#winter so

For @lowkeysebastianstan, who gifts us with such lovely Sebastian gifs all the time. 

My Masterlist ✨

Requests are open.

Bi(e)tter Life - Chapter Two

Steve Rogers x enhanced!Reader

Word Count: 1,6k

Summary: Steve Rogers is determined to take down all the HYDRA agents still operating. Among them, he knows there is his childhood best friend, Bucky, but he still doesn’t know he isn’t the only person from his past coming back to life. 

Warning(s): mention of death, blood

“I bought you something,” she says, her voice dripping with an undeniable fondness. . She reaches out with the outstretched fingers, fanning over his arm with intention.  Not delicacy, but intention. She looks over at him like she can see right through him. It’s awfully pointed for someone who’s physically leaning all over him, whose legs are twined with his.

“Yeah?”

“Yes,” she says simply, arm still resting on his arm, how not meeting his gaze but instead staring at the TV. She’s “in love” with the main guy on this show, and he doesn’t, love, watching this, but she smiles a lot, so. Small victories. Now she’s still smiling, hand on him and the grin light as air, satisfied for no good reason.

“What would that be?”

“A bottle of cologne.”

She hands him a glass bottle of what looks like malt liquor, but it is in fact, a bottle of cologne. A nice one. A glass pine tree.

She’s a beautiful woman in every way, the way she laughs to the way she carries herself. Not an intentional thing, not the kind of grace from practice, prepared motions. Her grace comes from something else, something more like light, and he loves looking at her, loves drinking her in.

She makes him feel like the world isn’t such a bad place to be, like he’s figuring out how to be a person with someone who believes he’s worth knowing. She touches him like it’s the only thing she wants. She’s sitting next to him, her head on his chest, legs tangled with his, and he’d- he’d do most anything for this.

He’s a soldier. That’s all he’s ever been. Before any of Hydra’s shit, he was still a soldier. He was a child, even a rebellious charming young man, but then, then, he was a soldier. He never really knew what this would be. Warmth, safety, a woman wearing pajama shorts and his t-shirt, eating chips out of a bag and holding him. There’s no urgency in it, in anything they do. Just the lingering presence of home, of safety. Neither of them have really ever known home. Ever known belonging.

Years and decades of never feeling like he was the kind of thing someone could love. Never believing that there’s anyone in this world for him, and suddenly- she just walks into his space. Natasha and Steve- they wanted him to try dating apps and things like that. He’d done it, too.

It always went one way. a perfectly kind woman would go to touch him, do something entirely innocuous, but- he isn’t the kind of man who can do that now. Who can let strangers touch him. He’s just not

Then he’d walked into a party and seen the most beautiful girl, and thought nothing of it when instead of being scared, or on guard- he welcomed things.

That’s it, isn’t it? Safety. There is everything else, the butterflies, the intoxicating way he can watch her mouth curl around speech, how he cannot help find her in everything he sees. The best, though, is the safety.

Cologne.

Days later, she had told him she’d thought about him was that he smelled good. He wasn’t so good at talking to her, not with a woman he actually liked. He’d told her that scent was a big deciding factor in how we experience emotions, and if she enjoyed how he smelled that might’ve been an indicator in her attraction.

Which, looking back, did scream brainwashed by Russian spies to have lots of medical knowledge. Which might, not be a turn-on.

But she laughed, a gorgeous sound that was full, not even a little held back, and he could hear the sound of it reverberating through space. She’d taken a sip of whatever she’d been drinking, and said back, “Well, then you’d better make sure you always smell good.”

And now, months later, she’d bought him cologne.

“Love you,” he spoke into the crown of her hair.

“Love you more,” she replied. She pauses for a beat, “Love you most, actually.”

“Would it help if I stayed?”

She tells him she loves his eyes.

He remembers someone might’ve told him that before, but it’s different when she says it. She sounds like she means it, voice all soft and revering, like there’s a certain raw sort of meaning here. Not exactly a secret, but a truth so fragile she is afraid of it hurting.

She looks at him with intention, like she wants to like she adores the sight of him. She makes so many of his days better. He loves waking up to her, to a beautiful girl in pajama shorts and his T-shirt, sitting wit her knees pressed against her chest, quiet as she can to avoid waking him and still watching him. She knows how peace eludes him, how every night's sleep feels like an insurmountable challenge.

Everything takes its toll on him, and some days he wishes he was never drafted, never became a soldier he never signed up to be. He thinks about the kind of person she deserves, how she’s kind and warm and charming. Charming like the literal root of the word. She could charm you into agreeing to just about anything, with a half-smile and a laugh, one where she tips her head back.

She deserves someone who isn’t broken.

And he is, snapped in half, broken in the way a plate dropped on the floor would be.

Today is a bad day.

She’s been worried all day, and he hates that she is. Hates that he’s the kind of person that needs to be worried over, hates that the person he loves most in the world has been stirring her tea for 5 minutes straight just so she could hear the clicking of the spoon against the cup.

“Babe?” She says to him, breaking the silence.

They’re in their living room, her leaning against the kitchen counter while he sits on the couch, and he hasn’t said much all day. She’s changed out of her pajama shorts but still has his T-shirt on, and even though his brain feels rotten and weighed down, she’s still the prettiest thing he’s ever seen.

He just nods.

“You okay?”

Another nod.

She walks towards him gingerly, her brows furrowed.

“You sure?”

His legs are parted and she steps between the space between them, and it’s a miracle how she’s able to do this, able to make every movement feel so dreadfully intentional, so obvious. Like it was meant to be. Her hand falls on the swell of his cheek, and she smells like the cherry blossom moisturizer she uses every morning. He adores her.

“As good as I can be,” he says, which he knows is not enough.

“Would it help if I stayed?”

He can hear the version of himself he was before he met her, hear the no, I’m alright, I just need to be by myself for a bit.

Of course, it’d help. She’s light incarnate, and he doesn’t mean to romanticize her. She’s not flawless, not an angel or perfect. She’s his, though, his in a way he’s never sure he’d get to have, with sunrises and movie nights where his hands are never cold anymore.

“Yeah,” he says, and cracks the closest thing to a smile he has all day.”

She sits next to him, hikes a leg on top of his, and when his arm falls around her shoulder, it’s a little better. Not all the way, but she helps.

She always does.

prompt: “Just hold me for a while, please.” requested

“You look lovely,” he tells her, and she smiles at him warmly, a small thing that barely lifts the corner of her painted red mouth, and he loves the sight of her.

Her mascara is smudged, just the tiniest bit. It’s the kind of thing that you wouldn’t notice if you didn’t spend hours learning the sight of her face in every setting. She’s so pretty, curled hair flattening after hours at some dinner for her job.

She hadn’t had a plus one, and he’d had work to do anyway.

He’d seen her getting ready, hung out with her while got ready. She’s got a certain laser-sharp focus when she does these things, eyes trained on the right color of eyeshadow and how to do the uptick of her eyeliner just perfect, and it’s lovely to watch. (She usually reserved such attention to him.) She had curled her hair and yelled at him for making her laugh because I could burn myself you dick!

She’d stepped into silver heels and he’d looked her up and down like it’s still before he’d had the nerve to tell her looking at her was his favorite thing to do- and she’d looked like the most stunning thing the world’s ever made. She’d had the nerve to ask if she looked okay, tucking a curled lock behind her ear and brows furrowed as if that wasn’t an insane question.

(Sometimes he wonders if she can see.)

And while it was upsetting not to go with her, this is still the best part of the night, anyway. She’s wearing a long purple dress and her heels are off because she can’t stand them anymore. She falls into the space next to him on the couch, leaning into him like she’s made to exist in his sphere. It’s second nature, the way he wraps his arm around her shoulders and how she leans back.

“Thank you,” she replies, and fatigue drips from her honey-sweet voice, and she turns to tuck her face into the crook of his neck, voice muffled as she speaks, “You look lovely too.”

He does not. He is wearing a grey T-shirt that has a coffee stain on the front and old shorts he’s pretty sure he bought in high school, his hair’s a mess because he’s run his hands through it like 8 times, and he’s pretty sure the cold cup of tea and half-eaten slice of pizza doesn’t make him look like some god of attractiveness. She sounded serious though, and that’s the part that still melts him down to the center.

(She drinks in the sight of him the same way he looks at her, and it’s still hard to believe.)

“No comment,” he says back, and it’s worth it for the way she laughs, soft and real while shifting to prop her legs up on their cheap coffee table from goodwill.

She’s wearing the perfume he gave her for their anniversary, and she’s all easy movements and effortless grace, careful and reverent with the way she touches him. He loves her when she laughs, loves her when she smiles and loves her when she fights with him over what show to watch and loves her when she’s not doing anything at all.

Her eyes are fluttering shut, and it’s an easy tell that she’s exhausted. Her favorite show is on, which they don’t watch together often, mostly because of how she fawns over the main character, which leads to him being miffed, not jealous, and she fawns over that.

Now, though, she can’t keep her gaze focused on anything at all. The only indication he has that she’s still awake is that she’s holding him too tightly to be asleep.

“Baby,” he says, and it’s hard not to relish how she preens, just the tiniest bit at the affection. It’s still so new, even after years of loving each other, the way it feels to hear the affection that drips from every affectation. “You wanna head to bed?”

“In a minute,” she replies, picking her head up to meet his gaze. It will invariably not be just a minute. And she’s been sleeping late lately, they should probably go to bed, especially if- “Just hold me for a while, please.”

Please. As if it’s a favor. As if it isn’t the greatest privilege he thinks he will ever have.

She snuggles into him and leans on his shoulder again, and she still makes his heart skip.  Okay.  Okay.

He kisses her temple then leans his head back on hers, legs tangled, the blanket covering her than on him, and he’s happy. Happy she’s warm, happy she’s with him, happy that his favorite thing to do in the world was asked of him. With a please.

a/n: i got an ask to write about buckys new hair :) so soft. so sweet. watch out for ur teeth

He loves looking at her.

There are a million ways to look at her, and every day, she gives him new versions of the woman he loves to fall for. He loves looking at her as she gets ready in the morning, loves looking at her while she’s working, while she’s cooking and humming and smiling and doing just about anything.

Because she’s so lovely to look at. It’s so hard to explain, because it’s not- she’s stunning, yes, but it’s a different kind of beauty. She radiates beauty and grace, the kind of delicacy reserved for paintings and art, a beauty that can’t exist in the world and so is filtered through fiction.

She’s got love in her eyes when she looks at him, and it’s so easy to love her. People think he’s got some warped view of her, that he loves her because she’s the first thing he’s loved in so long. But she’s not perfect, and he knows that. He knows it when she brushes her teeth and hums at the same time, knows it when she forgets to wipe her eyes in the morning.

And yet- looking at her always feels like something new, like something beautiful, like he’s been gifted.

All the guys these days have short hair. He’s seen it.

And he knows she loves him however he looks, but it occurred to him one day. One day, when she’s sitting next to him on their overpriced couch from IKEA, sipping tea and curled so far into him that he has to think she’s valuing closeness over comfort, truly, that he thinks- he’s happy.

Not fine. Not fixed. But happy.

He thinks of surprising her, the look on her face when she’d see him with new hair. Such a silly thing to be excited for, but this is his life now. Not a soldier. Not an assassin. Not a pawn.

A man. A man in love, with his whole life ahead of him.

The next day, she’s stirring sauce over a simmering stove when he comes home, wraps his arms around her waist. He’s sly that way. Super spy.

Doesn’t surprise her though, and she smiles (he doesn’t have to see it, he knows) and reaches her arm up to wrap around his neck. It’s awkward, and he’s sure she’s seen it in a film and it’s unbearably sweet.

He flips her around quickly, moving her to a place she could rest that wasn’t the stove (because he’s always, always aware of her, of her safety) and she-

She loves it.

“Oh honey,” she says, and her voice, it’s so full of love. It’s drenched in affection and nectar, the same warmth she touches him with every day. The same reverence for him. “You look so handsome.”

And handsome’s an old fashioned word, which is stupid and hilarious and she loves it, loves it and loves him and he would say something but he opts not to, just gives her an absurdly big smile and kisses her, the kind of kiss that’s not really a kiss at all.

This is a kind of kiss that says I love you. The kind of kiss that tells the whole world and anyone watching over them I love this woman more than anything in the world.

hello i have nOT written in ages so here is a challenge for myself to write at least 500 words a day, a prompt a day:

fake dating - silver dress

mutual pining

friends to lovers

coworkers

coffee shop au

single dad au

best friend’s girlfriend

break up 

hogwarts au

soulmate au

youtuber au

actor au

amnesia

wedding au

meet cute

high school au

college au

prince au

super power au

first kiss

secret identity

tattoo shop

secret admirer

proposal 

petnames

hand holding 

restaurant au

1940′s

biker au