We're only gettin' older, baby
And I've been thinkin' about it lately
Does it ever drive you crazy
Just how fast the night changes?
— Night Changes, One Direction.
Christmas Past
Morgan Stark is born on Christmas day.
Yep. You heard that right. Christmas fucking day, a screaming bundle covered in blood and amniotic fluid, thick, dark hair clumping on her scalp and her little chunky arms flailing about the place. Seven hours of labour and she pops right out.
Tony’s crying. Pepper’s crying. Hell, you’re crying — and when Tony wraps one arm around your shoulder, rocking you back and forth in a motion that calms him more than it does you, you swear that it’s because your mascara is stinging. Not because you finally get to meet your little sister after nine months of meticulously painful waiting — plus the extra week after her due date, and seven hours of Pepper screaming and panting and heaving.
“Leave it to a Stark to wait until Christmas to come out,” Pepper mumbles, and you laugh between praises and oh, she’s beautiful, Pep and Dad, please stop wiping your nose in my shoulder. The nurses have Tony cut the umbilical cord, before they bustle away to wash and dry the tiny girl, wrap her in a fluffy white blanket so that her little head is poking out of the top. You just can’t seem to take your eyes off of her. Nobody can, really.
She’s so… small. So precious. So vulnerable.
Your fully taken aback by the sudden burning at the back of your eyes — the tightness in your throat, the panic that decides to come to life in the pit of your stomach, because — because what the fuck. She’s so tiny. She’s so innocent. You’re not even her parent and you’re terrified — there’s so much that can go wrong, so much to teach her, so much to warn her of, so much to—
Tony moves forward; crowds his wife with whispered sweet nothings, kisses on the cheek, his eyes flickering between her flushed face and his new, fussing baby. You step back, back towards the door, back to where you know your love is waiting — the room, for a minute, feels too small. “I’m — I’ll give you guys a moment.”
They don’t try to stop you. They know you can get overwhelmed sometimes. But they don’t send you off with nothing — it’s all smiles and ‘come back soon’s, and you can’t stop the smile from growing on your lips. Overwhelmed as you may be, you’re fucking happy — and the second you step out, the second you shut the door behind you, you know Steve can tell.
Steve, Sam, Bucky, and Natasha all sit in the hallway outside — Peter’s pacing, tossing some piece of scrap metal between his hands nervously.
“She’s here!” You announce, beaming. “Oh, she’s so tiny. And pretty — she’s beautiful, and she’s got so much hair—”
Peter practically dissolves into a pile of tears, slumping onto Bucky’s shoulder, and — you can’t help it, the sight of him makes your eyes sting once more. Through watery eyes and your own sniffling, you see Steve stand from his seat, cooing.
“Don’t cry!” You whine, even though he’s already crying, and you know he doesn’t intend to stop, “If you cry, I’ll cry.”
“You’re already crying, sweetheart,” says Steve. His chest rumbles with a laugh, and you can’t even find it within yourself to give him a playful slap — you just bury your face into his chest and soak his shirt with tears and let him wrap you up in his arms like you’re the baby. He sounds all too amused when he coos: “You’re okay.”
“I don’t even know why I’m crying,” you sniffle. “She — they — I’m—”
You hear the fond smile on his face — his own eyes are glassy, you know they are, because for all their troubles, Tony really is a brother to him. Family. And now, to so clearly be moving on to the next great chapter in his life, well — you imagine it’s almost as overwhelming for Steve as it is for you. Seems like yesterday that you were being pressed against the wall of an art gallery in France.
“Ah, my eyes are stinging.” You pull back minutely, eyes screwed up. Smeared crumbles of black are dotted along where you’d just been laying, and you attempt to pat them off with an embarrassed snort. “Are you guys gonna go in and see her? She should be all cleaned up by now...”
“I will!” Peter volunteers first. “Sam, Natasha, c’mon—”
Natasha needs no convincing. You think she’s been on the edge of her seat since the first high-pitched squeals rang through the door — only slightly uncomfortable, you think, because according to her: baby’s freak me out. She fixes her face into something less unnerved, joining Peter by the door.
“I was gonna go anyway, pipsqueak,” Sam snarks.
“— and Bucky, you too—”
“Don’t tell me what to do.” Still, despite his snarking, the metal-armed man stands and follows the rest; stands to the back of the group as Peter tentatively presses the door open, head peeking around the corner — and you know the exact second he sees her, because he gives a great, shuddering sigh and begins to cry again.
(Crybaby.
...But that makes two of you.)
Marginally more composed than you had been just five seconds earlier, you peer up at the face of your boyfriend — two true blues already looking down at you, soft and sweet. He thumbs at your cheek, no doubt catching streaks of mascara and foundation along with tears. “How’re you feeling, honey?”
“Happy,” you mumble. Understatement. “Are you not heading in?”
“Nah,” he replies, equally as quiet — it’s a bubble that you’ve found yourselves in. Warm and sweet, milk and honey, away from all the chatter and hubbub and general chaos. The house has been bustling ever since Pepper went into labour in the early hours of the morning; you’d been put on ‘calling every and their mother to tell them that Pepper was having contractions’ duty — and Tony has a lot of contacts to get through.
Here, it feels like you can actually breathe — not that you hadn’t been able to breathe in there, at least not in a bad way, but now it’s like… it’s like you can decompress with no pressure. You can sort your hectic thoughts out and regather yourself to go back in. “I’ll wait a second. I’m sure Pep is tired enough as it is — and with Peter, too—”
“True.” You snort. (He means well, bless him, but he’s so easily excitable and really, he’s been looking forward to meeting Morgan just as much as you have.) “...God, you should’ve seen her, Steve.”
You don’t know why it’s not sinking in, yet. You don’t know why you’re so caught up over this. You know how birth works — you’ve seen babies before, of course you have. It’s never been so… so enlightening, if that’s the word you’re looking for — it’s never felt as if your entire world is going to change, or like — like suddenly you just need and want to protect this little bundle of baby from everything and anything.
God, and you’re not even her parent. Having children… having that anxiety all the time… sounds like a big fucking headache. And yet, peering up at him—
“She’s gonna be well-loved,” Steve comments, like he knows what’s on your mind. “Tony, Pepper… You and Peter and Rhodey. The rest of the Avengers. She’s gonna be a well-loved kid.”
—it doesn’t seem… all that terrible.
“Yeah,” you say. “Yeah, she will.”
You’ll make sure of it.
(“You ready?” Tony raises a brow.
In the 10-to-15 minute break you took outside the room, it seems that he’s quickly slipped into his role as first-time father. You know Pepper and him had been taking classes — diaper changing and proper feeding and burping positions, y’know, the basics. The way he holds little Morgan, though, with her head supported in the crook of his elbow and her body held up by his forearm, is so natural that you almost glow with pride.
“Yeah. Yes. I’m ready, I’m so ready.” Steve chuckles from beside you — Pepper, too — but you can’t even bring yourself to be embarrassed at how eager you are because Tony’s stepping closer, holding his arms out, and instinctively you’re holding out your own, and—
“Oh, God,” you whisper. “She — she’s so light.”
She barely feels heavier than a teddy bear, and her blanket is so soft, and she smells like baby. You don’t even know what exactly baby smells like but she smells like it, so clean and warm, and when you reach out to smooth a thumb over her cheek you’re unsurprised to find that it’s almost overwhelmingly soft.
“Hey, Morgan,” you whisper, bowing your head towards her. Her eyes remain closed, tiny lips pursed. “You don’t know me yet, but… but… I love you already, and I’m never ever gonna let you think otherwise.”
Fuck. You’re crying again, and if the sniffling from above you is anything to go by, Tony’s getting teary-eyed, too.
“Merry Christmas,” you say finally, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “And happy birthday, bub.”)
Christmas Present
You’re always so restless on Christmas Eve.
Steve knows this. God, does he know. It’s been years of tossing and turning and tugging on his arm, all hey, let’s try and stay up! It’ll be fun! Even before Morgan was born, Christmas was jam-packed with visits and impromptu house calls and dinner at the Potts-Stark household, usually joined by what members of the team could spare the time — and then once Morgan was born, well… to say you dote on your little sister is an understatement.
Steve’s got a bit of a strategy to tire you out, of course; starts the day early with a café breakfast, where you almost always fall asleep in your chair; then last minute gift-shopping, because there’s always last minute gift-shopping; ice-skating (where you trip over your feet at least twice), and/or listening to street buskers and carollers; hospital visits with giant bags of Stark-funded presents, making sugar cookies and eggnog and every other stereotypical festive recipe under the sun.
There’s no shortage of things to be done on Christmas Eve, after all, and one would think that you’d be just about ready to conk out when your head hits the pillow, but—
You flip onto your right side for the sixth time in the last 15 minutes. He’s been keeping track.
It’s — he squints through darkness for the dim light of the alarm clock — 23:43. You’ve been awake since 7:30, on your feet for the whole day (in heels, mind you). He shouldn’t be surprised — he really shouldn’t. This happens every year.
Your squirm in his arms; wriggle and move about until you’re laying atop him, whining to yourself as you shimmy yourself up. A hand on his chest, the other clutching his bicep. Supersoldier sight has never been so useful: he can make out the pronounced perch of your bottom lip, the upturned curve of your brows — the image of self-pity, and part of him wants to entertain your pleas immediately. Anything to make his best girl smile again.
He knows better, of course. Doesn’t want you to get spoiled — though, of course, that seems to have already happened, if judging by the way he refuses to fall back asleep — despite his wishes to do exactly that.
“Steve,” you whisper.
He hums — lets a hand drift comfortingly up and down your spine — but his eyes flutter shut again. You weren’t tired, maybe, but he damn well is—
“Steve.” There’s a gentle tug on his beard, and he grumbles.
“What?”
“Don’t be mad at me,” you whine, and he can hear the pout in your voice when you nuzzle your nose against the underside of his jaw. “Jus’ want you to fuck me to sleep, daddy.”
Steve sighs.
...God damn it. Hook, line and sinker.
Every year, without fail. And every year, despite his grumbling to go back to sleep and don’t be such a brat and settle down, he gives into you.
“Sweetheart…” He begins, “You know what I’m about to say—”
“I do,” you say. “And I’m trying to fall asleep but I can’t.”
You squirm again — very conveniently grinding your front against his crotch as you pull yourself fully on top of him — and drop your head to his chest with a huff and a little annoyed hm! He tries not to smile — doesn’t want you to think that you can just act up, throw a hissy fit and daddy’ll give right into you. And that might well be the case — but you don’t need to know that. Although, after so many years together, it’s not exactly a secret, is it—?
“It won’t take long,” you promise, voice muffled. “Please, Stevie? Just tire me out?”
...Well, fuck. Nobody can hold it against him for giving in. Not when — after reaching across, flicking on the lamp on the bedside table — he sees you, blinking up at him, eyes all sleepy and droopy. Skin clear and still damp from your skincare, the right side of your face reflecting golden light, his honey.
He licks his lips. Your eyes follow the movement.
“Alright, honey,” he says, and his voice sounds far too loud in the room — too deep, too rumbling, too much when you’re looking at him like that. He’s unable to stop his hands from falling lower, from drifting down towards your bare legs and taking two handfuls of your ass. Whatever lack of energy he’d been feeling seems to have miraculously up and left. “Gotta get you ready, though.”
But it’s like it goes in one ear and out the other — like just hearing him say alright has taken what little self control you have and blitzed it to pieces. In seconds, your fingers are tangled in the ties of his sweatpants; usually so lithe and nimble, now fumbling and hasty.
“No, I’ll be okay,” you assure, breathy, “Just wanna—”
You reach a hand into his sweatpants — find his cock hot and heavy against his thigh, and you whimper. If Steve’s breath wasn’t suddenly so humorously short, he’d have made fun of you for it.
“Daddy — Steve — just—”
Typical. Get him all hot and bothered, beg in that whiny, teary way of yours — and then flop back, his spoilt princess, waiting to be served and waited on. And he’ll do it, too, with little complaint. The growing hardness in between his thighs is a clear enough indicator that it does something for him.
“Settle down,” he mumbles — takes each thick thigh in hand and spreads them, tugs them aside until the heat between your legs lays flush with his own. A strangled gasp in his ear — your hips grind down, all shaky and slow and erratic, and he squeezes your thigh in warning. “Stop fussing. Have I ever not taken care of you?”
“Well, actually—”
“Lemme rephrase.” This time, he bucks his hips up; angles you so that the cleft of your pussy ruts against the tent in his pants, right over the length of him. It earns him a high-pitched keen. “Have I ever not taken care of you when you behaved?”
…
…
…
No back talk. You’re comically silent.
He almost laughs — but you spread your legs further and he feels the sticky fabric of your panties, light lavender turned dark purple. Fuck — he wants to feel you. Wants to reach around and slip his hands down your front, over your swollen little bud, your wet, glistening folds, your creaming, pulsing hole. You’d cry out for him, bury your nose in the crook of his neck and shudder and shake and beg. You act so tough and snarky but it only takes a few well-placed touches and a flick of the wrist and you melt, curl into him.
Just like he predicted — when he tugs at your underwear, leads you to kick them down and off your legs, you fucking shake — and that’s just the hardness of his dick, mind you, through sweatpants. You haven’t gotten it inside you yet; haven’t even felt the bare skin of it against you, but the late hour paired with your lack of rest and your sudden restlessness has come together in an amalgamation of sensitivity and desperation.
“Hurry up,” you pant, hissing at a particularly rough jut into your clit, “Inside, Steve—”
He takes pity on you. Doesn’t even bother to scold you, because he knows the only thing that’s on your mind is cumming and, subsequently, falling asleep — he just steadies his cock between his legs and guides it to where you’re warm and waiting, pressing the dullness of it into soft, silky folds—
With a choked-sounding moan, you open up for him — gummy, squishy insides hugging his cock so well that he has to take a moment to gather his wits. He knows he’s not gonna last — he never expected to, really, and neither did you — but that doesn’t mean you can’t make the most of it, right? He begins to hump up into you, one arm like a steel fucking cage around your waist, pressing you flat against him along the entire length of your body. Your clit grinds against the short, rough hairs scattered about the base of his cock; a watery sob answers him when he asks (quite cockily) if it’s good enough.
“H-huh,” you babble out, nails digging into the meat of his shoulders, “‘m — God, keep doin’ that, keep— just like that—”
The first few jolts of pleasure are already flickering up and down his spine, and he jams his hand down your front, catching your clit with one broad thumb. He digs his heels into the mattress, head buried into your temple — and there’s the smell of your shampoo, that sweet, tropical scent that he loves so much clouding up his mind, his lungs, his entire being; the softness of your hair and your skin and your nails and your t-shirt, hastily pushed up above your breasts.
So many sensations in so little time — he’s not unused to sensory overloads, but this isn’t the same. This isn’t the panicking, shaky unsureness that comes and goes; this isn’t an aversion to certain materials, or noises, or smells — this is safety. Home.
His thumb rubs rhythmically, steady and sure — moments of frantic side-to-side grinds, a pause for you to catch your breath, a circular swirl to make you lose it again. It’s a familiar beat, one imprinted in his brain, learned through years of late nights and early mornings and hurried trysts in the back seat of his car — it builds you up quickly, drops you twice as fast, and then—
A teary, weak gasp — something that sounds like his name, and you’re shuddering around him, walls silky smooth and pulsing, just hanging on the precipice of it, waiting for something, waiting for him—
“C’mon,” he groans, “Give it to me, sweetheart. You’re almost there, I can feel it—”
And that does it — that’s what you needed. A little encouragement, a little praise, and you cum almost on command. You squirm back and forth against him as you ride it out, panting hotly by his ear, and he knows that he’s not far behind — can’t be anything but, not when you’ve ridden out your orgasm and collapse fully against him, letting him bounce you up and down his cock like a little doll.
“You close?” You mumble, words slurring together, “‘Cause I — I wan’ it real bad, daddy.”
Fuck. Little nymphet. Waking him up at all hours because you can’t sleep, all pouting and whiny because you need him to fuck you tired and sore, need him to — to—
“Ah, fuck,” it’s a choppy curse, far too breathy for his liking, but in the moment he can’t bring himself to care because he’s cumming, bucking his hips up into you, filling you up so well that the only thing to be heard is the lewd, sloppy sounds of your insides taking it all up. Despite his stamina — despite the supersoldier serum pumping through his veins — it still feels like a punch to the stomach. “God, baby…”
He crowds you close to him as the last few waves of his orgasm pulse out of existence, leaving him jelly-limbed and high on endorphins; for a moment, he’s almost sure he’s fallen asleep, but then he blinks and the world filters in again, shockingly quiet and still. Your weight on top of him is so comfortable that he has to push past his own fatigue, nudging your head on his shoulder gently to check on you. “You okay now?”
His only answer is a soft, short snore.
He almost laughs. Well, he thinks, eyeing the clock once more — 00:22 AM, Christmas day —, that’s my job done.
Christmas Yet To Come
Another few years have passed.
From the outside looking in, you’re sure it all looks the same; the same snowy cabin, the same frosted lake, the same iced treetops. The same nondescript silver car is driven to what you’ve fondly dubbed your Christmas Cabin. It’s parked in the same exact spot, the same make and model as it’s always been.
But things are different, and as you inhale frigid air and shoulder one of many suitcases, you know it’s for the better: a gold ring nestled comfortably upon your left hand, the fourth finger from the right; Steve with Maggie in one arm and two suitcases in the other, not breaking even the slightest of sweats — Maggie is chewing on her fist, gurgling and cooing mindlessly, and he talks back to her like he can actually comprehend her babbling.
“Oh,” you hear him say, grinning, “Is that right? Well, I never knew that. You’re a genius, Maggie.”
With fond eyes, you watch them disappear into the warmth of the house. It’s Maggie’s first Christmas — it’s strange to think that just one year ago, just twelve months ago, she hadn’t even existed. She hadn’t even been a clump of cells in your uterus.
If you’d thought Morgan’s birth was an awakening, Margaret’s birth was a complete and utter upheaval of everything you’ve ever thought or known. She’s quite literally the centre of your world, ever since she opened her tiny little mouth and let out those bell-like screams, thick tufts of hair upon her head; everyone swears she has Steve’s eyes, but in everything else she’s your double — even personality wise, though that was partially your and Steve’s fault. It’s hard to say no to her when she’s got such big, watery eyes—
“Sweetheart?”
Oh — that’s right. You’re supposed to be minding Maggie so Steve can take in the bags. You’d gotten so wrapped up in it all — the sudden realization of how much things have changed, how much they’ll continue to change.
You’d think that it would’ve hit you back when Maggie was placed in your arms for the first time; or maybe, when you’d first found out you were pregnant, hands shaking and heart in your throat, Peter and MJ watching anxiously as you plucked up the little stick; or even the day of your wedding, either when you were walking up the aisle all covered in white tulle, or when you were pressed to Steve’s chest, swaying to the slow, sweet music of your first dance.
But no — it’s here, now, standing in the chill of mid-morning, Christmas Eve looming on the horizon, that it settles in.
You’ve come a long way from the irritable, defensive girl you’d once been.
You’ve gained more than you ever thought you deserved, really; a family, real friends, your husband — hell, just a few years ago the idea of kids was completely off the table, and now you’ve got little Margaret, too.
You’ve lost a lot — for a time, when your and Steve’s relationship had been hot news, you’d lost every inkling of privacy you’d held dear; during your pregnancy, for a while, your doubts of motherhood had you losing confidence in yourself; you’d even lost the love of your parents, though you’re not sure that you ever really had it, either.
A large, warm hand hovers at the nape of your neck. “You all good?”
You startle, turning to face Steve and Maggie. Almost immediately, a fond smile tugs at your lips, and it remains on your face as you pull Maggie’s woolen hat further down around her little ears and plant a soft kiss on her button nose — she gurgles, smile all gummy and bright, and your heart lurches.
(You almost laugh, actually; the idea that just years ago, the thought of you good mother was — was crazy. You had so little faith in yourself.)
“Yeah,” you breathe, turning your attention to him — the catalyst, you realise, for everything you’ve achieved and been gifted. Not the cause, exactly, but he’d sure as hell sped up the process.
You do what you did with Maggie to him; a kiss to his nose and then his lips. A flush from the cold has already spread across the bridge of his nose and his cheeks, but the smile that comes next is sheepish and affectionate, even after all these years.
“Yeah, everything’s perfect.”