Chris Evans As Frank Adler In Gifted (2017)

OH MY GOD!!!!!!!!!!!!! LITERALLY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Sebastian Stan for GQ Style “Newman’s Own”

15 years of Sebastian Stan (2006-2020)

'til the morning comes (6/?)

steve rogers x reader (fluff and angst)

summary: you need to get some air, and see some friends.

word count: 2.3k

warnings: mentions of the death of a father, super vague mentions of MCU-typical violence/terrorism

(part 1) (part 2) (part 3) (part 4) (part 5) (part 7) (series masterlist)

 “Trouble in paradise?” Helen peers above her sunglasses, frowning.

 “What?” As if you hadn’t spent ten minutes inside the hotel bathroom washing your face with cold water, minimizing its puffiness. “No.”

 “I just thought your hot-shit husband would be the one driving you around,” she explains while you buckle your seatbelt. “He seemed really excited to pick you up last night.”

 Back then, you had expected a text to light up your phone at eleven o’clock, followed by excusing yourself from the bar. But Steve actually found you and walked to the rental car. He greeted your friends charmingly, shaking hands and joking about the late hour, but mostly he ushered you out the door to kiss you again. And again and again—

 “We’re not married,” you mutter.

 “Like, really excited.” She elbows your ribs. "Did you have sex?"

 You roll your eyes. “Can I not just wanna see my best friend?”

 Helen removes her sunglasses in time for you to spot her side-eye. “Not when she’s hungover, and late to work.” She exits the roundabout driveway and starts toward the Fairmont. “Honestly, a school night. You’ve changed.”

 At least these drinks celebrated an accomplishment. Once, you went with Joaquín because a student vomited on your favorite patterned dress and her mom had shamed you for failing to nurse her precious daughter back to health. Still, Helen’s chastisement—no matter how lighthearted—makes you squirm. “I missed you,” you tell her, “Doesn’t that count for something?”

 She checks her mirrors. “How was your art thing?”

 You haven’t given her an update yet. Your friend group had agreed to a No Work Talk policy on nights out. Though, the art festival never felt like work—so unlike the long days you spent prancing around Steve’s office, providing help where it probably wasn’t strictly needed. The event meant something to you. And to Steve, who apparently hid his creative talents from you.

 Paling in comparison to what you hid from him.

 “It was fun,” you say honestly. “It was… everything.”

 Helen gives you a sidelong look. “You don’t sound enthused.”

 You cross your arms. The festival should spark a dozen happy memories: a triumphant return to the elementary school you loved, to doing what you do best. Plus, a definite win for the campaign, the entire night brimming with your favorite people.

 Maybe twenty year’s time will allow you to forget all the bad that happened after. “I wish I could stay longer.”

 “Shut up,” Helen laughs. “I’ve never seen you so happy.”

 Your face warms, because No Work Talk inevitably meant Steve Talk. Your futile attempts to discuss Joaquín’s abrupt switch to kindergarten or Helen’s new roommate or Dane and Sersi’s next vacation all failed to overshadow the rapid questions regarding your fiancé.

 You answered them like a lovesick schoolgirl, the corners of your lips lifting as you pictured him, especially his slightly mussed hair when you reluctantly left the heat of your first real kiss.

 Now, thoughts of Steve turn sour. Nails scraped across his scalp out of frustration rather than passion. His height towering over you. The room filled with his anger, floor to ceiling.

 He made you feel small. Maybe you are, or maybe you should be.

 “It was fun while it lasted.”

 Helen interprets your shift in tone as your mind shifting to Shangqi, and the spirit inside her car lessens. Jerking a thumb toward the backseat, she explains, “I have two things of pajeon. One for him, one for Xialing.”

 You squint at the truly giant containers, crammed with steamed-up food and strapped into each seat. “You cooked?”

 Helen huffs, pulling into the Fairmont’s driveway. “Well, I bought it and then lovingly transferred it to a different container, creating the illusion that I can cook.”

 Apparently, no amount of misery can ever overpower Helen making you laugh. “You’re ridiculous.” You gently dismiss the valet driver as you unbuckle the comfort food.

 Helen doesn’t return your smile, mocking seriousness. “You realize how much takeout I eat now that you’re gone?”

 “Thanks for the ride.” You haphazardly balance the Tupperware against your torso while shutting the door. “Y'know, I can send you my recipes.”

 “Too much work.”

 “For one of the smartest people I know, you’re awful at following directions.”

 “Hey.” Helen stretches across the console. “Double checking. You sure you’re okay?”

 She needs to get to her lab. “Yeah,” you lie. “Love you.”

 “Love you.”

 You weave effortlessly through the bustle inside the Fairmont. Enough red-vested employees give you vague nods of recognition that you sneak inside the staff break room without arousing too much suspicion. There, you find Shangqi poking a vending machine, his crisp white sleeves folded to his elbows.

 “Hi,” you whisper. Then, you realize the room is empty.

 He tilts his head affectionately, flipping his soda can. “Hey, Mrs. President.”

 You wrinkle your nose, bashful at the stupid nickname. “Um…” You shove the pajeon toward him. “Helen sends her love to you and Xialing.”

 Shangqi hums. Then, he lifts the plastic from your hands, stifling any of your weak objections with a tight embrace. You shove your nose into the scratchy material of his uniform, which smells like the inside of a new car mixed with crisp laundry detergent. Reminiscent of home—or what home used to be. You mold yourself to his solid, secure body.

 You’re already sniffling. “Why didn’t you take the day off?”

 He sits at a small round table, cracking open his soda and poking the giant mass of food now in his possession. “Already, with the patronizing.”

 You fold your arms. “Sorry. I know.”

 “Maybe parking cars helps me process my emotions," he chuckles, while motioning you to grab a chair. “The lack of tips is a metaphor for my grief.”

 You place a hand over his, letting one finger trace the bumps along his scarred knuckles. “Shangqi,” you start again, “I’m really sorry.”

 He drinks his soda, his mouth forming a thin line. “It was unexpected but… bound to happen.”

 Thankfully, no foul play. His father passed in his sleep, an oddly peaceful death for such a violent person.

 Although, that side of Wenwu never revealed itself to you. Shangqi and Xialing openly disdained him, and although their tension thickened the air of his cold home, you mostly remembered an old, kind man who made you tea and inquired about your career.

 A nice girl, Shangqi relayed to you later, lightly mimicking his father’s accent.

 The nicest, you replied smugly.

 “Is there anything I can do to help?” You feel stupid asking the question, especially with the hours counting down before your flight back to New York.

 His smile returns, barely detectable, and he interlocks your fingers briefly. “I’m glad you’re here.”

 “Bothering you during your lunch break?” you tease, but your grimace keeps the mood dampened.

 He smacks the plastic lid. “I get to eat scallion pancakes for the next two weeks, thanks to you.”

 “Are you sure you’re okay?” Asking a second time usually earns you a real answer.

 Shangqi softens at your concern. “I don’t know. It’s my dad.”

 “He was intense,” you agree.

 “Not exactly the most healthy relationship I’ve ever had.”

 You bite the inside of your lip. The crack in his voice transports you back to the nights you spent at his place, the rare ones when he opened up about Wenwu. Even underneath the cover of darkness, you struggled to look Shangqi in the eye as he talked through the trauma of living under the Ten Rings’ oppressive shadow. A past he rejected without hesitation, favoring a cramped studio apartment and a low-paying job heavy with entitled customers. Something simple and uncomplicated, far from family.

 Still, you listened, both to his stories and to his heart beating steadily against your cheek, pretending—mostly for your own sanity—that throwing a leg over him and tracing patterns on his chest could protect him from the worst of it, and lull him into a sleep where thunderous nightmares wouldn't jerk him awake.

 “You’re the only one of my girlfriends to meet him.” He clears his throat, eyes going glassy at the realization. “Actually, you’ll be the only one to ever meet him.”

 “Well, I’m lucky then.”

 “You don’t have to lie,” he says bitterly. “He did some terrible things.”

 Six months into your relationship, you accepted Shangqi’s first—and extremely hesitant—dinner invitation to meet his father.

 You owed him. While your personal challenges could never eclipse his, he supported you, through frazzled weekend lesson-planning and long nights. Shangqi drove you to half a dozen art stores to find the best deal, kissed your shoulder when you cried, offered to beat up your administration when you texted him about losing your job.

 No, you didn’t owe him; it wasn’t an obligation. Rather, a privilege. To have a little bit of his pain be yours.

 “That doesn’t change the fact that he’s your father, and a part of who you are.” You nod decisively. “I got to be a part of that.”

 He sighs, a brief and shaky thing. “Thanks.”

 “But I…” You wipe away a tear. “I can’t go to the funeral.”

 “That’s alright. You’re busy.”

 The quickness of that response makes you wince. “I’m sorry, I tried, but I’m not—”

 “Hey." Shangqi takes your hand again. “S’okay.”

 “I should have answered my phone last night,” you choke out.

 “I didn’t even think you were in the city.” He shrugs. “Honestly, I kinda expected you to be asleep on the east coast.”

 You scoff. You would have preferred that. Instead, guilt calcifies inside your stomach.

 Mere months ago, you wouldn’t have so idly dismissed his name flashing on your screen. He seldom called you—never twice in a row. But you were too distracted by your friends, the drinks you shared with them, the prospect of spending the rest of that night with Steve. While you and Shanqi ended on good terms and you’d never purposely ignore him, maybe deep down you rebuffed even the possibility of something sidetracking your perfect night.

 Fucking selfish.

 “I just wanted to hear your voice,” he confesses. “I didn’t expect any more from you.”

 You shake your head, refusing his conjured-up excuses for your behavior. “I should have called back. I would’ve wanted to be there for you.”

 “You’re here now,” he urges. “Even if you are taking up my lunch break.”

 With a cheeky wink, Shangqi grabs a plate and two forks from the miniature kitchen counter. He cracks open the top container, carefully transferring a pancake and cutting it in half.

 The moment strikes you as alarmingly familiar: yet another one of the hundred meals you’ve shared, yet another time you’ve arrived with food to break up the monotony of his day. In fact, you could both name the exact Korean place where Helen got these pancakes. And if you thought about it, you could probably recite Shangqi’s regular order back to him.

 Earlier today, as you pushed through the hotel doors, the muffled yet cheery beat of Helen’s favorite pop music reached your ears, immediately relieving the burns in your heart after leaving your fiancé speechless on the hotel room floor.

 You suck in a deep breath. It’s been so long since you’ve felt at ease, among friends, your love mutual and long-lasting.

 It’ll never be this way with Steve. The realization crushes you a little.

 “I have to ask about your new guy,” Shangqi remark, offering you a sip of his drink.

 “No, you really don’t,” you mumble.

 “That happened quickly.”

 “Only because—” He wouldn’t believe the truth, if you could tell him. And if he did believe you, he’d pity you. “We should talk about you and your dad.”

 “C’mon.” He leans backward, satisfied with how flustered you seem. “Take my mind off things. Are you with him ‘cause of his money and looks? Be honest.”

 “No, Steve, he’s…”

 “He’s rich and attractive,” Shangqi supplies.

 “He’s… good to me.”

 Most of the time.

 “A very glowing review,” he says, every word drawn out in suspicion. “Not surprised though, I’d trust a politician as far as I can throw him.”

 You laugh. Steve is kinda strong, but Shangqi has mastered, like, every martial art under the sun. It wouldn’t even be a fair match. “You could throw him pretty far, I think.”

 “Not far enough.”

 You can’t finish your food with the funny feeling sloshing inside your gut. “He’s different, sometimes.”

 “Sometimes,” Shangqi repeats sadly. There’s the pity.

 “He won’t let me go to the funeral.”

 “Won’t let you?” Shangqi leans forward, his strong forearms bracing the table, the pale scars on his knuckles flexing.

 You hate this subtle macho display just like you hated Steve’s yelling. It’s not cute, this overprotectiveness, and you wish they would think to comfort you instead. “Most people don’t know, right?” you ask, deflecting. “That your dad was behind all that stuff. They've just heard of the Mandarin.”

 After a pause, he nods gravely, sitting back in his chair. “When it comes to Wenwu, most people just see a very rich and powerful man, with two kids who hated him.” His jaw ticks. “But most people doesn’t mean all people.”

 You wring your hands. “You’re right.”

 “I think your senator made the right call.” You catch the derogatory tone on Steve’s title, yet he doesn’t apply it to yours: “Future First Ladies of the United States shouldn’t be seen at a crime lord’s funeral, no matter how innocent it may seem.”

 You push your half-eaten pajeon toward him. “Yeah.”

 “I’m not voting for him though. Seems like an asshole.”

 A laugh, a real one. “That’s okay.”

 Win or lose, you don’t care. You just wanna get through this, whatever it takes.

 “Is this what you want, with him?”

 You blink. “Is it okay to say that I don’t know?”

 “You don’t have to ask if it’s okay.” Shangqi considers you for a long moment before picking at your food. “Whatever happens, you can always come home.”

— — —

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brought absolute tears to my eyes

Do you think about this everyday or are you normal

false god | rockstar!bucky

pairing: rockstar!bucky x popstar!reader

warnings: smut (18+), thigh riding, enemies to lovers, sexual themes, toxic behaviour, swearing, discussions of miscarriage

masterlist (false god)

honey, hell is when i fight with you, but we can patch it up good make confessions and we’re begging for forgiveness, got the wine for you … but we might just get away with it, religion’s in your lips even if it’s a false god …

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Devious

Explicit Bonus Chapter - Relative Dating

Archival Evidence | Relative Dating Bonus Scenes Masterlist

Pairing: Indiana Jones x Reader

Rating: 18+ Only. Minors interacting with this work will be blocked.

Notes: Welcome back to the latest garbage fire! A companion chapter to this week’s Relative Dating; can be read without, though it does allude to the story’s characters and some events.

Warnings: Cursing; period-typical expectations of women; explicit sexual content—fingering, finger sucking, vaginal sex

Summary: These sensations are everything you’ve been raised to fear—unabashed pleasure at the hands of a man that anyone could claim has corrupted you.

Beyond your tender sighs, moans, and the heady, sharply drawn-in breaths that each of you take, you can vaguely hear sand and wind beginning to rasp against your window. Indiana’s hands slide over the coolness of your nightgown. He bunches up the fabric at your hips, pushing you more sharply against the wall. You hiss in a breath at the way the light switch digs into your back.

“Is there any chance of us making it somewhere more comfortable?” You grumble. Indiana chuckles, drawing you away from the wall.

“You’re telling me you don’t like being taken exclusively standing up?”

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'til the morning comes (8/10)

steve rogers x f!reader (fluff and angst)

summary: he's not supposed to see you like this.

word count: 2.1k

warnings: mentions of drinking

(part 1) (part 2) (part 3) (part 4) (part 5) (part 6)

(part 7) (part 9) (part 10) (series masterlist)

 You tilt your chin, dramatizing your wide, shimmery eyes. “It’s bad luck, Steve.”

 He gives you a small pout of his own. “Let me see.”

 You poke his boutonnière weakly. Your bracelets brush against the throw pillows that your loyal bridesmaids have haphazardly clasped over your chest. “Please go away?”

 Sersi frowns. “Why is he even here?”

 Steve ignores her, and the lighthearted smack Helen lays on his arm. “Honey, this isn’t fair. You see me wear tuxes all the time.”

 “Rogers.” Natasha adjusts her protective cushion and pins him with a deadly glare. “Get the fuck out.”

 Besides one lingering look he gave the full-length mirror, appreciating the back of your wedding dress, Steve’s eyes haven’t left yours. “I didn’t think you cared about this stuff.” 

 You hug a pillow to your body, relieving Natasha and Sersi of their duties. “I don’t.”

 And why should Steve care either? Even if a groom seeing the bride too early means bad luck, your relationship doesn’t exactly resemble a conventional romance. You didn’t need luck, only a signed piece of paper, a hundred pictures, and the illusion of being a happily married, rock solid couple.

 Not that you weren’t happy, in your own way. 

 In his attempts to make things good for you, Steve doted on you almost to a fault, assembling your favorite dishes and insisting that you don’t lift a finger fixing or cleaning anything. He let you plan most of the wedding, a dangerous game given the large budget he offered and how you’ve dreamt about the day since you were little. You discussed your ideas once or twice when you were still with Shangqi, yet scarcely imagined much more than a modestly priced dress, fifty invitations, and casual catering. 

 But Steve said yes to everything. To test him, you once proposed something ridiculous: a tiara.

  You’d look nice in a tiara, sweetheart, he said absentmindedly, hunched over a report.

  It exhausts you to witness his devotion and to continually push against it, especially given the ten to twelve hour days he already spends working. The National Convention looms on the horizon, a dark cloud which has injected atmospheric pressure around this event for months. Because once Steve gets the nomination, he can’t step onto that national stage without a lovely wife by his side. 

 After a few dinner conversations, he promised to put away work at least two days prior to the wedding, and he appears visibly more relaxed now. But still. He should’ve asked, instead of casually waltzing inside your bridal suite, accompanied by Maria.

 “Then let me see.” He touches the corner of your pillow.

 You whimper. “I really like this dress, and if you say anything bad about it, I will divorce you.”

 “We’re not married yet.”

 “And we never will be,” you say, tugging his bowtie. He let you pick the color, and even bought socks to match. “Not even a twitch, okay?”

 He straightens his face, adopting his senator voice. “I promise.” 

 The pillow drops half an inch. Then, Helen’s palm connects with his bright white shirt and shoves. “Nope, as the maid of honor, I am intervening. You’re leaving, now.”

 Steve groans. “Cho.”

 “You heard her,” Natasha agrees flatly. Unlike Helen, her yanking actually knocks him off balance. “Let’s go.”

 He follows her dutifully, but not before throwing you a dopey smile. “Bye, honey.”

 “Bye, Steve.” Tucking your chin, you admire his wide shoulders, the crisply creased pants, and the flash of his green socks as he exits.

 Helen snaps her fingers three times in front of you. “Oh my God, you’re so fucking whipped.”

 You wrinkle your nose. “No, I’m not.”

 “You two are disgusting,” Sersi says, her inappropriately polite nod and English accent making you laugh. 

 You toss the pillow onto the chaise lounge. “Okay, well, I’m allowed to be whipped.” You smooth the front of your dress, ensuring no stray fibers got caught on your complicated bodice. “He’s gonna be my husband.” A new word to you, like fiancé once was.

 Mrs. Rogers. So bizarre. 

 “Speaking of husbands.” Sersi taps her keyboard, giggling to herself. “I think Dane is having a wardrobe crisis.” 

 You and Helen gather around her phone, bursting into laughter. Joaquín poses cheesily next to Dane’s gray slacks, which have split along the seam of his ass.

 Sersi swipes away Joaquín’s urgent texts. “He’s requesting a needle and thread, stat.” 

 Helen rotates, her skirt swishing prettily as she locates her bag. “I have some.”

 “We gotta go.” Sersi grabs both your hands, marveling at you. “I love you.”

 “I love you too.”

 Helen examines you seriously. “If Rogers comes back in here—”

 “Go,” you laugh.

 Which leaves… Maria.

 Who never seems to uncross her arms. “You look great.”

 You barely shrug; any sudden movement could send your hair toppling down. You silently thank Dane for taking the brunt of the wardrobe malfunctions today. “Thank you.” 

 You fidget nervously. The ceremony starts in almost half an hour. You’ve paced circles all day to soothe your anxiety, mostly looking forward to the reception. With a bit of patience, you’ll soon be surrounded by drinks and friends and food and a far more comfortable party outfit.

 Steve must feel the same. You wonder again why he couldn’t wait a little longer to see you.

 Maria, manager extraordinaire, is just as aware of the time as you. “Here.” She lifts the veil off the nearby vanity table, gesturing for you to crouch so she can affix it. “Are you nervous?”

 “Um, yeah.” Your traitorous eyes catch your reflection and, without warning, your thoughts swim with uncertainty. “Do you think he’ll like it?”

  “You’ve come a long way if all you care about is him liking your dress.” She chuckles. “He’ll love it.” 

 Maria forms a half-circle around you, correcting the train of your skirt. Honestly, you’ve never witnessed her so chilled out either. Maybe the campaign has affected her more than you realize. She must enjoy some sense of victory by attending this momentous wedding, the product of the blind date she arranged.

 “Maria.” 

 “Mmm.”

 “Why did you choose me?”

 Maria pockets her hands inside her jumpsuit. “Not to insult you, but…” She pauses. “You’re not the only one we asked.”

 You nod. “I know. He told me.”

 “He’s not very smart, that one,” she remarks dully.

 “Who were they?”

 Twisting your fingers together, you imagine the weight of an elaborate flower bouquet between them. Then the cold surface of another ring, a shiny and steadfast reminder of the promise you’ll soon make.

 Sometimes you still wonder what the hell you’re doing marrying Steve Rogers.

 “Two friends of mine,” she says carefully. “I was honestly just looking for people I could trust to keep a secret without forcing them to sign an NDA.” 

 You stare at her blankly.

 Maria clears her throat. “Darcy, and Hope.” 

 “Why did they say no?” 

 Maria blows a short stream of air, pretending to be deep in thought. “Well, Darcy works for SWORD and already likes her government work.” She purses her lips. “Um, Hope owns a tech company with her dad.”

 A sensible answer, and a good sign that neither had anything against Steve personally. You should feel satisfied. Shut up, and go into the wedding certain that you’ve always been the best candidate for his partner. 

 And yet, these women’s personalities echo someone else equally independent and dedicated to her work. “Would you have asked Helen?”

 Maria holds your gaze, her tough love unwavering. “Yes. I was going to.”

 You let the diamond of your engagement ring catch your thumb, rotating it over and over.

 It seems like forever ago when you posted pictures online gushing about your new fiancé and proudly displaying your diamond. You and Steve fended off questions from friends and curious paparazzi alike, telling everyone that his proposal was intimate. That all-important question would remain concealed behind the walls of your shared home. 

 In reality, early on, you and Steve sat down with a laptop and he requested that you order whichever ring you wanted.

 You’re going to wear it. I want you to like it.

 He meant it well; he means everything well. But Steve was staying late at the office when the jewelry arrived inside ugly cardboard packaging. You ripped it open, slipped the thing on, and continued with your nighttime routine.

 How would Helen have reacted, in your shoes? You wonder if she would’ve stumbled into a brief but intense bout of crying the same way you had. 

 More likely, she would have overcome the feeling, like she overcomes most things. “Oh.”

 Maria responds gently. “I could tell Steve needed a break.”

 No shit, you think kindly, never knowing Steve for his laidback nature. “From what?” You scoff. “All the beautiful, powerful women?”

 At least, you imagine the others to be beautiful. Stunning, probably.

 A small crease forms in Maria’s perfectly smooth forehead. For the first time, she seems disappointed in you. “Steve has spent his entire life trying to live up to people’s expectations. Mostly his own.” Again, she busies herself with your veil, the silky fabric brushing the inside of your elbow. “He needed to get out of his head.”

 And look after some washed-up school teacher. “So me, floundering without a job—”

 "No,” she interjects. “He needs someone who sees him. Beyond his job, beyond what he can offer." 

 Doubt spins itself into a tight ball, lodging inside your throat. “You don’t sound like his campaign manager.”

 Because… why did you and Steve get together at all? It was a trade. A change in the trajectory of your life, in exchange for your presence in his. Helping boost his campaign. Your signature on the non-disclosure agreement as the cherry on top.

 “I’m a strategist, I’m not heartless.” Your eyes connect in the mirror. Hers are blue, as blue as Steve’s. “You make him happy.”

 Do you?

 You make him smile, sometimes. And laugh, when you force him to watch your favorite sitcoms instead of parking himself in front of the twenty-four hour news. Some invisible burden ascends off his shoulders when you compliment his cooking. A pink tinge rises in his cheeks whenever you tie his tie, or take his hand and hold him close. Months and months later, that still hasn’t dissipated.

 You have a crystal-clear picture in your head of how he would react to your dress: the open fondness in his eyes, his lips falling open for a second before curving into a smile.

 You’re so beautiful, he’d say. I’m so lucky. And he’d mean it.

 Maybe that could be enough. Maybe you could be enough.

 Your chest pinches sharply, your vision blurring at the edges, yet only when she hands you a tissue does it all spill over. “This might come as a surprise, but Steve was such a sad little shit before—” You toss your arms around Maria, laughing tearfully while she awkwardly pats your waist. 

 After a moment, your chiming phone brings you out of the embrace.

 “Told you,” she says, somewhat smug. Then, with tenderness: “Aren’t I the best manager ever?”

 You grin at the screen too. Sleep-deprived Steve. 

 She arranges your skirt again, then moves toward the exit. “I’ll see you out there.”

 It’s a video call. Grateful for waterproof makeup, you dab at your cheeks before answering. “This doesn’t count, right?” He’s grinning.

 “No, I don’t think it does.” You tilt your camera. Not the most flattering angle, but you avoid capturing the neckline of your dress. “Helen’s gone though, if you wanna see.”

 “I’ll wait for the big reveal.” The chaotic bustle inside his room obscures his words. You picture Dane in his boxers and Joaquín mending his pants while your friends snap photos and chat with Sam and Natasha. Steve turns from his phone briefly, situating himself elsewhere. The hallway, you’d guess, given the wallpaper and the significantly lower volume in the background. “I wanted to check in. How are you doing?”

 “I’m good.”

 "Yeah?”

 "Even though this is the craziest thing I’ve ever done.“

 He chuckles. "Me too. And I’m running for President.”

 "It’s not a bad thing, though,” you reply. Luckily, you sit alone in the bridal suite. No one hears how soft and high your voice gets, talking to Steve. “How are you?”

 “Nervous. Excited.”

 You wanna kiss that nervous-excited smile off his face; he can’t seem to get rid of it. “What for?”

 “Seeing you,” he answers honestly.

 You bite your lips, a fruitless attempt to muffle your shy hum. “You saw me like, ten minutes ago.”

 Maybe at last you understand why he barged into your room. 

 You’d need to travel down half a dozen corridors, and add in a few left turns, and eventually you’d find him. Leaning against the wall, the screen illuminating his face. Easy in theory. Yet, the journey seems to drag on for miles. He’s too far from you, from where you want him. Right here, right now.

 You check the time. Ten more minutes, then all you have to do is walk down the aisle.

 He’ll be yours.

 Steve softens. “I like seeing you, sweetheart.”

— — —

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