder this time, as if the words alone could bridge the impossible distance between them.

She blinked, as if startled, and took another step closer.

“Yes?” she replied, her voice tentative but soft, just as he remembered.

Steve stopped a mere foot away from her, staring at her face as though he had just stumbled upon the most beautiful miracle of his life.

“You—” His voice faltered, unable to comprehend what he was seeing. “You look like… like her. You look like Y/n.”

The woman’s face softened with understanding, her lips curving into a small, almost sad smile. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand…” She trailed off, her words unfinished, but her gaze never wavered from his.

Steve’s heart ached with both disbelief and an overwhelming surge of emotion. “It’s you… It’s really you, isn’t it?”

Her eyes widened slightly, a flicker of recognition passing through them. She hesitated, her brow furrowing as if she, too, could feel the strange pull of connection, though she didn’t fully understand it.

“I don’t know what you mean,” she said softly, her voice tinged with confusion.

But to Steve, there was no mistake. He had waited so long, and in that moment, he knew. It had to be her. It was Y/n.

Y/n’s Last Letter

July 4th, 1990

My love, my Steve,

Happy birthday.

This might be the last letter I write to you. My hands are trembling more than usual, and I’m getting tired faster these days. The doctors say I have cancer. It’s in my lungs now. Spreading. They’ve done what they can, but I’ve told them I’m ready. I’ve lived my life holding on to you, and now, I think it’s time to rest.

But before I go, I need you to know something.

I never stopped loving you. Not for a second. Through every lonely morning, every quiet evening, every celebration and sorrow — you were in my heart. Your memory was my anchor and my peace.

I won’t lie and say it was easy. There were years it hurt to breathe without you. Nights I reached for you in my dreams and woke up in tears. But I never gave my heart to anyone else. I couldn’t. It was always yours, Steve. Only yours.

I don’t know if this letter will ever find you. I don’t know if you’ll ever come back — if the world will give me that miracle. But I have to believe. I have to believe that love like ours doesn’t just disappear. That maybe, somehow, you’ll read these words, even if I’m no longer here.

If you do, my darling… please come visit me. I’ll be buried at Rose Hill Cemetery. Under the old willow tree near the hill’s edge. It’s peaceful there. Quiet. The kind of place you’d like. Sit with me, even if just for a moment. Leave me a flower — any kind. Talk to me. Tell me what I missed. What you’ve seen. What you’ve done.

I want you to live, Steve.

If you’re alive, if you’ve made it to a new time, I want you to be happy. I want you to love again. I know that’s a strange thing to ask, and maybe it feels impossible right now — but promise me you’ll try. You gave me everything, and I want you to have everything too.

And when you do find someone — when your heart stirs again and you see someone across the street or hear laughter that sounds like mine — you’ll know. You’ll know it’s me.

Because I will come back to you.

Maybe not in the same way, maybe in the same body — but I will. Somehow, I’ll find you. And you’ll look into her eyes and know you’ve seen them before, loved them before. Because love like ours… it doesn’t vanish. It waits. It returns.

So don’t be afraid to love again, Steve. When that moment comes, don’t push it away. Take her hand. Walk beside her. And when you look at her and feel like you’ve known her forever — you have. You always have.

I’ll be with you, even if you can’t see me. In every heartbeat. In every step forward. In every brave, beautiful moment.

Goodbye for now, my love. My captain. My heart.

Until we meet again,

Forever yours,

Y/n

-The end(?)

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