Work Text:
i vow to you ⸝⸝ galentines event
prompt: 🍒 "You're the only one allowed to say that" + 🌶️ Lace/Lingerie
Steve thinks he’s prepared for anything.
He survived the war. He survived waking up in the future. He survived planning a wedding.
What he is not prepared for is your friends.
The reception is warm and loud and bright, laughter echoing off the walls, music humming through the air as Steve stands near the edge of the dance floor, jacket off, tie loosened, still a little dazed by the fact that you’re his wife now.
He’s smiling, soft and content when your friend Sarah sidles up beside him.
“Congratulations, Captain,” she says sweetly.
“Thank you,” Steve replies earnestly.
She presses something into his hand.
A Polaroid.
He glances down and nearly forgets how to breathe.
It’s you. White lace, soft and elegant, posed beautifully on what is unmistakably your side of the bed. The lighting is warm, the angle artful, nothing crude, just intimate. Private. Meant for him.
His ears go red instantly.
“Oh,” he manages, staring a beat too long.
Sarah pats his arm. “,” she says cheerfully, then disappears into the crowd.
Steve swallows and carefully slips the photo into his jacket pocket like it’s contraband.
Five minutes later, another friend appears. Another smile. Another casual handoff.
This one shows more skin, more confidence, your expression unmistakably playful. Steve’s heart starts pounding harder, pulse loud in his ears. He shifts his stance, rolling his shoulders like he’s bracing himself for a mission.
“Your wife’s very… thoughtful,” the friend says innocently.
“Yes,” Steve says hoarsely. “She is.”
By the third photo, his composure is hanging by a thread. His jaw clenches. His grip tightens on the edge of the bar. He hasn’t looked away fast enough, and Sam definitely notices the flush creeping up his neck.
“Everything okay there, husband?” Sam asks, amused.
Steve clears his throat. “Great. Everything’s great.”
Then Bucky appears.
Bucky, who looks far too pleased with himself. He doesn’t say anything at first—just holds out the final Polaroid. Steve hesitates.
Bucky smirks. “Congratulations, pal.”
Steve takes it. And the world goes very, very quiet.
It’s you again—but this time, all you’re wearing is a white garter high on your thigh. Delicate. Intentional. Hanging from it, catching the light just right, are diamond charms.
S. R.
His initials. His hands shake.
“Jesus,” he breathes under his breath, reverent rather than crude, like he’s just been handed something sacred.
Bucky leans in slightly. “She said that one was just for you.”
Steve slips the photo into his pocket with the others, presses his palm flat over his chest like he needs to steady his heart. He looks up across the room and finds you. You’re laughing with someone, glowing, radiant, already looking like the best decision he’s ever made. When your eyes meet his, your smile turns knowing.
Steve exhales slowly.
The dance floor can wait.
The cake can wait.
Everything can wait. All he can think is how impossibly lucky he is—and how very ready he is to start the rest of his life with you. Forever suddenly feels very, very close.
The rest of the reception passes in a blur for Steve.
He dances with you, slow and careful like he’s afraid the moment might shatter if he moves too fast, one hand firm at your waist, the other laced with yours. He listens to speeches he barely hears, smiles for photos he’ll barely remember, all while acutely aware of the weight in his jacket pocket.
The Polaroids.
Every time you laugh, every time you lean in to whisper something against his ear, his grip tightens just a little. You know. He knows you know. The spark in your eyes confirms it.
When the night finally winds down and guests begin to trickle out, Steve doesn’t wait long.
“Ready?” he murmurs against your temple, voice low.
You smile sweetly. “Very.”
Outside, the air is cool and quiet, the city hushed in that late-night way that feels like it belongs only to the two of you. Before you can even comment on the short walk to the car, Steve scoops you up effortlessly, bridal style, your laugh breaking into the stillness.
“Steve!” you protest, arms looping around his neck anyway.
“I carried you into our house,” he says, resolute and smiling. “I’m carrying you into our honeymoon.”
You rest your forehead against his, eyes soft. “Who am I to argue with tradition?”
The hotel room is dim and elegant, lights low, curtains drawn just enough to let the city glow filter in. The door barely clicks shut before Steve sets you down, slowly and deliberately, hands lingering at your waist.
He looks at you for a long moment.
Then he reaches into his jacket pocket.
You freeze.
One by one, he lays the Polaroids out on the dresser, careful, adoring. His expression is equal parts awe and determination.
“You,” he says quietly, stepping closer, “have been very distracting tonight.”
You tilt your head innocently. “I don’t know what you mean.”
He chuckles, soft and dangerous. “Oh, I think you do.”
His hands come up to cradle your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks as he kisses you—deep, unhurried, full of promise. When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, breath warm and steady.
“My turn,” he murmurs.
He guides you toward the bed, not rushed, not urgent just certain. The world outside fades, the door firmly closed on everything but the two of you, newly married and perfectly alone.
"You looked so beautiful today," he drawls, slowly un-clipping his cuff links and pulling his suit jacket off.
Steve’s hands are warm and unhurried as he reaches for you, thumbs brushing your knuckles like he’s still half-afraid this is all a dream. The suite is quiet, city lights spilling in through the windows, and he looks at you the same way he did at the altar—soft, stunned, reverent.
“C’mere,” he murmurs, smiling when you step into him.
You undress each other slowly, more laughter than haste—his tie loosened by your fingers, your dress unzipped inch by careful inch. Every piece that falls away feels ceremonial, like you’re savoring the last seconds before the world narrows down to just the two of you.
Steve leans in, forehead resting against yours, voice low and teasing. “My wife,” he says, like he’s testing the words on his tongue.
You laugh breathlessly, heart stuttering. “You’re the only one allowed to say that.”
That does it.
Steve exhales, shaky and undone, his smile going soft around the edges as he pulls you closer. “Yeah?” he whispers. “God… I’ll never get tired of it.”
He kisses you then, slow, smiling and full of promise hands mapping you like he has all the time in the world. Tonight isn’t about hurry. It’s about finally belonging to each other, about vows still echoing between heartbeats, about the quiet, overwhelming joy of getting to say mine and my wife for the rest of his life.
Steve notices it when you shifts in his arms, the familiar flash of white against your thigh, the garter peeking out from beneath the hem you never bothered to smooth back down. He stills for half a second, breath catching like it did the first time he saw it that day.
“That,” he murmurs, thumb brushing the bare skin just above your knee, “isn’t fair.”
You smile, soft and knowing. “I had it made for you.”
That does something to him. His grip tightens, awe washing over his face like he’s still learning how to breathe in a world where you chose him so completely. “For me,” he repeats, worshipful, and then he’s lifting you without another word, easy and careful, like you weigh nothing at all.
The bed dips beneath them as he lays you down, hovering for just a moment like he’s asking permission even now. He leans down and kissing you again, deep and unhurried, groaning into you when you nip at his bottom lip. All heat and promise. His hands trace familiar paths, thumbs memorizing you again as if he hasn’t already committed every inch of you to heart.
“Beautiful,” he whispers against your mouth. Your jaw. Down your throat. “You’re so beautiful.”
Each kiss trails lower, unspooling your breath, his voice following, sweetheart, my love, my wife, until he’s there, kneeling between your legs like it’s where he belongs.
His fingers brush the garter, a soft laugh huffing out of him as he presses a kiss just above it. “Couldn’t stop thinking about this all night,” he admits, warm breath ghosting over your skin.
Then, slowly, deliberately, Steve grips the lace with his teeth and pulls it free.
He looks up at you as he does, eyes dark, adoring and completely undone, and whatever comes next is yours alone as husband and wife, the door locked, the world held at a careful distance while he shows you exactly how much he means every word he’s said all day.