#brilliant echo: the tower

[missarchive]

cognitive dissonance pt 1 - spencer reid

˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒��� ‧₊˚ part two

who? tutor!spencer reid x student fem!reader

category: fluff, smut

content warnings: NSFW MDNI!! dry humping, fingering

word count: 5k

a/n: scheduled post as i am away at a new years music festival with my friends :] i will be back with you all in a few days <3

The first time you saw Spencer Reid was during a lecture hall mix-up in your second week at the university. You had rushed in, clutching your notebook and hoping to secure a spot before the professor started, only to find yourself in a room filled with students much older than you. At the center of it all, there he was—leaning casually against the podium, flipping through a worn-out book with an intensity that made the rest of the world blur around him.

He wasn’t the professor, but he might as well have been. His sharp, confident voice cut through the murmurs as he corrected an older man’s calculation on the whiteboard with such precision that the room seemed to collectively hold its breath. You’d learned his name that day from the whispers: Spencer Reid. The prodigy. The genius with more degrees than anyone knew what to do with.

From then on, he became a background character in your university life—a distant figure who seemed too brilliant, too out of reach, to exist in the same world as you. You heard the rumors, the awe-filled anecdotes: he’d started college as a child prodigy, aced every test like it was nothing, and was now juggling multiple Ph.D. programs.

Your own academic pursuits felt mundane in comparison. Sure, you worked hard, but you struggled. Like now, for instance, staring at the red marks slashing through your latest assignment—a problem set for your advanced statistics class.

“You’ve got potential, but you’re missing the fundamentals,” your professor said when you approached him after class, cheeks flaming with embarrassment. “I’m assigning you a tutor.”

“A tutor?” you echoed, your stomach dropping. Group study sessions were bad enough; working one-on-one with someone felt like an invitation for them to witness your shortcomings up close.

“Don’t worry,” he said with a knowing smile. “You’ll be in good hands. I’ve paired you with one of the best.”

You didn’t know what to expect as you walked into the library that afternoon, clutching your notes so tightly your knuckles turned white. The email from your professor had given you nothing but a time and a name: Spencer Reid.

Your heart raced as you reached the designated table tucked into a quiet corner of the library. There he was, surrounded by open books and a tower of index cards, his familiar mop of brown hair falling into his eyes as he scribbled something into a notebook. He looked up when you approached, his hazel eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made you freeze in place.

“You’re here for tutoring?” he asked, his voice softer than you expected, though no less confident.

You nodded quickly, struggling to find your words. “Y-yeah, I’m… I’m Y/N. My professor said you’d be helping me with stats?”

A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips, and he gestured for you to sit. “Let’s get started, then.”

As you settled into the chair across from him, you couldn’t help but feel like you were stepping into another universe—one where Spencer Reid wasn’t just the untouchable genius you’d admired from afar but someone real, someone tangible, someone who, for the first time, was looking directly at you.

You weren’t sure what you expected Spencer Reid’s tutoring style to be, but it certainly wasn’t this. You’d assumed he might be aloof, perhaps brisk, throwing around jargon you’d struggle to keep up with. Instead, he was patient—meticulously breaking down concepts into manageable pieces while his pen skated effortlessly across his notebook.

Not that you could focus on much of it.

His presence was… distracting. The way his long fingers tapped thoughtfully against the edge of the table, the faint crease between his brows when he explained something particularly tricky, the way his lips pursed as he considered your answer before gently redirecting you to the correct one. All of it sent your mind spiraling into a whirlwind of thoughts that had nothing to do with statistics.

“Does that make sense?” Spencer asked, tilting his head as his hazel eyes searched yours.

You blinked, realizing too late that you hadn’t heard a single word of his explanation. Heat rushed to your face as you fumbled for a response. “Um, yeah! Totally. Makes sense.”

He raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching like he was fighting back a smile. “Really? Then can you explain why we divide by the square root of the sample size in this calculation?”

Panic flared in your chest. “Oh, uh… because it… balances the equation?” you ventured weakly.

Spencer set his pen down, leaning back slightly as he studied you. There was something disarming about the way he looked at you, like he could see straight through the flustered exterior you were so desperately trying to hold together. And, knowing Spencer Reid, he probably could.

“You’re nervous,” he said, not unkindly, but with the clinical precision of someone stating a fact.

Your breath hitched. “What? No, I’m fine!” you lied, your voice raising an octave.

He tilted his head, his gaze softening. “It’s okay,” he said gently. “A lot of people feel overwhelmed during one-on-one tutoring. It’s a different kind of pressure.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but the sincerity in his tone stopped you. He wasn’t mocking you or trying to make you feel small. If anything, he seemed… concerned.

“I just want to make sure you’re comfortable,” he continued, his voice almost soothing now. “Because if you’re too focused on feeling self-conscious, it’s going to be harder for you to process the material.”

You nodded, unable to find your voice. Spencer smiled—a small, reassuring curve of his lips—and slid his notebook closer to you.

“Let’s try this,” he said, switching tactics. “Instead of diving into the calculations right away, let’s talk about what you’re struggling with conceptually. No pressure, no judgment. Just a conversation.”

That did help, marginally. His calm demeanor and methodical approach were like a balm to your frazzled nerves. But every now and then, he’d catch you staring at him for a beat too long, your mind wandering to thoughts that had nothing to do with statistics. Each time, his gaze would flicker with amusement, like he knew exactly what was going through your head but was too polite to say anything.

By the time the session ended, your brain felt like it had been wrung out like a sponge—not just from the math but from the sheer effort of keeping yourself together in his presence. As you packed up your things, Spencer handed you a few pages of handwritten notes.

“These should help,” he said, his voice still as calm and steady as ever. “And if you have questions before our next session, feel free to email me.”

You nodded, clutching the notes like a lifeline. “Thanks. I’ll, um… I’ll do that.”

As you walked away, you could feel his eyes on you, warm and curious. And though you were mortified at how obvious your flustered state had been, a tiny part of you couldn’t help but hope he didn’t mind.

You were determined to be better this time. You’d spent hours poring over the notes Spencer had given you, even rewatching a few recorded lectures for good measure. If you couldn’t control the embarrassing way your brain short-circuited around him, the least you could do was come prepared.

But as you approached the table in the library’s corner and saw him already seated, legs crossed, pen twirling lazily between his fingers, you realized preparation could only take you so far. He looked up as you neared, his hazel eyes lighting up briefly in acknowledgment.

“Hi,” you managed, your voice sounding far too breathy for your liking.

“Hi,” he replied, a slight smile playing on his lips as he motioned for you to sit. “Ready to dive in?”

You nodded quickly, lowering yourself into the chair and flipping open your notebook. Spencer wasted no time launching into a review of last session’s material, but as he began sketching out a new problem, you felt your focus slipping again.

It wasn’t your fault, really. Who could concentrate with him looking like that? His hair was slightly messier than last time, a few stray curls brushing against his forehead. He chewed absentmindedly on the cap of his pen as he thought, the motion inexplicably captivating. And when he leaned forward to jot down a formula, the faint scent of his cologne hit you, warm and woodsy, leaving your thoughts spiraling once more.

“Did you catch that?” Spencer’s voice cut through your haze. You blinked, realizing you’d been staring—again.

“S-sorry. What?” you stammered, gripping your pen like it might anchor you to reality.

His lips quirked up, amusement flickering in his eyes. “I was asking if you understood why we’re using a t-distribution here instead of a z-distribution.”

“Oh! Uh… yes?” you said uncertainly.

Spencer chuckled, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms. “You’re lying.”

Your stomach dropped, and you immediately ducked your head, cheeks flaming. “I’m not lying,” you mumbled.

“You are,” he said, and though his tone was light, there was an unmistakable confidence in his words. “Your body language gave it away. You looked down and shifted in your chair when you answered, which is a pretty common tell.”

You groaned softly, mortified. “Okay, fine. I don’t know why we’re using it.”

“See? That’s progress.” He grinned, and you could swear there was a hint of mischief in his expression. “But I can’t help noticing that your attention seems… elsewhere.”

Your head snapped up at that, your wide eyes meeting his. “What? No! I’m paying attention.”

Spencer tilted his head, his smile widening slightly. “Really? Then why do you keep staring at me?”

Your heart practically stopped. “I’m not—I wasn’t—I mean—” The words tumbled out of your mouth in a flustered mess, and his grin only grew more pronounced.

“It’s fine,” he said smoothly, cutting off your babbling. “I just couldn’t help but notice. You’ve been doing it since last session.”

Your mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. “I wasn’t staring,” you lied weakly.

His gaze held yours, unwavering and far too knowing. “You were,” he countered, his voice low and teasing now. “But I’m curious—why?”

“I wasn’t—” You stopped yourself, realizing you were only digging the hole deeper. “I’m just… thinking.”

“Thinking?” His eyebrows lifted slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching. “About the statistics, or something else?”

You wished the floor would open up and swallow you whole. “The statistics,” you said firmly, though your voice wavered.

Spencer let out a soft chuckle, the sound warm and almost smug. “If you say so.”

He leaned forward again, his elbows resting on the table, and you felt the air shift between you. “For what it’s worth,” he said, his tone softer now, “it’s not a bad thing. People observe things they find interesting.”

The words hung in the air, and you swore your pulse echoed in your ears. You couldn’t tell if he was being matter-of-fact or if there was a deeper implication in his statement, but the knowing glint in his eyes kept you from relaxing.

“Let’s try again,” he said after a beat, tapping his pen against the notebook and effortlessly shifting the conversation back to math. But the playful smirk that lingered on his face for the rest of the session made it clear: he wasn’t letting you off the hook that easily.

When you arrived at your usual table in the library, Spencer was already there, meticulously arranging his materials. His long fingers smoothed out the corner of a page in his notebook, and he glanced up as you approached, offering a small smile that made your stomach flutter despite your best efforts to stay composed.

“Hi,” you greeted softly, sliding into your seat.

“Hi,” he replied, his voice warm and low. “Ready to tackle some more statistics?”

You nodded, pulling out your notebook and pen. He scooted his chair slightly closer—not enough to be obvious, but enough that you could feel the faintest brush of his knee against yours under the table. You froze for a moment, unsure if it was intentional, but Spencer didn’t react.

“Okay,” he began, leaning toward you to sketch out a problem. As he wrote, his shoulder nudged yours lightly. The contact was brief, but it left your skin tingling.

“Let’s start with this,” he said, his pen gliding smoothly across the page. “We’re calculating confidence intervals today. Do you remember the formula from last time?”

You stared at the problem, willing yourself to focus, but the warmth of his proximity made it difficult. “Uh… I think so?”

“Let me jog your memory,” he said. His hand moved toward your notebook, his fingers brushing against yours as he adjusted it to face him. The touch was fleeting, but it sent a jolt through you.

“Sorry,” he said casually, his eyes flicking to yours for a moment. “Didn’t mean to invade your space.”

“No, it’s fine,” you replied quickly, your voice higher than usual. You tried to tell yourself it wasn’t a big deal, that the contact had been accidental. But then he leaned even closer, his arm grazing yours as he explained the formula.

“See how the standard error fits into this part?” he asked, his voice calm and steady.

You nodded, though you weren’t sure what you were agreeing to. It was impossible to concentrate with the way his sleeve brushed against yours, the subtle movement sending a ripple of awareness through you.

“Let’s work through this part together,” Spencer continued, his tone patient. He slid his hand over the notebook, his fingers brushing against yours again as he pointed to a specific number. The touch lingered just a fraction longer than necessary, but his expression remained neutral, as though he hadn’t noticed.

You couldn’t tell if he was doing it on purpose or if you were imagining things. Either way, the warmth radiating from him was making your thoughts hazy.

“You okay?” he asked suddenly, his head tilting slightly as he looked at you.

“Yeah! Totally fine,” you said quickly, though your face felt like it was on fire.

He smiled, his expression soft but unreadable. “Good. Let me know if I’m going too fast.”

You nodded, gripping your pen tightly to ground yourself. But Spencer didn’t make it easy. Every time he reached for the notebook or gestured toward your notes, his hand would brush against yours. Once, he leaned forward to grab a pen, his shoulder pressing lightly into yours for a moment that felt both casual and deliberate.

By the time the session was over, your nerves were shot. Spencer handed you a fresh set of notes, his fingers grazing yours yet again as he passed them over.

“These should help,” he said, his voice soft and steady. “You’re doing better than you think, by the way.”

“Thanks,” you murmured, clutching the notes to your chest.

“Same time next week?” he asked, his eyes lingering on you for a moment longer than usual.

You nodded, too flustered to say much else. As you walked away, you replayed the session in your mind, questioning every subtle touch, every quiet moment of proximity. Was it intentional, or were you imagining things?

The worst part was that you couldn’t tell—and that you didn’t really mind either way.

You weren’t sure why you’d agreed to have Spencer tutor you at your place. The library felt safer somehow, more neutral. But when he’d suggested it—citing the possibility of fewer distractions—you’d found yourself nodding without a second thought.

Now, as you sat across from him at your small dining table, you were second-guessing every decision that had led to this moment.

“Nice place,” Spencer said as he set his bag down and took in the cozy, slightly cluttered room. His eyes lingered on a stack of books by the couch. “Suits you.”

“Thanks,” you replied, fidgeting with your pen. “I, uh, wasn’t expecting company, so it’s kind of messy.”

He gave you a small smile, his gaze warm and easy. “It’s fine. Ready to get started?”

You nodded, grateful for the excuse to focus on something—anything—other than the fact that Spencer Reid, in all his impossibly distracting glory, was sitting in your home.

For the first few minutes, you managed to keep things professional. Spencer explained a complex concept with his usual precision, and you actually managed to follow along. But then he leaned closer, pointing out a detail in your notes, and you felt that now-familiar flutter in your chest.

“You’ve got the right idea,” he said, his voice low and steady. “You just need to be more precise here.”

He tapped the edge of the page, his hand brushing yours in the process. The contact was brief but enough to make your breath hitch.

“You okay?” he asked, glancing up at you with those impossibly perceptive eyes.

“Yeah, fine,” you said quickly, though your voice betrayed you.

Spencer’s lips quirked, but he didn’t comment. Instead, he shifted slightly, his knee brushing against yours under the table. It felt so casual, so natural, that you couldn’t decide if it was intentional.

For a while, he kept his focus on the notes, but his proximity seemed to grow with each passing moment. The air between you felt charged, like static electricity, and you could feel your resolve slipping.

“So,” Spencer said suddenly, leaning back in his chair and studying you with an intensity that made your pulse race, “how are you finding these sessions so far?”

“They’re good,” you said quickly, avoiding his gaze. “Really helpful.”

“Helpful,” he repeated, his voice laced with something you couldn’t quite place. “You sure about that?”

“Of course,” you replied, glancing up at him.

His eyes locked onto yours, and the weight of his gaze was almost too much to bear. “You seem… distracted sometimes.”

“I’m not distracted,” you said defensively, though the heat rising to your cheeks said otherwise.

Spencer leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. His voice dropped slightly, the teasing edge unmistakable. “Are you sure? Because I get the feeling you’ve been paying more attention to me than the math.”

Your stomach flipped, and you looked down, trying to steady your breathing. “That’s not true,” you muttered.

“Isn’t it?” he asked, his tone soft but insistent.

Before you could respond, he reached out, his fingers grazing yours as he took the pen from your hand. The movement was slow, deliberate, and it left your skin buzzing.

“Relax,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m just helping.”

You swallowed hard, your heart pounding in your chest. He leaned closer, so close you could feel the warmth of his breath against your skin.

“Spencer…” you began, your voice shaky.

“Yes?” he murmured, his gaze flicking to your lips for the briefest of moments.

You couldn’t move, couldn’t think. The tension between you was palpable, and for a moment, it felt like the world had shrunk to just the two of you.

Spencer’s hand moved slightly, his fingers brushing against yours again. This time, the touch lingered, deliberate and unmistakable. “Tell me if I’m reading this wrong,” he said softly, his voice low and steady.

You opened your mouth to respond, but the words caught in your throat. Instead, you found yourself leaning ever so slightly toward him, your body betraying you before your mind could catch up.

That was all the confirmation he needed.

With a slow, careful movement, Spencer closed the distance between you, his hand resting lightly on yours as he tilted his head. The kiss, when it came, was soft and tentative, like he was giving you every opportunity to pull away.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you leaned into him, your heart pounding as you let yourself get lost in the moment. When he pulled back, his eyes searched yours, his expression a mix of curiosity and something deeper.

“Still distracted?” he asked, a small, teasing smile tugging at his lips.

Your heart thundered in your chest as his words hung in the air. You couldn’t decide if the heat coursing through you was from the kiss or the way he was looking at you—like you were the most fascinating puzzle he’d ever encountered.

“Very,” you admitted softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

His smile widened slightly, but it wasn’t the smug grin you expected. It was softer, almost tender, though his eyes still carried that flicker of mischief.

“Maybe we should take a break,” he murmured, his voice lower now, almost inviting.

You nodded, your breath catching as he stood and motioned toward the couch in the living room. You followed him, your nerves on edge but your body moving of its own accord.

The moment you sat down, the tension between you snapped like a rubber band. Spencer hesitated for a fraction of a second, as though giving you one last chance to stop him, before leaning in again.

This time, there was nothing tentative about it. His lips met yours with more certainty, his hand sliding up to cup your jaw as he deepened the kiss. You melted into him, your hands gripping the fabric of his shirt as the kiss grew more fervent.

Spencer shifted closer, his knee brushing against yours as his free hand settled on your waist. The pressure was light, grounding, but it sent a shiver down your spine all the same. His thumb traced a small, absent-minded circle against your side, and the simple motion made your thoughts scatter like leaves in the wind.

You tilted your head slightly, allowing him to angle the kiss more deeply. He responded immediately, his fingers threading into your hair as he pulled you closer. The world outside your apartment ceased to exist, leaving only the heat of his body and the intoxicating pull of his lips against yours.

When you finally broke apart, both of you were breathless. Spencer’s forehead rested lightly against yours, and you could feel the rapid rise and fall of his chest as he caught his breath.

“I think,” he said after a moment, his voice rougher than usual, “we’ve officially crossed into not studying territory.”

You laughed softly, your hands still clutching the front of his shirt. “You think?”

He chuckled, the sound low and warm, before leaning back just enough to meet your gaze. His fingers lingered on your waist, and the way he looked at you made your heart skip a beat.

“You’re full of surprises, you know,” he murmured, his thumb brushing against your cheek.

“Me?” you replied, raising an eyebrow. “You’re the one who—”

Before you could finish, he kissed you again, effectively silencing any protest. This time, it was slower, more deliberate, like he was savoring every second. You sighed against his lips, your hands sliding up to his shoulders as you gave in to the moment.

Spencer’s hands, steady but careful, slid down from your waist to rest on your hips. He shifted closer, and you felt the subtle press of his body against yours, his touch firm but never overwhelming. When his knee nudged between your legs, your breath hitched, the pressure sparking a warmth that spread through you like wildfire.

You froze for half a second, unsure if the movement had been intentional, but Spencer didn’t pull back. Instead, his lips moved against yours with more intent, and his hands tightened ever so slightly on your hips, guiding you just enough for the tension between you to crackle and deepen.

“Is this okay?” he murmured against your lips, his voice rough and low, sending a shiver down your spine.

“Yes,” you whispered, your hands gripping his shoulders more tightly as you let yourself lean into him.

Encouraged by your response, Spencer deepened the kiss, his knee pressing more firmly between your thighs. The sensation was maddeningly slow, his movements deliberate and measured as though he was testing every reaction. You gasped softly, and he swallowed the sound with a small, satisfied hum.

His hands slid up your sides, his thumbs brushing against your ribs just beneath the hem of your shirt. The touch was gentle, but the heat of his palms against your skin left you trembling.

He leaned closer, his breath warm against your ear as he murmured, “I’m going to ask you a question from one of our sessions. If you get it right, I’ll keep going. If you don’t…” His hands stilled against your skin, and he pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, his smirk growing. “Well, I’ll have to stop.”

Your mouth went dry. Was he serious? The challenge in his eyes told you he absolutely was.

“Spencer…” you started, your voice shaky with anticipation and a tinge of frustration.

“Hm?” he prompted, his hands sliding down slightly but remaining just beneath your shirt, a silent reminder of what was at stake. “What’s the formula for calculating a confidence interval?”

You stared at him, your mind scrambling to recall the formula you’d seen so many times in your notes. But all you could focus on was the way his fingers were still, waiting, as though they held the key to your ability to think.

“Um,” you began, your voice faltering. “It’s, uh, the mean… plus or minus… the critical value?”

Spencer’s smirk widened, his head tilting slightly as though he was considering your answer. “Close,” he said, his hands retreating slightly. “But not quite. Want to try again?”

“No, wait!” you exclaimed, your cheeks flushing as you tried to focus. “The mean plus or minus the critical value times the standard error?”

He hummed softly, his fingers resuming their slow circles. “There it is,” he said, his voice smooth as silk. “See? You can focus when you want to.”

Your heart pounded as his hands slid higher, his thumbs brushing dangerously close to the underside of your bra. The sensation was enough to make your breath hitch, but you barely had time to react before he spoke again.

“Next question,” he said, his tone taking on a slightly firmer edge. “What’s the first step in solving a regression problem?”

Your brain felt like it had been set on fire. How were you supposed to remember academic concepts when his hands were touching you like this?

“I—I think…” you stammered, biting your lip as you tried to focus. “The first step is… identifying the variables?”

Spencer’s brow lifted, his expression a mix of amusement and approval. “Good,” he said, his hands sliding back down to your waist. “But don’t forget to check your assumptions first. Details matter.”

You let out a soft whine of frustration, but the sound turned into a gasp as his knee pressed gently between your legs again, reigniting the fire building in your core.

“You’re doing well,” he murmured, his lips ghosting over your jaw as he spoke. “But I think you can do better.”

The challenge in his voice sent a shiver down your spine, and you felt your resolve crumbling under the weight of his attention.

“What’s the difference between Type I and Type II errors?” he asked, his tone almost clinical despite the heat radiating from him.

“Type I is… rejecting a true null hypothesis,” you managed, your voice shaky. “And Type II is failing to reject a false one.”

Spencer grinned, his lips brushing against the corner of your mouth. “Excellent,” he said softly. “You’re such a quick learner when you try.”

The praise made your heart race, warmth blooming in your chest as his words sank in. You barely had a chance to respond before his hand slid lower, resting on the bare skin just above the waistband of your pants.

“You deserve a reward,” he murmured, his voice low and smooth, sending a shiver down your spine.

“A reward?” you managed, your voice breathless and unsteady.

He chuckled softly, his lips moving to your neck, pressing a series of slow, deliberate kisses along the sensitive skin. “For all your hard work,” he murmured against your skin, his fingers toying with the elastic of your waistband. “Don’t you think you’ve earned it?”

Your only response was a soft, shaky nod, your hands gripping the fabric of his shirt as though it was the only thing keeping you grounded.

“Good girl,” he said, the words barely above a whisper, but they sent a jolt through your entire body.

His hand slipped beneath the fabric of your pants, his touch deliberate and teasing as he traced the edge of your panties. He paused for a moment, his lips ghosting over your ear as he murmured, “Tell me if you want me to stop.”

“I don’t,” you whispered, your voice trembling but filled with certainty.

That was all the permission he needed. His hand slipped lower, his fingers sliding beneath the fabric of your panties to find your most sensitive spot. The first touch was light, almost experimental, but it was enough to make you gasp softly, your body arching into him.

“That’s it,” Spencer murmured, his voice filled with quiet satisfaction. “You’re doing so well.”

His fingers moved in slow, deliberate circles, the pressure just enough to leave you trembling in his grasp. His other hand slid up to cup your jaw, tilting your head slightly so he could capture your lips in another searing kiss.

The contrast between his steady, controlled movements and the growing intensity of his kisses was intoxicating, leaving you completely at his mercy. He broke the kiss just long enough to study your face, his eyes dark with desire but filled with a surprising tenderness.

“Look at you,” he said softly, his thumb brushing against your cheek. “You’re so beautiful like this.”

The praise made your cheeks flush, but before you could respond, his fingers pressed more firmly against you, drawing a soft whimper from your lips.

“That’s my good girl,” he murmured, his lips brushing against yours in a featherlight kiss. “So responsive. So perfect.”

His words and touch combined left you completely undone, your thoughts scattering like leaves in the wind. All you could do was cling to him, your hands gripping his shoulders as he continued his slow, deliberate exploration.

˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

taglist: @opheliahotchner

[othernightslikethis]

SPRING LOVE

3,6k words

Smut, Bf x Gf

Kim Minju x Male Reader

Ahhhh she is so beautiful 😍😍😍

As the current centre-back for Paris Saint-Germain, you’ve become the missing piece in the squad, which now sits comfortably in Ligue 1 and advances in the Champions League after knocking out Liverpool. With solid performances and impeccable skills, the press and fans don’t hesitate to call you "the new Maldini."

But none of that mattered. Not when you were with her.

Kim Minju.

She was your girlfriend. You met through mutual friends when you were both just nineteen. Back then, she was still a K-pop idol, and you were a rising star in Korean football—much skinnier than you are now. To say it was love at first sight would be... a lie. You got along well, but at the time, you agreed to stay just friends, as too many things between you seemed too different.

But everything changed after six months of deep conversations, shared laughter, and moments that brought you closer. That was when you finally confessed your feelings for each other. Your relationship was celebrated with joy, and your teammates were incredibly kind, offering advice—some of them a bit too much.

You never got to meet the members of Minju’s group, but it was never an issue. When IZ*ONE disbanded, it was a tough time for her, but you supported her unconditionally as she pursued an acting career.However, there was a moment when your relationship became fragile: when you received the offer from Paris Saint-Germain at twenty-two. The club was restructuring after the departures of Neymar, Messi, and Verratti—brilliant players who hadn’t managed to secure PSG’s long-awaited Champions League title.

You told Minju about the offer, and she celebrated with you, but both of you knew the distance would be an immense challenge. It wasn’t just moving cities—it was continents, cultures, routines. After many emotional conversations, you decided to break up and remain friends.

But that decision didn’t last long. At the start of 2025, you rekindled things, choosing to try a long-distance relationship. You agreed that if it didn’t work out, you’d part ways peacefully, with no regrets. Since then, whenever your schedule allowed, you’d fly to Korea to see her. And when she wasn’t busy filming, she’d appear in Paris, bringing a piece of home to your life in Europe.

It was hard, yes. The long nights and hectic days tested both of your patience. But every video call, every message exchanged in the dead of night, every reunion—it was all worth it. Because, in the end, no title, no trophy, no praise from the fans could compare to her smile.

That was what mattered. Her.

Kim Minju.

That was why your lovely girlfriend was there, in your mansion in France, a few days before the match against Aston Villa.

Minju had managed to carve out a break from her hectic schedule to spend four days exclusively by your side, especially to watch the game. Everything seemed perfect—the romantic atmosphere, the breathtaking view of the Eiffel Tower framed by the mansion’s large window, the cosy silence of the evening... But in that moment, none of those details mattered.

What dominated the dimly lit room were Minju’s soft, breathy moans, echoing off the walls like a forbidden melody. She was lying on the sofa, completely naked from the waist down, wearing only an oversized hoodie of yours that barely covered her delicate frame. The muted light accentuated the glistening wetness on her thighs, where a tantalising slick had begun to trickle, betraying just how aroused she was. Her fingers moved with perfect precision inside herself, curling in just the right way to draw out another high-pitched sigh.

— Baby... Just like that... — She arched her back, lips parting in a mix of pleasure and frustration. — fuck, it’s not fair, ahnn... You promised you’d let me be on top today!

Her voice was a blend of complaint and provocation, but she barely managed to finish the sentence before throwing her head back, fingers clawing at the sheets as her thighs clamped involuntarily around your hand. Her eyes, usually so sweet and bright, were now darkened with desire, locked onto you with an intensity that nearly made you give in.

She was right, of course. You had promised. But the truth was, Minju was rubbish at being dominant. There was something irresistibly adorable about the way she’d try to take control, only to crumble minutes later, whimpering and writhing beneath you. It was as if her submissive nature always betrayed her attempts at command—and you loved every second of that contradiction.

— You say that like I have a choice... — you murmured, leaning over her as your fingers deepened their movements, feeling her shudder. — But we both know you prefer it this way.

Minju let out a sound between a moan and a protest, but the shiver that ran through her body and the way her legs fell open even wider were answer enough.

— Ah! No— not like this, baby...

Minju gasped as your third finger joined the other two, pressing lightly against her entrance before sliding in all at once, filling her completely. You weren’t exactly experienced with women—Minju was only your second girlfriend—but your time in Paris had granted you a few casual encounters. Minju, however, was different. She was the only one who could take three fingers. Her soft, slender frame might have been deceiving, but you knew just how well she could handle every inch of what you gave her.

— It’s too... ahn... much— she moaned, her fingers digging into your shoulder, nails biting into your skin.

You smirked, feeling how she was already clenching around your fingers, hot and tight, even as she complained.

— Bollocks. You fit just fine.

And then you began moving your hand with a firmer rhythm, three fingers sinking deep before pulling almost all the way out, only to push back in, faster this time. Minju cried out, her voice breaking into a sharp whine, and you felt her pulse quicken, her body twisting between the urge to pull away and the desperate need to press even closer.

— Fuck, stop! Stop for a bit! — she whined, but the trembling in her legs and the way her cunt pulsed betrayed her real plea: don’t you dare stop.You leaned over her, whispering against her neck as your fingers kept working, now with a curling motion that made her shudder.

— You can take three, can’t you? Want me to take one out?

— N-no! — She shook her head, eyes glazed with pleasure. Just— ahn— slower...

But you already knew she didn’t want slower. She wanted to be pushed to the edge, even if she pretended to resist. So instead of easing up, you added a slight twist of your fingers inside her, your thumb finding her clit at the same time.

Minju screamed your name, her body arching violently, and then—she fell apart.

Her muscles clenched like a fist, hips jerking uncontrollably, and you felt the warm rush of her release spilling over your fingers as she came, desperate moans tearing from her throat.When she finally stopped trembling, she was panting, face flushed, lips swollen from biting down on them.

— You... wanker... — she breathed out, still trying to recover.

You laughed, bringing your wet fingers to your mouth and licking them slowly, never breaking eye contact.

— Promise you’ll be on top next time.She let out a weak chuckle, both of you knowing full well neither believed that.

— Shut up and pull it out, come on.

Minju was still breathing heavily, her chest rising and falling rapidly, but her gaze challenged you even as her body trembled with post-orgasm sensitivity. You obeyed, slowly withdrawing your fingers, feeling how she still pulsed around them—warm and soft. A trickle of desire dripped between her thighs, and you couldn’t resist—you ran your thumb over her, gathering some of that nectar before bringing it to your mouth, keeping your eyes locked on hers.

— Disgusting... — she murmured, but the blush creeping up to her ears and the way her legs shyly pressed together betrayed her words.You smirked, leaning over her, bracing yourself on your arms to avoid crushing her completely.

— You love it.

She tried to look away, but you gently cupped her chin, forcing her to meet your gaze. — Do you really want me to stop?

Minju bit her lower lip, hesitating. You knew that expression—it was the face she made when torn between what she should want and what she actually desired.

—...No.

The answer came in an almost ashamed whisper, and it was enough to make your blood boil. You captured her lips in a voracious kiss, feeling her melt against you, her hands gripping your back as if afraid you might vanish.

When you pulled apart, she was even more breathless, her eyes glazed.

— Then show me how you want it.

Minju hesitated for a second before rolling over, pushing you back against the sofa cushions. She settled onto your lap, still wearing that oversized hoodie that only amplified her aura of perverse innocence. Her hands trembled slightly as she undid your trousers, but when she finally freed your erection, her gaze darkened with desire.

— You’re... Big today. — She murmured, wrapping her hand around you experimentally.

You clenched your teeth, feeling her heat even in that minimal contact.

— Your fault.

Minju smiled then—one of those rare, wicked smiles that only appeared when she was especially confident or aroused.

— Then I should apologise properly, yeah?

Before you could respond, she leaned forward, taking you between her lips in a slow, deliberate motion. You groaned, your hands instinctively tangling in her hair. She wasn’t the most experienced, but the way she looked up at you with those big, pleading eyes as she sucked you like you were her last sip of water in the desert—fuck.

— Minju... Your warning came out more as a moan.

She ignored you, deepening the movement until you felt her throat constrict around the head. You arched your back, muscles tensing.

— If you don’t stop, I’m gonna—

Minju pulled back at the last second, letting you slip from her mouth with an audible pop. Her face was flushed, lips glossy and swollen.

— I want you inside me.

She didn’t need to ask twice.

In one fluid motion, you pulled her up, aligning her with your length. She was already so wet that she slid down without resistance, taking you all in one smooth movement. The two of you moaned in unison—her, at the sensation of being stretched open again; you, at the unbearable heat of her tightening around you.

— fuck… — Minju arched her back, her hands gripping your shoulders. — So full…

You held her hips, helping her find a rhythm.

— You can take it. You always can.

She began to move, hesitant at first, but soon gaining confidence. You watched, mesmerised—the way her breasts swayed slightly under her hoodie, the mix of concentration and pleasure on her face, the obscenely wet sound every time she sank down to the base.

It was beautiful. It was filthy. It was Minju.And when she started losing her breath, her movements growing uncoordinated, you took control, flipping your positions in one swift motion. She gasped in surprise, but you were already between her legs, lifting one over your shoulder to plunge even deeper.

— I said you could be on top… — you growled, thrusting hard. — Didn’t say for how long.

Minju cried out, nails digging into your back, but her hips were already meeting yours. She was close again—you could tell by the way she clenched around you, by the way her moans turned higher, more desperate.

— Come on. — You ordered, rubbing her clit between your fingers. — Come for me.

She obeyed with a sharp cry, her body arching violently as the wave hit her. You held her through it, drawing out every spasm until your own back tingled, the pressure becoming unbearable.

— Inside? — You asked, already knowing the answer.

Minju nodded frantically, eyes brimming with tears.

— Inside, inside, please—

That was enough. You pulled her flush against you, burying yourself to the hilt as you came, her name spilling from your lips like a mantra.

When the haze of pleasure finally began to fade, Minju lay sprawled across your chest, utterly spent, her fingers tracing idle patterns on your skin.

— Still think I don’t let you be on top? — You teased, brushing sweat-damp hair from her face.

She gave your chest a weak slap, no real force behind it. — Prat…

Minju mumbled against you, but the satisfied smile on her lips gave her away. She was exhausted, but you knew her body would still respond to touch, always so sensitive after the first climax. Your hands slid down her back, exploring every curve, before gripping her arse firmly.

— Think we’re done? — You whispered in her ear, feeling her shiver.

She lifted her head, eyes slightly unfocused. —You still not satisfied?

You laughed, rolling onto your side to face her. —Not even close.

Your fingers found her clit again, rubbing slow circles as she writhed against you.

— Let’s try it like this. — You suggested, guiding her leg over your hip.

Minju understood what you wanted and adjusted, letting you slide back into her. She was so soft and warm inside, still sensitive but ready for more. You started with slow, deep strokes, feeling every inch of her stretch around you.

— This good?

She bit her lip and nodded, fingers clutching your arm. — Slower… just a bit…

You obliged, keeping the pace steady, but after a few minutes, she began rocking her hips against yours, asking for more.

— Fancy a different position? You asked, already knowing the answer.

She shook her head, breathless. — Want you… from behind.

You didn’t need convincing. Gently, you helped her turn, positioning her on all fours on the sofa. She arched her back perfectly, and you couldn’t resist—running your hands over her curves before lining up and sliding in smoothly.

—Fuck… You groaned, feeling her even tighter like this.

Minju buried her face in the sofa, muffling her moans, but you knew she loved it. You gripped her hips and picked up the pace, each thrust harder than the last.

— More… more… — She begged between ragged breaths.You gave in, losing yourself to the rhythm until she trembled again, her body clenching around yours. This time, you didn’t hold back—letting yourself go with her—until a wicked idea struck.You leaned down, letting saliva drip onto her even tighter hole, her arse, feeling her tense and glance sharply over her shoulder.

— Wait, what? Hang on, we’ve never done anything there! You can’t just assume I’d—

You raised a brow and smirked, pulling back and lining up against her again.

— You can take it.

— Like hell I can, you’re big, really huge! I’ll die if you—

She cut off with a gasp as the head of your cock pressed slowly into her arse.

— Relax… — you murmur, holding her hips firmly as you slide just the tip inside her, feeling her initial resistance. — Take a deep breath… like this…

Minju moaned, her fingers digging into the sofa cushions, but she obeyed, inhaling slowly as her body adjusted to the gradual intrusion. You could feel the tension in her muscles, the near-suffocating heat, and you had to restrain yourself from losing control right then. Your heart pounded wildly, as if trying to escape your chest, and the air around you felt charged with electricity.

— Does it hurt? — you asked, stopping completely to let her adjust, your eyes fixed on her face for any sign of discomfort.

She shook her head, breathless, her lips slightly parted.

— No… just strange. Keep going, but… slowly.

Her voice was a silken thread, trembling faintly, sending a shiver down your spine.

You obeyed, advancing inch by inch, each movement calculated not to startle her. Until, finally, her body yielded and accepted you fully. A rough groan escaped your throat when she was completely filled, and Minju arched her back, her lips forming a perfect ‘o’ of surprise and pleasure.

— Fuck… you fit so perfectly here… — you muttered, almost breathless, the words gritted between your teeth. The sensation was indescribable—as if she enveloped you in a completely new way, tighter, more intense, as if she’d been moulded just for you.

She didn’t respond, but the flush on her cheeks and the way her muscles clenched around you said it all. You began to move, slowly at first, testing her limits, but soon found a rhythm that drew higher, more desperate moans from her. Your bodies intertwined, creating a symphony of muffled sounds and skin against skin.

— That’s it… just like that… — she whispered, tossing her head back when you hit that spot, her hands gripping the sheets tightly.

You smirked, mischievous, and repeated the motion, firmer this time, making her cry out.

— You like that, don’t you? Want me to go deeper? — Your voice was rough, thick with desire, and you felt your own pulse quicken further at her reaction to your tone.

She nodded frantically, her fingers now clutching the arm of the sofa as if it were her only anchor.

— Don’t stop… please, don’t stop…

Her plea was almost childlike in its sincerity, and a wave of possessiveness surged through your chest.You had no intention of stopping. Your hips rocked against her with increasing force, each thrust deeper than the last, until she began trembling uncontrollably, her moans turning almost tearful. The sound was intoxicating, and you leaned down to drag your tongue along her neck, savouring the salt of her sweat.

— Gonna come again? — you teased, feeling her walls clench around you. — Want to feel you squeezing me like this… all of you…

She couldn’t answer, only let out a high-pitched moan as her orgasm hit, her entire body curving as she clung to you like she was drowning. You held her steady, prolonging every spasm, until your own resistance gave way and you buried yourself to the hilt, spilling inside her with a muffled growl against her shoulder.

For a long moment, the two of you stayed like that, panting, glued together by sweat and body heat. The air around you seemed frozen in time, and you closed your eyes, committing every detail to memory—her scent, the sound of her breathing, the way your bodies fit together perfectly.You finally pulled out, and Minju collapsed onto the sofa, utterly spent, her eyes closed.

— I… hate you… — she murmured, without any conviction, her voice hoarse from moaning.

You laughed, lying beside her and pulling her against your chest. — Liar. You love me.She didn’t reply, but the small, satisfied smile on her lips was answer enough.

— You were insatiable today...

Minju breathed deeply, still catching her breath, her body relaxed and heavy against yours. You could feel her warmth mingling with yours, their skin slightly sticky with sweat. Gently, you ran your hand along her back, tracing soft lines up to her nape, where the muscles were still tense.

— You alright? — you asked quietly, your fingers massaging slow circles into the spot, loosening invisible knots.

She let out a barely-there sigh, sinking further into your embrace. — Mm-hmm… just tired.

Her voice was drowsy, and you felt such overwhelming fondness it almost hurt.You smiled, understanding perfectly. You knew that even after the high, her body would still be sensitive—especially after what you’d done. Without hurry, you reached for the hoodie that had been discarded earlier and draped it over the two of you, covering yourselves partially. The soft fabric was warm and familiar, and Minju nuzzled into it with a murmur of contentment.

— Hang on. — You got up for a moment, heading to the bathroom to fetch a damp cloth and a clean towel. When you returned, she was lying on her side, eyes half-lidded but still awake. — Come here.

Minju turned with slight hesitation, and you began cleaning her skin with gentle strokes, running the warm cloth over her thighs, her stomach, her breasts—all with a tenderness that contrasted sharply with the intensity from before. She watched in silence, but you noticed the gleam in her eyes, the wordless gratitude.

— Did it hurt? — you asked, pausing when she winced slightly as you wiped between her legs.

— Just a bit… but that’s normal, right?

She shrugged, as if trying to downplay it, but you knew every microexpression of hers.

You didn’t reply, just leaned down and pressed a light kiss to the inside of her thigh, almost paternal. — Here.

You grabbed some lotion from the coffee table and dabbed a bit onto your fingertips before applying it where you knew she’d be most tender. The massage was slow, almost therapeutic, and she let out a deep sigh, melting under your touch.

— You’re good at this… — she murmured, her eyes fluttering shut, her voice fading to a whisper.

— It’s the least I can do. — You chuckled softly, finishing up before lying back down beside her. You pulled the hoodie over both of you, creating a cocoon of warmth between your bodies, and wrapped your arms around her. — Sleep. I’ll stay here. Night.

— Mhm, night. Love you.

Her voice was so soft you almost missed it, but the words reverberated in your chest like a bell. Within seconds, her breathing slowed, her face finally relaxed. You stayed there, listening to the quiet rhythm, your fingers playing with strands of her hair as the night passed slowly. The world outside could wait.

— Love you too.

[hawthorne-bias]

moonlit silver

Four times Steve and you don’t share a New Year’s kiss, and the one time you do.

tags: steve rogers x you; 4 + 1 things; strangers to friends to lovers; fluff and angst; hurt/comfort; angst with a happy ending; slow burn; loosely canon-compliant until the ending of 'avengers: endgame' (2019); eventual happy ending.

warnings: mild angst—heartache and insecurity—present at one or two points in the story. no gendered language used for the reader.

word count: 19,912.

a/n: pictures used in header are from pinterest. dividers used here are by @saradika-graphics. mcu and its characters aren't mine. likes, comments and reblogs are highly appreciated!! hope you'll enjoy reading this! happy new year 2025, everyone!! (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶)

[1] December 31, 2013

The Stark Tower New Year’s Eve party is everything you imagined it would be—and more. Glittering lights cascade from the high ceilings, reflecting off the sleek glass walls and filling the room with a golden glow. Laughter and chatter echo from every corner as elegantly dressed guests mingle, glasses of champagne and colorful cocktails in hand. You’ve read about parties like this in magazines, seen them in movies, but to actually be here? It’s almost too much to believe.

You clutch your glass of sparkling cider a little tighter, feeling the fizz tickle your nose as you take a tentative sip. Non-alcoholic, because the last thing you need right now is to embarrass yourself in front of half the Stark Industries elite. Or worse, in front of Tony Stark himself. It’s your first time at one of these events—your first New Year’s Eve party of this caliber—and as the youngest, newest employee at the Stark R&D Labs, you already feel like a small fish in a very big, very glittering pond.

You’re thrilled, of course. Who wouldn’t be? This is the kind of thing most people would kill for—an invitation to the most exclusive party in the city, surrounded by some of the world’s most brilliant minds. And yet, there’s an overwhelming edge to it, a sense of being utterly out of place amidst the glitz and glamour. That’s why you’ve planted yourself in the corner of the room, tucked just far enough away from the main crowd to breathe while still close enough to soak it all in.

People-watching becomes your anchor, your way of grounding yourself in the chaos. You watch the shimmering gowns swish past, the way conversations ebb and flow, the way laughter ripples like waves through the room. It’s fascinating, observing how everyone seems so effortlessly comfortable in a setting like this. And for a while, it’s enough to distract you from your own nerves.

Until your gaze lands on him.

Steve Rogers.

You know who he is the second you see him, because how could you not? Captain America. The living legend, the man out of time, the face that’s graced history books, museums, and more than a few dreams. He’s standing across the room, dressed in a perfectly tailored suit that somehow manages to make him look even more heroic. He’s holding a glass of soda—it has to be soda—and his posture is as impeccable as you’d expect from someone who’s literally a super-soldier.

Your breath catches in your throat. For a second, all you can do is stare, because it’s not every day that you come face-to-face—well, almost—with a man like him. But then, as if sensing your gaze, he looks up. His blue eyes meet yours, and the rest of the room seems to blur into nothing.

You freeze.

And then he smiles.

It’s a polite smile, warm and genuine in the way only Steve Rogers can manage. It’s not the kind of smile that says, Hey, I caught you staring, but rather one that seems to acknowledge you, to say, Hey, it’s okay. I see you, too.

You manage to smile back, though your cheeks feel like they’re on fire. The fluttering in your chest is somewhere between exhilaration and sheer panic, and before you can embarrass yourself further, you quickly look away, staring down into your glass as if the bubbles will somehow rescue you.

You take a deep breath, willing your heart to stop racing. He’s just a person, you remind yourself. Just a very, very famous, very good-looking, very heroic person. No big deal.

Except, of course, it is a big deal, because your eyes betray you. Without thinking, they drift back to him, drawn as if by some magnetic pull. This time, though, the sight you catch makes your heart ache.

Steve’s smile is gone. In its place is a faint crease in his brow, a distant, almost wistful look that tugs at the corners of his mouth as his gaze rests on the crowd. It’s a quiet kind of sadness, the kind that doesn’t demand attention but settles into the air around him, unmistakable if you know where to look. And for some reason, it’s impossible to look away.

You hesitate, your thoughts warring with themselves. What are you supposed to do? He’s Captain America. What could you possibly say that wouldn’t sound awkward or out of place? Maybe it’s better to stay where you are, to leave him to whatever thoughts are making his shoulders slump like that.

But then you remember his smile. The way it had softened when he looked at you, even just for a moment. The way it had felt like a lifeline in a sea of glitter and noise.

Before you can talk yourself out of it, your feet are already moving.

You weave your way through the crowd, your pulse quickening with every step. By the time you reach him, you can hear your heartbeat in your ears, but it’s too late to turn back now.

“Hi,” you say, your voice bright and maybe a little too eager.

Steve blinks, clearly surprised. For a split second, you think you’ve made a mistake, that maybe you’ve overstepped. But then his eyes soften, and that smile—the one that made your heart flutter from across the room—returns.

“Hi,” he replies, his voice low and steady, and just like that, the noise of the party fades away. You’re not sure if it’s because of the way he holds your gaze or the sheer disbelief that Captain America just said hi to you, but for a moment, you feel like the room has narrowed down to just the two of you.

You scramble to find something to say, your mind racing as you realize you can’t exactly stand there staring at him forever. Finally, you manage a polite introduction, offering your name and a slightly shaky smile. He repeats it back, his voice wrapping around it in a way that makes it sound softer, like it belongs in a conversation rather than a rushed formality.

The conversation meanders from there, moving from one topic to the next, gaining momentum as the minutes pass. At first, your answers feel a little stilted, like you’re trying to remember how to sound normal under the pressure of Captain America himself standing right in front of you. But Steve makes it easier than you expect—his questions are thoughtful, his tone warm, and there’s something about the way he looks at you, like he’s genuinely interested in what you have to say, that helps chip away at your awkwardness.

“So, materials engineering,” Steve says, tilting his head slightly. “What made you choose that? I mean, it sounds fascinating, but it’s not something you hear about every day.”

You pause, trying to put your thoughts into words without overexplaining. “Well, I’ve always been interested in how things work—how you can take something as simple as, I don’t know, a piece of metal, and turn it into something incredible, like a rocket engine or an arc reactor. And Stark Industries… well, they’re the best of the best when it comes to that kind of thing.”

Steve nods, his expression thoughtful. “That makes sense. You get to build things that really matter.”

“Exactly,” you say, feeling a little thrill of excitement. “It’s challenging, but it’s also really rewarding. And, I mean… who wouldn’t want to be part of something that could change the world?”

There’s a pause, and then you add with a slightly sheepish laugh, “Though, to be honest, half the time I still feel like I’m just trying to keep up. Everyone here is so brilliant, and I’m… well, me.”

Steve’s brow furrows, and he shakes his head slightly. “You shouldn’t sell yourself short. You’re here because you deserve to be. And for what it’s worth, I think the fact that you’re willing to admit you’re still learning says a lot. It takes strength to acknowledge that.”

His words catch you off guard, and for a moment, all you can do is blink at him. There’s no trace of flattery in his tone—it’s all quiet conviction, like he genuinely believes what he’s saying. Your cheeks flush, and you duck your head slightly. “Thanks. That… that means a lot. Especially from you.”

Steve’s lips quirk into a faint smile. “Why does everyone keep saying that?”

You let out a soft laugh, the sound helping to ease the fluttering in your chest. “Because you’re Steve Rogers. Captain America. It’s kind of a big deal.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, his gaze dropping for a moment. “I guess I’ll take your word for it.”

The conversation shifts, moving from your work to his experiences at the party. You ask him what it’s like being here, surrounded by so much noise and energy, and his answer is as honest as you’d expect.

“It’s… a lot,” he admits, glancing around at the glittering crowd. “I’m not used to events like this. I mean, the world’s changed a lot since my time, and Tony—well, Tony loves a good party. I’m just trying to keep up.”

You grin at that, a flicker of humor easing the tension in your chest. “Sounds like we’re in the same boat, then.”

Steve chuckles, the sound low and warm. “Maybe we are.”

The conversation flows more easily after that, the initial awkwardness replaced by something lighter, easier. You share a few stories—nothing too personal, just enough to feel like you’re starting to get to know each other. He tells you about adjusting to life in the 21st century, and you tell him about the chaos of working for Stark. He laughs when you describe the time you accidentally spilled coffee all over one of Tony’s prototypes and thought you were going to be fired on the spot, only for Tony to shrug and say, “Eh, happens to the best of us.”

“I can’t believe he didn’t give you a hard time about it,” Steve says, shaking his head with a grin.

"I too couldn't believe it," you say, your grin widening. "I was fully prepared for a lecture—or worse."

The laughter between you feels easy, warm, and for a little while, you forget about the crowd, the music, the glitz and glamour of the party. It’s just you and Steve, standing in the corner and talking like old friends.

Then, slowly, the energy in the room shifts. You notice it first in the way the music fades slightly, replaced by the sound of voices rising in unison: “Ten! Nine! Eight!”

Your conversation falters as you both glance toward the crowd. With the countdown to midnight underway, you notice a few people nearby subtly inching closer to their partners. It hits you then—the unspoken tradition of the New Year’s kiss.

Your heart jumps a little, the sudden shift in atmosphere making you hyper-aware of Steve’s presence beside you. Out of the corner of your eye, you see him glance at you, his smile a little tighter than it was a moment ago. There’s a flicker of uncertainty in his gaze, as if he’s wondering the same thing you are. Should you? Would he even want to? Do you want to?

“Seven! Six! Five!”

The tension builds, your mind racing as you try to think of what to do. Kissing Steve Rogers sounds… well, not exactly unappealing, but also terrifying. You barely know him, and besides, what if it just makes things awkward?

“Four! Three! Two!”

The moment stretches out, and you suddenly realize you need to do something—anything—before the countdown reaches zero. Acting on impulse, you turn to him with a wide, nervous grin and thrust out your hand.

“Happy New Year?” you say, your voice pitched a little too high.

Steve blinks, clearly caught off guard. Then, as if a weight has been lifted, his smile softens into something warm and genuine. He takes your hand, his grip firm but gentle, and shakes it with a quiet laugh.

“Happy New Year,” he replies, his voice low and steady.

The crowd erupts into cheers and shouts as midnight strikes, but for a moment, it feels like the noise is distant, like the two of you are in your own little bubble. His hand lingers in yours for just a second longer than expected before he lets go, and the look he gives you—soft, kind, and a little amused—makes your chest feel lighter than it has all night.

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, laughing softly as you pull your hand back. “Well, that was certainly a twist on tradition.”

Steve chuckles, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Guess it’s our own version of ringing in the new year.”

You laugh, the tension relaxing as you reply, “Yeah, I suppose it is.”

You both share a smile, the moment lingering between you, and for the first time all night, you feel completely at ease. Maybe this wasn’t how you imagined your New Year’s Eve would go, but as you stand there with Steve, sharing a quiet laugh amidst the chaos, you can’t help but feel like you’ve made a friend—one who just happens to be Captain America.

[2] December 31, 2014

It’s another December 31st, and you find yourself once again at Stark’s infamous New Year’s Eve party. The scene feels familiar—people laughing, glasses clinking, the chatter of a thousand conversations filling the air. You watch Steve across the room, a soft smile tugging at your lips as you take in the way he moves through the crowd, effortlessly at ease despite the throngs of people around him.

It’s hard to believe how much has changed in just a year. The friendship you’ve built, the trust that’s grown between the two of you, and how naturally you’ve both slipped into each other’s lives. It’s like no time has passed at all, and yet everything has shifted in the most subtle, wonderful ways.

The warmth in your chest spreads as you watch him, his smile lighting up the room when he laughs with someone. There’s something about the way Steve carries himself—so grounded, so comfortable in his own skin, even among all this chaos. It's like he’s always exactly where he’s meant to be, and in his presence, everything feels just a little bit easier. You can’t help but feel a flutter in your chest as you watch him, that familiar pull of something deeper you’ve been trying not to name.

Your thoughts wander—again—like they always do when he’s near. It’s impossible not to think about how seamlessly he’s fit into your life, how he’s become this quiet, comforting constant in ways you didn’t even realize you were missing. You can’t help but marvel at the way he listens to you, not just hearing your words, but feeling the spaces between them. It’s like he’s in tune with something deeper, the things you leave unsaid, the little nuances that make up who you are. He makes you feel like you matter—like what you say and what you think is important, like you’re the only person in the world at that moment. It’s rare, this kind of attention, and it’s become something you look forward to, something you rely on without even meaning to.

And when he gets excited about something, when his voice picks up that certain edge of enthusiasm, it’s contagious. His eyes light up, full of that spark that makes you feel like you’re in on something special, like it’s just the two of you sharing a secret, one that’s meant only for you. You can tell that he’s not just excited about the thing itself, but about the idea of sharing it with you, of connecting with you on that level. There’s a kind of magic in it, something simple yet profound.

You catch the small moments too—the way your fingers brush against his, almost by accident, yet it feels like the world stops for a heartbeat. It’s so brief, so casual, but somehow, it’s enough to send a flutter through you. Your heart stutters for a split second, and you can’t help but linger on the feeling, as if there’s more to it than just a touch. It’s not something you talk about, but in those moments, it’s like you’re both saying something without words—a quiet understanding, a bond that’s growing stronger without either of you acknowledging it aloud.

Just as you’re letting your mind drift again, you catch his eyes across the room. He’s looking right at you, his smile widening when he spots you. It’s a simple moment, but it makes your stomach flip. Before you can even fully process it, he’s standing beside you, drink in hand, offering it with that easy grin you’ve come to love.

“Here you go,” he says, his voice warm and light, like it always is when he's around. “Thought you could use a refill.”

You blink, momentarily flustered from the look he gave you and the way your heart can’t seem to settle. “Thanks,” you say, taking the glass with a smile that feels just a little too wide. “You’re a lifesaver.”

He chuckles, leaning in just slightly. “I try.”

The conversation picks up, as effortlessly as it always does between you two. He asks how your week’s been, and you share a funny story about your latest experiment at work. He laughs, and you feel that flutter in your chest again, a sweet warmth spreading through you.

“So, any big New Year’s resolutions?” he asks, raising an eyebrow in that playful way he always does when he’s genuinely curious about what’s on your mind.

You think about it for a moment, smiling. “Hmm, maybe something simple—like learning how to cook without setting off the smoke alarm,” you joke, making a face. “I swear, it’s like that thing has it out for me.”

Steve grins, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he laughs. “I’m sure I could help with that. I’m not great in the kitchen, but I can definitely keep the fire extinguisher handy.”

You laugh, the sound light and easy between you. “You’d probably have to, knowing me.”

“Deal,” he says, his smile widening. “We’ll make it a team effort.”

The moment stretches, the two of you sharing an easy, comfortable silence before he suddenly tilts his head. “So, what about real resolutions? Anything big for this year?”

You tilt your head, considering it for a moment. “I think I just want to enjoy the little things more. You know, stop rushing through everything,” you say, feeling a little more thoughtful. “Maybe... take a chance on things I wouldn’t normally.”

He looks at you with an expression that’s warm, a little surprised. “I like that,” he says, voice soft but sincere. “Sounds like a good way to approach the year.”

You smile at him, feeling a little lighter than before. Maybe it’s the way his eyes linger on you, or maybe it’s just the way he makes you feel like everything will be okay. Either way, you’re happy to be here, in this moment, with him.

But as the conversation continues, you start to feel a subtle shift in the atmosphere. More and more people begin gravitating toward their partners, that quiet anticipation filling the air as the countdown to midnight draws near once again.

You glance around and something about the scene tugs at your memory—last year, the same party, the same gathering of people, all of them waiting for that one moment. You had been standing here with Steve then, too, and yet somehow, everything feels different this time. You can’t quite put your finger on why, but there’s an undeniable shift in the air.

An unexpected laugh escapes you—a little breathless, a little giddy—at the thought of how quickly the year has passed. "Can you believe it's been a whole year already? I swear it feels like we were just here."

Steve chuckles, that easy smile tugging at his lips, his eyes warm as he glances down at you. “Yeah, time really does fly, doesn’t it?” His voice is light, but there's a trace of something else there, like he’s thinking about more than just the passing year.

You catch yourself watching him a little too closely, your smile softening as you take in the way the light highlights the curve of his jaw and the easy warmth in his expression. It’s funny how much you’ve grown to cherish the little things—the way he gestures with his hands when he talks, the way his eyes seem to sparkle when he’s excited, and the quiet, steady presence that makes everything around him feel a little calmer, a little brighter. And it hits you then—how much you've come to care about this man in front of you, how much more than just friendship it feels. But you push the thought aside, choosing to keep it light as you nudge his arm playfully.

"We're here again, huh?" you say, your voice a little more vulnerable than you intended. "Once again, standing next to each other at midnight."

Steve grins, his gaze flickering from your eyes to your lips for just a split second, and you swear you see something there, something that makes your heart beat a little faster. Maybe it’s wishful thinking. After all, you’ve never exactly been great at reading people. But the way his gaze lingers on you, the way he shifts slightly closer, makes your breath catch in your throat. You tell yourself it's nothing—just your imagination—but a quiet part of you wonders if maybe, just maybe, this time is different.

Before you can overthink it, Steve clears his throat, his voice warmer than before. "Guess we’re not such bad company for each other, huh?"

You can’t help but laugh at the lighthearted way he says it. "I guess not," you reply, though the sudden rush of emotions you’re trying to suppress threatens to spill out.

But just as the moment stretches between you, something—a force, a collision—interrupts everything. You feel a sharp bump against your side, and before you can react, a slightly drunken Tony stumbles into both you and Steve, swaying on his feet like a sailor in a storm.

"Whoops, sorry, my bad," Tony slurs, a goofy grin plastered on his face. "Didn't see you two lovebirds. Whoa, Steve, you look good, buddy—almost like you're about to kiss!" he says with a wink, causing Steve to roll his eyes in amusement.

"Tony, you okay?" Steve asks with a chuckle, catching the slightly tipsy man by the shoulders as he sways. Immediately, Happy and Pepper swoop in, ushering Tony away with quick apologies, their attempts to diffuse the moment light and effortless.

You and Steve exchange a look and then both burst into laughter. As Happy and Pepper usher Tony off, you wave them off with a smile, trying to ease the tension. "No problem," you say, voice cheerful, and Steve nods in agreement, flashing a grin to show there's no hard feelings.

By the time everything settles and Tony’s antics are finally dealt with, the countdown has already hit zero. The room bursts into cheers, glasses clink, and the air feels heavy with celebration. But amidst all the noise and excitement, you and Steve are left standing there, a little awkwardly, in the middle of it all. It’s as if time has paused just for the two of you, suspended in the brief space between one year ending and the next beginning.

You catch a soft murmur from Steve, but it’s too quiet to hear. It’s nothing major, but the brief pause between you both feels oddly significant in that moment. With Tony’s sudden interruption and comment casting a brief, lingering tension between you, you both exchange a quick, slightly uncomfortable glance.

To fill the silence and ease the tension, you speak first, your voice a little too eager. “A hug?”

Almost as if on cue, Steve echoes your words, the two of you speaking in perfect sync. “A hug?”

A small, amused smile tugs at the corner of Steve’s mouth as his expression softens. You laugh, the sound light and shy, and somehow, it feels like the laughter itself is an invitation, drawing you both into the warmth of the moment. Without thinking, you step closer, your arms finding their way around him in an embrace that feels effortless, like it’s something you’ve shared a thousand times before. There’s no hesitation—just a quiet, shared comfort in being close.

The hug isn't perfect, but in this moment, you feel like it’s just right. The warmth of Steve’s arms, the steady rhythm of his breathing, the quiet peace that settles between you—everything else falls away. The noise of the party, the flashing lights, the excitement of a new year beginning—they all blur, leaving just the feeling of him against you, steady and real.

For a moment, you close your eyes, letting yourself sink into the embrace. The world feels still, like you could stay here forever. Gently, you pat Steve on the back, the soft fabric of his suit beneath your hand grounding you.

“Happy New Year, Steve,” you murmur, the words simple but full of meaning, more than just the usual greeting.

He pulls back slightly, enough to look at you, his smile warm, a touch of something unspoken in his gaze. “Happy New Year,” he says, his voice soft but sincere. And there’s something in the way he looks at you that makes you wonder if maybe this year could be different.

For a second, you linger in the space between his gaze and the soft hum of the world moving on around you, but then the moment fades, as all moments do. The celebration around you picks up again, but something remains. Something about this year, this moment, and this hug—it feels like it might be the beginning of something new.

[3] December 31, 2016

You find yourself, once again, at Tony Stark’s extravagant New Year’s Eve party. The lights are dazzling, the laughter loud, and the music pulsing, but it all feels distant. Like a performance you're watching from behind glass. Everything around you is full of life, yet the room feels strangely empty without Steve. You try to smile, to nod along, but it’s forced, fake, and you know it. A part of you aches with every minute spent here without him.

You drift through the crowd, an outsider to the merriment happening around you. You try to engage in conversations, but the words feel hollow as they leave your lips, awkward in ways they never used to be. When Steve was around, it had been so easy—he made you feel like you belonged, like you fit into the world. But tonight, it’s as if he’s taken all the light with him.

The absence is palpable, like a missing piece of your soul. It’s not just the absence of his presence; it’s the way you had come to rely on his steadiness, his warmth. With each passing minute, the weight of his absence grows heavier.

You think back to a time when everything seemed simpler, when the future wasn’t so uncertain. A few weeks ago, things were different. You can still hear the sound of his voice, that familiar calm, in your head. The phone call you had with him seems like it happened in another lifetime, before the world had shifted underfoot, before the Accords came and everything started to unravel.

You had been walking to work, the streets of New York still quiet in the early hours, when your phone buzzed with a call. The name on the screen had made your heart skip—Steve. You hadn’t heard from him in a while, and the sound of his voice on the other end felt like a lifeline.

His voice had been low, a little tired, but there was something in it that made you smile. A quiet kind of warmth that hinted at his eagerness to reconnect, to bridge the gap that had stretched between you both.

“So, how’s your family?” Steve had asked, his voice warm with curiosity.

“They’re good,” you’d answered easily, the words flowing without hesitation. “My brother’s keeping busy with work, but nothing’s really changed. Same old stuff.”

Steve had let out a quiet hum, acknowledging your words. “How's Peggy?” you had asked, your voice gentle.

He had sighed softly, the sound of it carrying all the unspoken weight of the past few weeks. “Sharon’s been keeping me updated about her… She's doing a little better than before, but… the doctors still can’t say for sure. It’s hard to tell, you know?” His voice faltered just slightly, and you felt the heaviness of his words.

A quiet pause stretched between you both, the kind that made the space between the two of you feel impossibly large and yet, somehow, painfully small.

Finally, Steve had broken the silence, his voice steady again, but you could hear the subtle shift in it, like he was trying to pull himself from a difficult moment. “Hey,” he said, and you could almost hear the lightness in his voice, like a grin tugging at the corners of his lips. “What do you think about going to that new art exhibition once I get back from Europe? I think you’d really like it.”

That question had made you feel warm, even through the phone, and you had agreed instantly. You couldn’t help it. The thought of sharing something like that with him, of spending time together again—it felt like a promise. But now, that hope feels so distant, so elusive.

It’s the silence that follows, now that everything’s changed, that hurts the most.

Weeks have passed since that phone call, and since then, you’ve received nothing. No texts, no calls. Just an unbearable silence. The world has shifted in ways you could never have imagined. You never could have prepared for the anger, the sadness, the confusion that followed the announcement that Steve—your Steve—had been branded a criminal, a fugitive on the run. He, along with his friends, now carried the weight of the world’s judgment. And you, caught somewhere between betrayal and disbelief, can’t even begin to make sense of it all. One minute, everything had felt normal, full of possibility. The next, everything shattered. And with each passing day, the silence grows, becoming a constant reminder of how much has been lost.

The ache you feel in the pit of your stomach grows as you pull yourself out of that memory. You glance around the room again, but nothing looks the same. The faces are strangers, the laughter too loud, the conversations too shallow. Everything feels wrong without Steve here to make it feel right.

“Hey,” Tony’s voice interrupts your spiral, and you blink, momentarily startled. He’s standing in front of you, his expression a mix of curiosity and concern. “What’s going on with you?”

You look at him, and it takes everything you have not to lash out. You want to scream at him—tell him that everything is wrong, that it’s his fault, that it’s his fault Steve isn’t here, that everything went to hell because of him. You want to shout that this stupid party doesn’t matter because Steve’s gone, because your best friend is out there, somewhere, lost in the mess of it all.

But instead, you swallow the words. You’re not angry at Tony, not really. You’re just hurting in a way that you can’t even begin to explain to anyone who doesn’t understand.

“I… I don’t feel well,” you say, your voice quieter than you intended. The words come out without thinking, and as they do, you wish you could take them back. But it’s too late now. You look at Tony, forcing a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes. “I think I’m going to head home.”

Tony seems to pause, his brow furrowing in a way that makes you feel like he sees right through you. But then he nods, offering a quick, almost sympathetic glance. “Alright, get some rest. You need anything, just call.”

You nod, even though the offer feels empty. You don’t need anything. You don’t need rest. You just need Steve. And you know that, no matter how much you wish it, you can’t get him back.

You make your way to the door, leaving the chaos behind you—the clinking glasses, the laughter that feels distant, like it belongs to another world. The moment you step outside, the cold night air hits you sharply, stealing your breath. It stings your skin, but it does nothing to dull the ache inside you. Nothing ever does.

As you start walking, the snow-covered streets of New York stretch out before you, the chill biting at your cheeks and seeping into your bones, each step feeling heavier than the last. It isn’t the most practical idea, considering how far you live from Stark Tower, but the thought of hailing a cab or taking the subway feels unbearable. You need the walk, the quiet crunch of snow under your boots, the dull ache in your legs—something to distract you from the hollow ache in your chest.

The city is alive with festivities, lights strung across shop windows, families and couples laughing as they pass by. You try to take it all in, really observe it, hoping maybe it’ll lift your spirits. But instead, it just makes everything worse. The cheer in the air feels mocking, a stark contrast to the heaviness you carry. You keep your head down and keep walking.

It’s only after a while that you notice something is wrong. The streets around you are unfamiliar, and when you finally look up, you realize where you’ve ended up—Times Square. The crowd is thick, bundled up in coats and scarves, their faces lit by the giant screens counting down to the New Year. Five minutes left. You groan inwardly at your own stupidity, but you can’t seem to make yourself move. The flashing numbers on the screen pull you in, trapping you in place as the memories start to flood back.

You think about the first time you spent New Year’s Eve with Steve. It was at one of Stark’s over-the-top parties, and you’d only just joined the team. You were so nervous around him, unsure of how to act. As midnight approached, you remember glancing at him and wondering—just for a second—if he’d kiss you. Everyone else around you seemed to be pairing off, and the idea of it made your stomach twist with a mix of excitement and panic. But then the moment came, and instead of a kiss, the two of you shared the most awkward, yet somehow endearing, handshake. You’d both laughed about it afterward, and it marked the start of what would become a beautiful friendship.

The next year was different. By then, things had shifted between you and Steve. There was a tension there, something unspoken but heavy, hanging in the air whenever you were near him. That New Year’s Eve, you’d felt it more than ever. You remember standing close to him, his smile softer than usual, his eyes lingering on yours just a little too long. But before anything could happen, Tony—drunk and oblivious—stumbled into the two of you, breaking the moment. You’d ended up hugging Steve instead, and though it wasn’t what you’d secretly hoped for, it felt like the beginning of something new, something deeper.

And then there was last year. You couldn’t even be in New York because your family had insisted on you coming home for the holidays. You’d promised Steve you’d spend this New Year’s Eve together to make up for it. “We’ll do something special,” he’d said, and you’d believed him. The two of you had made so many promises like that—to visit that art exhibition he’d mentioned, to grab coffee and talk about everything and nothing. But none of those promises matter now.

You feel the tears welling up before you can stop them. The countdown now reads two minutes and thirty seconds, the crowd around you growing louder, their cheers and excitement swirling into a cacophony that only amplifies the ache inside you. You press a hand to your mouth, trying to hold it all in, but it’s useless. The weight of it—the memories, the broken promises, the empty space where Steve should be—it all comes crashing down, and suddenly you’re sobbing in the middle of Times Square as the world counts down to a new year, a year without him there for you to wish Happy New Year to.

And then, you feel it—the unmistakable sensation of being watched. Your heart skips a beat, and without thinking, you turn in the direction that instinct tells you to. And there, amidst the crowd, you spot someone standing still, staring directly at you with an intensity that sends a chill down your spine. They’re wearing a thick coat, a hat pulled low, and mittens, their face entirely covered by a mask except for their eyes—two piercing blue eyes.

And in that instant, you freeze. You know that shade of blue all too well. It’s warm, inviting, strong—like a comforting embrace, resilient, and grounding in ways you can’t explain. It’s the kind of blue that feels like home, like safety, like Steve.

Your sobs still, the tears stilling on your cheeks as you focus on those eyes. Is it him? It can’t be. He’s supposed to be on the run, isn’t he? He can’t possibly be here, not in Times Square, not so close to the government that’s been hunting him down day and night. Not this close to Stark Tower, where everything is so dangerously visible. No, this has to be some daydream, some trick your mind is playing on you, some desperate projection of what you want to see.

You start to look away, to tear your gaze from those eyes—surely you’re just imagining things—but then, as if drawn by an invisible force, you see him move. The figure lifts a gloved hand, slowly pulls the edge of their mask down, and your breath catches in your throat.

There he is. It’s Steve.

Your heart lurches in your chest as the world seems to stop. He’s different—much more harried than you remember, his face a little more weathered, and there’s a scruffy beard that definitely wasn’t there the last time you saw him. His eyes are still the same, but there’s a certain weariness to him now, a deep exhaustion that you can feel even from across the street. His face is lined with stress, his cheeks hollow with fatigue, and there’s something in his posture that speaks of someone who’s been running for far too long.

But despite all of that, it’s him. Your Steve.

You let out a soft gasp, your hand flying to your mouth. How is he here? Why is he here? The shock hits you like a wave, leaving you breathless for a moment as your mind races to catch up with the reality in front of you.

Without thinking, you take a step forward, drawn to him like a magnet, desperate to close the distance between you. But just as you move, Steve raises a hand, his eyes pleading silently with you. His head shakes ever so slightly, a gesture that says, Please, not yet. You stop in your tracks, heart stuttering in your chest. Relief floods through you, but it’s mixed with a quiet uncertainty.

And then, before you can even try to stop them, the sobs return. But this time, they’re different. They’re lighter, easier, as if the heaviness that’s weighed you down for so long is finally starting to lift. Your chest feels freer, and despite the tears that streak down your cheeks, there’s something undeniably freeing about it.

A shaky smile spreads across your face, the kind of smile that sneaks up on you before you even realize it’s happening—a smile full of disbelief, of relief, of something you haven’t allowed yourself to feel for so long. You can hardly believe that this is real, that this moment, this impossible moment, is finally happening.

And then, across the crowd, you catch the faintest glimpse of Steve’s smile—small, tentative, but undeniable. It wobbles at the edges, like it might break apart if he holds it for too long, but it’s there. His eyes glisten, and it’s all you can do not to crumble completely. Your sobs intensify, raw and desperate, but they no longer feel like sorrow. No, this is something else entirely. It’s the release of weeks of tension, the unraveling of everything that’s been keeping you apart, and now you’re letting it all go.

Just as you think you might completely lose yourself in the moment, someone bumps into Steve, and in a split second, panic grips you. What if someone recognizes him? What if this is the moment everything falls apart? But Steve is quicker than you can process, his movements so practiced, so sure, that before you even realize it, his mask is up, obscuring his face. The stranger mutters an apology, unaware of the weight of what just happened, and walks away. You exhale in relief, your heart still racing but starting to settle as the shock fades.

You look at Steve, the silent communication between you clear. Please, keep the mask on, just a little longer. You can’t see his face now, but you know that familiar sheepish look—soft, almost shy, the one that always makes your chest tighten in a way you’ve never been able to explain. It’s enough. It’s more than enough. The smile that forms on your lips is warm, gentle, and it spreads through you like sunlight breaking through a dark sky. It’s impossible to stay sad when you feel it, and slowly, the weight in your chest starts to lift.

The countdown begins, and the voices of the crowd swell around you—excited, eager, full of life. The numbers rise up, and you find yourself joining in, the rhythm of the crowd pulling you along as you say the words with them. But still, your eyes stay locked on Steve, never wavering, never moving. He, too, keeps his gaze fixed on you, as if, in this moment, there’s no one else in the world but the two of you.

The numbers grow louder now, the crowd’s shouts filling the air, but they seem distant, like they’re coming from somewhere far away. Ten... nine... eight... Each second beats in time with your heart, and your chest tightens as the moment draws closer, closer to something that’s been a long time coming, something you both can’t seem to escape. The countdown isn’t just marking the end of a year—it feels like the mark of something else, something just for the two of you.

When the countdown strikes zero, the sound of the crowd’s cheers and the bursts of fireworks blur into the background. Your heart pounds painfully in your chest, the emotions too big to contain, too overwhelming to keep inside any longer. The tears spill over, hot and quick, your breath shallow as you try to steady yourself, your hands trembling with the weight of everything you’ve been holding back. You speak the only words your overwhelmed mind can form, your voice a soft whisper that’s swallowed by the celebration around you. “Happy New Year.”

Steve blinks, and you see it then—the light of the fireworks reflecting in his eyes, the faint shimmer of unshed tears that he’s holding back, just like you. For a brief moment, everything around you vanishes. There’s no countdown, no celebration, no fireworks. There’s only the two of you, standing across from each other, and the undeniable connection that has been woven between you over the years. It’s in his eyes, in his posture, in the way the world falls away when he’s near.

After a beat, Steve gives a small nod, his expression softening, and with a final wave, he turns to walk away. You remain rooted in place, your smile fading into something quieter, more melancholic, as you watch his retreating figure. The space between you feels vast again, and for a heartbeat, you almost feel as though the distance might never close. But then, he stops. He turns back, his gaze finding yours across the crowd. You force your lips into a shaky, wobbly smile, and he waves once more. Without thinking, you return the gesture, but something shifts in his expression—his brow furrows slightly as if unsure of your smile’s sincerity. You take a deep breath, making it as genuine as you can, and he holds your gaze for a beat longer, as if weighing the moment. Finally, he gives a short nod and turns away again, walking into the sea of people.

Your smile fades once more, morphing into something more tired, the weight of everything settling heavily on your shoulders. You watch him disappear among the crowd, the distance between you widening with each step. And with a soft sigh, you whisper to the night, barely audible over the noise around you, "Happy New Year, Steve."

You say it as though you’re hoping, hoping more than anything that this year will be kind to him—and to you, too. For both of you.

[4] December 31, 2017

The low murmur of the TV fills the room, the cheerful voice of the news anchor reporting New Year’s celebrations from all over the globe. London’s fireworks glitter above the Thames, Paris’s Eiffel Tower glows with dazzling lights, and Sydney’s harbor blazes with color. It’s all so lively, so celebratory, but none of it registers. The flickering screen paints the walls in flashes of gold and blue, but your attention is elsewhere, your thoughts far too tangled to focus.

You pace the length of your living room, the floor creaking faintly beneath your restless steps. The small phone in your hand feels too fragile, too insignificant for the weight it carries. You grip it tightly, as if holding on for dear life. The glow from the screen catches your eye each time you glance at it—still dark. No missed calls. No messages. Nothing.

It’s been a year since you saw Steve in Times Square. That fleeting moment feels like a lifetime ago, a blur of hurried glances and unspoken words before he vanished again. You’d spent the first six months after that in unbearable silence, scanning every news report, every rumor, just for a shred of hope that he was okay. And then, six months ago, the phone arrived. No letter, no explanation—just a plain package dropped at your door. At first, you thought it was a mistake. It wasn’t until the phone buzzed in your hand, the screen lighting up with a video call, that you realized it wasn’t.

It was Steve. Your Steve. His face had been thinner, his eyes shadowed with exhaustion, but he’d smiled when he saw you, and in that moment, nothing else mattered.

Since then, these calls have become everything. Every beep of the phone, every vibration, every flicker of the screen—it’s all tied to him, your one connection to the man who means so much more to you than you can ever put into words. And tonight, you’re waiting for him again.

But it’s been ten minutes since the time he said he’d call, and the silence is stretching too thin. Your mind races with every possible reason. What if something’s happened? What if he’s been caught? What if this phone, this fragile lifeline, has been compromised? You squeeze the device harder, your thumb brushing over the screen. The room feels colder, the air heavier with each passing second. Your teeth tug at your bottom lip, your eyes flicking back to the clock on the wall. Time crawls painfully, each tick echoing in the stillness.

And then—finally—the phone buzzes. The sound jolts you, sharp and startling, and you nearly drop it in your rush. The number you know by heart flashes across the screen, and relief crashes into you like a wave, leaving you breathless and weak-kneed. Your fingers tremble as you swipe to answer, fumbling in your hurry, but you manage it just in time. The phone steadies in your grip as the screen connects.

And there he is—Steve.

For a moment, you can’t do anything but stare, your breath catching in your throat as the image of him fills the tiny screen. Your surroundings blur, the low hum of the TV fading into nothingness as your focus narrows entirely on him.

You absently note the setting behind him, a plain, nondescript room with gray walls and dim lighting. It tells you nothing about where he is, and yet you can’t bring yourself to care. All that matters is him, right there in front of you. Your eyes roam over his face, keenly taking in every detail, every change.

He looks worn, the kind of tired that speaks of nights spent on the run and days filled with endless battles. His hair is darker now, longer and shaggier than the last time you saw him, with unruly strands curling just above his ears. His beard is scruffier, rougher, and it only adds to the ruggedness of his appearance. There are new lines on his face—faint creases at the corners of his eyes and deeper ones around his mouth. They speak of hardships, of struggles and sacrifices, of the weight he carries every single day. But his eyes—those familiar, piercing blue eyes—still hold that quiet strength, that unyielding resolve that has always been so uniquely Steve.

Relief crashes over you like a wave, leaving you breathless and lightheaded as you realize that, despite the exhaustion, the shadows beneath his eyes, and the wear etched into his features, he’s here. He’s alive. He’s okay. And with a sudden ache in your chest, you think that he’s never looked more handsome than he does right now. This is Steve—your Steve.

Before you can say anything, he’s already speaking, his voice low and rough, tinged with guilt. “I’m sorry,” he says hurriedly, his words coming out in a rush. “I got held up. There was... something I had to deal with, and I couldn’t—”

“Shh.” You cut him off softly, raising a hand instinctively, even though he can’t see the motion. A smile tugs at your lips, tender and heartfelt, easing the tightness in your chest just a little. “It’s okay, Steve. It’s okay.” You pause, your voice lowering as your gaze softens. “How are you?”

The question seems to catch him off guard. He falters, his mouth opening slightly as he hesitates, like he doesn’t quite know how to answer. For a long moment, he just looks at you through the screen, his expression unreadable. And then, slowly, a small, soft smile spreads across his lips, one that makes your heart ache all over again.

“Good. Just finished dinner,” he says finally, though there’s a weight to his words, an unspoken truth that tells you he’s far from being 'good.' “How are you?”

Your throat tightens, and the words slip out before you can stop them, raw and honest. “I miss you.”

His smile deepens, and something flickers in his gaze—something tender and bittersweet, a shared ache that bridges the vast distance between you. His voice drops, quieter now, almost a whisper. “So do I.”

There’s a brief pause after his softly spoken words, and in the quiet that follows… the two of you simply look at each other. The moment stretches between you, warm and unhurried, as though the distance between you has melted away for these few fleeting seconds. Steve’s soft smile mirrors your own, and for once, neither of you feels the need to speak. It’s enough just to be here, together, even if it’s only through a screen.

And then, loud and clear, your stomach growls.

Your eyes widen in horror, your face flushing as Steve’s brows shoot up, his expression shifting from surprise to barely contained laughter. You freeze, mortified, before a helpless giggle bubbles out of you, shattering the quiet.

“Oh my god,” you groan, pressing a hand to your stomach as if you can will it to stop. “Sorry about that. My stomach clearly doesn’t care about timing.”

Steve’s mouth twitches, as if he’s fighting the urge to laugh. He bites his lip, his chest rising slightly as he takes in a breath. But then, unable to hold it back any longer, a warm, rich laugh bursts out of him, filling your small apartment like sunlight breaking through clouds. “You don’t have to apologize for being hungry,” he says, still chuckling. “But... tell me you’ve eaten dinner?”

You hesitate, nibbling on your bottom lip. “Well,” you begin cautiously, “I had a few crackers earlier, so technically—”

“Crackers?” he interrupts, his tone hovering between disbelief and gentle scolding. “That’s not dinner!”

You shrug defensively, your laugh light and sheepish. “What can I say? I wasn’t about to risk setting off the smoke alarm on New Year’s Eve. Can you imagine? The streets are so crowded, the fire department would probably take hours to get here.”

Steve chuckles, shaking his head as his smile softens into something warmer. “I can’t argue with that,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “But still, crackers? You deserve better than that.”

“Do I, though?” you tease, crossing your arms and arching a brow at him.

“Absolutely,” he replies, his tone firm but playful. Then, after a pause, he adds, “But then again, the firemen too deserve a break from dealing with the disasters you create every time you're alone in the kitchen.”

You gasp, feigning offense as you place a hand dramatically over your chest. “Wow. First of all, rude,” you say, though your lips twitch with suppressed laughter. “And second of all, you’re not wrong, but I feel like I shouldn’t let you get away with saying that.”

He grins, leaning closer to the camera as his eyes glint with playful mischief. “Okay, how about this,” he says, gesturing between the two of you. “Together, you and I wouldn’t be a disaster in the kitchen. I’d make sure of it.”

“Oh, would you now?” you ask, raising a skeptical brow.

“Absolutely,” he says with easy confidence. “Tell me—do you know how to make spaghetti?”

You tilt your head, pretending to consider it. “Spaghetti? I mean, I can make it,” you admit, “but it’s never pretty. Somehow, the sauce ends up everywhere, and the pasta is either overcooked or underdone. It’s a talent, really.”

“Perfect,” he says, his grin widening. “Then let’s make spaghetti together. I’ll guide you through it step by step. I promise it won’t end in disaster.”

You narrow your eyes at him, fighting a smile. “You promise?”

He places a hand over his heart, speaking very solemnly as if swearing an oath, “I promise.”

You can’t help but laugh, shaking your head. “Alright, Captain,” you say, picking up the phone and heading toward the kitchen. “Let’s make some spaghetti. But if my kitchen ends up looking like a crime scene tonight, it’s all on you.”

“Deal,” he says, his voice warm and steady. “Now, let’s get started.”

You set the phone on the counter, adjusting the angle so that Steve can see both you and the kitchen. With a soft chuckle, you tie your hair up into a messy ponytail, letting your fingers linger on the strands for a moment longer than necessary. The quiet hum of the apartment feels almost comforting as you turn back to the screen, smiling at Steve's face. "Alright, Chef Rogers," you say with a teasing grin, "Let's cook some spaghetti."

Steve leans forward just a bit, his expression lighting up with enthusiasm. "I’m ready. First, fill a pot with water. And don’t forget to salt it generously—this is important, okay? The pasta needs flavor."

“Generously, huh? Like... Grandma’s cooking salty, or ocean water salty?”

He chuckles, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Somewhere in between."

You laugh, a warm sound that fills the space between you two. There’s something so simple, so comforting about this moment. It almost feels like he’s standing there next to you, right in the kitchen with you. “Got it,” you say, tossing in a healthy pinch of salt. “Now, what?”

“Now, we wait for the water to boil. While we’re doing that, chop up some onion. You’ve got this.”

You grab the onion from the counter, the weight of it solid and familiar in your hands. You start cutting, the blade of the knife moving steadily through the onion, though your thoughts drift. There’s something about this—cooking, chatting, just being with him through the screen—that feels almost... intimate. There’s a strange sense of closeness, even though he’s miles away. You glance at the screen, where Steve’s smiling face is framed by the kitchen’s soft light.

“So,” you begin, trying to fill the silence with something more, “how’s Bucky doing?”

Steve’s smile softens, his expression turning thoughtful as he glances down for a moment. The topic of Bucky’s treatment in Wakanda is never an easy one to bring up, but you can feel the weight of it in the air between you. “He’s in good hands,” Steve says quietly, his voice steady but carrying a layer of something deeper. “The treatment’s been slow, but they’re making progress. It’s hard, though. It’s not a quick fix. But they’re doing everything they can, and I’m here for him, every step of the way. He’s not facing this alone.”

You feel a pang in your chest, and for a moment, you stop what you’re doing, letting the quiet fill the space between you. You can only imagine how much this weighs on Steve, how much he wants things to be easier for Bucky. “I can’t imagine how hard it must be,” you say softly, your voice full of empathy. “But... I think Bucky’s lucky to have you. I know you’ve both been through so much, but... he has someone who understands, someone who’s there for him no matter what.”

Steve’s gaze meets yours through the screen, his eyes filled with gratitude and a quiet strength. “I’m the lucky one,” he murmurs, a faint smile touching his lips. “It’s not easy, but having him by my side... even in the tough times... that’s everything.”

You nod slowly, finishing chopping the onion, a quiet admiration settling in your chest for the way Steve carries those he loves, even when it weighs heavily on him. “It’s clear you two are good for each other.”

Steve’s expression brightens, and the warmth in his eyes grows. “I think so,” he says, offering you a gentle smile. “We’ve got each other’s backs. It’s the only way it works.”

You smile in return before turning back to the stove, trying to focus on the task at hand. The pot is starting to bubble, and you slide the chopped onion into the pan, the sizzle making a satisfying sound. “Alright,” you say, trying to bring some lightness to your voice, “onions are in. Now what?”

“Now,” Steve says with a playful glint in his eye, “we move on to the garlic. You have garlic, right?”

You raise a clove of garlic to the camera, giving him a mock look of disbelief. “Do you think I’d ever cook without garlic? Please. This is me we’re talking about.”

Steve laughs, and it’s a warm, easy sound. "Good call. Garlic makes everything better.” He watches you carefully as you chop the garlic, offering gentle advice on technique—little tips here and there that make you feel like you’re cooking together, not just over a screen. “You’re a natural, you know?”

“Flattery will get you everywhere,” you tease, your voice light as you slice through the garlic.

“So, Sam?” you ask, after a brief pause, letting the conversation drift back to the people who matter most to Steve. “How’s he doing?”

Steve smiles again, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Sam’s Sam. Always on the go. But I’ve been keeping him in check, making sure he takes some breaks. He doesn’t always listen, but... he’s starting to understand that downtime is important, too.”

You chuckle, knowing exactly what he means. “Typical Sam, huh?”

“Yeah,” Steve laughs, shaking his head. “But honestly, I think he’s been a huge help. Even if he’s restless, he’s a good influence. Keeps me grounded.”

“I get that,” you say, stirring the garlic into the onions. “Everyone needs a grounding force.”

Steve’s voice softens, the playfulness giving way to a quiet sincerity. “Exactly. It’s good to have people who… know when you need to find your balance.”

You pause, letting his words hang in the air for a moment. The sound of the garlic sizzling in the pan seems to fill the quiet between you, and your heart feels a little fuller in your chest. “And Natasha?” you ask, curious despite yourself. You know how hard she’s been working to find peace after everything, and you want to know she’s doing okay.

Steve’s smile softens, turning more tender. “Natasha’s... well, she’s Natasha. She’s tough, but even she has her moments. She’s finding her rhythm, though. I think she’s doing alright. She doesn’t talk about it much, but we’ve all got her back. She knows that.”

You nod slowly, understanding what he means. “I hope she knows she’s not alone.”

“She does,” Steve says, his tone steady and reassuring. “She’s not alone.”

You finish adding the garlic to the pan, the kitchen filling with a rich, savory scent. The pot of water is boiling now, and you drop in the pasta, letting it submerge into the hot water. “Alright,” you say, giving Steve a teasing look, “Pasta’s in. This is happening. Do you want to take credit for this, or should I just take all the glory?”

Steve chuckles, a low, warm sound. “I think I’ll be a gentleman this time and let you take all the credit.”

You roll your eyes, but the smile never leaves your face. “You’re lucky you’re cute,” you mutter, stirring the pasta in the pot, “or I’d have some very choice words for you.”

Steve grins, giving you a wink. “I’ll take that as a compliment.” Then, his expression softens slightly, and he says more genuinely, “But seriously, you should take the credit. You did all the hard work. I’m proud of you.”

The warmth that fills you when he says that is unlike anything you expected. You think about how there’s something so simple, so pure about this moment. Even though he’s not physically here, you feel more connected to him than you have in a long time. Cooking, talking, laughing… It feels easy, natural, like you’ve been doing this for years.

“I’m glad we’re doing this,” you say quietly, your voice softer than you meant. “Even if it’s just over a screen... it’s really nice.”

Steve’s expression mellows, the corners of his mouth curling into a small, sincere smile. “I’m glad too. Next time, I’ll be there in person, okay?”

Your heart skips a beat, and your smile widens. “I’ll hold you to that,” you whisper.

As you finish preparing the spaghetti, there’s a sense of calm settling over you, like everything is, for once, in its right place. Even though he’s far away, Steve’s presence feels so close—so tangible—that you’re not sure where the distance ends and where the connection begins. And in this moment, that’s all you need.

You sit down at the table, twirling your fork through the perfectly cooked spaghetti and taking a satisfying bite. Steve smiles when he sees your reaction through the screen. “Good, right? Told you adding enough salt makes a difference.”

“Alright, alright,” you admit with a playful roll of your eyes. “You win this round, Rogers. The spaghetti is amazing.”

He grins, leaning closer to the screen as if that brings him nearer to you. “Glad to know my cooking lessons aren’t going to waste.”

Time then seems to fly as the two of you keep talking, sharing stories, laughing, and jumping from one topic to the next. You tell him about the time you tried to bake a cake and ended up with something more like a brick. He tells you about Sam’s most recent failed attempt to teach Bucky how to use modern slang. Each story draws out laughter, softening the ache of the distance between you.

Before long, you find yourself back on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, the warm glow of your living room lamps casting a cozy light around you. The phone is propped up on the coffee table, its screen reflecting Steve’s face as he lies on his back in bed, the dim light of his room softening his sharp features. His voice, low and soothing, fills the room as he recounts another story about Bucky’s latest antics. You listen with a smile, letting the sound of his voice wrap around you like an invisible thread connecting you across the miles.

“…and then,” Steve says, his voice tinged with both exasperation and amusement, “Bucky swore he wasn’t the one who knocked over Sam’s coffee mug, even though we all saw him do it. Poor Sam looked like he’d lost a family member.”

The mental image of Sam’s overly dramatic reaction has you laughing softly, shaking your head. “I can only imagine the look on his face. Did he make one of those epic speeches about betrayal and the sanctity of his morning coffee?”

Steve chuckles, the sound warm and rich. “Oh, absolutely. He went on for a good ten minutes about trust and how his ‘prized mug’ can’t be replaced. Natasha told him to get over it, but Bucky promised to replace it. Honestly, I think Sam’s just milking it now.”

The way Steve’s voice dips when he talks about his friends makes your heart swell. There’s such affection in his words, even when he’s teasing them. But as he keeps talking, you notice a certain sleepiness creeping into his tone. His words slow, and his eyelids lower just slightly. And then, mid-sentence, he lets out a huge, unrestrained yawn that catches both of you off guard.

“Steve,” you say, your voice laced with both amusement and fondness, “you should really go to sleep. It’s late.”

But, predictably, Steve shakes his head, his stubborn streak shining through as he shifts against his pillows. “Nope. I’m not tired,” he insists, though his voice is softer now, almost dreamy.

You raise an eyebrow, smirking. “Oh, really? Because that yawn just now says otherwise.”

He waves you off with a lazy hand, though the corners of his mouth twitch in a small, tired smile. “I’m fine. I can’t let you enter the New Year alone. Only fifteen minutes left—I can hang on that long.”

You sigh, shaking your head, but there’s a certain warmth in your chest at his determination. “Steve…” you start, your tone gentle but exasperated.

“Nope,” he interrupts, a hint of playfulness in his sleepy voice. “I’m staying awake. That’s final.”

Another yawn escapes him right after, and you bite back a sigh, watching as his eyelids droop even further. It’s clear he’s fighting a losing battle, but you know better than to argue with him. Steve Rogers, ever the soldier, would dig in his heels just to prove a point, even if it’s against himself.

“Alright,” you say, a soft chuckle escaping your lips. “If you insist. But don’t blame me when you wake up tomorrow groggy and cranky.”

“I won’t,” he mumbles. “Fifteen minutes… piece of cake.”

The two of you fall into an easy rhythm again, your voices filling the quiet spaces in each other’s nights. Steve talks about the stars visible through his window and how the cold winter air seems to seep into the old walls of wherever he’s staying. You share little details about your day—mundane things that feel special simply because you’re telling him. There’s an intimacy to it, a quiet kind of magic that makes the time feel suspended.

At one point, though, you cough, and the dryness in your throat reminds you just how parched you are. “Hang tight,” you say softly, pulling the blanket tighter around yourself as you stand. “I’m just going to grab a glass of water.”

“Take your time,” Steve murmurs, his voice so soft now that you can barely hear him. Another yawn punctuates his words, and you smile to yourself as you head to the kitchen.

When you return a minute later, water in hand, you pause mid-step at the sight on your phone screen. Steve has fallen asleep. His head is tilted slightly to the side on the pillow, his face soft and peaceful in a way that tugs at your heart. One arm rests across his chest, rising and falling with the steady rhythm of his breathing, and his lips are parted just slightly, a faint trace of a smile lingering there.

You set the glass down on the coffee table and sink back into the couch, your blanket pooling around you as you lean closer to the phone. For a moment, you simply watch him, your chest swelling with warmth. He looks so different like this—unguarded, vulnerable, and completely at ease. It’s a rare sight, and you can’t help but feel a little honored to witness it.

A soft smile tugs at your lips as you take in the gentle lines of his face, the way his golden hair falls slightly across his forehead. He looks so peaceful, so unburdened, and it makes your chest ache in the best way. There’s something about this moment that feels so tender, so intimate, that it leaves you a little breathless.

All of a sudden, your gaze shifts to the clock on the wall, and you realize it’s 12:01 AM.

A soft, loving laugh escapes your lips, gentle and full of affection, as you glance back at the phone screen. Steve’s still asleep, a peaceful expression on his face, his chest rising and falling with every steady breath. He’s always been the type to push through exhaustion, but tonight, somehow, you can’t help but smile at how he managed to stay awake just long enough to make it to midnight.

“Well, you did it, Steve,” you murmur fondly, your voice quiet and tender, almost as if speaking too loudly might disturb the fragile tranquility of the moment. "You stayed awake just long enough to welcome the New Year with me, making sure I didn’t enter it alone."

Reaching for your phone, you pick it up carefully, holding it close as though it were something precious, something that needed to be handled with the utmost tenderness. A soft smile curls on your lips as your gaze lingers on the peaceful image of him. You trace your fingers lightly over the screen, mimicking the shape of his face in the most delicate of motions. It’s slow, deliberate, a gentle caress across the glass, but it feels as though it somehow bridges the miles that separate you. Your heart aches a little at the thought that this simple gesture—touching the screen—is the closest you can come to touching him, to being near him in this moment.

“Happy New Year, Steve,” you whisper, your voice barely audible in the quiet room. It feels almost sacred, speaking these words to him, as if this moment deserves reverence. “I hope this year brings you nothing but happiness—nothing but the peace and joy you’ve always given to others, the peace and joy you so deeply deserve.”

Your fingers linger just a moment longer, tracing over the screen once more before you let out a soft, almost imperceptible sigh. You set the phone down gently onto the coffee table, careful not to disturb the quiet that’s enveloped the room. You pull the blanket tighter around your shoulders, letting its warmth cocoon you as you settle back against the cushions, your heart full and content.

“Goodnight, Steve,” you murmur softly, your voice thick with a quiet affection that catches in your throat. “Sweet dreams, wherever you are. I’ll be here, always, no matter how far apart we are.”

You take one last look at his sleeping face, letting the soft glow of the screen illuminate your surroundings, your heart full, and then, with a final deep breath, you let your eyes flutter closed. As sleep gently pulls you under, a soft smile remains on your face—your thoughts filled with nothing but warmth, love, and gratitude for the man who means everything to you. The new year has just begun, and though it’s only the first moment, you already know it’s going to be a year full of hope—a year that holds the promise of something beautiful, something special.

[+1] December 31, 2023

New Year’s Eve is meant to be a celebration—a time for new beginnings, reunions, and toasting to a brighter tomorrow.

This year, it feels like the world is more than ready to embrace that promise.

Months after the Blip, humanity has been slowly but steadily rebuilding itself. The pain and emptiness of those lost years haven’t disappeared, but they’ve been woven into the resilience of those who remain. Cities that once stood eerily silent now pulse with life. Families long torn apart by grief and dust have found their way back to each other. Old lovers have reunited, and strangers have formed new bonds, as if the world collectively decided to hold onto joy and never let go.

Tonight, the streets reflect that determination. Strings of lights crisscross above the avenues, their golden glow spilling over jubilant crowds. Music pours from every corner, blending into a rhythm that makes even the coldest winter air feel warm. People laugh, shout, and hug—strangers and friends alike—caught in the electric anticipation of midnight.

But none of it touches you.

Inside your dimly lit apartment, the celebrations outside feel like they’re happening in another world—a world you no longer seem to be a part of.

This New Year doesn’t feel like a celebration. Instead, it feels like a cruel, cosmic mockery, as if the universe itself is laughing at your pain. The pain you’ve carried silently for months, letting it fester in the quiet moments when no one else is watching.

For you, this year has brought nothing but loss, and tonight is a bitter reminder of everything you’ve been forced to endure.

The Blip stole five years from the world, but for you, it felt like no more than the blink of an eye. One moment, you were here; the next, you were nothing but dust on the wind. When you returned, it was as if no time had passed. You were still mid-thought, mid-step, mid-life. But the world… the world had moved on without you.

Five years.

In those five years, the people you loved had changed. They had grown older, wiser, and wearier. Some had found joy in places you weren’t there to see. Others… weren’t there to welcome you back at all. The life you’d left behind had become a story you no longer recognized.

Except for Steve.

Steve was the one constant.

When you stumbled back into existence, disoriented and overwhelmed, he was there. His steady presence grounded you, a calm amid the chaos of your return, as if he were the only thing holding you together. He’d been through so much himself—you knew that—but he never let it show. Not when you needed him.

Steve became your anchor, your compass in a world that felt so foreign, so out of place. Even with the weight of leading the Avengers, rebuilding alliances, and helping others, he made time for you. In those moments, he wasn’t Captain America or the symbol of hope everyone saw. He was just Steve—kind, patient, and unwavering. He reminded you that you still mattered, that you still had a place in this world, even when everything around you seemed so far removed from what it once was.

And slowly, painfully, you began to hope again.

You started to believe that maybe there was still a future for you—a future, you hoped, with him.

But then he left.

When Steve volunteered to return the Infinity Stones, you hadn’t thought much of it. It was Steve, after all. He’d faced countless dangers, gone on impossible missions, and always made it back. He promised you he’d return this time too.

And you believed him.

The first few days after he left, you were optimistic. It was Steve—how could you not trust him?

But days turned into weeks. Weeks turned into months. And Steve didn’t come back.

At first, you convinced yourself it was just a delay. Something had gone wrong—maybe he was stuck, or there was a complication. But he would find a way, you told yourself. Steve always found a way.

Then the whispers started.

People began to talk, their voices hushed but persistent. They said Steve had gone back to the past, to Peggy Carter, to the life he’d always wanted but never had. They said he’d chosen to stay there, to leave behind the present—and everyone in it.

Including you.

You didn’t want to believe it. You told yourself it couldn’t be true. Steve wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t leave without a word, he wouldn’t leave without a goodbye—your Steve wouldn’t leave you.

Would he?

Now, months later, you’re no longer sure.

The hope you’d clung to so desperately has eroded, worn down by silence and the heavy weight of what might be the truth. And tonight, as the world outside celebrates new beginnings, you sit alone in your apartment, staring at the clock.

The room is dark, save for the dim glow of a single lamp. The air feels too still, the quiet pressing down on you like a physical weight. In the distance, fireworks explode, their muffled booms barely audible through the walls. You flinch at the sound.

Your heart aches in a way you can’t quite put into words. You tell yourself you should be grateful—you survived, after all. You’re alive. You’re here.

But the gratitude feels hollow.

What good is surviving if the world you’ve returned to feels empty? What good is a second chance if the one person who made it bearable is gone?

Your eyes blur with tears as you stare down at the untouched glass of champagne in your hand. You’d poured it hours ago, hoping you’d find it in yourself to toast to something—anything. But now, the bubbles have gone flat, and the pale golden liquid seems to mock you, its emptiness a mirror of your own.

He’s gone.

The thought slips in, quiet but sharp, as inevitable as the champagne losing its fizz. The words echo in your mind, a truth you’ve tried so hard to ignore but can’t anymore. Steve is gone. He’s not coming back. And if the whispers are true, he chose not to.

The tears spill over, hot and relentless, and you let them. What’s the point in holding them back? The ache in your chest feels unbearable, like it might consume you whole.

With a shaky sigh, you set the glass down on the coffee table. You close your eyes, trying to steady your breathing, but it doesn’t help. The pain is still there, sharp and unrelenting. It’s like the weight of it has settled into your bones, and no matter how deep you breathe or how much you try to push it down, it refuses to be ignored.

All of a sudden, the shrill ring of your phone slices through the thick silence of your apartment, startling you. Your breath catches, and for a fleeting moment, your heart leaps into your throat. Could it be—?

But when you glance at the screen, that glimmer of hope flickers out. Tony Stark.

You hesitate, wiping the tears from your cheeks with trembling fingers, before staring at the screen. Tony is your boss, yes, but tonight of all nights, you don’t feel like upholding the usual courtesies expected of you towards your employer. Talking to anyone right now feels like an impossible task—like scaling a mountain. And Tony, of all people, has an uncanny ability to see through the thinnest of excuses.

The phone suddenly stops ringing. Relief floods your chest. Problem solved. You didn’t have to do anything.

But then, just as you start to lean back into the couch, the phone rings again.

You groan audibly, running a hand through your disheveled hair. Of course, Tony would call back—he’s nothing if not persistent. Resignation settles over you, heavy and inevitable, and you swipe to answer the call.

"Hello?"

"Hey, you!" Tony’s voice comes through the line, the usual chipper sarcasm hanging in the air. "Thought you might be dodging me there for a second. Glad to see you’ve got your priorities straight."

Despite everything, a small tug at the corner of your lips betrays your heavy mood. "Hi, Tony. Happy New Year."

"Yeah, yeah, Happy New Year," he replies breezily, not missing a beat. "So, listen, are you coming to my party or what? Big bash at my place—top-tier catering, live music, the works. Pretty much everyone who’s anyone is here. And by ‘everyone,’ I mostly mean me, Pepper, and a bunch of people who can’t hold a candle to me."

You let out a slow exhale, leaning back against the couch. "I don’t think I can make it this year, Tony."

"‘Don’t think’? That’s not a ‘no,’" he quips, but there’s something in his tone now—a small undercurrent of concern that catches you off guard. "Come on, what’s the deal?"

"Okay, fine," you say with a faint sigh. "No. I’m not coming."

The other end of the line goes quiet for a beat, and you feel it—like Tony is weighing something, deciding whether to push or pull back. Finally, he speaks again, his voice softer, the playful edge gone. "Any particular reason why, or are you just too cool for the rest of us now?"

You force a small laugh, but it comes out flat, like it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. "I’m not feeling great. Probably just a cold or something. Nothing to worry about."

Another pause. He’s not buying it. You can feel his eyes narrowing, even though you’re not there.

"Okay," Tony says finally, his tone careful, a little quieter. "If you say so. But you know, Morgan’s been asking about you."

That catches you off guard. "Morgan?"

"Yeah," Tony continues, his voice softening, like he’s suddenly realizing how heavy the moment has become. "She was pretty excited to meet you tonight. Pepper and I have been telling her all about you—how you’re the brains behind half the cool stuff in the lab, how you keep things running when I’m too busy saving the world or getting into trouble. She thinks you’re some kind of superhero."

A small smile tugs at the corners of your lips, despite the ache in your chest. "She does, huh?"

"Oh, yeah," Tony says, his tone shifting back to that mock seriousness. "She’s already brainstorming codenames for you. I think she settled on something like ‘Lab Wizard,’ but don’t quote me on that."

You chuckle softly, the sound quiet but genuine. It feels almost out of place in the emptiness of your apartment. "Well, tell her I’m sorry I couldn’t make it tonight. And tell her I’ll come visit soon. Maybe next weekend?"

There’s a beat of silence, like Tony is processing the promise. Then he replies, his voice warm but with a hint of humor. "Next weekend works. But you better mean it—Morgan’s got a memory like a steel trap. You flake on her, and I promise, she’ll make you regret it."

"I’ll be there," you assure him, your voice steady this time, despite everything else.

"Good," Tony says, and you can almost hear the satisfied nod in his voice. "And hey, just… take care of yourself, okay? If you need anything—anything at all—you’ve got my number. Use it."

"Thanks, Tony," you whisper, the lump in your throat threatening to rise again.

"All right, kid. Get some rest. And don’t let the couch eat you alive."

A small, reluctant smile crosses your face. The line clicks off, and the phone slips from your hand onto the couch beside you, your body sinking back into the cushions as a long, tired sigh escapes you.

You’re just about to close your eyes when your phone buzzes again. You frown, your tired eyes shifting to the screen, already bracing for who it might be now.

Mom.

You hesitate, biting your lip. She’s probably calling to check in—something she’s been doing a lot more since you came back. It’s sweet, really, but tonight, you’re not sure you have the energy for one of her concerned check-ins. You love her, but right now, the thought of another conversation about your well-being feels like climbing a mountain you don’t have the strength for. Still, you know ignoring her would only lead to more calls—and a voicemail laden with guilt you don’t need right now.

With a reluctant sigh, you press the answer button.

"Hi, Mom," you say, trying to inject some lightness into your voice, though it feels more like an act than anything genuine.

"Finally!" she exclaims, her tone warm but tinged with frustration. "Do you have any idea how many times I’ve called you this week? I was starting to think you’d dropped off the face of the Earth again!"

"Sorry," you mutter, the guilt settling in your chest like a lead weight. "I’ve been… busy."

"Busy?" she repeats, her disbelief clear even through the phone. "Too busy to call your mother? What could you possibly be doing that’s more important than letting me know you’re alive and well? Saving the world with your superhero friends?"

Her teasing tone draws a weak chuckle out of you, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. "Something like that."

"Hmm," she hums, clearly not convinced, but she lets it slide—for now. She launches into her usual stream of updates, filling the silence with news of family members you’ve barely spoken to since the Blip. Your dad’s constant attempts to fix the car he swears is fine, your brother’s ongoing quest to find the best pizza place in town, your aunt’s latest gardening fiasco, your cousin’s engagement plans, and her ongoing battle with a new recipe she’s found online—these are the little details that usually make you smile. But tonight, they just feel like background noise. You respond when you have to—offering a polite laugh here, a murmured acknowledgment there—but your heart isn’t in it. Your gaze drifts to the window, where fireworks are starting to bloom in the distance, and a cold emptiness swells inside you.

And then, there’s a pause.

You tense, your attention snapping back to the phone. What is it with everyone pausing tonight?

"Sweetheart," she says, her voice dropping to a softer, more careful tone—the one she always uses when she knows something is off. "You miss him, don’t you? Steve?"

The question hits you like a punch, taking the breath out of your lungs. Your throat tightens, and before you can stop it, the tears start to sting at the corners of your eyes. You try to swallow the lump rising in your throat, but it’s no use.

"No," you croak, the word barely escaping your lips, but the quiver in your voice betrays you.

"Are you crying?" she asks, her concern immediate and sharp.

You sniffle, turning your head away from the phone as if that will somehow hide the tears you can’t control. "No, Mom," you snap, the words trembling, cracking. "I’m laughing."

The silence stretches on the other end, heavy and thick. You can practically feel her worry through the phone. She knows you too well.

You sigh, your shoulders sinking, the facade slipping. "It’s nothing, really. I just… I think I’m coming down with a cold. That’s all."

"A cold?" she echoes, her tone laced with skepticism. "Really? That’s all?"

"Yeah," you say quickly, brushing at your damp cheeks in a feeble attempt to stem the tide. "Just a really bad cold. Nothing to worry about."

She starts to say something—probably a gentle scolding about not taking better care of yourself—but you cut her off, words tumbling out faster than you intend. "Look, Mom, I really need to take my medicine and get some rest. I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?"

There’s a pause, and you can hear her hesitation on the other end. She’s not buying it, but she’s reluctant to push. "Are you sure?" she asks, her voice low and cautious. "You don’t sound—"

"I’m fine," you interrupt, forcing as much conviction into your words as you can muster. "Promise. I’ll call you first thing in the morning. Just need some sleep."

Another pause stretches out before she sighs, her reluctance giving way to acceptance. "Okay, fine. But don’t forget, all right? And… Happy New Year, sweetheart."

"Happy New Year," you whisper, your voice barely audible, hollow as the words slip out. The weight of it lingers long after the call ends.

You lower the phone from your ear, staring at the darkened screen for a long moment, as if it might give you something—some kind of sign—that everything’s going to be okay. But it doesn’t. The silence in the room presses in on you, more suffocating than before.

With a shaky breath, you toss the phone carelessly onto the far end of the couch. You lie back against the cushions, your face buried in your hands. The tears come then, slow and quiet at first, but they grow louder, more desperate. You’ve spent too much time pretending to be fine, trying to convince everyone that you’re okay. But right now, it’s all too much. You can’t keep pretending anymore.

Curling into the corner of the couch, you wrap your arms around your knees, hugging them tightly to your chest. The tears keep coming, and you let them—feeling how the night is so new, yet everything feels broken, and you don’t know how to put the pieces back together.

You don’t even realize when exhaustion overtakes you.

One moment, you’re staring blankly at the ceiling, your tears slipping down your cheeks silently. The next, you’re drifting into a restless sleep, where memories of him blend with the dark corners of your mind. Steve’s smile, his soft laugh, the way he tilted his head when he listened to you ramble about something meaningless, the gentle touch of his fingers brushing your hair behind your ear—all of it floods your senses, warm and comforting for a moment.

But then, like a cloud passing through sunlight, the memories blur and slip away. His presence fades, slipping through your fingers like smoke, leaving behind an aching emptiness that settles deep in your chest.

It’s in that hollow stillness that the sharp, insistent sound of your doorbell slices through the fog of your sleep, dragging you back into reality. You flinch at the noise, groggy and disoriented, your body slow to respond as the ring reverberates through your apartment. For a brief, hopeful moment, you think it’s just part of the dream—some lingering echo of your subconscious that doesn’t quite know when to let go.

But then it rings again. And again.

You groan, burying your face in the couch cushions, wishing the noise would just stop. Whoever it is can wait. You don’t have the energy, the patience, or the will to deal with anyone right now—not tonight, not like this. The sadness is too heavy, the loneliness too much. You just want to be left alone.

The doorbell rings again, more urgent this time, then again, and again, as if the person on the other side refuses to take the hint. Your irritation spikes, the frustration of being dragged out of your haze only making the ache in your chest worse. Whoever it is at the door has no intention of leaving, and with each ring, your resolve to ignore them shatters a little more.

"Fine!" you snap, your voice sharper than you intend, as you push yourself up from the couch. You stumble on unsteady feet, still half-adrift in a fog of exhaustion, but the anger—small as it is—becomes a welcome distraction. You wipe at your face quickly, not caring that your cheeks are damp or that your eyes are still red from crying. Whoever is on the other side of that door is about to find out the consequences of interrupting your misery.

Your footsteps are heavy, each one like a reminder of just how tired you are, but you march toward the door with a huff. "This better be good," you mutter under your breath as you fumble with the lock. "Or so help me—"

You yank the door open, ready to unleash all the irritation and bitterness you've been bottling up for hours. But the words die in your throat the moment your eyes land on—

It's Steve.

He’s standing there, framed by the dim light from the hallway, and for a moment, your brain refuses to process the sight in front of you. He’s real, standing there like some impossible vision, but you can’t quite believe it.

He looks… different. He’s a mess—his suit, the same one he wore when he left to return the Infinity Stones, is dirty and torn in several places, streaked with mud and grime. His hair is disheveled, sticking up in uneven tufts as though he’s been running his fingers through it nonstop. There’s a faint shadow of stubble along his jawline, and his shoulders are slumped as if the weight of his journey, whatever it was, hasn’t quite let up yet.

But it’s his eyes that stop you. His eyes, those bright, unforgettable blue eyes, are looking at you like they’re seeing you for the first time in years. They’re filled with everything—relief, exhaustion, guilt, longing—and something else, something deep and raw that twists in your chest. They lock with yours, and for a moment, nothing else in the world exists except the two of you.

And then, against all the odds, he smiles.

"Hi," he says softly, his voice rough and weary, but still unmistakably Steve. The sound of it hits you like a wave, making your breath catch in your throat. You take an instinctive step back, almost as if his presence is too much to process all at once, but your feet are rooted to the spot.

Steve, here. In front of you. After everything.

Your body feels like it's falling, like you're weightless and suspended in time, as you stand there staring at him. Every nerve in your body is awake, but your mind can’t quite catch up, still reeling from the surreal sight of him standing in front of you. Your breath comes in short, frantic gasps, and your hands tremble by your sides, like you’ve forgotten how to hold yourself together. There's a part of you screaming that this can’t be real, that after everything—the pain, the grief, the endless nights spent drowning in memories of him—how could this moment, this impossibility, be true?

The tears come before you even have time to brace for them, blurring your vision, clouding everything in a haze of emotion. Your hands, as if on their own, reach out toward him, but they stop halfway, hovering in midair. Your heart races as you hesitate. It's like you're afraid—afraid that if you touch him, if you let yourself believe this moment is real, he might disappear, like some cruel mirage that was never meant to last.

So you do the only thing that feels even remotely within your control: you slam the door shut.

The sharp click of the latch sounds deafening, the finality of it echoing through the stillness of your small apartment. You stagger back, your breath hitching, your chest tight as the tears spill freely. This isn’t happening. It can’t be. Your mind races, trying to convince you that it’s just another trick your heart is playing on you, that Steve isn’t really standing out there, that none of this is real.

"No," you whisper, the word a desperate mantra, shaking your head in denial. "No, no, no. It’s not real."

Your back presses against the door as you slide to the floor, palms flat against the cool wood, like it might somehow shield you from the raw emotion threatening to overwhelm you. Your heart pounds, frantic, each beat a reminder that you don’t know how to process the collision of grief and hope that’s tearing you apart.

And then his voice comes through the door.

Soft. Quiet. Almost like he’s afraid of scaring you away.

"Hey…" His voice cracks slightly, as though he’s searching for the right words, his tone tender in a way that makes something inside of you ache with longing. "It’s me. Please, just open the door."

You collapse into yourself, your knees giving way as you curl up on the floor, pressing your head to the door as if you're trying to hold onto something, anything, to steady yourself against the overwhelming flood of emotions, but you can't. The sobs you’ve been holding back burst forward, and you bury your trembling hand against your mouth, trying to quiet the sound, but it only makes it worse. The ache in your chest is unbearable, each breath sharp and shallow.

"Please," he says again, and the sound of your name—your name, so full of care, so unmistakably Steve—hits you like a physical blow. Your heart twists, pulled between the disbelief that you’re hearing him again and the overwhelming need to believe that this is real, that he’s truly standing out there, wanting to explain, to fix things.

You shake your head without thinking, your fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt, clutching at yourself in a futile attempt to keep it all together. This can’t be happening. It just can’t.

But there’s something in his voice—steady, earnest, full of the kind of vulnerability you’ve only heard from him in moments of true sincerity—that tugs at the fraying edges of your disbelief. It’s Steve. It’s really him. And for the first time since he left, you feel like the ground beneath you isn’t so fragile, that maybe, just maybe, you can hold on long enough to hear him out.

Your feet move before you fully realize it, rising slowly as if your body isn’t quite ready to trust this new reality. You reach for the doorknob, your hand shaking, breath hitching with each passing second.

And then, with a deep, shuddering breath, you turn the knob and pull the door open.

Steve's still there, standing exactly where you left him, his figure framed by the soft glow of the hallway light. The sight of him steals the breath right out of your lungs all over again, like you’re seeing him for the first time, and your heart skips a beat. His expression is a strange mix of relief and concern, as though he’s unsure whether to take another step or wait for permission.

But even in the face of him, so undeniably real, your doubt refuses to loosen its grip. It claws at the edges of your mind, gnawing at the fragile hope that has begun to grow. What if this isn’t real? What if this is just another cruel trick your mind is playing on you? A figment of your grief, conjured from the deepest corners of your longing for him. After everything, can you trust this?

Your voice is shaky as you speak, words tumbling out before you can stop them. “How do I know you’re real? How do I know you’re not… not just a trick? A figment of my imagination?”

For a moment, he doesn’t answer. His blue eyes search yours, soft and open, but something flickers behind them—understanding, maybe? And then, without a word, he moves. Slowly, deliberately, as though he’s afraid you’ll pull away if he moves too quickly, he reaches out toward you.

The air feels thick between you as his hands come up, fingers brushing lightly against your face, as though he’s afraid to touch you too forcefully, afraid to shatter the fragile moment.

But his touch—gentle and warm—grounds you in a way that’s almost impossible to describe. You’ve felt his touch before—brief moments, fleeting and soft—but this time, it’s steady. It’s real. His palms press warmly against your cheeks, his thumbs brushing softly over your skin, and it’s like the whole world settles into place with that single, intimate gesture.

“Feel this,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough with emotion, but the words clear. His eyes don’t leave yours, unwavering, as if every unspoken word between you is poured into this simple touch. “You know it’s me.”

And he’s right.

You do know.

Every doubt, every fear, crumbles beneath the weight of his touch. It’s him. It’s always been him. The way his thumbs trace the curve of your cheekbones, the steady pressure of his palms—every detail is seared into your memory. You remember the way his hand had lingered on your shoulder when he steadied you once, the warmth of his palm on your back during those fleeting embraces. You remember the tenderness in his gaze, the way he held you when words weren’t enough.

This moment is no different. His touch, the feeling of him here with you, is so impossibly real that it shatters the last remnants of doubt. It rips away the fear that’s kept you apart for so long. This is Steve. This is the man you’ve always loved, and nothing in this moment, nothing in the world, can take that truth away.

A broken sob escapes you, and before you can stop yourself, you clutch his hand, pressing it closer to your cheek as the tears spill over. The floodgates open, and all the emotions you’ve bottled up for months—grief, relief, anger, love—pour out in a torrent that you can’t control.

Steve pulls you closer, his arms tightening around you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go. His breath is warm against your hair, his voice low and hoarse as he whispers, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for being late. I—I had to take care of something…unfinished business with the Red Skull. But I’m here now, and I'm so sorry—I cannot imagine what you—”

That name barely registers, the sound of it fading into the background, drowned out by the whirlwind of emotions crashing inside you. The storm inside you surges, and before you can stop yourself, the words spill out.

“Yeah, you cannot imagine!” The sharpness in your voice cuts through the air like a knife, sharper than you intend, but you can’t rein it in. Your hands press against his chest, pushing him away, creating space between you as the raw ache inside you finally breaks free. “You cannot imagine what it’s been like—wondering if I’d ever see you again, if you’d even come back. Thinking you might never come back. Thinking you…left me.”

The words spill out in a rush, each one carrying a piece of the pain you’ve buried for so long. Your voice cracks under the weight of it, and the tears come faster, hot and relentless. You don’t try to stop them. You can’t. Wrapping your arms around yourself, you retreat further, as if trying to hold the fractured pieces of yourself together.

Steve stands frozen, his arms still half-raised, like he doesn’t know whether to reach for you or step back. He opens his mouth, but no words come out for a moment. “Left you?” he finally whispers, his voice barely audible, as if the concept doesn’t even register. “Why would you think I’d leave you?”

“Because,” you say, your voice breaking with anger and hurt, “everyone thought you did. Everyone said you must have gone back to the past. To her. To Peggy.”

Steve’s face pales, and his eyes widen, his shock palpable. “What?” he whispers, as though the words don’t make sense in his mind. “What are you talking about? I didn’t—why would you think I’d—”

“Because you love her, Steve,” you cry, your voice trembling. “You’ve always loved Peggy. She was your everything. She was perfect—smart, brave, beautiful, and… she was from your time. You belonged with her, not here.” Your breath hitches, and you press a hand against your chest, as if you can hold back the ache threatening to overwhelm you. “You’ve always felt out of place in the modern world. I’ve seen it. You’ve said it yourself—this time doesn’t feel like home to you. And when you got the chance, when you had the perfect chance to go back…”

You take a shuddering breath, your voice dropping to a whisper. “Why wouldn’t you? Why wouldn’t you go back to her? The woman you’ve always loved, the life you’ve always wanted. Why wouldn’t you choose that?”

Your voice trails off, the raw vulnerability of your words hanging heavily between you. Your hands shake, and you don’t try to stop the tears streaming down your face. For a long moment, Steve doesn’t move, his gaze fixed on your face. Then, finally, he does. His hands cup your face—and you want to pull away, but you can’t. So steady, so warm—his touch grounds you in a moment where everything else feels like it’s spiraling out of control.

“Because,” he says softly, breaking the silence, “what you’re saying is true… but only in the past tense.”

His words pull you up short, your sobs hitching as you blink at him through the blur of tears. “W-What?” you stammer, your voice cracking.

Steve’s gaze is steady, his blue eyes filled with a mixture of regret and determination. “I used to love Peggy,” he says, his voice low and deliberate, as though willing you to hear every word. “I did. She was my first love. And she’ll always have a place in my story. I can’t change that. I wouldn’t want to. But that’s all it is now—a part of my past. A part of who I was… not who I am.”

You stare at him, the weight of his words sinking into your chest like stones, pressing against the jagged ache of your heart. He brushes a tear from your cheek with his thumb, his touch gentle, and you don’t pull away.

“I used to feel out of place here,” Steve continues, his voice soft but unwavering. “I used to think I’d never belong in this century. That I was just some relic of the past, stuck in a world that moved on without me. And yeah… I used to dream about going back. About what my life with Peggy could’ve been if things had been different. I thought about it all the time.”

He pauses, swallowing hard, his hands slipping down to grasp yours, holding them tightly between you. His grip is firm, grounding, as if he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

“But that’s not what I want anymore,” he says, his voice trembling just slightly. “It hasn’t been for a long time.”

Your breath catches in your throat, and you can only stare at him, your mind reeling. “Steve, I…” you begin weakly, your voice trembling, but he doesn’t let you finish.

“Shh,” he murmurs, his voice soft but steady. His hands move to cradle your face again—gently, like you’re something fragile, something precious. His thumbs continue to trace the path of the tears that won’t stop falling. His gaze locks onto yours with an intensity that makes your breath hitch. “Please, just listen for a moment.”

You nod faintly, the movement almost imperceptible, as you struggle to ground yourself amidst the chaos in your chest.

“I’m sorry,” Steve says, his voice thick with emotion. “I’m so sorry for being late. I should’ve been here sooner. I wanted to be here sooner, but—” He hesitates, his jaw tightening as if the words are difficult to say. “I ran into… trouble. Red Skull.”

Your heart lurches at the name, fear flickering to life in your chest. “What?” you whisper, your voice barely audible.

He shakes his head quickly, as if trying to reassure you. “It’s done. It’s over. I took care of him,” he says firmly. “But because of him, I was delayed—longer than I ever wanted to be.”

His hands fall from your face, but only to take yours in his. His grip is strong, steady, grounding you in a way only he ever could. “And the entire time, all I could think about was you,” he continues, his voice raw with guilt and urgency. “How I needed to get back to you. Every second I wasn’t here, I…” He swallows hard, his voice faltering for the first time. “I kept thinking about how I needed to get back to you—how I could get back to you.”

You feel the sting of fresh tears, your heart twisting painfully. You try to speak again, but he doesn’t give you the chance.

“I know I’ve hurt you,” Steve says, his voice cracking slightly. “I know I made you think… things you never should have had to think. And I hate myself for it. I’ll take whatever you need to give me—yell at me, hit me, anything. I deserve it.” His grip on your hands tightens slightly, his gaze searching yours.

“But I can’t take this—I can’t bear the thought that you ever believed I’d leave you. That, even for a second, you could think I’d choose anything—anyone—over you.”

Your chest tightens, his words crashing over you like a wave.

“I cannot,” he says, his voice quieter now but no less intense. “I can never. Not in this life, or any other.”

The sincerity in his words, the overwhelming emotion in his gaze, leaves you breathless. Your heart aches, and yet, a tiny spark of warmth begins to bloom amidst the pain.

“Steve…” you whisper, your voice breaking.

But he shakes his head, his expression softening even as his eyes glisten. “I’m here,” he whispers. “I’m here, and I’m staying. No matter what you thought before, no matter what anyone else said… I need you to know that. I need you to believe that.”

You stare at him, frozen for a second, as the weight of his words sinks in. And then, without warning, your hands slip from his grasp, and you fling them around his neck, launching yourself into his arms like gravity itself is pulling you toward him.

Steve catches you instinctively, his arms wrapping tightly around your waist, holding you against him as if he never wants to let go. You bury your face in the crook of his neck, and that’s when it all becomes too much. You’ve cried for so long, but in this moment, the anguish and relief overwhelm you, pouring out in uncontrollable sobs that shake your entire body.

Steve doesn’t hesitate. His hands begin to move in soothing circles across your back, and he presses his lips gently to the top of your head, murmuring soft reassurances. “It’s okay,” he whispers. “I’m here. I’m right here. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

The sound of his voice only makes you cry harder, the rawness of it breaking through every defense you have left. Your grip on him tightens, your fingers clutching at the fabric of his suit as though you’re afraid he might vanish if you let go.

Steve just holds you closer, as if he’s trying to shield you from all the pain you’ve felt in his absence. His embrace is strong, steady, and so warm it feels like it’s wrapping around your soul, melting away the icy loneliness that’s gripped you for so long.

Minutes pass—maybe longer; you’re not sure. Time seems to blur as you stand there in his arms, letting yourself feel everything you’ve been holding back. Eventually, the sobs begin to subside, fading into soft hiccups, and you finally manage to pull back just enough to look at him.

Your hands settle on his shoulders as you lift your tear-streaked face, and your blurry vision clears just enough to meet his gaze. The way he’s looking at you takes your breath away. His blue eyes are full of so much emotion—love, relief, guilt, and a tenderness so profound it makes your chest ache.

“I…” Your voice cracks, and you have to swallow hard before trying again. “I thought…” You take a shaky breath, your words spilling out in a rush. “I thought you’d gone back to the past. That you’d… that you’d gone back to Peggy.”

Steve’s brows knit together, his sorrow and regret evident, but you press on, unable to stop now.

“I thought you’d married her,” you continue, your voice trembling. “That you bought a house with one of those wrap-around porches you always talked about. And… and then you two would’ve had kids. A boy and a girl, of course. A perfect little family. And you’d… you’d have finally been happy, Steve. You’d have had the life you always wanted. The life you deserved.”

Your voice cracks again on the last word, and the tears threaten to start anew. You move to lean your head against him, seeking comfort, but then you hear a soft chuckle.

Your head snaps up in confusion, your tear-streaked face twisting into a frown. “Are you laughing at me?” you ask, your voice wobbling somewhere between hurt and disbelief.

Steve shakes his head, his smile small but undeniably warm. “No,” he says gently, his eyes softening as he lifts a hand to brush a tear from your cheek. “No, sweetheart. I just think you’ve got quite the imagination.”

Your frown deepens, your cheeks flushing with indignation. “I’m serious!” you protest, though the slight wobble in your voice makes it less effective.

Steve chuckles softly, his voice low and warm, a soft rumble in his chest as he shakes his head. “I know,” he murmurs, his tone light but carrying a quiet understanding. “I know you’re being serious.”

But then, as his gaze catches yours, something shifts in the air between you. The teasing edge of his voice fades, replaced by something deeper, something tender and raw. It’s the kind of emotion that pulls at your chest and makes your heart skip a beat. He pulls you in a little closer, his hands steady and warm against your waist, his touch grounding you in the moment, steadying you as the world seems to slow.

“Hey,” he says after a moment, his voice now soft but weighted with meaning, like every word carries more than it seems. “Which of these would you like to have first?”

You blink, completely caught off guard, your breath catching in your throat. “What?” you manage to say, your voice cracking just a little, betraying the unexpected wave of emotion crashing over you.

Steve tilts his head slightly, a small but genuine, almost shy smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “The marriage,” he says, his voice almost a whisper, as if he’s afraid of overwhelming you. “The house. Or the kids.” His eyes hold yours for a beat, something vulnerable flickering in their depths, as if he's carefully choosing each word, like he's afraid of missing a detail, afraid to let this moment slip away. “Which one would you like first?”

You freeze, your breath stuck in your chest. For a moment, you can’t even think, let alone respond. His words hang in the air like the softest of promises, carrying the weight of everything that could be—everything that you might one day have. The world around you goes silent, the room suddenly feeling too small, the weight of his question pressing against you like a tangible force. It’s almost overwhelming, this sudden clarity of what he’s offering—what he’s suggesting.

You open your mouth to say something, anything, but no words come. Your mind races, your heart thunders in your chest, trying to process the magnitude of what he’s just asked, the depth of what it means. And then, your emotions surge all at once—flooding, overwhelming, impossible to put into words. The only thing that escapes you is a small, choked laugh—wet with emotion and confusion—and then the tears start again, this time spilling freely down your cheeks.

But these tears feel different. They’re not the kind of tears you’ve shed in sorrow or fear. They feel lighter, sweeter, like a release—like something inside you has finally let go.

Steve’s expression softens even further, if that’s even possible. His gaze is filled with something tender, something protective, like he wants nothing more than to comfort you and carry you through this moment. He cups your cheek with one hand, his touch gentle as he brushes away your tears with the pad of his thumb, his other hand still secure around your waist, keeping you anchored, holding you steady.

“You’re something else, Steve,” you manage to choke out between your sobs, your voice trembling with a mix of awe, affection, and disbelief. “You’re… you’re just something else.”

A grin spreads across Steve’s face, the kind that lights up his entire being, his eyes soft with unshed tears of his own. He lets out a small, soft laugh, his voice thick with emotion as he leans his forehead against yours, closing the space until only the faintest whisper of air remains between you.

“Maybe,” he says, his voice teasing, but there’s an undeniable earnestness behind the words, “but I’m yours.”

You smile softly, your heart swelling with affection as you whisper, “Yeah, you’re mine—as I’m yours.” The words slip from your lips, the unspoken truth between you finally laid bare, and it feels as though everything in the world has settled into place. It’s a quiet admission, but one that resonates deeply, the bond between you now undeniable.

Steve’s smile deepens, a tender, knowing look in his eyes that makes your chest ache with emotion. He moves even closer, his warmth enveloping you, until the smallest sliver of space remains between your lips. His breath mingles with yours, the air thick with the electricity of this moment. When his voice comes again, it’s barely a whisper—soft, intimate, carrying the weight of everything unspoken between you: “As you’re mine.”

Without another word, your lips meet in a kiss—a kiss that is everything words can’t fully capture. At first, it’s gentle, a sweet exploration, both of you savoring the delicate moment. But soon, there’s a shift, an undeniable hunger beneath the surface. A yearning, a need to hold on to this feeling, to keep this moment suspended in time. The rest of the world falls away, leaving only the two of you, wrapped in the warmth of each other’s presence.

Somewhere behind you, you absently register the sound of your living room clock striking twelve, its chimes filling the air with a quiet reverberation. The noise of the celebrations outside, which you had almost forgotten about, suddenly grows louder. And you smile, a soft, contented realization dawning on you: it’s New Year’s.

Steve’s smile against your lips softly reveals that he, too, has come to the same realization.

You melt into the kiss, a quiet sigh of contentment escaping as you sink deeper into his embrace. The weight of the world—of the year, of everything you’ve endured—once again fades into the background, leaving only the tender warmth of his touch and the undeniable sweetness of his presence.

And in the quiet of your heart, you can’t help but think, Happy New Year indeed.

if you've enjoyed this fic and would like to be tagged in my future fanfics, please drop an ask into my inbox! thank you so much for reading this!! <333

[minors and ageless blogs will not be tagged in the nsfw fics, by the way! i'm sorry!!]

steve rogers masterlist || general masterlist

[the-boundless-sea]

a list of stark family moments and details i treasure 🫶

jon telling gilly she has a pretty name when they meet because sansa told him once that he should always tell a lady they have a pretty name upon being introduced (jon iii, acok)

robb sitting up with bran after he goes to bed, trying to cheer his little brother up after his fall by telling him how their mother will be home soon and after they'll do a surprise visit to jon in castle black

and bran realizing robb has started crying as he says this, and so taking on the role of comforter and reaching out to hold his big brother's hand as they sit in the dark (bran iv, agot)

robb being unable to resist correcting catelyn for leaving jon out when she says there were 'five wolves for five stark children' despite trying not to argue with her (catelyn ii, asos)

this acting as an echo of when they found the wolves and it initially appeared there were only five, and jon, arguing they should keep the pups to make bran happy, told ned it was a sign that there were five direwolves for five stark kids. even at 7-years-old, bran understands jon is leaving himself out of the count to make it match and loves his brother "with all his heart at that moment." (bran i, agot)

"he was no true stark, had never been one... but he could die like one. let them say that eddard stark fathered four sons, not three." - jon, as he attempts to leave the night's watch to join robb (jon ix, agot)

"mother. you forget my father had four sons. jon's more a stark than some lordlings from the vale who've never set eyes on winterfell." robb, as he legitimizes jon as a stark, names him his heir, and goes to release him from the night's watch (catelyn v, asos)

jon being so overjoyed when bran wakes up from his coma that he cries, hugs tyrion and runs around castle black telling random guards his brother is going to live (jon iii, agot)

arya and bran teaming up to ambush sansa with a dozen snowballs each and sansa retaliating by chasing arya throughout the castle until she tripped. arya stopping to make sure she wasn't hurt and throwing another snowball at her face when she isn't. sansa pulling arya to to the ground and covering her in snow while they both laugh the whole time.

sansa making a snow model of winterfell after reliving this memory because there's no point in snowballs without someone to throw them at. (sansa vii, asos)

everything about the story of jon and robb's ghost prank in the crypts. robb making sure they have one (1) candle about to flicker out. jon being covered in flour makes him a ghost. bran holding arya's hand and hiding behind robb. sansa just fucking taking off. arya's strategy being to punch a ghost into submission. jon and robb laughing so hard bran and arya can't even stay mad and start laughing too. the fact the entire reason it comes up is it's a memory that makes arya smile and feel brave. (arya iv, agot)

rickon being too young to understand why jon isn't sitting with them like he normally does when the king is visiting and holding up the procession when he sees jon sitting somewhere else. (jon i, agot) he keeps asking why jon isn't sitting with them throughout the feast. (bran iii, acok)

jon telling catelyn he doesn't care if she calls the guards on him, she can't stop him saying goodbye to bran.

robb being able to tell something is off with jon after this takes place, and gently asking if his mother said something and jon lying in response to smooth the situation out. (jon ii, agot)

bran wondering if direwolves miss their brothers and sisters too. (bran i, acok)

jon and robb climbing the towers at winterfell to practice shouting at one another after ned told them it's doesn't matter how brilliant a man is if his men can't hear his commands during a battle. (jon vii, asos)

arya thinking if she could see sansa again she'd kiss her and beg her pardons like a proper lady to make her happy. (arya vii, acok)

sansa, believing her younger brothers to be dead, thinks of how she'll name her sons eddard, bran, and rickon. she pictures them all looking like her "late" brothers and sometimes dreams they'll have a girl who looks like arya too. (sansa ii, asos)

when jon imagines leaving the night's watch, he thinks wistfully of having a son named robb. he also fantasizes gilly's son and mance's son would grow up as pseudo-twin brothers like him and robb (jon xii, asos)

the boys would all share a bed to stay warm whenever it got cold. i love to picture this after they got the direwolves so the humans and wolves are all in one big puppy pile. (jon vi, acok) jon also says he would lay up at night while his brothers slept next to him and make his plans to join the night's watch (jon i, agot), so in this mental picture i have all the other boys are dead asleep, while jon super seriously explains his plans to ghost at 3am.

whenever she's on the verge of reuniting with other family members, arya worries they won't want her anymore because of what she's had to do to survive. but when she thinks of reuniting with jon, she thinks "jon will want me. even if no one else does." (arya xii, asos)

bran, sansa, and arya all saying they have to be as brave or as strong as robb when they're hyping themselves up. (bran iv, asos; sansa iv, asos; arya ii, agot) jon dreaming of being "as good and true a son as robb." (jon x, asos) he's literally the golden standard for all his siblings.

robb's ghost showing up in both jon and arya's dreams, with neither one recognizing him (jon viii, asos; cat of the canals, affc)

bran being jealous of jon for thinking of the name ghost first for his direwolf because it sounds so cool while being so disdainful of rickon deciding to call his shaggydog. (bran ii, agot)

jon continuing to hope bran and rickon's consciousnesses live on in their direwolves when he believes them dead. (jon i, adwd; jon viii, asos)

bran wanting to be a wolf so he could find arya and sansa and protect robb in battle so they could all return to winterfell. (bran i, acok)

jon remembering how bran would always follow him and robb everywhere and try join in on whatever they were doing. (jon iii, agot)

rickon following robb everywhere and physically clinging to robb after their other siblings and parents are gone. robb arguing with catelyn over how scared and abandoned rickon feels with her gone. (catelyn iii, agot)

after bran wakes, rickon cries if robb's away more than half a day and asks bran when robb is coming back (bran iv, agot). when robb goes south, rickon melts down so much that he won't eat - he just screams and cries all day and attacks adults who try to comfort him. (bran vi, agot)

jon imagining both his sisters' reactions to seeing the beautiful morning frost at craster's. he pictures sansa crying from how magical it looks and arya running to touch everything he can. (jon iii, acok)

robb and jon's bickering devolving into a race where robb is laughing and hooting and jon is super serious and intent on winning, in a way that implies this is the norm for them. (bran i, agot)

not just summer, but shaggy and grey wind also howl in mourning when bran's in his coma. robb opens the window in bran's room so bran can "hear them sing." (catelyn iii, agot)

when bran hears the wolves howling again he worries it means somethings happened to one of his siblings. (bran i, acok)

jon and arya are so in tune they'd regularly speak in unison. (jon ii, agot; arya i, asos; arya i, acok; jon iii, agot)

jon and robb building a "great mountain" of snow to dump on whoever walks under the gate, even getting mance fucking rayder to be their accomplice, and then getting chased around the yard by their poor victim fat tom until their faces are "red as autumn apples." (jon i, asos)

rickon immediately asking if robb's coming home upon seeing a letter from him and upon being told no tells maester luwin to write robb back and tell him to come home and bring grey wolf and their parents back too. (bran v, acok)

the fact rickon specifically mentions he should bring grey wind back too, because we saw him playing with grey wind, summer, and shaggydog when his siblings were all gone or busy. they were basically his only friends for a time. (bran iv, agot)

when tyrion leaves to head back to winterfell, jon tells him that rickon will ask when he's coming back and to try explain it to him, and also adds to tell him he can have all his stuff while he's gone, which is just such cute little sibling thing, but also shows how even then jon thinks of the night's watch as being away; winterfell is still his home that he'll come back to one day.

he also tells tyrion to tell robb that he can melt down his sword and take up needlework because jon's going to command the night's watch and keep him safe. and of course, his pleas for tyrion to find a way to help bran are what lead tyrion to give bran his new saddle. (jon iii, agot)

despite his mistrust of tyrion and the lannisters, robb offers to let tyrion stay at winterfell after he sees how much his gift means to bran. (bran iv, agot)

robb no longer believing the direwolves were sent by the old gods after bran and rickon were believed dead, because what was the point of a gift from the gods if it didn't keep his brothers safe? (catelyn ii, asos)

bran going to the godswood to pray that robb doesn't have to leave and then adding if he does to have to leave to make it so he comes home with their sisters and parents and that rickon will understand what's happening. (bran vi, agot)

when jon and sansa remember robb after his death they both picture him with snowflakes melting in his hair, the way he was when they left winterfell. (jon xiii, adwd; sansa viii, asos)

when seeing sam off, the last thing jon says is for sam to put his hood up because the snow's melting in his hair, and sam notes the strange smile on his face when he says it. (samwell i, affc)

bran arguing lord hornwood's son out of wedlock should be named his heir, thinking of jon. (bran ii, acok)

robb being so upset when catelyn compares jon to theon that grey wind hops onto the crypt and bares his teeth at her. (catelyn v, asos)

jon wondering if ever really had any right to call arya his sister, saying he was as out of place as theon at winterfell. (jon iii, asos)

just... the contrast of jon thinking about sansa, and how since she became old enough to understand what a bastard is she's only ever referred to him as her "half-brother", but he misses her anyways... and sansa missing jon while living as alayne, calling him the only brother that remains to her and thinking "i'm a bastard too now, just like him." (jon iii, agot; alayne ii, affc)

robb also calling jon the only brother who remains to him. arya calling jon the only brother she has left. (catelyn v, asos; arya xii, asos)

rickon crying and refusing to leave bran until he's physically forced off. (bran vii, acok)

every word of this sentence shatters me: "every morning they had trained together, since they were big enough to walk; snow and stark, spinning and slashing about the wards of winterfell, shouting and laughing, sometimes crying when there was no one else to see." (jon xii, asos)

ok now the angsty part

like! jon is having this flashback because he feels guilty and conflicted over stannis's offer to legitimize him and name him heir to winterfell, never knowing that's exactly what robb wanted.

(jon xii, asos)

(catelyn v, asos)

he keeps remembering robb calling him a bastard as a mental chastisement for daring to put himself on their level, but one of robb's very last acts on earth was to name him jon stark!! bran wanted lord hornwood's illegitimate son to be allowed to succeed him because of jon!! jon doesn't think he counts as arya's brother. but he's the one she misses the most, the only one whose unconditional love she never doubts!! jon!!!

(jon xi, asos)

and yet! despite all the shame and guilt, the thing that ultimately stops him from accepting stannis's offer is his belief that the old gods sent the stark siblings their direwolves, and he can't betray his family's gods! that's what makes his decision, above all else!

(jon xii, asos)

[mommykye]

All demands

young!Ambessa Medarda x pregnant!wife!reader

summary: Ambessa gives into her wife’s demands

warnings: you guessed it, smut. ambessa’s has a dick

request are open

masterlist

The estate of Ambessa stood as a testament to power and refined brutality. Hewn from massive blocks of stark white and deep black marble, the imposing structure dominated the surrounding landscape, a physical manifestation of the formidable woman who resided within its walls. Even under the muted, overcast sky that perpetually seemed to hang over Noxus, the polished surfaces gleamed, the contrasting colors a deliberate and meaningful choice made years prior by Y/N. It was her subtle, constant reminder of the intricate balance she perceived within her wife – a dance between ruthless strength and unexpected tenderness.

Inside, the cool, echoing halls stretched into seemingly endless perspectives, the silence broken only by the soft, almost imperceptible padding of Y/N's bare feet against the smooth, unyielding floor. Despite the advanced stage of her pregnancy, the five-month swell preceding her like a proud banner, she moved with a fluid grace that spoke of her royal upbringing. At twenty-eight, Y/N possessed a maturity and poise that both complemented and subtly contrasted Ambessa’s own intense, almost volatile energy.

She found her wife in the strategy room, a chamber that hummed with the silent language of war and conquest. Massive maps, depicting conquered territories and potential battlefields in intricate detail, were spread across a colossal table of polished stone. Flanking this table were intricately carved chairs of polished darkwood, silent witnesses to countless hours of planning and deliberation. Ambessa, a towering figure even when seated, was hunched over a particularly detailed map of a volatile border region, her brow furrowed in the deep lines of intense concentration. A single, focused beam of light pierced through a narrow aperture in the high ceiling, illuminating the scene below like a macabre yet captivating painting, highlighting the stark angles of Ambessa’s face and the unforgiving lines of the maps.

Ambessa exuded a raw, untamed power, a force of nature barely contained by the stone and mortar of the room. She was a study in contrasts, a paradox of brutal efficiency and unexpected depths. Her face, often stern and unyielding, softened almost imperceptibly as she sensed Y/N's presence, a subtle shift that only Y/N had learned to recognize. Her golden eyes, usually sharp and assessing, held a fleeting flicker of warmth, a private ember lit only for her wife. Her powerful frame, honed from years spent on the battlefield and in rigorous training, was still, yet it emanated an aura of controlled strength, a coiled tension that spoke of her readiness for any challenge. She looked every bit the Noxian warlord, a woman who commanded respect and fear in equal measure. Her hair, the color of midnight, was pulled back from her face in a tight, intricate braid, revealing the strong lines of her jaw and the high, sharp planes of her cheekbones. She wore simple, functional clothing: dark, plain tunic, practical attire for a life spent navigating both the complexities of the war room inside their home and, as Y/N knew with intimate familiarity, the passionate entanglements of their shared bedchamber.

Y/N leaned against the heavy stone doorframe, her arms crossed beneath her burgeoning breasts, observing her wife for a long moment. She knew this room intimately, knew the intricate details of the maps, knew the brilliant, ruthless strategic mind that worked tirelessly behind those intense eyes. But more importantly, she knew the woman beneath the warlord, the woman who, for the past decade, had been her wife, her lover, her anchor in the often-turbulent seas of Noxian politics. Their shared history stretched back to a chance encounter during a delicate diplomatic mission years ago, a clash of wills that had unexpectedly and fiercely blossomed into an enduring love, a bond forged in mutual respect and undeniable passion.

Y/N had been immediately drawn to Ambessa's unwavering conviction, her fierce loyalty, and the barely leashed passion that simmered beneath her formidable exterior. Ambessa, in turn, had been captivated by Y/N's regal bearing, her sharp intellect that could dissect political intricacies with effortless grace, and the surprising vulnerability she occasionally allowed to surface, a fleeting glimpse behind the carefully constructed walls that she herself had conquered to earn a blissful life.

"You'll strain your eyes in this light," Y/N said, her voice a low, melodious drawl that broke the heavy silence of the room. It was a voice that had once commanded audiences, swayed councils with its persuasive cadence, but now, it held a unique intimacy, a silken thread woven into the rich tapestry of their shared life, reserved almost exclusively for Ambessa.

Ambessa glanced up, her sharp expression shifting almost imperceptibly from focused concentration to something softer, something that bordered on a rare and cherished amusement. "And you'll strain your back, standing there. Come, wife." She gestured to the chair beside her, the one usually reserved for her most trusted advisors, a silent yet profound acknowledgment of Y/N's pivotal role in her life, both personally and politically.

Y/N pushed herself off the doorframe, her movements still fluid and deliberate despite the gentle yet undeniable sway of her pregnant form. She walked towards the massive table, her bare feet making no sound on the polished floor. She reached Ambessa and, instead of taking the offered seat, she settled onto Ambessa's lap, facing her. The weight of her, the solid curve of her belly pressing intimately against Ambessa's chest, was a familiar and welcome sensation, a tangible connection that grounded them both.

Ambessa's dark eyebrows rose slightly, a silent question in their sharp arch, but she didn't protest. This was Y/N. This was how she was, especially now, with the heightened emotions and insistent desires that seemed to accompany the burgeoning life within her. Ambessa found a certain possessive satisfaction in Y/N's unwavering need for her, a primal pull that mirrored her own fierce devotion.

"Is that wise?" Ambessa asked, her voice a low rumble that vibrated against Y/N's back. "With the precious thing you carry?" Her large, calloused hand instinctively went to Y/N's rounded stomach, her touch gentle, a stark contrast to the brutal strength of her warrior's hands.

Y/N snorted softly, a sound that was both elegant and utterly irreverent. "I'm hardly made of glass, Ambessa. And I'm certainly not an invalid." She shifted slightly, adjusting her position so she was more comfortable, her hands resting on Ambessa's broad shoulders, her fingers digging lightly into the hard leather of her armor. Her eyes, dilated into the color of a stormy sea just before a tempest, locked onto Ambessa's. "Besides, I have a need."

Ambessa's gaze darkened, a slow, possessive burn igniting within their depths. "A need?" The single word was laced with a possessive curiosity, a hint of anticipation.

Y/N's lips curved into a sultry smile, a flash of the regal power that still resided within her, a power that Ambessa found endlessly alluring. "A very specific need. One that only you can satisfy." Her voice was a husky whisper, laced with a demanding edge that would have sent lesser beings scrambling for cover. But Ambessa was not a lesser being. She was Ambessa Medarda, and this woman, this demanding, pregnant woman, was her wife. And she found it exhilarating. The inherent power dynamic in their relationship, the constant push and pull of dominance and submission, was a source of intense and mutual pleasure, a silent language they both understood intimately.

"And what need is that, my demanding one?" Ambessa asked, her voice a low growl that resonated deep within Y/N, stirring a familiar heat in her core. Her hands settled on Y/N's hips, her strong fingers tracing the curve of her swollen belly, a silent acknowledgment of the life they had created together, a life that now amplified Y/N’s desires.

Y/N leaned closer, her breath warm against Ambessa's face, carrying the faint, exotic scent of the tea she favored, a fragrance that Ambessa had come to associate with her. "I need you, Ambessa. I need you inside me. Now." The directness of the request, the complete lack of preamble or coyness, was a deliberate act, a testament to the raw intimacy and uninhibited passion they shared. The sheer audacity of it, even in the relative privacy of their own estate, sent a jolt of pure, unadulterated desire through Ambessa. It was this very quality – this fearless, unapologetic desire – that had captivated her from the moment their paths had crossed. Y/N had never been one to shy away from what she wanted, even when what she wanted was the formidable Ambessa Medarda.

"Now?" Ambessa echoed, her voice a dangerous purr, her grip tightening slightly on Y/N's hips. "Here? On the strategy table?" The thought was undeniably arousing, the forbidden juxtaposition of war and intimacy, of strategic planning and raw, primal desire, a potent combination that resonated with the core of her being, a thrilling transgression against the very order she often imposed.

Y/N's smile widened, a predatory gleam in her stormy eyes. "The table is large. And sturdy. Much like its owner." She jokes, trailing a hand down Ambessa's chest, feeling the solid muscle beneath the fabric, the steady beat of her wife's heart quickening beneath her touch. "And the thought of you, taking me here, surrounded by your maps, your plans, the idea of being caught, it excites me." Her eyes gleamed with a primal hunger, a reflection of the deep, almost visceral connection they shared, a bond that transcended the battlefield and the intricate dance of Noxian politics. Pregnancy had amplified her desires, stripping away any lingering pretense of demureness. She was raw, demanding, and utterly irresistible in her newfound intensity.

Ambessa's control, always there, wavered precariously. The intoxicating combination of Y/N's scent – a heady mix of exotic perfumes and the subtle, musky undertones of arousal – her nearness, the warm weight of her in her lap, and the sheer eroticism of the request was almost overwhelming, threatening to shatter the carefully constructed walls of her composure. The strategic maps, the very symbols of her power and ambition, suddenly seemed insignificant, mere parchment and ink compared to the vibrant, demanding woman in her arms.

"You are…insatiable," Ambessa murmured, her voice thick with burgeoning desire, her thumb tracing the delicate curve of Y/N's jawline, a possessive caress.

"Only for you," Y/N purred back, her fingers now playing with the edge of Ambessa's collar, her touch both possessive and exquisitely provocative. "And the babe. The babe wants its mother happy." She knew how to manipulate Ambessa, how to crack the littlest of pressure points, continue on their growing family, into the tapestry of her desires, a subtle yet effective leverage.

Ambessa knew, with a certainty that resonated deep within her, that Y/N was using the pregnancy, using the innocent babe, to get exactly what she wanted. And, truth be told, she didn't care in the slightest. The thought of Y/N, carrying their child, craving her with such unbridled intensity, was a potent aphrodisiac, a constant reminder of the deep and unbreakable bond they shared, a testament to the love that lay beneath the surface of their often-brutal world.

"And what if I were to say no?" Ambessa challenged, her voice low and husky, a playful edge to her tone, though the heat in her eyes betrayed her true desire.

Y/N's smile turned predatory, a flash of sharp teeth beneath her full lips. "You wouldn't." It wasn't a question, not even a hint of doubt. It was a statement of absolute fact, born of years of shared intimacy and a profound understanding of her wife's deepest desires. Y/N knew the fire that burned beneath Ambessa's controlled exterior, the fierce passion that Ambessa rarely unleashed on anyone but her. She knew that Ambessa was as utterly enthralled by her as she was by Ambessa. And she was right. Ambessa wouldn't say no. Not when Y/N looked at her like that, her stormy eyes blazing with unadulterated need, her body radiating a palpable heat. Not when the thought of possessing her, of filling her, right here, right now, was so utterly compelling, so deliciously forbidden.

With a swift, decisive movement that spoke of her inherent strength and unwavering resolve, Ambessa stood, lifting Y/N with her as if she weighed nothing, her powerful muscles belying the delicate nature of her precious cargo. She didn't break eye contact, her dark gaze locked intently on Y/N's, her own desire a tangible force that crackled in the air between them.

"Then let us not waste any more time," Ambessa said, her voice a low growl that sent shivers of anticipation down Y/N's spine. Instead of turning towards the hidden doorway that led to the privacy of their opulent chambers, Ambessa took a deliberate step back, positioning herself firmly between Y/N's legs, the cool, smooth surface of the massive stone table pressing against the backs of Y/N's thighs.

Y/N's breath hitched, a sharp gasp of surprise and burgeoning excitement. She had instinctively expected their usual retreat to the secluded intimacy of their rooms, but this…this was a delicious deviation, a raw and impulsive act that spoke volumes about the intensity of Ambessa's desire, a willingness to transgress the boundaries of their usual rituals.

Ambessa's hands tightened on Y/N's hips, steadying her as she subtly shifted her weight, ensuring her wife's comfort while simultaneously asserting her control. The cool, unyielding surface of the table was a stark and thrilling contrast to the rising heat radiating from their intertwined bodies. The maps, the carefully laid plans of conquest and dominion, were now beneath Y/N, a silent and potent testament to the fact that, in this moment, nothing in the vast Noxian empire held more significance than the fierce and undeniable connection between them.

"Ambessa…" Y/N breathed, her voice laced with a mixture of surprise and rapidly escalating excitement.

"You wanted me now," Ambessa murmured, her gaze dropping momentarily to the gentle swell of Y/N's belly, then rising again to meet her eyes, a possessive gleam in their dark depths. "And I aim to please."

With deliberate, almost ritualistic movements, Ambessa reached down and began to unbuckle the fastenings of her dark clothing, the soft clinking of metal echoing in the heavy silence of the room, each small sound amplifying the growing tension between them. Y/N watched her, her heart pounding a heavy rhythm against her ribs, her own desire intensifying with each passing moment as the warlord began to shed her layers. The controlled exterior was slowly giving way to the passionate lover beneath.

Ambessa’s pants fell to the floor with a soft thud, leaving her in the tunic. Her strong, calloused hands then moved to the hem of Y/N’s flowing gown, the supple fabric offering little resistance to her touch, sending shivers of anticipation dancing across Y/N’s skin. Ambessa slowly pushed the gown upwards, revealing the delicate curve of Y/N’s bare legs, the soft skin flushed with rising desire.

Y/N instinctively wrapped her legs around Ambessa’s waist, pulling her closer, the intimate friction igniting a spark that threatened to consume them both. The feeling of Ambessa’s hard, muscled body pressed intimately against her own, the life within her a soft, precious cushion between them, was intoxicating, a tangible reminder of their shared love and future.

Ambessa’s hands continued their exploration, tracing the delicate curve of Y/N’s thighs, the gentle swell of her hips, her touch both possessive and reverent, acknowledging the beautiful changes that pregnancy had wrought upon Y/N’s body, changes that Ambessa found undeniably alluring, a testament to their shared creation.

"You are magnificent," Ambessa murmured, her voice thick with desire, her lips brushing against the sensitive skin of Y/N's neck, sending a jolt of pure sensation through her. "Every curve, every swell…you are breathtaking."

Y/N tilted her head back, allowing Ambessa greater access, her own breath coming in short, shallow gasps. "And you are taking far too long," she whispered, her own impatience growing with each teasing, passing moment. The intoxicating scent of Ambessa, a heady mix of leather and musk and something uniquely her own, filled her senses, further fueling the insistent ache within her.

Ambessa chuckled softly, a low rumble against Y/N’s skin that vibrated through her very core. "Patience, my love. What is worth having is worth savoring." But even as she spoke the words, her actions belied her claim. Her hands moved with increasing urgency, pushing Y/N’s gown higher, until it was bunched around her waist, exposing the soft skin of her thighs and the delicate curve of her pregnant belly as she places a soft kiss to her cheek.

Y/N reached down and gripped Ambessa’s tunic, pulling it upwards with a demanding tug. She wanted to feel Ambessa’s bare skin against hers, the raw heat of her body a tangible reassurance of her desire. Ambessa obliged without hesitation, stripping off the tunic and tossing it carelessly aside, her eyes never leaving Y/N’s, their depths filled with a primal hunger.

The contrast between them was stark and beautiful, a testament to the complementary nature of their desires. Y/N, with her softer, more yielding curves and the delicate flush of arousal blooming on her skin, and Ambessa, all hard muscle and controlled power, her eyes burning with an intensity that mirrored Y/N's own. They were two halves of a whole, their differences only serving to amplify the intense and undeniable connection between them.

Ambessa’s hands returned to Y/N’s hips, her strong thumbs pressing into the sensitive skin just above her pelvic bones, eliciting a sharp intake of breath from Y/N. "Tell me what you want," Ambessa commanded, her voice a low growl that resonated deep within Y/N, stirring the insistent ache in her core. "Tell me exactly what you need."

Y/N’s eyes darkened with a primal desire. "I want you inside me, Ambessa. Deep inside. I want to feel you filling me, claiming me, making me yours." The words were a raw, uninhibited expression of her need, a testament to the deep physical and emotional connection they shared, a bond that transcended the constraints of their often-brutal world.

Ambessa’s gaze intensified, a possessive fire burning within their depths. "And you shall have it, my queen." Ambessa pulls down the remainder of her clothing, allowing it to pool at her ankles, revealing the hard, undeniable length of her desire straining against her dark undergarments. The air in the strategy room crackled with an almost palpable anticipation, thick with unspoken desires and the promise of raw intimacy. The maps beneath Y/N, depicting the strategic layouts of conquered territories and potential future campaigns, became silent witnesses to their passionate encounter, the intricate lines and symbols of war momentarily forgotten in the face of a more primal, all-consuming need.

Ambessa positioned herself more firmly between Y/N’s parted legs, her strong hands sliding beneath her wife’s thighs, lifting them higher, arching Y/N’s back against the cool stone. Y/N instinctively tightened her grip on the edge of the table, her body already anticipating the exquisite pleasure to come, her hips tilting upwards in silent invitation.

The first touch was electric, a searing spark that ignited a raging firestorm of desire within them both. Ambessa’s entry was slow and deliberate, a tender consideration for the life they were creating, allowing Y/N’s body to adjust to her size, yet the intensity of their connection was immediate and undeniable, a visceral merging of two souls bound by fierce love and insatiable desire.

Y/N gasped, a sharp, involuntary sound escaping her lips, her head falling back against the cool stone, unyielding marble as she felt Ambessa fill her, stretching her, claiming her in a way that transcended mere physical intimacy. Ambessa paused, her hands gripping Y/N’s thighs, her dark eyes locked intently on her wife’s flushed face, searching for any sign of discomfort.

"Does it feel good, my love?" she murmured, her voice thick with desire, a hint of tenderness lacing her usual commanding tone.

"Yes," Y/N breathed, reaching out to grab onto Ambessa’s shoulders allowing her fingers to dig into the muscle, her body already beginning to move instinctively against hers. "Oh, yes. But don't be so gentle, Ambessa. I need you rougher. I want to feel you." The words, a raw expression of her heightened desires, hung heavy in the air, a direct challenge to Ambessa’s initial tenderness.

A flicker of something primal ignited in Ambessa’s eyes. The warlord in her recognized and responded to the demand. With a low growl that rumbled deep in her chest, she surged forward, slamming into Y/N with a force that made her cry out, yet she remained acutely aware of the precious life they carried, her movements powerful but carefully controlled.

"Pregnant whore," Ambessa growled, the words a rough caress against Y/N’s ear, a dirty endearment that sent a fresh wave of heat coursing through her. "You want me rough, you'll have it."

"Yes," Y/N gasped, meeting Ambessa’s fierce gaze with a hunger of her own. "Fuck me, Ambessa. Like you mean it. Make me feel this."

And Ambessa obliged, her movements becoming more insistent, more demanding, yet always mindful. The rhythm of their bodies intertwined, a primal dance of need and fulfillment, a language spoken in the thrust and parry of their hips, in the ragged gasps that escaped their lips. The only sounds in the room were their increasingly frantic breaths and the soft thud of Ambessa’s powerful body against Y/N’s.

Y/N’s senses heightened, every nerve ending alive and tingling. The intoxicating scent of Ambessa filled her nostrils, the feel of her wife’s hard, muscled body pressed against her own was a potent aphrodisiac. The pressure deep within her grew with each forceful thrust, building towards a crescendo of exquisite pleasure.

"That's it," Y/N moaned, her hips bucking against Ambessa’s. "Harder, Ambessa."

Ambessa’s movements became more demanding, her controlled strength unleashed in a torrent of raw passion, her own control beginning to slip as her desire surged, threatening to overwhelm her. She leaned down, her lips finding the sensitive curve of Y/N’s neck, her teeth gently nipping at the soft skin, eliciting a sharp cry from her wife.

"You feel so good," Ambessa grunted, her breath hot against Y/N’s skin. "So tight."

"And you feel like heaven," Y/N gasped, her body arching higher against Ambessa’s, her legs tightening around her waist, pulling her deeper. The strategic maps beneath them rustled and shifted with their frantic movements, the carefully drawn lines of conquered territories and potential battlefields becoming increasingly blurred and insignificant in the face of their primal embrace.

"Tell me you're mine," Ambessa commanded, her voice thick with possessive desire.

"I'm yours," Y/N cried out, her voice raw with passion. "Always yours, you brute."

In this moment, there was no Noxian warlord and no past royal. There were only two women, deeply in love and fiercely connected, lost in the all-consuming intensity of their shared desire, their bodies moving as one. Ambessa’s pace quickened, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. She could feel Y/N’s body clenching around her, the unmistakable signs of her impending release.

"Y/N…" Ambessa groaned, her own carefully constructed control finally shattering.

Y/N cried out again, a long, keening sound that echoed in the silent room, her body convulsing around Ambessa’s. Waves of intense, exquisite pleasure washed over her, each one more powerful than the last, threatening to drown her in sensation. She clung to Ambessa, her nails digging into her wife’s back leaving long red lines, her head thrown back against the cool obsidian in an expression of pure ecstasy.

Ambessa held her tight, her powerful arms wrapped securely around Y/N’s trembling body, riding out the waves of her wife’s pleasure, her own release following swiftly on its heels, a guttural roar escaping her lips as she poured herself into Y/N. She buried her face in Y/N’s neck, her body shaking with the force of her orgasm, the scent of just straight Y/N filling the air around her.

They remained locked together for a long moment, their breathing slowly returning to a semblance of normalcy, the echoes of their passionate encounter still reverberating in the heavy silence of the strategy room. The weight of Y/N’s pregnant belly pressed intimately against Ambessa, a tangible and precious reminder of the life they had created, the future they shared, a future born from their fierce love and unyielding passion.

Finally, Ambessa pulled back slightly, her eyes filled with a tenderness that she rarely showed to anyone else, a vulnerability reserved solely for Y/N. She gently brushed a stray strand of sweat-dampened hair from Y/N’s flushed forehead, her touch surprisingly delicate.

"Are you alright, my love?" she murmured, her voice still rough with the remnants of passion.

Y/N smiled, a soft, contented expression spreading across her face, her stormy eyes now filled with a peaceful serenity. "More than alright," she whispered back, her voice still slightly breathless. "Perfect."

Ambessa leaned down and kissed her gently, a lingering touch that spoke volumes of the deep love and unbreakable connection between them, a silent promise of more to come.

"We should move," Ambessa said eventually, gesturing to the rumpled maps beneath them with a wry smile playing on her lips. "Lest our strategic planning become compromised."

Y/N chuckled softly, a warm, throaty sound. "Perhaps. Though I daresay we've just engaged in a different kind of strategic maneuver."

Ambessa’s eyes darkened again, a hint of the possessive fire rekindling within their depths. "Indeed. And one I find far more rewarding." She carefully disentangled herself from Y/N, her movements surprisingly gentle considering the raw passion they had just shared. She then lifted Y/N with the same effortless strength, cradling her in her arms.

"Where shall we go, my queen?" Ambessa murmured, carrying her towards the hidden doorway that led to their private chambers.

"Our bed," Y/N whispered, nuzzling against Ambessa’s neck. "And then perhaps we can discuss further strategic engagements."

Ambessa’s lips curved into a predatory smile. "I believe that can be arranged." She stepped through the hidden door, leaving the rumpled maps and the echoes of their passion behind, carrying her beloved wife towards the sanctuary of their shared chambers, the promise of more intimate battles hanging sweetly in the air.

[jellyfishsthings]

Lazy Days In

WARNINGS: sickenly cute and fluffy. Dad Spencer with his adorable family... tried to give the kids some some personality and being supportive of each others hobbies/interests

requests are open

The sun streamed through the kitchen window, casting dappled patterns across the table where a small mountain of Lego bricks, scattered drawings, and half-eaten toast coexisted in a chaotic harmony. Spencer Reid, a man whose intelligence rivaled his son’s towering Lego creations, stood at the sink, rinsing off a plate while humming a tune that was a mix of classical and some catchy children's song. 

“Hey, Spence,” you called from the living room, where the sound of clattering toys and giggles filled the air. “Can you bring me the—”

“Dinosaur?” he interrupted, a teasing lilt in his voice. He turned, a dish towel slung over his shoulder, his deep brown eyes sparkling with mischief. “Or should I get the princess crown for Diana?”

You chuckled, glancing over your shoulder to see your oldest, Diana, spinning in circles with a sparkly tiara atop her head. “Definitely the crown for our little princess,” you replied, grinning.

“Got it!” He finished rinsing the plate and walked over, his long legs making quick work of the distance. He plopped the crown onto Diana’s head with a flourish. “Your Highness, may I present your royal Lego castle?” 

Diana clapped her hands, a high-pitched squeal escaping her lips. “Yay! Daddy, you’re the best!” 

“Not as good as your mother, of course,” he added, winking at you.

Your heart swelled. Spencer wasn’t just a brilliant mind; he was the kind of dad who made every day feel like magic. “Okay, King Spencer, time to get our little dinosaurs wrangled. Avery needs some attention before she turns into a T-Rex herself.”

With a laugh, Spencer moved to the playpen in the corner of the room, where Avery, their youngest, was propped up with a plush dinosaur. She babbled happily, her round cheeks squished against the soft fabric. “Rawr!” she squealed, waving her tiny arms.

“Look, everyone!” Spencer exclaimed, crouching down to Avery’s level. “We have a fierce dinosaur here! What do we do when a dinosaur is loose in the house?”

“Run!” shouted Gideon, your five-year-old, who was currently building a fortress of Legos, his dark hair falling into his eyes.

“Or feed it!” Diana added, twirling again, her tiara sparkling in the sunlight.

“Excellent ideas!” Spencer said, pretending to look worried. “But I think we should feed it some very special food.” He picked up a rubber dinosaur from Avery’s playpen and held it up dramatically. “How about this? A delicious, squishy, organic dino!”

Gideon burst into laughter, a sound that always warms your heart. “Dad, that’s not real food!”

“Are you sure?” Spencer asked, giving the dinosaur a thoughtful look. “It’s a very nutritious rubber dinosaur. Packed with vitamins!” 

The laughter in the room was infectious, echoing off the walls of your cozy home. You couldn't help but join in, your laughter mingling with the children's joyful noises. 

“Okay, how about we feed Avery some actual food instead?” you suggested, wiping tears of mirth from your eyes. “Spencer, you take care of that while I get lunch ready?”

“Sure! Avery, what do you say to a feast fit for a dinosaur?” Spencer said, reaching into the fridge for some mashed bananas, the perfect dino snack.

With Avery happily munching and your other children immersed in their games, you slipped into the kitchen, the familiar scent of peanut butter and jelly filling the air. As you spread the sticky substance on bread, you glanced back at Spencer. He was making silly faces at Avery, who was giggling and smearing bananas across her tiny mouth.

“Mommy!” Diana cried, her voice cutting through the lighthearted chaos. “Can we have a royal picnic after lunch?”

“A picnic?” you echoed, pausing mid-spread. “What a wonderful idea! We can set up blankets in the backyard!”

“Can we have dinosaurs and Legos at the picnic?” Gideon asked, his eyes sparkling with excitement.

“Of course! We can have a dinosaur picnic!” you agreed, grinning at their enthusiasm. 

“Rawr!” Avery squealed again, her little hands reaching for more bananas.

“Rawr!” Spencer echoed, making her laugh once more. “I think we have a dino expert right here!”

“Dino expert!” Avery repeated, clapping her hands together.

After lunch, you all gathered supplies for the picnic. The kids raced around the house, gathering their favorite toys, while Spencer and you laid out blankets in the sun-drenched yard. The backyard was your little paradise, with colorful flowers blooming, their sweet fragrance wafting through the air, and the sound of birds chirping in the trees.

“Okay, everyone! Are we ready for the royal dino picnic?” you announced, spreading the blankets out under a large oak tree.

“Yay!” The kids cheered in unison, their voices ringing out like a chorus of joy.

As you settled down, Diana arranged her princess dolls next to Avery’s dinosaurs, while Gideon built a Lego fortress to protect them all from imaginary storms. In a matter of moments, laughter filled the air as they played their games, and you took a moment to just watch, heart full.

Spencer laid back on the blanket beside you, his head resting on his hands, a soft smile on his face. “This is nice,” he said, glancing over at you. 

“It really is,” you agreed, leaning back on your elbows. 

“Do you think we could do this every weekend?” he asked, his tone casual but laced with sincerity.

“Every weekend sounds perfect,” you said, your heart fluttering at the thought of endless afternoons like this.

Spencer turned his head, propping himself up on one elbow to look at you more intently. “You know, I’ve been thinking…” 

“Uhoh. That usually means trouble,” you teased, raising an eyebrow.

He chuckled softly, shaking his head. “No, really. I mean, we’ve been so happy with the kids, and I know we’ve talked about it before…”

“What?” you prompted, curiosity piqued. 

“Having another baby,” he said, his voice lowering slightly as if he were revealing a secret.

Your heart raced. “You want to have another baby?” 

“Yeah,” he said, his gaze earnest. “I mean, if you’re okay with it. I’d love to have as many kids as you want. As many as you can give me.”

“Spencer, that’s a big decision,” you replied, feeling a mixture of excitement and hesitation. “We already have four!”

“I know,” he said, his voice softening. “But look at these three. They’re amazing, and I love being a dad. I could do this forever.” 

You smiled, imagining another little one crawling around the house, adding to the beautiful chaos. “You really think we could handle another?”

“I think we could handle anything together,” he said, reaching for your hand, intertwining your fingers. 

Before you could respond, Gideon interrupted, his voice loud and filled with the seriousness only a five-year-old could muster. “But Daddy, you already ate like a dinosaur! You can’t eat another one!”

Spencer burst out laughing, the sound light and contagious. “I didn’t eat a dinosaur! I just had lunch!”

“Then how are you going to have another baby?” Diana chimed in, her brow furrowed in concentration. 

“Uh…” Spencer stammered, glancing at you for help.

You bit back a laugh, shaking your head. “It’s not about eating dinosaurs, sweetheart. It’s about love and family.”

“Oh!” Diana said, her face brightening. “So we can just love the baby?”

“Exactly!” you replied, beaming at her. 

Baby Victoria gurgled in agreement, her tiny hands reaching for Spencer's face, eager for attention as she roused from her nap.

“Does that mean we can have more toys?” Gideon asked, his eyes wide with hope.

“More toys and more love,” Spencer confirmed, his gaze lingering on you, warmth radiating from his expression.

“I want a sister who likes princesses,” Diana declared, her tone matter-of-fact. 

“And a brother who likes dinosaurs!” Gideon added quickly, nodding emphatically.

“Why not both?” Spencer suggested, a playful grin spreading across his face. “A little sister who’s a princess-dinosaur hybrid!”

“That’s silly!” Diana squealed, laughing. 

“Yeah! But also awesome!” Gideon chimed in, joining in the laughter.

You watched them, your heart swelling with love and laughter. The air around you buzzed with joy, and for a moment, everything felt perfect. 

“Okay, how about we make a deal?” you proposed, a playful glint in your eye. “If we have another baby, you two promise to help out and be the best big siblings ever?”

“Deal!” they shouted in unison, their excitement palpable.

As Spencer leaned in closer, wrapping an arm around your shoulders, you felt a wave of contentment wash over you. The idea of another child filled you with warmth, and the laughter of your children echoed in your mind like a sweet melody.

“Looks like we’ll have to start planning,” Spencer said, his voice low and teasing, his eyes sparkling.

“Planning? What do you mean?” you asked, feigning innocence.

“Well, I suppose we need to make sure I’m not eating dinosaurs anytime soon,” he shot back with a grin.

You burst into laughter, the sound mingling with the playful chaos of your children. “No more dinosaur snacks for you, then!”

“Rawr!” Spencer replied, mimicking a dinosaur once more, prompting another round of giggles from the kids.

As the sun began to dip lower in the sky, casting a golden hue across the yard, you knew that whatever the future held, you would face it together—one dinosaur, one princess, one Lego builder, and one tiny baby at a time.

[box-writing]

Choose your suito— I mean tutor!

⇥ summary— In a university library, two famous scholars stood among towering stacks of old books, each clenching a notepad filled with their meticulously crafted tutoring plans. Both were drawn by their admiration for a brilliant student who was struggling in their philosophy course, and each was determined to win their affection by helping [Name] excel. ⇥ contains— Dr. Ratio x gn! reader x Anaxagoras, 3rd POV, fluff, crack fic, crossover, modern-ish au??, college au, probably ooc, love triangle turned to love square, Al Haitham x reader at the end??👀 ⇥ a/n—English is not my first language. Apologies in advance for any grammatical errors. This is probably the longest fic I have written. Thank you, @yxzikari, for giving me yummy ideas along the way.

In a university library, two famous scholars stood among towering stacks of old books, each clenching a notepad filled with their meticulously crafted tutoring plans. Both were drawn by their admiration for a brilliant student who was struggling in their philosophy course, and each was determined to win their affection by helping [Name] excel. However, their growing rivalry quickly transformed the library into a battleground of ideas, as Veritas passionately argued the merits of his expertise in metaphysical theories, while Anaxagoras countered with claims of his unique teaching style.

“I find myself most exquisitely positioned to be [Name]’s suito–ahem, mentor.. My teachings are far superior than yours.”

“Have you been graced by the divine, such that you might utter these baseless words?” 

As the intensity of their debate escalated, their voices grew louder, echoing through the quiet library, drawing the attention of several onlookers. In the middle of the two scholars, [Name] sat hunched over the books that were given by Ratio and Anaxa, rubbing their temples in both frustration and embarrassment. 

Both of you are giving me a headache! [Name] groaned, gripping their head as each raised voice felt like a hammer against the skull, as the noise of competing philosophies blurred into an unintelligible jumble.

[Name] glanced up, eyes narrowed, wishing for a moment of peace to focus on reviewing for their final exam. With a loud sigh, [Name] decided to intervene. They stood up, arms crossed, and called out to them, their voice cutting through the argument.

"Could you two please keep it down? I appreciate that you both are willing to help me with my upcoming exam, but I need to study, and your arguments are giving me a headache!" A hush fell over the library as both scholars exchanged sheepish glances, suddenly aware of how their rivalry had spiraled out of control. Realizing that they had inadvertently made the very person they wanted to impress uncomfortable, they quickly stopped their bickering.

Finally, as the two bickering scholars quieted down, [Name] sat down and focused on their study, until—

“[Name]? Are you there?” A familiar voice called out, breaking [name]’s temporary focus.

“Al Haitham, you're here!” [Name] smiled as they excitedly packed all their study materials and headed straight to the grey-haired man, not before thanking the two scholars who were previously tutoring them. “Thank you both for letting me borrow your textbooks, I appreciate it!”

The two can only watch as their [Name] walks to the grey-haired man, quetly muttering something that you cannot quite hear.

Al Haitham gives [Name] a nod as he takes their backpack off their shoulders, “Do you need tutoring? I heard you're having a hard time.” 

“Yes, please! I can't seem to process this topic for me.” 

As the two of you headed to the exit, you didn't notice how Al Haitham looked back at the two scholars, a smug look on his face. Mouthing something that seemed to anger the two scholars.

“I win.”

wc— 522.

[solbaby7]

I love the idea of the drink menu for the requests! It's brilliant ✨️

Could I please get an Old Fashioned, salt rim, neat? Take your time 💋

[ “no, no, leave your clothes on for me.” + smut + az ]

thank you so much for the request and being patient with me 💕💕the vibe of this one is giving situationship that yearns to be more, been watching too much scandal🫣

-> BLURB BAR <-

—

You’d learned pretty early on in life that asking for forgiveness was better than begging for permission.

It was just easier, usually made things less complicated which is why you significantly downplay the importance of the dress purchase that had half a dozen seamstresses prattling about your bedchambers. One of them promptly shoos Azriel away once they notice him eyeing the divider you strip behind, ushering him up and out of the doorway. He’s adjusting his pants when the door shuts behind him, vividly recalling the glimpse all that tight fabric and the way it cinches at your waist, accentuating the full curves concealed beneath. It leaves him hungry; wanting—salivating like starved wolves that scavenge through the Middle for mere scraps.

“Hot date?”

Azriel’s brows furrow, still a little dizzy from the sight of you and your lingering scent; his body annoyingly attuned to your own. “No, why?”

Rhys lazily points in the direction of your room, eyes trained on the array of chilled whiskeys at the bar cart before him. “The dress she’s wearing is designer—exclusive; one of a kind. Need to book an appointment a year in advance as well as having a good word with the owner type exclusive.”

“So?”

“So,” Polished crystal clacks heavily against metal, one, two, three ice cubes fall inside before a hefty pour of some smoky whiskey that’s been sitting around longer than you’d been alive. “They don’t sell a single dress without taking specific measurements for alterations, making multiple appointments for fittings.” The lack of response makes Rhys turn, fingers brushing at the crease in his dress shirt as he takes his brother in. Hazel eyes are clouded with curiosity, a million possibilities being pinned up on a board as the hunter within him collects pieces of a puzzle. “My point is, no male in his right mind lets the woman he wants go out in a dress like that without having some sort of claim on her first.”

Suddenly, it makes sense why people of power are urged to be of sound mind; to have a level head so that advice like that didn’t send one into a spiral.

Azriel quickly learns that he is not of sound mind. A harsh truth that he realizes seconds after Rhys leaves him alone to settle with those words. They echo in his brain, repeating in his mind like some curse that’s dead set on haunting him.

Sure, the two of you hadn’t exactly put a title on all the secret moments spent scuffling off to some dark corner for a few frenzied kisses. The times where group nights at Rita’s leaves two bodies disappearing out back for his hands to hike up some skimpy dress enough to get a good grip of your ass. But that alone had to count for something at least, didn’t it?

No way some other male would get the chance to see you how Azriel did, right? His hands twitch at the uncertainty—jealousy lighting a fire in his ass that has him bee-lining it to your room like he fucking owns the place.

It’s almost comical, the way your door bounces off the wall under the pressure of his palm once he’s finally reached it. Too bad he’s too honed in on his target to take in the true humor of six attentive ladies shooting daggers at the towering interruption that keeps making your arms fidget or hips shift while they try to work. “Az?”

“We need to talk.”

“Oh, can it wait? They’re nearly finished with the—“

“No, I’m sorry. It needs to be now, it’s urgent.” Shadows are already following their masters will, urging the ladies out of the room and into the hall, the door shutting before their disgruntled words could breech the barrier. He turns, a speech brewing at the tip of his tongue but it all goes blank when he looks at you—really looks at you. “Wow, you look….wow.”

You preen under the attention, one arm holding up the bodice as you give him a spin. “I just knew when I saw it, it had to be mine.” There’s a few loose threads, buttons waiting in a little dish to the side to be sewn on properly but he gets the gist. Fully understands the intent of such fabrics when he sees it holding onto the shape of your curves. “Fits like a glove.”

“I can see that.” Grace is granted when you fully return to face the mirror, too entranced in the little details to even notice the way Azriel eats up the picture you paint. All soft lines and pretty shadows casted by the flickery golden light emitting from the candles you favor. Warm notes of vanilla and honeysuckle fill his nose and he commits every bit to memory; latching on to whatever he can of you. “A little skimpy for Starfall, don’t you think? Or is there a matching coat I’m not seeing?”

The cutting look you throw his way is felt through the reflective glass. “I’d never waste a dress like this on a familial event.” A neat brow raises as you carry on with your hair, hands holding it in a pony. Twisting it into a neat bun. Letting it all free and tousling it messily, lips pouting at the sexy bed head texture it creates.

“Then, what’s it for?”

“To get laid.”

Raw jealousy is injected into Azriel’s veins faster than he can even comprehend the attack. It shoots through his bloodstream, gobbling up all sensiblities while simultaneously planting seeds of doubt. Every inch of him goes rigid, lids narrowing and pupils dilating. Acid pools on his tongue, singeing through the words he speaks, “What gave you the impression that anyone else could touch you while you’re fucking me?”

“Oh, I don’t know—maybe, it’s the lack of exclusivity?” Mascara is brushed through your lashes. Lipgloss smeared across supple lips. “Or maybe it’s because I’m just too fucking pretty to be always second guessing why you won’t make a move already.”

A muscle ticks along his jaw, “I thought it was obvious enough that you and I—you belong to be.”

“Says who?” He abhors the way you laugh around your words. “Because, that conversation doesn’t ring a bell.”

Azriel’s shoulders shift, frustration lingering in his stance and you find yourself annoyingly attracted to the entitled way he begins to fill up the space of your room. Outside shoes sink into the soft plush of your rugs until he’s standing behind you, one finger flicking at your dress as if it were personally offending him. “Says me.”

A scoff passes glossy lips, a hand waving absently in his direction as if shooing off an insect. “Save the brutish male bullshit for a female who favors it. This dancing around your feelings thing is growing tiresome and borderline pathetic.”

You’ve gone too far.

The absence of his reply makes you sure of that. Too many seconds pass in silence, long enough for the mood to grow awkward. Lips part and close, the heat in Azriel’s stare too ambiguous to go off of.

Fingers fiddle with dainty gold rings held snug against your knuckle. “Az, I’m—“

“—In need of some clarification, it seems.” Every syllable comes out alarmingly even, forcing the hairs on the back of your neck to stand at attention. “Go to the bed and bend over.”

“…is this a joke?” You question over a tense laugh.

Not a single thing about him indicates so. “Does it feel like one?” He leaves no room for a response, jaw jutting out towards the bed. “Bend over.”

You swallow thickly, moving to comply while shimmying the dress down your torso.

“No.” Azriel’s voice cuts through like an arrow through the night, shadows curling around the curve of your shoulder, teasing through your hair. Goosebumps kiss your flesh, neck craning as your body melts to mush under his attention. “Leave your clothes on for me. You spent so much money,” Every step he takes is as silent as a whisper; the only way you can tell he’s directly behind you is because of the foot that nudges between your ankles, widening your stance. “Let me appreciate it how it deserves, yeah?”

He’s not really asking for a response but you nod along either way.

Anticipation burns beneath your skin, warms your belly, makes toes curl in expensive shoes when you hear the shift of his clothes as he crouches down to his knees. Shadows hold up the hem of your dress, preventing you from seeing exactly what Az is doing, but your imagination fills in the blanks when you feel his breath against the back of your thighs. "Pretty," The muscles in your legs jump at his touch, cool fingertips trailing up your calves, squeezing at the thickness of upper thighs while running his thumb under the fat of your ass.

You get the feeling he isn't referring to the intricate lace detailing or near invisible line along the side that concealed the zipper running from hip to rib. Not when he spreads you open, a deep hum rumbling in his chest at the wet sound of your cunt separating beneath thin cotton.

“Now there’s a warm welcome,” A hooked finger peels it away, revealing bare sex and dripping arousal. Calloused skin dragging against a sensitive clit has your hips jumping at the sudden attention.

Teeth bite at supple lips, a moan crooning free as pleasure licks up your spine—it’s not enough. You shift from foot to foot, heels forcing a strain in your hamstrings while bent over in this position but Azriel doesn’t seem to care in the slightest. “Beating around the bush, as usual.” He’s perfectly content exploring around with your sex, circling around your clit and teasing his fingers into a warm hole that all but weeps in rejoice at the attention.

“Don’t rush me.” Your throat rolls with a thick swallow at the authority in his tone, brows pinched with pleasure as he works you open. “A male can spend all day tinkering away with his toys if that’s what he pleases. Don’t you agree?”

It should bother you more that Azriel plays fucking dirty.

He’s just daring you to deny him while he’s got you so exposed—so vulnerable. Fingers abusing at a sensitive spot that has your legs shaking and pelvis bulging a little at the intrusion. Arousal pools in his palm, fingers coaxing your mind to mush; pulverizing all the fight you have as he works you to your high.

“Yes!” You all but shout, back arching into the orgasm that washes over you. Incoherent little babbles follow, choppy encouragements and whispered pleas for reprieve but all Azriel can hear is ‘yesyesyes’ ‘yoursyoursyours’.

Someone of his own to covet. To kiss and love and fuck and ruin.

Something like satisfaction coats his cadence. “I knew you’d see it my way.”

[lol a lil bonus part i couldn’t make fit but refused to delete]

“Pathetic, hm?”

A satisfied grin spreads along flushed cheeks, hair messy and lipgloss smudged. “You do your best work when provoked.” Something like realization bleeds back into your eyes and in seconds you’re flailing from his arms, slipping off the mattress and using the discarded dress as coverage when you rush to the door.

There’s a few seams loose, string hanging out haphazardly and wrinkles all over but your smile is bright—damn near dopey when you drop a thick velvet bag in their palm. “Final payment plus tip—the dress is perfect.”

“It’s ruined!”

“Trust me,” Fabric whispers as it moves, legs shuffling to tuck your frame better behind the door. “It served its purpose.”

[writeriguess]

Reckless // Katsuki x fem!reader

author's note: I often imagine being the one who saves him, instead of the other way around.

The battlefield was chaos. Smoke billowed, shouts echoed, and the acrid stench of burning debris filled the air. Katsuki Bakugo was in the centre of it, explosions ripping through the enemy ranks, his glare fierce and unrelenting. He was doing fine—more than fine, actually. At least, that’s what he told himself.

Until you intervened.

He was mid-blast, his hand cocked back as sweat pooled in his palm, ready to send the last villain flying, when you dashed in front of him. Time seemed to slow as you dove into his line of attack, your energy-shield quirk flaring to life in a brilliant shimmer just as a deadly projectile whizzed toward his back.

BOOM! The impact against your shield reverberated through your body, making your teeth rattle and knees buckle, but you held strong. The blast deflected, sending a shockwave through the clearing as dust and smoke clouded the air.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” Katsuki’s furious roar broke through the chaos.

The explosion he’d been building fizzled out as he pivoted to face you. His wide, crimson eyes burned with a mix of rage and something else—something darker and harder to place. His body radiated heat, tiny sparks popping in his clenched fists as he stalked toward you.

“Saving your life, obviously,” you shot back, gasping for breath but managing a defiant smirk. You stood tall despite the strain, your shield flickering and fading as you let go of your quirk.

The villain—forgotten for the moment—was subdued moments later by another pro hero arriving on the scene. But Katsuki’s attention never wavered from you.

“You what?” he growled, stepping closer, his voice dangerously low.

You wiped sweat from your brow and gave him an incredulous look. “I deflected that projectile. It was going to hit you—probably knock you out cold or worse. You’re welcome, by the way.”

His jaw tightened. The cords of muscle in his neck strained as if he were physically holding back a detonation. “I didn’t need your damn help!”

“Oh really?” You raised an eyebrow, your hands moving to your hips as you squared off with him. “Because it sure looked like you didn’t even notice it coming.”

“I had it under control!” he snapped, taking another step forward. His towering frame loomed over you, but you didn’t flinch.

“Right,” you said dryly, rolling your eyes. “You totally had it under control while your back was turned and you were focused on blowing up everything in front of you.”

“That’s my job,” he hissed through gritted teeth. “I don’t need some reckless idiot putting herself in danger for me.”

The insult stung, but you didn’t back down. Your expression softened, but your voice remained firm. “And what if I want to protect you, Katsuki?”

His eyes widened slightly, a flicker of something unreadable passing over his face before his scowl returned with full force. “Tch. Don’t be stupid. That’s not how it works.”

“We’re partners,” you said, stepping closer to him now, your voice quiet but unwavering. “We look out for each other. That’s how it works.”

He shook his head, his hands twitching with residual energy. “I protect you, damn it. Not the other way around.”

“And if I don’t need protecting?” you challenged, tilting your chin up to meet his gaze. “What if I can handle myself just fine? Just like you?”

Katsuki opened his mouth, then closed it. His frustration boiled over, and he threw his hands up with a growl. “It’s not the same!”

“Why not?” you pressed, your heart pounding. “Why isn’t it the same? Why can’t I want to keep you safe, too?”

He clenched his jaw so hard it ached, his breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts. Finally, he snarled, “Because if anything happened to you, I…” He cut himself off, his eyes burning into yours. “I wouldn’t be able to stand it.”

The weight of his words hung in the air between you, heavy and raw. Your heart squeezed painfully, and for a moment, all the noise of the battlefield faded into silence.

You reached out, placing your hand on his arm, feeling the tension thrumming under his skin. “And what if I feel the same way about you?”

His breath hitched. For a split second, his fierce expression crumbled, vulnerability flashing through his eyes before he slammed the walls back up. He grabbed your wrist, his grip firm but not harsh. “Promise me,” he said, his voice low and gravelly. “Promise you won’t do anything that stupid again.”

You smiled, soft and warm. “I’ll try.”

He scowled. “Not good enough.”

“I’m serious, Katsuki. I’ll try. But I’m not going to stand by and do nothing if you’re in danger.”

He groaned, scrubbing a hand down his face. “You’re impossible.”

“Takes one to know one,” you teased, your grin widening.

Despite himself, his lips twitched, almost forming a smile before he forced it into another scowl. “Tch.” He released your wrist, stepping back but staying close. “You’re a pain in the ass.”

“And you love it,” you shot back, confidence blooming in your chest.

“Yeah,” he muttered under his breath, his eyes never leaving you. “I do.”

Feel free to request <3

[ghostedgwen]

. . .“The mask hides the fear. The heart does the rest.”

Here I Stay — you're Gwen Stacy in TASM and you died — you're variant Gwen and you get pulled into Peter’s universe. part one | two | three

Bitter Sweet Reunions — you see your ex, Peter, at a party and he isn't too fond of your new boyfriend.

If It Isn't You — Peter meets an artist on his way to an interview and ends up saving her life later — pretty weird coincidence… until she gives him her nickname. part one | two | three

Make It Hurt — you’ve been showing up to school with bruises every time you “visit your boyfriend,” and your obvious lies are worrying Peter — at the same time, he gains a partner in crime-fighting. part one | two | three | four | five | six | seven | eight | nine | ten +*

What A Sad Sight — Peter is due for another visit, and on his way to you — he's taken back to the past, and the memories prove to be sadder than they used to be. part one | two

Scared To See The Ending — Peter has been off, and you’re starting to worry for your relationship. It surely doesn’t help that everything he did could only be deduced into one thing you refuse to believe.

Ache In You — You could tell he blamed you in some way for her death — and that actually hurts more than when you heard that snap echo throughout the tower. It’s been months since you last talked and your reunion didn’t exactly provide healing. part one | two | three | four

About the Noise — Peter hears concerning noises from the apartment above his,  growing worried for the person he heard crying after the interruption, he couldn’t help but knock on your door to see if you’re okay.

All By Design —You only signed up for photography to dodge a boring science class, but somehow ended up choosing Peter Parker as your muse — soft-spoken, brilliant, and criminally overlooked. He’s awkward, you’re accidentally obvious, and a late-night project might just turn into something a little more. Part one | Part two.

Bet on All Three — You’re Midtown’s golden girl on the soccer field. He’s the dork with a camera and a secret. It starts with tutoring, teasing, and late-night subway rides — and somewhere in between, lines blur, jokes linger, and Peter’s not so invisible anymore. Part one | Part two.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ TikTok Blurbs Series

Texting him, “He’s gone, you can come over now,” right after your boyfriend leaves.

He forgets your anniversary and comes up with the worst possible explanation.

You call Peter a “friend” during a phone call just to see his reaction.

You call Peter by the wrong name on purpose to see how he responds.

Peter’s reaction to you wearing the TikTok/Amazon leggings.

[xichilie]

Phainon x (fem)reader (5)

Part1 Part2 Part3 Part4 Part5

The trio followed the riverside, the water shimmering faintly with an otherworldly glow. Despite the beauty of their surroundings, the dynamic between them remained as lively—and chaotic—as ever.

“Would you look at that?” Y/N said, stopping to admire the bioluminescent moss creeping along the rocks near the riverbank. She crouched down, running her fingers gently over the glowing surface. “It’s so soft! And warm, too. This place is incredible.”

“Right?” Phainon said, crouching beside her, his face lighting up just as much as the moss. “Do you think it’s, like, magical? Or maybe it’s alive! Oh, what if it’s some kind of ancient ecosystem—”

“Or what if we keep moving,” Mydei interrupted, his voice dripping with sarcasm as he stomped past them. “You know, like we’re supposed to? In case you forgot, we’re tracking thieves, not auditioning for a nature documentary.”

“Oh, come on, Mydei,” Y/N said, standing up with a grin. “You can’t tell me this place isn’t a little amazing. Look at it! It’s like something out of a dream.”

Mydei cast a bored glance at the glowing moss, the glistening water, and the towering ruins around them. “Wow. A glowy rock. Truly groundbreaking.”

“You’re hopeless,” Y/N said, shaking her head.

“Hey,” Phainon chimed in, walking backward beside her as they resumed their trek. “Don’t be too hard on him, Y/N. Mydei’s just jealous he doesn’t appreciate the finer things in life. Like moss. And friendship.”

“Friendship?” Mydei echoed, shooting him a flat look. “I’m this close to leaving you in this ruin.”

Y/N laughed, glancing at Phainon. “Careful, Phainon. You might push him over the edge.”

“Good,” Mydei muttered. “At least then I’d have some peace.”

As they continued along the riverbank, Phainon suddenly stopped and pointed ahead. “Wait! Look there—on the ground! Are those… traces?”

Y/N immediately moved to inspect the muddy ground, her eyes narrowing as she studied the faint traces. “They’re fresh,” she confirmed, brushing her fingers over the marks. “ The thieves must’ve come this way.”

“Finally, some progress,” Mydei said, his tone more relieved than annoyed for once. “Let’s move before we lose the trail again.”

Phainon peered down at the prints, his expression thoughtful. “You know… this probably means we’re catching up to them.”

“Brilliant deduction, Phainon,” Mydei said dryly, already walking ahead. “I’m sure that’s why you’re here. For your razor-sharp intellect.”

“Hey!” Phainon called after him, putting his hands on his hips. “I’ll have you know I’m very smart! Y/N thinks so—don’t you, Y/N?”

Y/N looked up from the traces, her lips twitching in amusement. “Sure, Phainon. You’re the brains of the operation.”

“See?” Phainon said triumphantly, gesturing toward Y/N. “She gets it.”

“Yeah,” Mydei muttered, his voice barely audible over the sound of the river. “Because you’re so subtle about wanting her approval.”

Phainon blinked, his cheeks tinting pink. “I—I don’t know what you’re talking about!” he stammered, glancing nervously at Y/N, who was thankfully too focused on the trail to notice.

“Of course you don’t,” Mydei said, smirking as he continued walking. “It’s not like you’ve been trailing her like a lovesick puppy since we got here.”

“I—!” Phainon spluttered, his face growing redder. “I’m not a puppy! And I’m definitely not lovesick!”

“Sure,” Mydei said, his smirk widening. “Whatever you say.”

Y/N, oblivious to their exchange, stood up and dusted off her hands. “The trail leads toward the ruins up ahead. Let’s pick up the pace.”

Phainon immediately straightened, his usual grin snapping back into place. “Right! Let’s go. Lead the way, fearless leader!”

Mydei groaned audibly. “Oh, for the love of… Just try not to trip over anything this time, Phainon.”

“I don’t trip!” Phainon shot back, puffing out his chest.

“You trip constantly,” Mydei said flatly.

“Name one time!”

“The vine,” Mydei said immediately.

“That doesn’t count!”

Y/N couldn’t help but laugh, shaking her head as the three of them continued down the trail, the sound of their voices echoing through the ruins. The chase was on, but the chaos was far from over.

The group walked further along the winding riverside, the ruins growing more intricate with every step. Stone pillars lined the path, their carvings faded but still awe-inspiring. Y/N and Phainon, however, seemed more interested in entertaining themselves than marveling at the architecture—or staying serious about their mission.

“Okay, but hear me out,” Phainon said, barely able to contain his laughter. “If you had to name this moss, what would you call it?”

Y/N tilted her head, pretending to consider the glowing moss clinging to the nearby stones. “Hmm… probably something dramatic. Like… Radiant Glowmoss.”

Phainon gasped, his eyes wide with mock admiration. “Radiant Glowmoss?! That’s perfect! It’s so regal—just like you!”

“Aw, Phainon,” Y/N said with a grin. “Flattery will get you everywhere.”

“Ugh, please stop,” Mydei groaned from up ahead, dragging a hand down his face. “We’re in the middle of a literal chase, and you’re naming moss. I can’t believe this is my life.”

Phainon leaned closer to Y/N, whispering loud enough for Mydei to hear, “He’s just mad he didn’t think of Radiant Glowmoss first.”

“Obviously,” Y/N whispered back with an exaggerated nod.

“I heard that,” Mydei deadpanned, not bothering to look back.

Phainon straightened up and grinned. “Good! Maybe you’ll finally admit you’re jealous of our superior creativity.”

“Oh, I’m jealous, all right,” Mydei said, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “Jealous of the brain cells you two clearly left behind when we entered these ruins.”

“Don’t listen to him, Phainon,” Y/N said, patting Phainon’s shoulder. “We’re visionaries. He just doesn’t get it.”

“Exactly!” Phainon said, puffing out his chest like he’d just been knighted.

Mydei stopped walking and turned to face them, his expression one of pure, unfiltered exasperation. “Visionaries? Really? You’re laughing about moss and whispering like schoolchildren, and I’m supposed to take you seriously?” He pointed at them accusingly. “Do you even remember why we’re here?”

Y/N and Phainon exchanged a look, barely able to contain their laughter.

“To… catch thieves?” Y/N said, her voice laced with playful innocence.

“Obviously,” Phainon added, raising his hands like that should’ve been clear all along.

“Then act like it!” Mydei snapped, pinching the bridge of his nose. “We’re tracking dangerous criminals, not wandering through a garden on a field trip!”

Phainon tilted his head, his grin widening. “But wouldn’t this make an amazing field trip, though? Just imagine it—‘Welcome to the Glowing Ruins of Radiant Glowmoss!’” He gestured dramatically, like a tour guide presenting an exhibit.

Y/N burst out laughing, clutching her stomach. “Stop, you’re going to make me fall over.”

“I might fall over, too!” Phainon said, joining in her laughter.

Mydei stared at them for a long moment, his expression blank as if his soul had officially left his body. Then, with a sigh so heavy it might have cracked the stone ruins, he turned on his heel and kept walking.

“Fine,” he muttered. “When the thieves ambush us, I’ll just let them take you both. See if they enjoy your comedy routine.”

“You wouldn’t!” Phainon called after him, still grinning.

“Try me,” Mydei shot back without turning around.

“Aw, come on, Mydei!” Y/N said, jogging to catch up with him, her laughter still fading. “You know you’d miss us.”

“I’d miss the silence,” Mydei muttered, though his lips twitched like he was holding back a smirk.

Phainon ran up beside Y/N, still chuckling. “Admit it, Mydei—you love us.”

“If it’ll shut you up, sure,” Mydei said flatly, shaking his head.

As the group moved deeper into the ruins, their footsteps echoed alongside the sound of Phainon’s cheerful banter, Y/N’s occasional giggles, and Mydei’s exasperated sighs.

__________

Tribbie darted through the ruins, her small frame weaving around broken columns and overgrown vines. The sound of her hurried footsteps echoed in the silence, but she didn’t slow down—not when her friends needed her.

She finally spotted Dan Heng and Trailblazer in the distance, standing near an ancient stone archway. Dan Heng was examining some faded carvings on the wall, his expression calm but focused, while Trailblazer leaned casually against the arch, arms crossed, watching him.

“Hey!” Tribbie called out, her voice carrying through the ruins.

Both of them turned at the sound of her voice. Dan Heng lowered his hand from the carvings, his sharp eyes narrowing slightly in concern. Trailblazer straightened up, their casual stance shifting into readiness.

“Tribbie?” Trailblazer asked as she approached, slightly out of breath. “What’s going on?”

Tribbie stopped a few feet in front of them, placing her hands on her knees to catch her breath. “It’s Y/N. She… she fell into a pit.”

Dan Heng’s brows furrowed immediately. “What?”

“A pit?” Trailblazer repeated, their voice laced with alarm.

Tribbie nodded, her blue eyes wide. “Yeah, we were following those weird traces, and she was examining something. The ground gave way, and she just—” Tribbie mimed falling with her hands, her face serious. “—went straight down. Mydei and Phainon tried to stop her, but it all happened too fast.”

Dan Heng’s jaw tightened. “How deep?”

“Really deep,” Tribbie said grimly. “I couldn’t see the bottom. Mydei and Phainon stayed behind—they were trying to figure out how to get to her. But I thought it’d be faster if I came to find you.”

Trailblazer exchanged a glance with Dan Heng. “And you don’t know if she’s okay?”

Tribbie shook her head. “No idea. But Mydei and Phainon seemed sure she’d be fine......., so that’s something, right?”

Dan Heng gave a small nod, his expression unreadable. “You did the right thing coming to us. We’ll need to move quickly.”

Tribbie straightened up, determination written all over her face. “I figured you’d say that. Let’s go!”

Trailblazer placed a hand on Tribbie’s shoulder as they began walking. “You’re sure they stayed at the pit?”

“They did,” Tribbie confirmed. “Phainon was already trying to come up with some grand plan when I left. And Mydei… well, he was trying to keep Phainon from doing anything too reckless.”

Dan Heng sighed softly. “That sounds about right.”

Tribbie gave a small smile. “Yeah. But still, I think they’ve got it under control—for now. We just need to get there as fast as possible.”

Trailblazer nodded, quickening their pace. “Then let’s not waste any time.”

As they made their way through the ruins, Tribbie kept quiet, her usual cheerful demeanor tempered by the seriousness of the situation. But deep down, she felt confident. They’d find Y/N, and everything would be fine. It had to be.

Tribbie led Dan Heng and Trailblazer into the temple-like room, her steps quick and anxious. The moment they entered, the atmosphere shifted. The air felt heavier, damp with an earthy smell, and faint streams of light filtered in through cracks in the stone ceiling. Their gazes were immediately drawn to the massive pit in the center of the room—its jagged edges proof of where Y/N had fallen earlier.

But something else stood out, or rather, the absence of something.

“They’re not here,” Dan Heng said sharply, scanning the room.

Tribbie blinked, turning in a quick circle. “What?!” She rushed toward the pit, her blue eyes darting to the empty edges where Phainon and Mydei were supposed to have been waiting. “No, no, they have to be here! I told them to stay behind!”

Trailblazer frowned, stepping closer to the pit as well. “Maybe they went after her,” they offered, their voice calm but tinged with worry.

Tribbie gritted her teeth. “But why would they just leave without saying anything? They knew I was bringing help!”

Dan Heng was already analyzing the room, his sharp gaze moving from the pit to the surrounding walls, looking for any signs of movement. “They might not have left on their own,” he said quietly. “But let’s confirm something first.”

Trailblazer knelt near the edge of the pit, peering into the darkness below. “You can’t see anything down there,” they murmured, picking up a loose rock from the ground. “Let’s find out how deep it is.”

Before anyone could stop them, Trailblazer lobbed the rock into the pit. They leaned forward, ears straining as it fell. For a moment, there was nothing but silence, the sound of the rock vanishing into the void. Then, after a long pause, the faint splash of water echoed back to them.

Tribbie’s breath hitched. “Water?”

“It’s a long fall,” Trailblazer muttered, standing up and brushing their hands off. “There’s definitely water down there. They must’ve fallen into it.”

“Or they jumped in,” Dan Heng added, his arms crossed. His sharp gaze fixed on Trailblazer, who had already started unfastening their coat.

“What are you doing?” Dan Heng asked, his tone even but firm.

“I’m jumping down to check,” Trailblazer said simply, shrugging off their coat.

Dan Heng stepped forward and grabbed the back of their shirt before they could move. “You’re not jumping in,” he said flatly.

Trailblazer turned to glare at him. “Why not? There’s water at the bottom. I’ll be fine.”

Dan Heng narrowed his eyes. “Because if you jump in, how do you plan to get back out? Or bring anyone else up? If all of us end up down there, we’ll be stuck with no way out.”

Tribbie raised a hesitant hand. “He… uh, he has a point,” she offered.

Trailblazer sighed in frustration but didn’t try to break free from Dan Heng’s grip. “So, what’s the plan, then? Just leave them down there?”

Dan Heng shook his head. “No. We’ll figure out a way to get everyone back up later. But for now, we should focus on finding a way to help them when we’re better prepared. We can’t act recklessly.”

Tribbie nodded quickly. “Right. And if Phainon and Mydei aren’t here, they probably went down after Y/N. We can assume they’re all together. They’re resourceful; they’ll figure something out until we can get to them.”

Trailblazer huffed but relented, folding their arms. “Fine. But we need to move fast.”

Dan Heng glanced around the room, his expression calculating. “If this pit is connected to other parts of the ruins, there’s a chance we can find another way down. We just need to follow the traces left behind.”

Tribbie frowned, scanning the floor. “Traces? What traces? It’s not like Phainon and Mydei left a trail of breadcrumbs or something.”

Dan Heng gestured to faint scuff marks near the edge of the pit. “Look closer. Someone was here. These marks suggest movement—possibly when they entered the pit. It’s subtle, but it’s there.”

“So they did jump in,” Trailblazer muttered, glancing back at the dark hole.

“Likely,” Dan Heng replied. “But if they were able to survive, so can we—if we approach this carefully.”

Tribbie let out a deep breath, her fists clenched at her sides. “Alright. Let’s find another way to them. I don’t care if it takes all day. We’re getting them back.”

Dan Heng nodded in agreement, and the trio turned their focus back to the room, searching for an alternative route to reach their companions below.

_______________________________________

That's them btw:

[lamentationsofalonelypotato]

Pairing: Soldier Boy x f!reader, Reader POV, Soldier Boy POV and Reader POV

Summary:  All Soldier Boy wants for Christmas is to find the perfect gift for you and all you want is for your boyfriend to have the best Christmas he has in forty years. Reader is a supe with plant powers. (Takes place in my Take A Chance On Me Series- 4 months after they get together, but can be read as stand alone!)

Tropes: Established Relationship, First Christmas, Age Difference (Reader is in her 20s), Soft Ben/ Soldier Boy, Protective Ben/Soldier Boy

Word Count: 8.5K

Warnings: I'm going to label this 18+ because Soldier Boy (he's a warning and everyone knows it), Swearing, Mentions of Sex, Sexual Innuendo, Illusions to Sex, Fluff, Soft Soldier Boy, A little bit of self-deprecating thoughts, Soldier Boy is Mean to Hughie, Mention of drinking/drugs, Ben/Soldier Boy might be a little bit OOC.

Note: This is told from Reader's perspective. Any references to the reader is made using you or your. There is minimal use of y/n. I tried my best to proofread, but nobody's perfect. If you don’t like, don’t read, but if you do like, you’re my favorite!

Internal monologue is in italics and is in first person.

Take A Chance On Me Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Song Inspiration: Little Things By ABBA

A/N: I know I should be working on the epilogue of "Take a Chance on Me," but @zepskies wrote a lovely Christmas fic called 'Twas the Night for Dean Winchester, and it really just got me in a mood to write some Christmas Fluff! 🥰

Soldier Boy POV

Ben frowned at the delicate necklace laid on the black velvet cloth in front of him, the 10 carat diamonds catching in the brilliant lights that lined the ceiling of the jewelry store. It was the eleventh piece of jewelry that he'd asked the woman behind the counter to remove from the display case, and it still wasn't right.

Ben had waited until the last possible moment to go Christmas shopping. It wasn't because he'd forgotten or because he'd been so busy he hadn't had time to shop or because he'd been called away on a mission, but rather Ben kept putting it off because he didn't want to think about it.

It was his first Christmas back in the U.S, and it was already proving to be one so different than the ones he'd known before.

Christmas for him in his youth when his mother was alive was filled with light and joy. Each room of his family's mansion strung with tinsel, adorned with holly and festive wreaths, and a Christmas tree so large that it put all others to shame and sent the smell of pine wafting thorough the large home. He remembered the lavish parties his mother threw with women in gorgeous gowns and men dressed in suits taking crystal glasses from silver trays, remembered the warmth in the kitchen as his mother baked and rolled fresh pastry, remembered the taste of the hot chocolate on the tip of his tongue that his mother made him before she sent him to bed on Christmas Eve, and remembered her tight embrace and the smell of her floral perfume on Christmas morning when he'd run down the stairs into the living room.

Ben's jaw tightened.

Christmas without her was different, the large mansion where he lived with his father was cold and dark. The hallways desolate and frozen in the winter months that lead into spring, the kitchen no longer heated by the warmth of the oven or infused with the smell of gingerbread, the parlor no longer tinkling with the sounds of glasses and the laughter of guests, the living room no longer housed a Christmas tree so tall that it made the Eiffel tower look like a trinket, and there were no longer Christmas parties where people danced into the wee hours of the morning and poured themselves into bed smelling of champagne and eggnog.

All that was left was the drunken stupor of his father, the harsh words that echoed down the long hallways, and the urge for Ben to find the nearest bottle and drown himself in it.

Ben spent most of his years as a supe trying to forget the years that followed his mother's death and also his Christmases as a supe washing away the memory of the ones that seemed to be infused with the magic of Christmas in his youth.

Ben spent them at Legend's Christmas party with his woman of the hour clinging to his arm, making painful small talk and waiting until the party turned into a hedonistic thrall of sweat and skin as so many others had. And the next morning when he woke up from the fog, he turned back to the little white line that promised to make him forget and the amber bottle that did little to ease the reality that started to sink in.

But this year was different, because he had you.

You who loved Christmas more than anyone he'd ever met, you who was slowly reminding him how much he used to love Christmas as a child, you who'd dragged him to go Christmas tree shopping before Thanksgiving, you who had encouraged him to help decorate the small apartment the two of you shared with so many Christmas lights it was blinding,  and you who had planned something Christmas themed every week for the past month whether it be baking Christmas cookies or watching Christmas movies while drinking hot chocolate on the couch. And in each moment, you'd found some way to include him in it.

Ben wasn't used to that.

He wasn't used to someone wanting him there with them and someone like you going out of your way to include him in everything you did.

If a person had tried to tell him in the past that he'd ended up with someone like you, someone who smiled easily, someone who always put other people first, someone who actually gave a shit about him, someone who was always so damn warm and welcoming, someone who included in him everything you did in a way that didn't make Ben feel like an old grump, and someone who tried their best to make sure that Ben remembered every day that you wanted him around, he would have laughed in that person's face.

And yet there you were.

Truth be told Ben knew that the old version of him probably wouldn't have let someone like you close to him, let alone fall in love with them.

Ben hadn't met anyone else like you in the numerous years he'd been alive and he really didn't want to fuck it up. He'd fucked up so many other things in his life and he hadn't cared, but if it involved you, he wouldn't dare.

Hence, the current dilemma of him standing in the crowded Tiffany store at 8 pm two days before Christmas with you waiting at home for him to exchange gifts. Ben wanted to pick the perfect gift for you, but nothing felt right.

He'd never given much thought to what to buy someone for Christmas. In the past usually an expensive piece of jewelry, a handbag, a dress, or a car would have made any of Ben's many escapades swoon, but not you. Ben had tried to give you jewelry before, expensive jewelry that would have made any of those other women drop to their knees, but you were different.

And as much as Ben loved that about you, it was only making this worse for him.

The one time that he'd tried to give you a gift outright, a beautiful diamond and emerald drop pendant with earrings to match, you hadn't been impressed. Sure, you'd thought that it was beautiful, but you'd told him that you liked gifts that "meant something."

Whatever the fuck that meant.

And he knew for a fact that the 10 carat diamond necklace on the velvet pillow in front of him would mean nothing to you.

"Fuck." Ben murmured under his breath, and the saleswoman stiffened.

"Still not quite right?" She asks, adjusting the sleeves of her navy blue blazer. "We have some bigger jewel-"

"It's not the fucking size." Ben snaps frustrated.

He was running late.  He knew that you were waiting at home for him to bring back dinner and to give him his present, the one that he was sure would be thoughtful and perfect for him because you were always so damn caring.

The other shoppers were pushing and shoving their way to the counters where other salespeople stood in identical navy blazers and white button down shirts, the tension and buzz of two days to Christmas electrifying the air, while Christmas music that Ben couldn't recognize played in the background.

His supe hearing made it worse. Sometimes it was a bit overwhelming and as much as Ben pretended that he didn't have PTSD, he did. Being surrounded by this many people was not helping. It was in moments like this when you were there, would hold entwine your fingertips with his and brush your thumb gently over the back of his hand to ground him as if you could sense his discomfort.

Ben hadn't ever had someone care enough to notice things like that. Another reason why he wanted to find you the perfect gift, because you put up with all his shit and didn't ask for anything in return.

"Ben?" He hears a familiar voice ask, hesitant, and he turns to see Annie standing a few feet inside the open doorway. S

he's wearing a black puffer jacket and her hair is hidden under a red stocking cap, while Hughie holds the door for her. Hughie's arms were laden down with bags while Annie's remained bare. The winter wind blew in through the space, flecking bits of snow onto the rugs that had been laid out to avoid the customers sliding through the sludge.

"Hey." Ben grunts, not quite smiling.

He wasn't good at talking to your best friend or her boyfriend. Personally he thought that Hughie was a fucking pussy and that he didn't have the balls to tell Annie no, but the one time Ben had told you that, you'd only rolled your eyes and told him that Hughie "loved Annie."

Ben loved you and he did have the balls to tell you no, but Ben thought that sometimes it was better to keep his mouth shut and do what you asked. Not to mention Ben hated saying no to you when it was something that could make you happy. Ben liked making you as happy as you made him. 

He flinched at the thought. The self-deprecating monologue was beginning to seep in, the one that told him you were turning him into a "pussy" and that he should cut and run. The same monologue that made him make a mistake and run back to Vought a few months ago when he should have run to you.

Ben shakes it off.

"What are you doing here? I thought you two were going to leave this morning for Illinois?" Annie asks in surprise used to Ben's grouchy demeanor.

Your grandmother turned Christmas into a two day extravaganza, complete with a Christmas Eve and a Christmas Day party. And although Ben and you were supposed to begin the 14 hour drive to Illinois this morning, your grandmother had insisted the two of you catch a flight first thing tomorrow.

"Decided to catch a flight tomorrow." Ben replies.

Ben was secretly happy, because flying meant that he wasn't going to have to drive 14 hours in the snow. The two of you had driven to Illinois once before, and Ben hadn't minded it. You’d been more upset with him for not letting you drive, but Ben liked driving. Driving meant that he was in control and in an emergency situation he wouldn't have to reach over the console and yank the wheel to save the two of you and driving meant that you could relax in the passenger seat and work on whatever it was you were crocheting.

"Like us!" Hughie flashes Ben a wide smile that Ben doesn't feel the need to return. “You should have told us. We could have all traveled together!”

Ben's frown deepens at the thought at being stuck in a metal tube for hours with Hughie and he knew that if you were here you would probably elbow him in the side and tell him to "be nice." If anyone had ever tried to do that to him in the past, he would have ripped their arm off, but not you.

"Last minute shopping?" Hughie asks trying again.

Ben dragged his eyes over the numerous bags hanging from Hughie's arms. "Yeah. You too?"

"Mhmm. We just finished." Annie replies. Her gaze drops to the diamond necklace on top of the display case that the saleswoman is fiddling with. "Is that for-"

"No. Of course not!" Ben says sharper than he means to, shoulders tensing. But him standing in this store when he knew that you were waiting at home for him to celebrate Christmas made him feel like Annie and Hughie had caught him red-handed. "She doesn't like jewelry." He adds referring to you as he takes a step back from the counter and the sales associate who looks confused.

“But sir-“ The woman begins to say, but Ben waves a hand to shut her up.

"Why do you think that?" Annie asks interrupting the woman.

"Because she yelled at me when I bought her that diamond and emerald necklace!" He shouts so loud that some of the other customers turn to stare at him. "This was a fucking mistake, I have to go-" Ben starts to stomp out the door and past Annie not sure where he's going, but she shifts to stand in his way. His eyes narrow in annoyance, thinking about all the ways that he could move her.

He only put up with Annie because she was your best friend and he knew that if he did anything to her then it would upset you, and Ben didn't like upsetting you.

Well, he did think that it was cute when you got angry with him. Your eyebrows scrunched together, your cheeks turned a cute shade of pink, and your eyes seemed to glow with the force of your anger. There were few people who had the courage to tell him off, but the more you did it, the more he started to like it.

But this was different, and now thinking about you only reminded him of his current dilemma.

"Ben, wait a minute." Annie says.

"What?" He snaps

He could practically feel the seconds ticking away until he had to go back to the apartment. It was the first time that he'd ever dreaded going home and seeing you and fuck he hated every single moment of it.

"She does like jewelry." Annie's mouth drops into a sympathetic smile.

Ben tried not to get more angry when he saw the pitying look in her eye. He didn't need her pity, didn't need anyone's pity! He was still Soldier Boy damnit!

"Then why the fuck did she-"

"She doesn't like this kind of jewelry." Annie clarifies. "She like vintage stuff, simple, refined. Hell, I have to practically drag her away from the display cases at Atomic Archives."

"Atomic Archives?" Ben asks hesitantly. He had no idea what Annie was talking about. You'd never mentioned that place before.

"Yeah, it's our favorite antique store. It’s about two blocks over from where the plant shop used to be.”

"Can you show me where it is?" Ben says it before he can stop himself, his heart surging with hope at the possibility of finding the perfect gift for you.

"I mean I-" Annie begins to say, but Hughie interrupts.

"Babe, didn’t you say that the owner was closed this week because she went out of town?" Hughie asks her, throwing a sympathetic look in Ben's direction that made him bristle.

"Oh, right." Annie sighs.

Ben felt the hope inside pop and deflate like a pricked balloon, but the longer he stood there in the crowded shop, with the ostentatious jewelry twinkling under the lights, the buzz of the chatter of other shoppers, and the ridiculous new-age Christmas music that grated on his ears, he began to have an idea.

"Come on." Ben might have said it as a suggestion, but it wasn’t open for debate. As much as he didn't want to admit it, he needed Annie and unfortunately that meant that Hughie was going to tag along.

"What?" Annie sputtered.

"Come the fuck on. I don’t have time for this." Ben snaps back and stomps out the doorway past Annie and Hughie into the snow.

"But what about-" Hughie begins to say and Ben whirls around to glare at him, eyes narrowing. "Okay you got it. Lead the way buddy." Hughie nods his head in agreement.

"I'm not your fucking buddy." Ben sighs under his breath.

Soldier Boy POV

"This place is really murdery." Ben hears Hughie whisper to Annie from somewhere behind him. "Do you think Ben is going to try to kill us? Should I call Butc-"

"I'm not going to fucking kill you!" Ben snaps, pulling out his keys, the jingle of the metal echoing down the long hallway. "And I guess you really can't make a decision without that British fuck can you?”

The storage unit warehouse was desolate, but that was to be expected, it was after all two days to Christmas and most were more focused on buying things to put in their storage units than moving things out. The lights along the roof of the steel gray hallway flicker and throw long shadows over the navy blue doors of the units doing little to alleviate the creepy aura.

In hindsight Ben did agree that this particular storage space was "murdery," but it was the only one that he could get close to the apartment last minute. The same apartment that Ben has been trying to convince you to move out of.

It wasn't the safest neighborhood, and Ben hated the thought that you'd lived there as long as you had, walking home at night alone before he moved in. Now it wasn't a problem because Ben never let you walk by yourself. And as hard as you'd fought him not to live in a "big fancy apartment" all Ben wanted was to live somewhere where he could imagine staying permanently. Not in a small one bedroom apartment where he had to stoop in the shower, the bed barely fit in the bedroom, and seemed too small for one person let alone two.

He knew that he was wearing you down, but he still had a long way to go.

"Why are we here then?" Hughie asks.

"You're here because your girlfriend wouldn’t come without you.” Ben rolls his eyes as he fits the key into the thick padlock.

He was getting tired of listening to Hughie’s whining. He heard enough of that when he was stuck on missions with him, but he was tolerating him, for the moment at least. He had to, because if he didn't then he was never going to be able to find the perfect gift for you.

The interior of the storage unit isn't anything special. Ben didn't have much that he wanted to keep from his old life, as a supe or from his childhood. The things inside this storage unit were the only things that Ben had left that didn't cause him to be reminded of how his father chastised him or the drafty home that Ben returned to each time he got kicked out of another boarding school.

The mansion that had been in his family for decades had sat abandoned and locked up, hidden from the main roads so it was undisturbed after Ben's father died. Ben had gone to Philadelphia a few months ago to get things in order with the bank and prepare it for sale, but had been surprised when you told him you wanted to come.

He didn't think that you'd want to be involved in something so tedious, but it was almost as if you could sense how hard it was going to be for him, and you'd insisted.

Ben had no intention of setting foot inside, but you were curious and even though it made Ben's throat tight to walk down the dusty cobwebbed halls, the wonder on your face as you walked through made the cold memories of the world he knew before he was a supe fade into the background.

And this storage unit was all that was left of that life.

Ben located the old steamer trunk with ease. It was a faded gray now, but Ben remembered the day his father bought it for his mother. When the grayed sides were a soft supple black, the metal lock and edging were a polished gold, and the rose patterned fabric that lined the inside was soft and covered in bright pink flowers.

When Ben opens the trunk, he catches the smell of the floral perfume his mother used to wear and after all these years it makes him remember the tight hugs she'd give him the moment she sent him off to bed and the tight hugs she'd given him when he rushed down the stairs on Christmas morning.

He didn't like thinking about her or talking about her, but sometimes he would think of her when he was with you. Whenever you did something caring without being asked or whenever you took the time to check in to see how he was doing. Not that you were motherly, just that Ben hadn't had anyone in a long time care about little things like that.

The only other "relationship" he'd tried to have was with Crimson Countess and she didn't do any of the things for him that you did. There wasn't any comparison between the two of you as far as Ben was concerned.

He shakes off the memory the way he always does and moves some of his mother's clothes for the cherry wood carved box that he knows is in the bottom.

He opens it slowly, extracting a small velvet box from within, one of many inside that Ben probably should have taken to the bank ages ago for safe keeping. Ben's father had a tendency to buy things for his mother whenever he "messed up" and the small velvet boxes inside were proof of that.

Ben turns back to where Annie and Hughie are watching with curiosity at the door of the storage unit. "Here."

"Here?" Annie says hesitantly looking at the velvet box in Ben's hand.

"You brought us out here for a box?" Hughie huffs.

Ben narrows his eyes. "No. And if you tell anyone about this I'll turn you inside out, ass-wipe."

"Why do you always have to be so-" Hughie begins to say, but Annie nudges him in the side.

Ben wondered briefly if Annie and Hughie also tried to tolerate him the same way that he tolerated them for you.  

"Wow." Annie says, her voice hushed and reverent when she opens the box with strands of her blonde hair falling out around the hat.

"You think she'll like it?" Ben clears his throat, trying not to wince at the question.

He hated that he was relying on Annie for this or relying on anyone in general. Ben would have rather taken a long walk off a short pier than anyone for help, but he was just so desperate to make sure that the first Christmas the two of you spent together was perfect.

You deserved that and Ben wanted to give it to you.

"She will."

"Good." Ben takes the box back, but decides to bring the wooden box with him back to the apartment just in case. His eyes narrow as he looks over at Hughie. "If you tell anyone about this, I'll shove your head up Butcher's ass. Then again, you two would probably enjoy something like that."

"You're welcome." Annie raises an eyebrow.

"Whatever." Ben mutters.

Reader POV

Ben was late and you were starting to worry.

Not that Ben was always punctual. The man was about as punctual as the White Rabbit, but rather Ben was sure to let you know when he was running late. Not to mention Ben was rarely late to things that he knew were important to you.

And tonight was special or at least you wanted it to be.

You look at your phone again to check the time, noting that it was nearing nine and Ben had told you he was going to be back at eight. You were trying not to think too much about it, busying yourself with other little things, like packing for your trip to your grandmother's home in Illinois. Something that you would have ended up doing about an hour before you had to go to the airport, but you knew that would only annoy Ben.

But you liked annoying him.

Ben's nostrils would flare, his jaw would flex, and the green of his eyes would darken in a way that sent a pleasurable shiver down his spine, but tonight you were too anxiety ridden at how late he was to care about making him annoyed.

Ben and you were supposed to leave this morning to drive the 14 hours to your hometown in Illinois, but you'd called your grandmother a few days ago and asked her if Ben and you could fly in instead.

You wanted the two of you have a Christmas alone before you dragged him back home and made him sit through the two holiday parties your grandmother threw. So you'd planned a quiet Christmas at home where the two of you could drink eggnog, watch some holiday movies, and exchange gifts before Ben was subjected to every single person you'd known since you were six.

But Ben didn’t seem to mind any of that.

Regardless, you were going all out this Christmas. It was Ben's first since he'd come back to the States and you wanted it to be perfect and it was the first Christmas the two of you were spending together as a couple.

The anxious energy that thrummed through your veins reached out into the numerous plants in your apartment, that shifted and stirred as your powers coaxed them forward. The vines that crept along the walls shook with an unnatural breeze, the Christmas tree grew an inch taller, the mistletoe hanging above the front door grew another few shimmering berries, the blackberry and raspberry vines that hung over your refrigerator fidgeted and wove together into a curtain while the tomato plant in the garden box above your sink dropped bright red fruit onto the counter, and the orange/lemon tree that sat behind your kitchen table blocking the view of the alley beyond shook it's branches for a moment. You could feel everything alive in your apartment leaning towards you as if waiting for your silent command.

Rex, the creature you'd created from broken vines and trampled leaves four months ago, flicks his eyes over to you sensing the same disturbance the rest of the plants inside could.

You bite the inside of your cheek fighting your urge to check your phone even though you know that less than a minute has passed since you'd last checked. Instead you fiddle with the ribbon on the lumpy wrapped gift that is perched on your lap.

Shopping for Ben had been difficult to say the least.

You weren't sure what to get your 104 boyfriend who'd lived as a hedonistic playboy for most of his life and you didn't like giving gift cards (you didn't think Ben would understand the concept) or giving people meaningless trinkets that they used once and then threw away (the Grinch was right about some things). You liked giving gifts that you put time and effort into that you were sure the recipient was going to love.

And you were sure that the package on your lap contained the perfect gift and you were excited to see the look on Ben's face when he unwrapped it.

Your cat Bean purrs where he sits beside you on the couch and Rex your, for lack of a better word, Dragon was watching the multicolored lights on the Christmas tree in the corner blink on and off.

It was bigger for your apartment than it should be, but Ben had insisted on getting it and you couldn't complain. Not when he genuinely seemed to be happy to stand there in the snow picking out a tree with you.

And after when no Uber driver agreed to pick the two of you up because of the tree, Ben had carried it on his shoulder fifteen blocks while you begged him to let you help. When you'd tried to take some of the tree, Ben had shifted it to his other shoulder and taken your hand instead, which wasn't what you meant when you reached out towards him, but you didn't let go, not when it was cold and Ben's hand was warm.

The one jammed into the corner of your small living room didn't have a leaf out of place or any signs of decay. You'd fixed that with a flick of a finger.

You'd gone all out with decorations.

Every plant in your apartment had lights of their own and ornaments that swung just out of reach from your pets. Christmas lights were strung down the hallway and there was a wreath on your bedroom door. Strands of mistletoe hung over every doorway in your apartment and there was one taped to the wall above your bed. That one was Ben's doing, but you couldn't complain, not when it felt so damn good to kiss him.

Ben hadn't spoken about the Christmases he spent in the past, but he'd listened to you talk about your Christmases growing up when the two of you decorated the tree with ornaments you'd collected over the years.

He might not have been big on sharing, but your boyfriend was good at listening. Not just pretending to listen, but actually being quiet and wanting to learn more about what you're saying. You'd thought it was odd when you became roommates and you realized just how much Ben listened and remembered what you told him, but now it was one of the reasons that made you love your boyfriend more.

You sighed, a happy smile on your face. You didn't think that you could feel this way about anyone, let alone someone you hated for so long, but you did. Ben was changing the belief you had about what relationships should look like, and you were sure that you were doing the same for him.

You hear the jingle of keys and the fumble of the doorknob as Ben slowly opens the front door and you leap from the couch.

"You're home!" You exclaim as your body hits his full speed, but he doesn't move. It was difficult for you to produce enough force to move him, difficult for anyone really.

Ben chuckles "Miss me Petals?"

He moves the plastic bag of Chinese food to his left hand so he can hug you back, his right hand fitting comfortably over the small of your back to hold you tighter against him.

You could remember the first time you hugged him, when all he did was stand there with his hands at his sides awkwardly while you held on to him as tight as you could. This was better. Ben's embrace is warm and strong, unyielding, but full of the love that he’d had such a hard time admitting.

"Yes." You squeeze him hard, smiling into his jacket that's flecked with melting snow, cold against your skin, but the warmth of his body soaks through the chill and into you. You sigh, nuzzling further into him. "I was worried-"

"Why?" Ben's voice rumbles through his chest, against your cheek.

"Because you weren't home yet." You pull back to stare up at him. His brilliant green eyes catch in the multicolored strands of Christmas lights, strung through your apartment. There's snow caught in his dark hair, turning to water and dripping down into his face in the warmth of the apartment.

Ben frowns. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay. You're here now." You smile arching up to kiss him. Ben groans into your mouth, his grip on you tightening as he deepens the kiss, pressing the hand on the small of your back just a little more to secure you against his chest.

You sigh softly, content in living in this moment with him for another few precious seconds. The heat of his body transferring into you the longer you stand pressed against him, soaking through your sweatpants and chunky sweater in the best way.

You'd never felt this way about anyone in the past. There hadn't been another boyfriend who'd treated you the way Ben did, no other boyfriend who'd cared about the little things, and no other boyfriend who you were so in love with. Even your first love so long ago faded into the background, the one you thought you'd never get over, and all that was left was Ben.

You're too excited about giving Ben his gift to eat. You sit cross-legged on the plush gray couch so close to him that your knees are touching the outside of his thigh as Ben places the boxes of food onto your coffee table. The anxious energy tingling in the pit of your stomach and buzzing in your chest so much that it's difficult to sit still.

And before Ben can give you your chopsticks, you thrust the lumpy wrapped package onto his lap with a wide smile.

"You first!" You say.

Ben shakes his head. "It should be ladies first."

“I’m not a lady Ben. We both know that-“

“Sorry sweetheart that’s the way it goes.”

“Don't be so old fashioned Gramps. It's 2024.” You roll your eyes at him, laughing at the cute frown that pulls at his lips when you use the nickname. Ben never liked it, but when you'd first met, Ben hadn't told you his real name, and you'd assigned him the nickname and it had stuck when you realized how much it annoyed him.

That was when he did everything in his power to annoy you as well, so it seemed like a good fit.

In all honesty, you didn't hate how old fashioned Ben was, if anything it was a relief, a reprieve from the way the modern boys treated women. It was nice to finally be with a man who actually gave a shit about you and cared what you wanted.

"And I really want you to open yours first." You plead as you lean towards him. "Oh, and this goes with it."

You reach down behind the couch to grab the small golden barrel cactus, avoiding the sharp yellow spines, and place it on the minimal space left on the coffee table. You'd crocheted a dark green sleeve to go around the terra cotta pot.

"You got me a cactus?" Ben snorts.

"I mean, I have so many plants in here and I thought that you'd want one that was yours. Plus, you'll never have to water it." You gesture with one hand to the numerous plants around the room, the ones bathed in the multicolored lights from the Christmas Tree, the ones with bright green leaves that unfurled towards the light, the others with hanging vines that trailed to the ground so thick that you couldn't remember the color of the wall, the apple tree with ripe red fruit, and the numerous herbs in the garden box that hung over your kitchen sink. "And I gave it a sweater."

"Why did you give it a sweater?"

"It’s used to a warm climate and because I had some yarn left over."

"From?"

"You're just going to have to open your gift and find out." You shrug, but can barely contain your excitement.

Ben shakes his head at you, but a smile twitches on the corner of his lips. You knew that your boyfriend loved you because you were different than anyone he'd ever met, and you reveled in that. You liked that even though Ben was older than you,  that no matter how many other experiences he'd had in his life,  you were a first for him just as Ben was a first for you.

He rips through the paper carefully, trying hard not to ruin what was inside, the sound of crinkling and tearing blocking out the Christmas playlist for a moment that you'd put on before Ben had come home, but you can hear the ABBA song clear as day.

For a moment he stares down at the gift not quite comprehending what the lumpy mass in his lap is, but then he picks it up.

It had taken a month for you to pick out the perfect dark green yarn that was soft but not too soft, green but not too green, and another two months for you to finish it when Ben wasn't home, but you were proud of the sweater that you'd made your boyfriend.

He stares at it for another few beats, holding it up to the light, and it makes you worry that maybe you should have bought him something at the mall instead.

"You made me a sweater?" He asks, there's something on the edge of his voice that you can't place, some traces of emotion that you're not able to identify.

"Yeah. I wanted to make you something." You clear your throat, worried. "I mean- you don't have any and I know that you keep saying you run a little warm, but I figured we're going to Illinois for Christmas and it might be cold."

Ben doesn't say anything and you start to feel the self-doubt come roaring in.

Why did I make him a sweater? I should have bought him some cologne or something.

"And you complained when Butcher sent you on that mission to Alaska last month and I just thought that-“ You press your lips into a tight line, shoulders drooping. “If you don't like it I can keep it for me-" You fumble, but before you can finish, Ben yanks you into his lap.

His hands cup your cheeks as he kisses you so fiercely that it wipes any doubts from your mind. You make a surprised sound in the back of your throat, but sink into the kiss.  “Don’t you fucking dare.” Ben mutters against your lips.

Your blush burns against your face. “You like it?”

He nods. “ No one’s ever made me anything before.” His voice comes out a little bit gruff, as if he’s embarrassed to admit it, but it makes you smile.

“I figured and I wanted to change that.” Your fingertips dance over his forehead, brushing away the hair that’s fallen forward before your hand drops to cup his cheek, feeling the scratch of his beard against the palm of your hand. “But you’re sure you like it?”

Ben kisses you again, his large hands settling on your hips with an encouraging squeeze. “I do.”

“Good. Merry Christmas.” You wrap your arms around the back of his neck to hug him for a minute, sinking into his embrace with a happy smile.

"Merry Christmas doll." Ben murmurs into your hair, affection lacing his words.

Again, you send a mental thank you to your grandmother for understanding that Ben and you needed a day to be together and celebrate the way you wanted to before coming to stay. Not that you didn't like the Christmas Eve party or the Christmas day party, but you wanted to give Ben this. You noticed that Ben still had a hard time being in places with a lot of people when the PTSD came roaring back, and you wanted to show him what Christmas meant to you and hopefully show what Christmas would look like between the two of you as long as you were together.

“Sweetheart you gotta open yours now.” Ben’s voice rumbles, the warmth of his breath on your ear. It makes a pleasurable shiver thrill skate down your spine when you think of all the other times the two of you have been this close.

“It’s okay I can wait.” You hum into his throat, content, but Ben won't give in.

He pushes you back gently from his chest shaking his head. “Too bad. It's your turn."

"Fine." You start to move back to the space beside him, but Ben's hands catch on your hips to stop you.

"I didn't say I wanted you to move did I?" His smile turns more smirk.

"I-"

"How many times do I have to tell you that I like having you on top of me?" Ben purrs, kissing under your jaw, his beard scratching in a way that makes your throat tight.

"Keep doing that and the only thing I'm going to unwrap is you." You sigh in a half-moan, fingers curling into the hair at the base of his neck.

"After." Ben leans back to reach into his coat pocket and pulls out a small black velvet box that fits in the palm of your hand.

You hesitate to open it.

It wasn't that you didn't want jewelry for Christmas, it was that Ben and you had done this song and dance before after he tried to make you wear a diamond and emerald necklace with jewels bigger than your index, middle, and third finger put together. The whole time you wore it the only thing you could think about is how many groceries you could have bought with the necklace, how much you were afraid that it was going to break, and how much you feared that you were going to lose it or someone was going to try and steal it.

Maybe that was ridiculous, but extravagant gifts never appealed to you. You liked gifts that meant something, gifts that were heartfelt and thoughtful, gifts like the bookshelf Ben had gotten you months ago before you were dating because he noticed you needed one. Not to mention you loved just spending time with Ben. If he hadn't gotten you anything you would have been content with just sitting with him on the couch and watching a Christmas movie.

But you smile, because you don't want to hurt his feelings and because it's his first Christmas in forty years and you wanted it to be special.

It's Christmas and I will be thankful and happy with whatever he got me, because Ben was thinking of me when he bought it.

You think to yourself as you open the box.

The first thing you notice is that the box isn't as new as you thought, the inside of the lid is printed in ancient script that's a little faded, worn against the aged white silk that lines it. Your eyes drift to the piece of jewelry nestled on the pillow. It's a silver locket, hexagon shaped, and about the size of your thumb. The face is printed with weaving ivy leaves and roses that reach to a simple plain border.

Simple, stately, and completely you.

Ben is uncharacteristically quiet, but he breaks the silence first. "Do you-" He clears his throat, "Do you like it?"

He asks it hesitantly, as if he's afraid to hear your answer. It was unusual for Ben to look so nervous.

You can only nod, any words you had stuck in the back of your throat. Your fingernail finds the seam between the two pieces of metal and you gently unlatch the locket to see the picture inside. There's a piece of glass protecting a yellowed photo of a little boy who looks no more than five standing in a small black suit. You didn't think that they made suits for kids that small. He's smiling and one of his teeth are missing, but he looks oddly familiar.

"Who is this?" You ask. The more you look at the photo the more you think that you've seen him before.

"It's me." He says it quiet, almost a whisper.

"You? But-"

"It was my mother's." He clarifies and you inhale sharply in surprise.

"Really?"

He nods once, looking uncomfortable. By now you knew that moments like this usually made your boyfriend uncomfortable no matter how many times that you'd told him that he didn't have to be uncomfortable about being vulnerable. He was getting a little better, slowly, very slowly.

"Oh Ben I don't know if I should-" You shake your head, afraid to touch something so old.

Ben didn't often speak about his mother, but when he did, it was always reverent and respectful. You could see in his eyes how much he had loved her and how much he had cared about her. His father, Ben also didn't like talking about, but Ben never spoke of his father with the kindness that he'd spoke about his mother.

And you didn't want to take something like this away from him, something that meant so much to him, because of how much he loved his mother.

"No. I-" He clears his throat and Ben's hand tightens on your waist. "I want you to have it."

"But-" You stutter.

"What else am I going to do with it Petals? Can't exactly wear it myself." Ben chuckles, but the humor doesn't quite reach his eyes.

“Yeah, but it’s your mom’s and I-“ You trail off still looking at the photo of Ben as a little boy. He had the same mischievous twinkle in his eyes that you loved, the same unruly dark hair, but there was something different about him. He looked happier. It was the same look that Ben had when it was just the two of you together, the happiness that you wanted Ben to feel the rest of his life when he understood what it was like to be loved and cherished.

And it made you understand that the last time Ben must have felt loved and cherished was when his mother was still alive. It broke your heart to know that Ben had lived all these years without her and missed that in his life.

The locket was beautiful and the fact that Ben remembered what you said about liking gifts that “meant something” made your heart flutter.

Because this meant something. Ben taking the time to go through his mother’s jewelry and pick something out just for you that was special to him that he wanted to share with you, meant more than the emerald and diamond necklace he had tried to give you months ago.

There were tears burning behind your eyes the more you look at the photo of the little boy.

Ben is watching you. “Well-“ He shrugs. “I'm an only child. Which means I don't have any siblings who have wives to fight over this stuff so, I figured that if anyone was going to get it, it should be you. If you don't take it, it'll sit in that fucking storage unit. Seems like a shame."

You don't answer.

"And-" He hesitates, "I think my mom would have wanted you to have it. Hell, she might have given it to you, if I'd brought you home to meet her."

Your cheeks flush.

Ben studies you for another minute, before you watch his smile twitch into a frown. "Fuck, I knew I shouldn't have gotten you jewelry.  Annie said that you liked jewelry, but I told her you didn't and now the bitch is probably having a good laugh with that pussy of a boyfriend! Forget about it sweetheart, I'll go get you something else right now-" Ben tries to take the box from you, but you swat his hand away.

“Don't you fucking dare!” You shout, using the same words that he said to you when you tried to take his sweater away.

"But you don't like it-"

"I do!  And knowing how much this means to you, makes it better."

"Really?"

You nod, a wide smile wiping away any uncertainty in his gaze. "Will you help me put it on?"

"Sure." Ben says gruffly. His voice has lowered a little, and you know that it's a mixture of pride and love mingling in the tone. It made something break open deep inside and flood your ribcage with love.

You turn your neck to the side, pulling your hair away from the skin as Ben hooks the chain together at the nape of your neck.  The cool metal of the necklace against your skin and the weight are unfamiliar, but you already knew that you wouldn’t be taking it off anytime soon. "It's perfect!" You pull Ben in for a kiss, threading your fingers into his dark hair.

Ben smiles into your mouth, holding you tight against him as if he never wants to let you go and you don't want him to.

It was odd to think that you'd only been together for four months, but you couldn't imagine your life without him. It seemed ridiculous for you to think that Ben was it after such a short time, but he was. You'd never rushed into anything in your entire life, but then Ben was there shattering every expectation that you had, enough to make you throw your inhibitions to the wind and jump feet first into the unknown if it meant he was with you.

The kiss is softer than the one the two of you shared at your front door, filled with more emotion than Ben usually let the world see, but he was opening up bit by bit, learning that you wouldn't judge him for that and it made you feel sky high.

This was the relationship you'd always wanted, and you never thought that you'd have it with Ben, but now that you were here you wouldn't change a thing, because it wouldn’t have put you in his arms.

"You can change the picture." Ben murmurs into your lips.

"No way. I don't have any kid photos of you. And I'm pretty sure you'll see all of mine this week.”

“I bet you were cute.” Ben smiles, raising one of the hands from your hip to push your hair from your face. “Hard to imagine you being any other way sweetheart.” 

"Debatable." You sigh, nipping at his bottom lip in a way that makes Ben pull you back to him.

And when the kiss turns hungry, with you gripping his hair so tight you'd be sure that it would hurt anyone else, and with his fingers pushing up the bottom of your t-shirt to feel the warmth of your skin against his hands and find the dips and curves of your body that make you moan into his mouth, you can't help but think that this is the best Christmas you'd ever had.

"I do think it's later sweetheart." Ben's eyes shine with mischief, mouth pulling into the familiar smirk that makes your knees weak.

"Good. Because I have one other gift for you." You moan as Ben's mouth trails down to your jaw, his beard prickling against the sensitive skin, in a way that drives you mad.

"It's not another plant is it?" He bites just under your jaw and you tighten your hands in his hair, gasping softly.  "Fuck, I love those sounds you make baby." Ben murmurs.

"No." You've lost all ability to form sentences, not when he's so perfectly warm and the trail of his hands working up your abdomen consumes you.

"Give it to me later." Ben's eyes flash a startling green. "I want to unwrap my favorite gift right now."

"Keep going the way you are, and you're gonna find it."

Ben hesitates, before he raises his hand to feel the end of the brand new lingerie that you'd bought special for tonight, his eyes darkening with the realization. "Well then, Merry Christmas to me."

Ben's mouth falls against yours, but before he goes further, he pulls back just for a moment, his hand coming up to gently cup your cheek. Your eyes widen in surprise.

"Ben?" You question. 

"Merry Christmas Petals." He whispers, dragging his thumb over your cheek, and nudges his nose against yours in a gesture that warms your heart. He didn’t do things like that often, but whenever he did it always stood out to you, because it added on another layer to the man you loved with all your heart.

"Merry Christmas Ben."

A/N: I thought that they deserved a little Christmas fluff. I'm hoping that I have time to drop a follow up to this before Christmas, because I kinda want to write what happens when they go back to Illinois, but we'll see what happens! ❤️

As always thank you so much for reading! Reblogs, Likes, and Comments are not required, but are always appreciated! I love hearing what y'all think 🥰

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[naffeclipse]

To Survive Pt. 2

Reader x Orca!Eclipse

Commission Info

I'm back with more cuteness requested by dear @crazedauthor with an orca!reader and orca!Eclipse. Now, the two of you have children, and things are so peaceful after so much grief. A little scare happens when you wake alone, but Eclipse arrives quickly to make it better. Family shenanigans occur.

Content Warnings: Mentions of death and blood, and a reader with children.

———

On a crisp, pale morning, you open your eyes to a gentle new dawn. Awareness rushes you like a tide, but it does not drown you. The memory of the night before swishes against you, as soft as sea form, and you smile in your sleepy hazy.

You went to rest upon an ice shelf, carved into the side of a great wall towering pale blue over the Arctic sea, with your mate and children. In the arms of your love and cradling your two babies, one new, one a little grown, you drift into sweet, milky dreams. 

After agonies of loss and isolation, you have found your pod again.

This very home was hollowed out by Eclipse’s hands. Tirelessly, he worked when you both learned you were expecting a child. You’ve never seen him in such excitement. His eyes shone like shards of ice in sunlight and he never slowed a moment until you begged him to come hold you and sleep a while.

Your eyelids flutter, crusted with sleep. Lounging in the bliss of the quiet, you appreciate the stillness for so rarely is all so peaceful. Once the baby came, there were tiny cries little hands grasping, and tiny flukes flipping. Eclipse held the babe in his clawed hands with a tenderness that stirred you with emotions. You fed your little one and whispered promises. Your little pod is safe. Your little pod is whole.

Then the second child came, and now an eager toddler was swimming quickly away around a bend of ice only to be snatched by Eclipse and cooed at in rumbling tones. The baby stayed in your arms when Eclipse wasn’t trying to hold both. Their wriggling bodies combatted his strength and gentleness, and you would laugh.

Sighing gently, you turn over, mindful of your dorsal fin against the frozen floor. 

It’s quiet… Your mind returns to bloody seas and wicked nets tossed by human hands, then silence.

Your palms slide over the emptiness beside you. Bolting upright, your tail slaps against the floor in your alarm with a cool sting. You swivel your head. The dome blue of your home holds no refractions except for the barest light off of your body alone.

Your mate. Your babies. The youngest should be in your arms, mewling for milk. The eldest should have fussed long before the sun rose over the horizon for a playmate. Somewhere between, Eclipse should have kissed your shoulder and asked a question: what fish would you like for your morning meal?

You slept too long. Exhaustion should crawl at your edges and your patience should wear thin as your babies require ever-present attention. Horror crashes upon you. Adrenaline pumps through your veins as you thrust yourself off the ice shelf and into the icy waters below. Blubber and thick skin keep you safe from shock, but your heart swings against your rib cage and pounds against your sternum. Breathlessly, you intake air. You swim under the entrance and out into the vast expanse of the ocean.

Your pod. Where is your pod?

You cry out over the waves. A rawness invades your throat as Eclipse’s and your babies’ names drag at the vulnerable softness within you. Stinging arises at the corner of your eyes. Opening your arms, you dart back and forth over the entrance to your home. Do you set out to find them quickly or do you stay home should they return by themselves? 

The ringing in your ears peaks and then stops under a familiar echo of your name. Twisting in the waters, far out beyond the wall of ice, is your mate. He bobs above the surface. Brilliant red frills frame his face as his eyes land upon you. In his arms, he cradles your children.

Almost collapsing under the surface, you inhale a tight breath. You force another one through, and another, deepening each inhale and exhale until the constriction around your chest eases. 

The sight of your mate and babies keeps you afloat. 

Eclipse carefully swims and closes the distance between you. The moment he nears, you open your arms for the youngest one. Maffei. Your darling daughter. Her face is round and plump, and what tiny frills adorn her are deep with deep red and orange hues. Her arms are thick with fat rolls. Her tiny fists unfurl, and a squall leaves her in demand for your arms around her.

The eldest, Fornax, excitedly calls for his parent. You answer with reassurance. You are here. You gaze over your child, your lovely son, the firstborn of your pod. He pushes away from his father quickly, showing off the cool tones of his flukes and fin-tips. Eclipse told you he looks so much like, but you see his strength in Fornax’s smile, in the way he swims after a fish though he’s too slow now to catch one.

Eclipse suggested the names you so dearly treasure now. He’s imagined for many years children, and the names he had prepared are perfect for the bundles now wriggling in your arm and swimming around you like a tiny whirlpool. 

Now you both have a family.

“Maffei, Fornax,” you breathe and then hold Eclipse’s gaze. “Where were you?”

“I didn’t mean to frighten you, love.” He draws himself closer, resting an arm around your waist. You shift until your back rests against his chest. The familiar weight of his chin pressing lightly into your shoulder cools the rising panic within you. “I believed you would sleep longer. Don’t be afraid.”

For several moments, you collect yourself as Eclipse gathers you in his arms. He presses a kiss to the crook of your neck. Looking down at Maffei, she fits perfectly in your arms. She babbles lightly. Little coos rising and falling in musical notes lay a gentle hand over your heart.

Fornax splashes. The cool wave of water hits you gently, causing Maffei to squirm and pout her pink lips.

“Fornax,” Eclipse says in a firm but gentle voice, “Don’t splash your sister.”

“Sorry, papa.” Your son’s tail flicks. A slight sheepishness overtakes him as he drifts up to you and looks down at his little sister in your arms. “Sorry, Maffei.”

“Good boy,” you murmur and bow to press a kiss to his forehead.

He smiles with small, nubby teeth lining his gums before darting away with another ripple. The water crashes against each other. You keep Maffei shielded this time. 

Eclipse rumbles a pleased sound. Looking back down at you, he presses his cheek against your head.

“Are you alright?” he asks in a low rasp.

“Yes.” You crook your finger and softly brush Maffei’s cheek. “I am now.”

“You looked so weary,” Eclipse continues softly. The vibrations in his chest touch your spine. “Last night, you were up so late with Maffei. I meant to return before you awoke. The little ones were so eager to spend energy. It is my duty as your mate and their father to take care of you all.”

He brushes the hair from your forehead softly. You lean deeper into his touch while watching Fornax explore a side of the ice shelf, touching and digging at loose bits of the frigid wall.  

“They are very rambunctious,” you tease and turn back to grin at Eclipse. “Just like you.”

He laughs, deep and hearty. Maffei gives a small cry of complaint. You can smell the faint scent of milk on her. Eclipse coos sweetly.

“Little love, don’t fuss. We’re both here. It’s alright.” Eclipse tenderly strokes Maffei’s head. Seemingly content with the attention, she leans against your chest and settles. Her tiny tail is not yet developed enough for swimming on her own. She requires constant arms to hold her above the surface as her ability to hold her breath grows stronger and stronger.

You turn slowly back to Eclipse. Your heart has grown softer and fonder of your mate since watching him as a father. He is attentive and constant in his efforts to provide for their every need. 

Gently, you press a kiss to Eclipse’s mouth. His eyes, twin flames of burning yellow and red, widen before he returns the gesture with equal fervor. He pushes gently and cradles your mouth with his before releasing you.

“You are a wonderful father,” you speak softly. “You are the most loving mate. And this,” you look at your children, “feels like home.”

Eclipse’s tail flicks underneath you as his body seems to tremble with emotion before he gently presses his forehead to yours.

“How so, my love? Tell me all,” he demands in a rumble.

You take a moment and fall back to days when you were in the shelter of your mother’s arms, and your aunts would sing lullabies to your younger cousins. 

“Babies were held close, and everyone offered a hand,” you recount gently the memories of your childhood, “No one went without.”

You gently tickle Maffei’s chin, and she grabs your finger with her fat little hand. She gives you a searing look. A soft laugh escapes from you. You apologize to her before she returns to settle against your bosom.

“My mother would have loved to hold our babies,” you whisper softly.

“Yes,” Eclipse rumbles low, “My mother would have been pleased to see our children, and she would approve of my mate.”

You flush softly at such a thought, then grow somber within it. Despite all the pain, you are both still here. Your family is beautiful and worth every moment of agony.

Fornax returns but stops short of splashing Maffei. He instead treads slightly to swim around Eclipse, and tug at his arm, begging for a playmate.

A wicked grin spread across Eclipse’s maw.

“My father would play with me often,” he begins, and you eye him suspiciously as he takes Fornax under the arms. “Like this.”

He lifts Fornax above the surface. His body is small and slipstream, and his tail drips heavily back to the sea as he giggles at a high-pitched sound. To your dismay, Eclipse tosses the child over the surface and back into the water with a heavy splash.

“Eclipse!” you shout, aghast. 

Flicking up small waves, Eclipse darts for Fornax and scoops up your not-so-little baby, and he’s laughing. The boy demands relentlessly that Eclipse toss him once more. Thundering in joy, Eclipse obliges. Fornax sails through the air and back into the water with a furious splash. 

“Eclipse,” your voice climbs shrilly. “Stop tossing my son around like a baby seal!”

“I would never allow harm to befall him,” Eclipse promises in a mischievous roll of his tongue. 

“Again! Do it again, papa!” Fornax slaps the water with his hands and his tail cuts through the salty brine.

Then Maffei turns in your arms. Her little eyes fall on her brother and father playing roughly along the surface, and she chortles in a way that reminds you of Eclipse. Her tiny face ignites with delight.

Slowly, with all forces against you, you relax. Fornax beams brightly when he emerges from another tossing. Constantly, Eclipse is calculating, carefully adjusting the throwing of his son and watching him closely to ensure there is no harm done.

Perhaps he might feel your radiating judgment, for Eclipse turns back. He tucks Fornax underneath his arm and drags him back to you despite your son's protests and needing to be thrown once more over the waves. 

He nears, a great grin splitting his maw. You are helpless in returning the gesture in the radiating heat of his joy. His arms surround you, and Fornax is caught in the embrace as well as Maffei. 

Looking down softly over his pod, Eclipse surveys you quietly. Fornax wraps his arms around you in kind. He blows raspberries at his sister who giggles quietly. Their tiny tails squirm against your side, and you feel at peace.

“I will always protect our pod,” he declares, his eyes searing with his intent and truth.

Your heart swells in your chest. Pushing close, you kiss Eclipse sweetly, until the baby fusses and Fornax asks when he can be tossed again.

You will never lose your pod again.

[ticifics]

Sweet Dispute

James Potter x fem!reader

Summary: The plates arrived quickly, and the cake was so decorated that it looked more like an exhibit than something edible. However, that didn’t stop James from picking up a piece with his fork and holding it out to you. “Come on, try it, my sunshine. I promise it’s as sweet as you.”

Warnings: Beware, there’s all sorts of cheesiness here – but what else could you expect from a date at Madam Puddifoot’s Tea Shop? Be warned

The corridor was silent, except for the echo of muffled laughter. You and James were running side by side, adrenaline coursing through your veins simply because you were doing something wrong. “Don’t forget, if anyone asks, we’ve been in the Astronomy Tower this whole time,” he whispered, a mischievous wink accompanying that crooked smile of his—the one that always seemed to dismantle any resistance you had.

The secret passageway led you straight into the heart of Hogsmeade, where the aroma of hot chocolate mingled with the sound of cheerful laughter. It was a perfect day for a little mischief. “So, madam, where does your adventurous heart desire to go first?” James asked, leaning in slightly closer, his glasses sliding just a bit down his nose. The playful tone in his voice was unmistakable, but the spark in his eyes said something more—a genuine affection he couldn’t seem to hide.

“How about Madam Puddifoot’s Tea Shop?” you suggested, a sly smile dancing on your lips as you watched him. It was a comment meant purely to tease him, but the reaction was even better than you’d hoped.

He stopped dead in his tracks, shoulders slumping dramatically as he turned to you with a mix of disbelief and amusement. “Madam Puddifoot’s? You’re joking, right?” His voice was filled with comical horror, and he placed a hand over his chest as if he’d been gravely offended. “I expected better from you.”

“Oh, don’t say that,” you retorted, feigning an innocent air as you walked ahead of him. “I thought you loved sappy places. After all, wasn’t it you who convinced me to skip class today? I thought we were celebrating in style.”

“Celebrating? Yes,” he said, quickening his pace to catch up. “But not by eating heart-shaped biscuits while sitting in chairs that look like a doll’s tea party.” He slung an arm around your shoulders, leaning in to whisper, “I’ll admit, the idea is so bad it’s brilliant—just to see the look on people’s faces when they see us in there.”

You laughed, leaning slightly against him, his warmth spreading through you like an electric current. “Who knows? It might be fun. Or maybe you’ll discover a side of yourself that loves overly sweet tea.”

“Now you’re asking too much,” he shot back, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “But fine. Let’s go. I just want to see who begs to leave first: me or you.”

Stepping into Madam Puddifoot’s Tea Shop was a test of self-control, as both of you struggled not to burst into laughter. The place was even more over-the-top than you remembered, with soft, melodic music playing in the background and little pink clouds floating near the ceiling. You glanced at him, trying not to laugh at the look of despair on his face.

“Enjoying yourself?” you asked teasingly.

“You’re insufferable,” he replied, his voice low but tinged with undeniable fondness. “Why do I let you drag me into these things?”

“Because you adore me,” you said, and he smiled.

“True.” The simplicity of his response, coupled with the look that came with it, made your heart race. He took your hand across the table, intertwining his fingers with yours. “But just so you know, that doesn’t mean I’ll forgive you for this ridiculous idea.”

“Oh, but I think you’re loving it,” you teased, leaning forward slightly, a playful glint in your eyes. “In fact, I’m sure you’re already crafting an emotional speech to match the place. Go on, James, impress me.”

He raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth curving into a smile full of both challenge and humor. “You want me to be sappy? Fine. But brace yourself—I don’t do things halfway.” Clearing his throat dramatically, he held your hand more firmly, his voice dropping slightly as he began. “Being here with you is like… diving into a sea of hot chocolate. Sweet for the soul, you know?”

You burst out laughing, shaking your head. “That was terrible.”

“Oh, but wait—I’m not done.” He leaned in closer, his blue eyes gleaming with an almost disarming intensity. “Every moment with you feels like basking in a ray of sunshine in winter. Revitalizing. Unforgettable.”

Your laughter faltered, the unexpected sincerity in his last words stealing your breath for a moment. You tried to recover, but the flush on your cheeks betrayed you. “That wasn’t fair,” you murmured, looking away.

“Oh, it absolutely was,” he countered with a smug smile. “Your turn.”

You took a deep breath, sitting up straighter in your chair as if preparing for a duel. “Fine. James Potter, being with you is like… finding the last slice of pumpkin pie in the Great Hall. Warm, comforting, and a little overwhelming.”

He laughed, throwing his head back in exaggerated delight. “That was good, I’ll give you that.”

“But I’m not done yet,” you continued, using his words as your own and locking your gaze on his. “Your eyes are like… a pair of butterflies. Restless, but impossible to ignore.”

He blinked, his smile faltering briefly as a blush crept up his cheeks. “You can’t use comparisons that make me sound pretty,” he protested weakly.

“But you are,” you countered, the teasing melting into a soft sincerity that left him momentarily speechless.

The silence that followed was filled only with the shop’s melodious background music and the looks you exchanged. Before either of you could say anything, your eyes drifted down to his hand still holding yours. His fingertips were calloused, likely from gripping the Snitch so often, and you noticed, once again, how much you liked his hands. There was something about them—the quiet strength, the way he moved them so effortlessly—that always drew your attention.

“Like what you see?” he asked, his voice low and amused, snapping you out of your thoughts.

You blinked, realizing you’d been staring longer than you intended. “What? Of course not.”

“Oh, of course not,” he repeated, grinning in that annoyingly charming way of his. He held his hands up for you to see. “Want another look?”

“James!” you exclaimed, trying to sound indignant, but the flush on your face ruined any attempt at seriousness.

He laughed, but before you could retort, he cupped your face gently, his thumbs brushing your skin with a tenderness that made your breath hitch. “Merlin, you drive me crazy,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “In a way I can’t even begin to explain.”

And before you could respond, his lips met yours. The kiss was everything it promised to be—a mixture of longing, tenderness, and the intensity only James could bring. The way he tilted his head slightly, deepening the kiss, and how his hands cradled your face with care, said more than words ever could. The world around you might as well have disappeared, at least until a loud, exaggerated cough interrupted.

You pulled apart instantly, still so close that your noses brushed, faces flushed. A tea shop employee, wearing a floral apron and an amused expression, stood nearby.

“Ah, young couples,” he said, shaking his head with a tolerant smile. “You look a bit young to be here on your own. First time visiting Hogsmeade?” Thankfully, he didn’t seem to notice you were skipping class.

James was quick to recover, his ability to think on his feet impressive. “Yes! First time in Hogsmeade as… as a couple, you know?” He flashed a radiant smile, leaning toward you in an exaggeratedly affectionate manner, as if confirming his story. “I wanted to bring my girlfriend to a special place. Always heard good things about here.”

You had to bite your tongue to keep from laughing at the theatrical expression he wore, especially when he held your hand again, squeezing it lightly as if signaling you to play along.

“Oh, how lovely!” The employee didn’t seem suspicious at all. “Well, may I take your orders? We have a selection of especially romantic cakes today.”

James gave you a conspiratorial look, clearly enjoying himself. “Oh, we’ll want the sweetest one you have, won’t we, honey?” He used a deliberately sweet tone, exaggerating the last word.

You narrowed your eyes at him but couldn’t suppress a smile. “Of course, my dear. And two cups of the sweetest tea, please.”

As soon as the employee walked away, James leaned forward, his eyes shining with that irresistible mix of challenge and affection. “The sweetest one, huh? You’re really trying to lose, aren’t you?”

“Lose? Who says I’m the one who’s going to give up?” You raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms in mock indignation.

The plates arrived quickly, and the cake was so decorated that it looked more like an exhibit than something edible. However, that didn’t stop James from picking up a piece with his fork and holding it out to you. “Come on, try it, my sunshine. I promise it’s as sweet as you.”

You laughed, rolling your eyes, but opened your mouth to take the bait. He smiled as if he’d just scored a point, watching you chew carefully. “Well? Sweet enough for you?”

“Almost as sweet as the ego of a certain Quidditch player,” you replied, grabbing the fork from him before he could react. You cut a piece of the cake and held it out to him, the playful smile dancing on your lips. “Your turn, sweetheart.”

He pretended to hesitate but ended up accepting. While chewing, he cast a look full of meaning in your direction. “If this is a competition, know that you’re dangerously close to making me admit something I won’t be able to pretend later.”

The unexpected sincerity in his voice made your heart race, but you tried not to show it. “Oh, really? And what would that be?”

He didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he leaned forward once more, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. The softness of the gesture made your face warm. “You know,” he murmured, his voice low and full of feeling. “And I think you feel it too.”

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable — it was filled with something words couldn’t express. You lowered your eyes, searching for something to say, but they inevitably fell back to his hands, now resting on the table.

He noticed. “There you go again,” he teased, intertwining his fingers with yours. “If you like my hands that much, you should tell me.”

You laughed, feeling that familiar mix of embarrassment and affection. “You speak as if you don’t know they’re handsome.”

“Handsome?” He chuckled softly, moving even closer. “With compliments like that, you might just convince me to do it again.”

Before you could ask what he meant, he leaned in to kiss you once more, uncaring of the curious looks from other customers. The intensity of the gesture and the softness of his lips moving against yours were enough to make you forget where you were. Once again, it felt like the world disappeared, leaving just the two of you.

[damneddamsy]

second sight | cregan stark x oc (part v)

a/n: on this episode of Stark Fluff, claere gets a visitor, and cregan has mixed feelings about threesomes. also, cregan learns the harp.

Winterfell wore the slow creep of winter like a familiar cloak. The skies had grown paler, casting the looming walls of the castle in a sallow light, while the cold nipped steadily at its people, urging them to quicken their preparations. From the kitchen to the stables, grain stores were replenishing, the last of the harvest before frost could claim the fields. Blacksmiths hammered iron, the women mended at worn cloaks and men bundled hay for the livestock. Winter was not yet here, but its shadow lingered on the wind, always whispering its warning.

In the heart of the keep, the Glass Gardens had begun to take shape. The towering structure Claere had envisioned stood as a defiant tribute to life in a place where death crept so close. As the days passed, the curved iron frames of the brilliant garden grew taller, and panes of glass steadily fitted into place, though fewer hands worked than before. Claere's journey to the Wall and the ominous silence she had shared upon her return had compelled many away. And yet, those who remained—the builders and labourers still assigned to the task—seemed to grow fond of her, drawn to her quiet kindness, the way she listened with impossible patience to the complications.

But today, the hour she usually spent overseeing the glass gardens came and went. Claere was nowhere to be found.

Cregan noticed her absence first, though no one else seemed to. He strode through the courtyard, determined footsteps echoing through the Great Keep as he searched for her. He had asked the guards, the servants—none had seen her. There was concern in his chest, though his outward manner remained calm, and controlled. His pace eased when he finally came across a group of children playing by the kitchens. They must know something.

He crouched to their height and asked, “Have you seen Lady Stark?”

One of the girls, with red cheeks and tangled braids, blinked up at him. "She must be in the crypts, my lord. She's there on the third day of every sennight."

“The crypts?” Cregan frowned, his confusion evident. “Why?”

The girl only shrugged, her young eyes widening with uncertainty. “My lady says it’s of great benefit.”

A vague answer, but there was little else to go on.

The cold air within the cavernous crypts was still, undisturbed by the world above. As Cregan descended into the darkness, his eyes adjusted to the flickering glow of torches, casting long shadows over the stone effigies of his ancestors. He passed the statues of old kings and queens of the North, of Starks long gone, their direwolves carved faithfully at their feet. Their vigilant, stone eyes seemed to follow him as he walked deeper into the crypts, past his forefathers and mothers, the ancient guardians of Winterfell’s legacy.

It was then that he saw her, like a blossom of blue satin and grey furs in the black earth.

Claere sat on the cold stone floor by the statues of his parents, Lord Rickon Stark and Lady Gillianne Glover, her small form dwarfed by the towering effigies. Candles burned softly around her in quiet vigil, casting a gentle glow over the garlands of winter roses she cradled in her lap. A sea of wilted, woven flowers lay swept to the side—a ritual she had tended to every night, and with a pang in his gut, he realized her abnormal habit had all been for his bygone parents.

His breath caught, a warmth spreading through his chest. She had been honouring them. His own parents. In a way that even he had long forgotten to do. Though why would she, of all people, care?

As he approached her, he heard her familiar song, her voice faint, carrying a resonant yet soothing melody through the crypt. They never rhymed anymore; just lines scrambled and sung to confound.

A rose of blue in the cold earth lay, A fire burned bright, Silver threads in the night. A crown of dreams, A heart of flame, Forgotten now, Yet still the same.

"Claere," he called softly, his voice echoing against the stone walls.

But she didn’t answer. She stayed motionless, her fingers deftly weaving the garlands, her eyes distant, lost in a trance-like reverie. Cregan stepped closer and gently cupped her shoulder.

“Love?” he murmured again, more intent.

This time, she stirred, blinking slowly as if emerging from a dream. Her gaze shifted up to him, soft and dazed. She rubbed at her eyes, her fingers stained with the petals of the roses.

As Cregan crouched beside Claere, the silence was thick, broken only by the distant drip of water echoing somewhere in the depths of Winterfell. He took her bare hands into his, startled by how frigid they were. The touch of her skin was like ice as if she'd been sitting there for hours. He blew gently into her fingers, trying to warm them.

"What are you doing down here alone?" he asked, concern lining his voice.

“They like to speak to me,” she whispered, her voice calm, distant, as though her mind were adrift in another realm. “I heard them the moment I crossed the threshold of the castle. They spoke your name.” She waited, eyes wide. "Did you hear that?"

Cregan's brow furrowed. "There is no voice but ours, love."

She looked away, mumbling, "I heard it."

There was a time when her words, her abnormal ways, would have unsettled him deeply. It was woven into their lives like her rose garlands, a constant. Her peculiar way of seeing the world was no longer alien to him—it had become familiar. Still, he couldn’t help but feel a quiet unease stir in his chest.

“Go on then. What else do they say?” he asked, more to humour her than out of belief, but the curiosity in his tone was real.

“I think they're calm,” she replied, her gaze drifting to statues of his parents. “Content. Now that you're here.”

Cregan exhaled, surprised by how much those words affected him. It was comforting in a way he hadn’t expected, though he didn’t believe in such things—spirits, voices from beyond. He wasn’t a man of superstition, but the idea that his parents might be at peace warmed a part of him he didn’t realize had gone cold.

“What do they say about their son? Do they kick up a big fuss?” he asked, his lips curving into a faint, teasing smile. He carefully balled the long garland she had weaved into a neat pile on her skirt.

“They’re proud,” Claere murmured, her voice gentle, as though the words had floated to her on the breeze. “Your mother—she calls you her little wolf. She wants to hold you once more.”

His heart stilled at that. Little wolf. His mother had called him that, when he was still small enough to crawl into her lap after a long day, his face buried in the scent of her hair. His chest tightened, the ache of loss rising up in his throat. Could Claere really hear them? Was there truth in her words, or was it all part of her unconventional mind?

Cregan lifted his gaze toward the stone faces of his parents, his father's chiselled jaw and his mother's serene expression were immortalized in cold marble, watching over him as they had in life. Claere's soft hum floated through the still air, and something in her melody seemed to stir the memories of those long gone. He couldn’t bear the weight of their unblinking eyes. His throat thickened, and he looked away quickly, the familiar ache of loss sharper than he’d prepared for.

“And my father?” he asked, his voice rough now, bearing apprehension now, the question almost catching in his chest.

“He knows you’ve transcended him,” she replied, her tone soft, as if the words were delicate things. “But he’s glad. He wishes he could be here to see you rule the North as he did once."

That broke something in Cregan. He felt the sting of tears behind his eyes, and before he could stop it, one escaped, rolling down his cheek. His father had always been a stern man, proud but distant, and those words, even if he believed they weren't real, cut deeper than he expected. He had been alone since three and ten, sparing no effort in being a man where he should've been a boy. Such was the duty of an early heir, he had grown up between burdening winters and blades.

Cregan blinked rapidly, turning his cheek to her, trying to clear his vision, but Claere saw it. Her expression shifted—confusion flickered across her features. She reached out, her fingers brushing the tear away with the lightest touch.

“Have I hurt you?” she asked, her voice uncertain, innocent in its concern.

Cregan shook his head, sniffing back the rest of his tears. He smiled softly at her, a smile that was half sorrow, half joy. "No, of course not."

"No?" she echoed.

“I’m grateful. I’m very happy.” His voice cracked as he laughed, almost in disbelief at the way she had managed to stir emotions long buried. "Although I'd rather be gelded than have you see me cry again."

Claere tilted her head, watching him with that dream-like gaze, her mind always half elsewhere. “Tears are the sign of a good heart,” she said simply, though there was still a hint of hesitation in her voice.

As Cregan's deep laugh trailed off, Claere’s gaze slipped to the flickering candle before her. She watched the flame, her fingers hovering near its light as though she could shape the glow with her will alone.

“They’ve gone silent,” she murmured, her voice barely more than a breath. “Since I returned from the Wall… the voices, they’re almost gone now.”

Her words chilled him in a way that had nothing to do with the cold of the crypts. He watched her fingers dance in the flame’s heated tip, and something about the way she spoke—so distant, so lost—made his chest constrict.

“I keep seeing these things. Awful things.” She still wouldn’t look at him, her eyes fixed on the candle’s flame as though it held the answers she sought. “Visions, riddled with frozen fire, no men of women born, blue flames that burned cold, dragons—dead dragons—and spilt blood. Endless dark, unending night.”

Her voice was soft but steady as if recounting some terrible dream. The Wall, the omens, whatever visions or feelings had driven her—they had unsettled her in ways she wasn’t used to conveying.

Cregan swallowed, unable to suppress the shiver that ran through him. Claere rarely expressed her visions with such transparency, yet this time there was something raw in her tone, a dread he had never heard before. If only these people could truly see what she had to bear.

“I believed the lands past the Wall would show me the days of yore,” she continued, her words slipping from her lips like a confession. “I thought it would reflect what I see, but it didn’t. None of it. So now I think—”

She stopped herself, her voice catching in her throat, and for a long moment, she said nothing.

Cregan waited, his heart solemn with tension. Finally, Claere’s gaze lifted from the flame, and when her violet eyes met his, there was a tremor of fear in them, an emotion so unfamiliar in her usually distant, dream-like gaze that it struck him silent.

“I think it is things not yet come to pass,” she whispered, her voice tight, as though it pained her to say it. “I think… they’re coming. I don't know what to do. No one else can see." She shook her head, almost violently, and her hands trembled, her calm veneer fracturing before him. Tears welled at the corner of her eyes. “I cannot stop it, Cregan. It terrifies me.”

The vulnerability in her voice, the aching helplessness, shook him to his core. Claere, who had always been silent and intangible, now stood before him utterly mortal, fragile, and afraid. He had never seen her like this, not in all the time they’d been together. It was as though she carried a brewing storm on her shoulders, and she didn’t know how to face it alone.

Cregan’s instinct was immediate. He gently pulled her toward him with a shush, enfolding his arms around her, and gathering her into his chest.

“No, my love,” he whispered into her hair, his voice soothing. "I'm here. It's alright. They're just dreams."

She melted into him, her body trembling against his, her head resting against his chest. He stroked the side of her head gently, feeling the rapid rise and fall of her breath. Her hands clung to the front of his cloak, desperate, as though his warmth was the only thing tethering her to the present. He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, his lips lingering there, as though willing his strength into her.

“The North has weathered long nights before,” he said quietly, his voice steady, filled with the same resolve that had been passed down through generations of Starks around them. “Stark blood runs deep in these stones. We’ve stood through the darkness, through cold that could break men’s bones. And yet, we stand. Every time, Claere.”

She looked up at him, her wide eyes searching his face, her breath still uneven but slowing.

"What are our house words?" he asked, as if reminding her.

"Winter is coming," she answered breathily.

“Winter is coming,” he echoed, his voice assertive yet tender. He cupped her face gently, his thumb brushing against her cheek as he looked into her eyes. “We will do what we must to defend the realm, through whatever comes. As we always have. You have nothing to fear.”

His words sank into her like warmth, thawing the icy fear that had gripped her. She exhaled, long and slow, her body finally relaxing into his arms. Cregan kissed her cheek, softer this time, feeling the shift in her, the tension ebbing away.

For a long moment, neither of them moved, holding each other in the flickering candlelights, surrounded by the silence of the crypts. The dead watched over them, but their presence no longer felt foreboding—it felt calm and peaceful, as though the ancient Starks could see and approve.

She nodded, her face resting against his chest once more, her breathing finally even. He could still sense the undercurrent of fear that rippled through her, but the worst of it had passed. His mind worked quickly, searching for a way to guide her thoughts away from the darkness she had spoken of.

Softly, he murmured against her hair, "There’s news from Dragonstone."

Claere shifted in his arms, lifting her head to look at him. The mention of Dragonstone sparked a flicker of curiosity in her gaze, enough to break the hold of the haunting visions.

"A raven arrived last night," he continued, his voice casual, as though easing her into something lighter. "Prince Jacaerys flies north on his dragon. He’ll be here within a fortnight."

Her lips parted as if she wanted to say more, but the thought seemed to drift away before she could grasp it. Something was grounding in the knowledge of Prince Jacaerys’ arrival—something beyond the shadows she had seen, a thread of the present to hold on to.

He gave her a slight squeeze, his thumb brushing a strand of her silver hair behind her ear, a playful glint in his eye. "We'll find out soon enough. But for now, let's get you warm. You'll turn into a sculpture yourself if you're here any longer."

Claere’s lips quirked, a touch of amusement flickering through the lingering shadows in her eyes. “A lady of ice.”

Cregan smirked. “Not on my watch.”

X

The fruits of labour are often hard-won, and in Claere’s case, it was quite literal. A month past, she had flown on Luna, disappearing into the night for three days. Although it had endlessly upset Cregan, upon her return, it was with the spoils of her journey—seeds from distant lands, collected with care and intent. These seeds were her gift to Winterfell’s glass gardens, her quiet revolt against the fatty northern diet.

Among them were golden beets from the Reach, hardy winter squash, and sweet, bright carrots from Highgarden. She’d also returned with seeds of hearty cabbages and turnips, the kinds of food that could survive even in the harsher climate of the North. And now, after weeks of tilling and patience, some of the plants had finally sprouted, tiny green shoots peeking through the soil like fragile promises of life.

But her project had not remained hers alone for long. Claere, with her quiet strangeness, had drawn the children of Winterfell into it, gradually involving them in nurturing the new glasshouse. The saplings became theirs as much as hers, and the little Northerners guarded them as fiercely as they did their direwolves. Though they laughed and played around her, tending to the glass gardens with dirt-smeared cheeks and eager hands, the adults stood back—watching with cautious, measured eyes.

Now, it called for a celebration. Claere had returned from an early morning flight on Luna, bringing with her the largest haul yet—sacks of ripe persimmons, plucked from the orchards of the Vale. The children gathered around her, eyes wide and filled with excitement. Persimmons were rare in the North, almost unheard of past the Twins, and to them, this was a treasure trove.

She stood there, composed and aloof, while the children crowded at her feet, clutching at her skirts.

"My lady," one small boy asked in awe, peering into the sack, "what kind of fruit is this?"

“Persimmons,” Claere told them. “From the Vale. If honeycomb were a fruit, it would be this.”

One of the girls hesitated, looking up with wide, curious eyes. "Persimmons. But why do they look like little jewels?"

Claere glanced down at the fruit in the child’s hand. “They are… in a way,” she mused, her fingers brushing the leathery skin of a persimmon. “Jewels of the trees. Careful not to crack your teeth on them.”

The children giggled, their awe unabashed. But from the edges of the courtyard, some of the adults watched the scene with guarded expressions. One of the mothers—an older woman with a stern face—made her way toward them, half-heartedly pulling her child back.

"My lady," the woman began cautiously, her tone respectful but wary, "your kindness knows no limit… but persimmons, foreign fruits—are they not better suited for lords and ladies’ tables? Perhaps the children ought to…?"

Claere turned her gaze to the woman, her eyes calm, as if considering the unspoken reluctance. She did not speak at first, only handed the sack to one of the boys who held it up for the others to reach.

“They’re fruits of the earth,” she said softly, “not gold meant to be hoarded. What grows must be shared. It's why the Glass Gardens are being built.”

There was a pause, tension still lingering in the air. A few of the men exchanged glances, unsure of this Targaryen's ways—so different from the daughters of the North they knew.

Then one of the fathers, a grizzled man with a thick beard, broke the silence with a short laugh. “As long as my son doesn’t bring more seeds to my house, we’ll thank you, my lady.”

His words loosened the air, drawing chuckles from others. The children cheered as they dug into the fruit, but the adults, though warmer now, still watched her carefully. In small, deliberate ways—through her gifts, her gentle efforts to nurture life in this land—she was inching closer, bridging the invisible divide between herself and the North.

"Come now, pups," a young lady led the children away with their happy squalls, "one for each. Share it with the others."

"Arrys took three! Fatty!"

"Hey, that's mine!"

"Mine's a little green!"

It was subtle, this shift. Like the first, almost imperceptible thaw after a long winter, when the snow begins to soften at the edges, and the hard ground yields just enough to suggest that spring might, one day, arrive.

Claere’s eyes lingered on the adults for a moment longer, as though she understood. She wasn’t sure she could ever be loved like one of their own. And while they still watched her warily, with eyes that carried centuries of cold caution, there was a slow, begrudging acceptance in their gaze. The kind of acceptance that wasn’t born out of understanding, but out of recognition—recognition that, for all her strange ways, she was not giving up.

“My lady!” A breathless guard stumbled toward her, his face flushed with urgency. He dropped into a quick bow, his words fumbling as they spilt out.

“Scouts have spotted a dragon. We believe... it’s your brother, the prince.”

Her brother. Jacaerys.

The news sent a ripple through Claere’s thoughts, pulling her out of the quiet reverie she’d fallen into. She nodded, dismissing the guard and strolling away from the castle entrance, and soon turned her gaze skyward, watching as Vermax circled in the distance, preparing to land. Luna twitched behind her, growling low, sensing another dragon’s presence but remaining calm as Vermax descended.

Jacaerys landed some distance away from Luna, cautious not to provoke the larger dragon. Vermax was a mere hatchling in comparison to Luna, poised by her rider protectively.

As her brother dismounted, Claere observed him from afar, her emotions a tangled web. She hadn’t seen him in many long months. The boy she remembered had been full of vigour and promise, but now, standing before her, Jacaerys had grown in ways she hadn’t fully anticipated.

The man who approached her was taller, his shoulders broader, his gait that of a prince who had known the significance of command. His dark hair, tousled by flight, framed a face more serious than it had once been. There was a formality to him, a distance that felt almost like the expanse between them, even though they were blood.

Their relationship had not always been like this—distant, formal. He was once her buffer against her vengeful uncles, Aegon and Aemond, and her safest confidante in the Red Keep. He only happened to sour to her presence after their mother, Queen Rhaenyra, had blissfully betrothed them when they were children of nine, for the strengthening of their bloodline and her irrefutable claim to the throne. It was declared null when her mother faced the threat of dispersion from Lord Corlys on Driftmark that she joined Laena Velaryon's daughters to her prince sons in holy matrimony.

Where Claere had somewhat bonded with her younger brothers Lucerys and Joffrey, Jacaerys had remained like a stranger thereafter. He had never been unkind to her, never prodded at her oddities, only stayed apathetic, their connection one of duty rather than affection. He had always seemed uncertain of how to approach her, and she had never sought him out. They had lived like shadows, passing by each other but never truly meeting.

“Sister,” Jacaerys greeted her upon reaching her, his voice polite, measured. He dipped his head, ever respectful, the heir to the throne. "How you've grown in mere moons. And so has Luna."

She imparted a brief nod. "Brother," she greeted back quietly. Her eyes darted to Vermax, his green-scaled dragon, beady eyes watchful of his rider. "Vermax has come to be formidable."

"Indeed," Jace said, sounding proud of himself, peeking back at his dragon. "You'll also be pleased to know that Tyraxes has finally taken to wing. Ought to see Joff instead of me next time."

Slightly hesitant, she asked, "And this time?"

"I've come to see how you're faring," and quickly included, "upon mother's request. As her envoy."

His eyes flashed down to her flat abdomen for a split second, possibly gauging the extent of a prosperous marriage. So far, he was not convinced. It had nearly been six moons, yet no cries of a Stark lordling sounded in the halls.

“I am well,” Claere answered, her tone just as restrained as his.

His dark eyes flicked toward the great castle, then back to her. “There have been… rumours. Whispers from the North that have reached the Queen’s ears. She was concerned.”

Rumours. She knew what he implied—the discontent among the Northerners, their ever-growing suspicion of her, the whispers of a Valyrian witch who crossed the Wall and lived to tell the tale. It had been expanding slowly, like frost creeping across the ground before winter.

“They matter little,” Claere replied, her voice barely above a whisper.

Jacaerys didn’t respond at first, his gaze sharp as he studied her. Then, with the smallest hint of reluctance, he responded, “I am still your brother, Claere. Marriage cannot dissolve that. I rule over Dragonstone with Baela and if you wish it, I will gladly have you back home or with our brothers in the Red Keep."

It wasn’t quite an offer, more like a suggestion left hanging in the cold air between them. A way out, should she want it. Simply renounce a vain, hopeless marriage and move on.

Claere’s eyes met his, and for a moment, she wondered if he meant it. Did her dear brother truly want her back, or was this merely a way to ease his guilty conscience? To not have suspected the consequences beforehand, before she was ever traded off to the unaccepting North? She glanced at Luna, standing watch behind her, and then back to Jacaerys.

A brief silence passed between them before he spoke again, his voice lighter, though still formal. “I'd like to speak to Lord Stark. Perhaps he'd have a response for the crown.”

X

The Great Hall of Winterfell felt colder than usual that evening. The large hearth blazed, but the warmth seemed to be swallowed by the heavy silence hanging between the three nobles seated at the long table. Cregan sat at the head, his posture relaxed yet every muscle tensed beneath the surface, his eyes occasionally drifting toward Claere on habit, who sat beside him, ever the silent enigma. Across from them, Jacaerys Velaryon sat straight-backed, his dark eyes flicking between his hosts, clearly working up to something but holding back—for now.

The tension was palpable, thick enough to slice through with a blade, but neither man addressed the looming unspoken questions yet. Claere seemed unconcerned, as she picked at the modest fare before her, her pale eyes focused on nothing in particular. She was present yet did not seem so, lost in her world.

Cregan noticed her silver crown of braids, how they were styled in the manner of a Southern lady, perhaps to butter up to her brother. He never thought he would infuriated over something as foolish as hair, and ought to chastise those handmaidens of hers who only worked around his cause.

Jace cleared his throat, breaking the silence as he reached for his goblet, swirling the golden ale inside. He offered a polite smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes.

"This beverage is excellent, my lord," Jace began, a tentative olive branch. "And the pie—'tis the heartiest I've had. Sustains the North, I’m sure. Though I can imagine it’s difficult for... some to thrive on such fare."

His gaze dashed briefly to Claere, lingering on her thinner frame. It wasn’t a pointed stare, but the implication hung in the air. Her weight loss, her difficulty sustaining herself on the limited northern diet—it was not lost on him.

Cregan’s jaw clenched, though his smile remained courteous. "We manage well enough," he said, his voice patient. "The Glass Gardens have begun to yield fresh crops. Our granaries our vast. We make sure every Northerner has everything they require come winter."

There was a subtle challenge in Cregan’s words, a quiet assertion of his control over his household and his care for his wife. The implication was clear: I’ve got it covered.

Jace gave a tight nod, his lips pressed thinly together. The conversation lulled back into awkward silence, the crackling of the fire and the clinking of cutlery the only sounds between them. Claere remained as she had been—detached, her pale eyes drifting from the flames in the hearth to the fruit on her plate.

Jacaerys hesitated before speaking again, as though weighing his next words carefully.

"Has Claere ever told you," he drawled, his tone lighter but carrying an undercurrent of something more, "that she and I are twins?"

Cregan’s gaze shifted to Jace, then to Claere, and back again. It rattled him, if only for a moment. Twins? It seemed impossible. Jacaerys, with his dark ringlets and strong build, bore the hallmarks of House Velaryon though, some whispered, his true father, Ser Harwin Strong. Claere, on the other hand, was the image of Old Valyria—silver hair, pale skin, violet eyes, as if fire and ice had mingled to create her. The stark contrast between them had always been striking, and now it seemed even more so. He simply deemed it unlikely at first glance.

"Yes, we were inseparable," the young prince continued, his tone cautious. "We shared the same womb, weaned from the same breast, and learned together as children. We were even betrothed for a time, like our ancestors before us."

Jace's eyes narrowed slightly as Cregan's fingers fisted, and though his tone remained neutral, there was an edge to his words. "But even after all that, there are things about my sister I still cannot begin to comprehend."

Cregan’s eyes darkened, understanding the implication. Jace wasn’t just talking about family ties; he was probing, testing for weaknesses, for fractures in the foundation of Claere’s place in Winterfell. It was a subtle attempt, cloaked in brotherly concern, but Cregan was no fool.

"Aye, that may be," Cregan replied evenly, leaning back in his chair, his fingers tapping against his goblet. "But what man can claim to entirely understand a woman, even one he’s known all his life? Claere may be... finding her feet, but that doesn’t make her any less at home here."

Jace raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into a faint, sardonic smile. "You speak as if she’s already oriented herself here, Lord Stark. Though from what I’ve heard, not all in the North share your sentiment."

The jab was delivered mildly, but it hit its mark. Cregan’s expression hardened slightly, his palm tight around his fork, though his tone remained calm. "Winterfell is nearly frozen over. It takes time for new blood to warm itself to these halls. But we’ve had Targaryens here before, and they’ve got by just fine."

"Mm," Jace hummed into his glass, "dragonblood runs hotter than you can imagine."

"Makes it easier then."

Jace leaned forward, setting his goblet down. "That’s just it, isn’t it? Claere is no mere Targaryen. She’s my twin. She has just as much claim to our mother’s throne as I do."

The implicit tension snapped into something sharper, more dangerous. The Iron Throne. The claim. It hung between them like a storm on the horizon, unstated but ever-present. Should sides be drawn in the future, blood could be spilt—not over affection, but over power, the oldest and most treacherous currency. He could imagine it: Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, Claere Targaryen, and her king consort, the King in the North, Cregan Stark. It tasted foul on his tongue, withered to ashes as soon as it appeared. Claere was queen, here. She was the winter's queen, a fire that would burn a beacon in the North.

Cregan’s eyes narrowed, though his expression remained stoic. "Are you suggesting something, my prince? Sowing seeds of war in my soil, possibly?" he asked, his voice low, enduring as a mountain before the storm. "Because it sounds as though you’re questioning my lady's fealty to her home."

Jace’s eyes flashed, but he didn’t back down. "I’m simply reminding you of who she is. And that, as much as you may think you understand her, there are parts of Claere that no one can reach." His gaze drifted to Claere then, who sat as still as stone, her eyes on the flickering flame. "Not even me."

Cregan studied Jacaerys for a long moment before turning his gaze to Claere. She had been a quiet, odd presence throughout this verbal sparring match, content to let the two men duel with words over her head. But now, as Jace’s words hung in the air, she finally looked up, meeting Cregan’s eyes with her own.

Cregan leaned back in his chair, a calculated look forming as his hand rested on Claere’s thigh.

His voice lowered, carrying an undercurrent of challenge but framed in civility. "It seems we find ourselves at an impasse. Perhaps a better question, my prince, is not who has known Claere through six moons or sixteen years, but who has tried to understand her the most."

Bitterness flickered in Jace's gaze. He leaned forward, not willing to be outdone. "It’s not the little things that bind people. It’s blood, shared history. We came into this world together."

Cregan’s lips curved into a cold, knowing smile. "Aye, you did. But who stands by you in the darkest hour matters, not who was there when the sun first rose."

Jace’s face flushed with frustration. He glanced at Claere, who sat impassive as ever, and then back to Cregan, clearly at a loss. It seemed like he wanted to argue for a moment, but nothing came. The Stark lord's words had landed.

"Jace is right," she said quietly, her voice soft but collected. "He doesn't know me fully, nor do I know him as I should." Her eyes shifted toward her brother, a faraway sorrow touching her expression. "We've spent years apart—fates pulling us in different directions. He's not wrong about that."

Jace straightened up, a gleam of triumph surfacing in his expression, but before he could speak, Claere turned her gaze back to Cregan, her voice clearer, firmer.

"But that doesn’t imply I am not where I am meant to be."

Jace's smile faded. Her words were simple, undefined as ever, but they carried the gravity intended. It was a quiet reminder that she had chosen Winterfell, that she had chosen Cregan. And though her ways might be unconventional, she was committed to that choice.

Cregan’s expression softened slightly as he looked at her, the tension in his stance easing. Every inch of him swelled with pride at her words.

"I belong here now, Jacaerys," she declared to him.

"These people whisper at you like cravens, sister," Jace told her irately. "They have no regard for the power at your helm. Seven hells, you ride the White Dread. Yet they disparage you and hail you a witch."

"I will not have her leave her home for it," Cregan cut in sharply, his words slicing through the thickening tension.

Jace’s lips pressed into a thin line, his earlier confidence ebbing into frustration. "Home?" he repeated, the word laced with disbelief. “She is of the blood of Old Valyria. She belongs in a throne room, with her dragon soaring over Blackwater Bay—not wasting away in the most forgotten corners of the realm.”

"Wasting away?" Cregan’s voice dropped to a deadly stillness, his eyes narrowing. “She flourishes here, despite whatever Southern comforts you think she’s lost.”

Jace’s gaze sharpened, unwilling to back down. "Look at her, Stark. She's barely a shadow of—"

"Stop."

Claere’s voice cut through the rising tension, abrupt and shrill, though her tone was calm. Both men fell silent.

For a heartbeat, neither Jace nor Cregan moved, their stances locked in defiance, accusations hanging gravely in the air. The room seemed to shrink, the air charged between them as if the two men stood on the brink of war than the moment itself.

Cregan’s jaw tightened, his gaze darkening as he regarded the prince. His voice dropped to a dangerously calm whisper, more powerful in its restraint.

“You speak of power as if it is the only thing that holds this realm together. But it’s not power that keeps this castle standing. It’s hard work, loyalty, honour. Do you think strength alone carried Winterfell through the long winters and centuries?”

Jace’s eyes flicked to Claere, then back to Cregan, the frown on his face deepening. “Loyalty?" he said, his voice tinged with scepticism. "Yes. But loyalty can break as easily as ice, especially when those in the shadows do not see strength."

“They see what I choose to show them,” Cregan shot back, his voice steady, unflinching. “And they see a queen standing beside me. She is spoken for in my name. That’s all they need to know.”

The silence that followed was thick and heavy as if the very stones of Winterfell had taken a breath and held it. Jace’s brow furrowed, his jaw tight as he tried to digest what Cregan said. Queen? The word hung in the air between them, a title not formally bestowed, yet it carried a deeper truth.

Jace’s gaze flicked between them—Cregan, with his unyielding confidence, and Claere, with her quiet, ethereal presence. He tried to grasp it, to make sense of how this odd, reserved sister of his had become something more in the eyes of these Northern people. For all their whispered words, all their doubts and suspicions about her, they still regarded her as something more than a mere consort. She had carved out a place here, without needing to raise a sword or a dragon in her defence. She was no longer a pawn at their mother's behest.

Jace exhaled, his hands resting on the table, his earlier edge of confrontation slipping away.

"I have only wanted what's best for her. And to my mother, it was to bring her back to Dragonstone. Live out her days as she wished, rid off calumnies." Finally, he nodded, settling into a reluctant acceptance. “Now I see... she's not alone."

Cregan’s gaze was unflinching as he spoke. “She never was.”

Jace looked between them, Cregan’s words settling over the table like a thick winter’s snow. Claere’s eyes met her brother's in a fleeting but meaningful look.

Jace, for all his formality, nodded, understanding more than words could say. "Then we place our trust in your hands, my lord, and the princess' peace of mind."

And the Stark, ever the wolf in his den, would guard her with teeth bared if need be. Cregan’s hand tightened on Claere’s, his voice low and relentless.

“You’ll leave Lady Stark in the only hands she needs.”

X

Claere stood in the doorway of Jace’s chambers, her presence barely announced by the soft scrape of her shoes on stone. In her arms, a basket, small and modest, yet unmistakably precious—the glint of warm dragon eggs nestled within.

Jace looked up from his desk, startled by the sight of her, and rose slowly, his brow furrowed in confusion. "Sister."

“For the new princess,” she announced, her voice low, measured.

She offered the basket, her fingers lingering on the handle for a moment before retreating into the folds of her gown. Her gaze remained fixed on the gleaming eggs as if their presence alone carried the message.

Jace blinked, surprise flashing across his face before he laughed, though the sound lacked true mirth.

“Of course. You always seem to know more than most,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief. “No one’s spoken of the babe—not even to the Queen.”

Her lips barely moved as she responded, her tone distant, almost cryptic. “The winds carry luck and warnings alike.”

"We've named her Laena."

She inclined her head ever so slightly. “An auspicious name. May she prosper.”

Her words were curt and formal, as though there was nothing more between them than this exchange. The air between them felt colder, stretched thin by years and decisions not their own. He had always hoped for more—some kind of familiarity, some bridge between their shared past—but that hope had been dashed time and time again. The rift, born of their mother's scheming and expectations, had only deepened over the years.

“I wish you good fortune, brother,” Claere said finally, her voice flat, the words of courtesy hollow.

Jace sighed, the weight of lost years heavy on him. He had wanted to speak with her, to find some common ground, but she had always been like this—elusive, indistinct, a world apart even when she stood in the same room. Time had slipped away, and no ravens sent across the vast expanse of that distance could ever reclaim what was lost.

"Lord Stark seems quite fond of you," he tried to say, softening his tone. "I am glad you've found someone to treasure. I also hear that you crossed the Wall alone—"

"The hour grows late. I should leave you to your rest." So blunt, a blade cutting through any illusion of warmth between them.

"Claere, wait," he muttered as she turned to leave.

His sister paused, though her back remained to him, her silence stifling. She did not look at him, and yet he felt her eyes upon him, offering no solace, only the unyielding distance that had grown between them.

Jace hesitated, searching for the right words. “The throne… it’s a cage, not a crown. You know that as well as I. You don’t need it. You don’t want it.”

Claere turned, her gaze indistinct, as if she were dissecting his meaning without revealing any of her own. He took a breath, willing her to understand.

“We were born the same. But only one of us can sit up there. And you’ve never belonged in its shadow. You’re beyond it.”

The silence that followed was thicker, heavier than before. His words hung in the air, an unspoken plea for her to step aside, to yield something that, by all rights, was hers to claim.

She said nothing, but her silence screamed louder than words, and in that void, Jace felt the weight of all that had passed between them, the years lost, the closeness forsaken.

"I'm sorry, sister," he admitted, his voice a soft plea. "For all of it. I wish it did not come to this."

She raised her brows, her eyes sharp as violet shards. "Come to what?"

Jace faltered, caught off guard by the calmness of her tone, the way her words sliced through his own hesitation. He swallowed hard, searching for something to grasp onto. "This anonymity. Our own mother's ambition has turned us into strangers."

Claere's lips lifted to a bleak smile. "Our mother did not do that, Jacaerys. You did."

She stood there, her face unmoving, the silence thick between them. There was no anger in her eyes, but neither was there forgiveness. Just that same cool, detached calm. And with that, she turned and left, leaving him alone in the echo of his apology.

He stared after her, the basket of eggs still warm in his hands, and the cold truth of her departure settling like frost, realizing that whatever bridge he had hoped to build between them had crumbled long ago.

X

As night closed in, Cregan and Claere's bedroom was bathed in darkness, save for the pale glow of moonlight sloping through the windows, casting long shadows over the stone floor.

Cregan lay awake, his mind restless, replaying the tension of the evening with Jace. He’d handled it as he always did—with authority and force. But had he thought of her? Claere had said little at dinner, her quiet presence always hard to read. Yet Cregan couldn’t shake the feeling he should have asked her, should have drawn her into the conversation instead of battling it out alone.

Beside him, Claere stirred. He watched her wake from the pillows, her bare feet silent against the cold floor as she moved, a familiar routine. Her nightdress clung to her form, delicate and flowing, the pale fabric shifting with each step. She drifted toward her harp—a massive, exquisite instrument that seemed to be attached to her as much as her dragon did. He'd watched her do this countless times, slipping into her world of music as if it were the only place where she could find peace.

Cregan’s eyes followed her as she sat, the harp resting between her legs. She flicked her long, silver hair over her shoulder, tucking the loose strands behind her ear before her fingers found the strings. Each pluck sent a soft note into the air, a lulling melody filling the room, soothing and haunting all at once. Her eyes stared unseeingly at the carpet as she hummed, a low, wordless tune that rose and fell with the notes. Her fingers danced across the strings effortlessly, creating music that seemed to be born of the night itself.

She was the vision of every man’s dream—stunning, elusive. And yet, even as she sat there, calm and poised, Cregan could feel her unease, buried beneath that impassive exterior. He knew her anxieties, could sense them in the way her shoulders tensed, in the small tremor in her breath. He should have asked her, should have given her the space to speak her thoughts, to let her feelings surface.

Quietly, he pushed off the furs and moved toward her, sitting behind her on the long bench. His broad hands slid over her waist, firm yet tender, grounding her as he drew closer. Claere’s fingers continued to dance over the strings, but he felt the stillness in her body, the way her breath caught as his presence nudged against her. He straddled her from behind, thighs sweeping hers, his chin resting on her shoulder, carefully sweeping her hair aside to expose the pale curve of her neck. Soft, lazing kisses followed—his lips grazing her skin, teeth teasing in between. The touch was enough to break her concentration; her fingers faltered, missing the next note. Her humming stilled, but she didn’t pull away.

"It's as if you were made to indulge me," he murmured against her skin, the words low and warm as he kissed her ear, drawing her closer to him with every word.

A soft smile tugged at Claere’s lips. "Not long ago, this used to scare you witless."

Cregan chuckled, a low sound that rumbled against her back, his lips pressing more firmly into her cheek. “Maybe earlier,” he admitted, his breath hot against her skin, “but now. Now I think of immensely bold acts I'd like to see play out.”

His hands slid up her sides, pulling her in closer, as though she was the only thing that could still his thoughts. He pushed another kiss at the seam of her jaw, teeth sinking in to tug at it.

"Do you want it, love?" he rasped.

Her fingers idly plucked at the gold strings. "You?"

"You already have me. I meant the Iron Throne."

Claere’s fingers stilled on the harp strings, the delicate melody faltering, as though his offer had reached even the instrument.

Cregan had always been a man of ancient power, cold winds, and the endless stretches of the North—they were in his blood as much as his duty to his people. He had never wanted the games of the South, the crown’s politicking, the endless pursuit of power. All he had ever wanted was to serve his house and to care for the woman he had sworn his heart to.

But as he held Claere close, her warmth seeping into him in the quiet of the room, his mind was at war with itself. For her, he would march on King’s Landing, he would challenge any lord, any crown, if she asked it. And that thought ate at him, for it wasn’t a war he desired—it was her. Only her.

“I'd give it to you when the time comes,” he whispered again, reluctance carefully concealed. He pressed another kiss into the soft curve of her jaw, his breath heavy against her skin. “If you said it, I’d rally all the houses under my yoke, raise my banners and claim what’s rightfully yours. I'll lay all of Westeros at your feet.”

Her body tensed beneath his touch, but she said nothing at first. The silence stretched, and it unsettled him. He felt her thinking, felt her calculating in that quiet way she had. She always had a way of making him question himself without uttering a word.

“You would march south for me?” she finally asked, her voice low, like a ripple across still water.

Cregan's hands gripped her waist more firmly as he processed her quiet words. She hadn't given him a direct answer, not about the Iron Throne, not about power or the realms beyond the North. But there was something in her silence, the way her fingers had resumed their light plucking at the strings of the harp, her eyes half-lidded in thought. His heart clenched, torn between duty and desire.

His voice was a low rumble, roughened by the cold and tension. "Aye."

"Then what?" she mused.

He was evidently thrown. "You... you could have it all—power, praise. No one would ever question your place. They’d fear you, respect you. The entire realm."

She paused, her hands resting against the harp strings, but her face remained unreadable. After a moment, she tilted her head slightly, her silver hair brushing his chin.

"And what would you do then?" she asked. "Once we have seized the Red Keep, and slain my brother and his heir, would you rule by my side, or would you abandon me in that gold cage with bloodstains?"

His jaw clenched as the simplicity behind her cruel words settled.

"There must always be a Stark at Winterfell," she claimed in a mumble, her tone unyielding, almost teasing. "Would you leave me to be poisoned by the court of vipers while you return home?"

He swallowed, his throat tight. The truth of her question was too clear. The North was in his blood, a responsibility that was older than any crown. And yet, for her, he had entertained the unimaginable. He could see it in her eyes now—the depths of her meaning, the question he hadn’t fully understood.

“You fit in here, with me," she said softly, her fingers brushing over his wrist, still resting on her waist. "This is the only place I’ve ever truly felt at peace. The North may whisper against me, but it has been kinder to me than any throne ever was."

Cregan let out a slow breath, his hand sliding up to her throat. The magnitude of her words pulled at him, grounding him in a way no talk of crowns or power could. He urged her cheek against his forehead, seeking warmth in her closeness.

"Here is good," she murmured, cupping his jaw. "Here, where the cold is real and not the cruelty of men."

And for the first time since he had offered her the world, he understood the answer. It was never about gold, crowns, or kingdoms. It was about the home they had made together, in the harsh, unyielding North.

Cregan pressed a lingering kiss against the pulse of her neck as if drawing strength from the steady rhythm beneath her skin. “You’re my queen, always,” he whispered, the words no longer about crowns or thrones.

At that moment, he knew he needed no banners, no throne to claim. He had already won the greatest battle of all—he had her.

Claere's lips curved, her hand tracing the shadow of his beard.

"A queen without a crown," she murmured, more to herself, the playful glint still present. "And without subjects, save perhaps you."

He laughed deeply, the sound rumbling against her skin before he glanced at the harp resting before them. With a grin tugging at his lips, Cregan reached for it, his large frame seemed out of place with the delicate instrument, but he was undeterred.

“Or I presume,” Claere teased, her back leaning against him, feeling the warmth of his chest. "The King in the North who fancies himself a minstrel?"

Cregan plucked a string awkwardly, the sound that followed more of a discordant twang than music. He winced but smiled, undaunted.

“There’s more to me than swords and axes, you know," he pointed out. "I am quite the bard myself. Listen to this."

He cleared his throat to sing out in a low-pitched voice, fumbling with the strings and producing another off-key note. Claere listened eagerly, holding all the stars in the sky captive momentarily.

Claere, oh, sweet Claere, She plays like a queen, Every note is like a spell, And here I am, A loopy fuckin' fool, Breaking her strings Oh, she hides her laugh well!

Claere burst into laughter, hiding her face behind her hands, a rare sound that filled the hushed space between them, and Cregan looked even more pleased with her reaction than his musical attempt.

“You’ve got that laugh locked away like a prize, don’t you?”

“I don’t laugh at just anything,” she said, her voice warm but with that familiar edge of wit.

Cregan arched a brow. “I’m special then?”

"Very much."

Moving close and her hands over his, she guided his fingers to the proper strings, her touch gentle, her movements graceful. Together, entwined, they coaxed a soft, sweet melody from the harp.

Cregan barely cared for the music. His focus was entirely on her—her warmth, the way her fingers danced across his own, the rare smile that hadn’t left her lips for a long time. How wondrous would it be to be stuck here, this way, with nothing but time to keep them apart?

“I admit defeat,” he murmured, his voice low, amused. “I think the harp is yours, love.”

Claere’s smile softened as she continued to guide his hands. "A queen with a harp," she mused, her voice low and warm. "Perhaps that’s all I require."

Cregan, eyes crinkling with a smile, leaned in closer, his breath against her ear. “That, and me.”

"Perhaps..."

Claere laughed, a soft, clear sound, and kissed him, her warmth banishing any lingering tension. He moved his grinning lips with hers, holding her safe in his palms, now truly untouchable.

"I’ll settle for just you," she whispered.

X

I'm opening my inbox for asks for one-shots on Claere and Cregan! I'm not sure how that works, but I'll learn as I go :)

a question for my kind ones: if Cregan and Claere had a date night, what do you think that would look like? go as wild as you can!

[ taglist: @pearldaisy , @thatkindofgurl , @theadharablack , @cherryheairt , @beingalive1 , @oxymakestheworldgoround , @tigolebittiez , @cosmosnkaz , @justdazzling , @lv7867 , @piper570 ] -> thank you for your endless support everyone!

[growthhyp]

I am a man in my 50s. I wasn't looking for anything in particular but when the guy asked what I was looking for I jokingly said something to recapture my youth. He wasn't phased by that and he then gave me showed me a pair of shoes.

Recapture my Youth

You meandered through the garage sale, the early morning light casting shadows over the assortment of knick-knacks and dusty relics. In your fifties, you've seen your share of muscular men in your time, and this one was no different. His biceps bulged under a sleeveless shirt as he organized a table of sports equipment. You couldn't help but wonder if the path you chose long ago would've led you to look like him, but you quickly pushed the thought aside. Your life had been good – a loving wife who'd passed, two successful sons, a doctor and a lawyer. You had your share of battles, and retirement was your well-earned reward.

"What would you like to purchase?" the man's deep voice rumbled. You chuckled and replied, "Anything that will recapture my youth." It was a jest, a fleeting wish tossed into the air like a leaf in the autumn wind. But the muscular man's smile grew, and he looked at you with a knowing glint in his eye. "You know what? I can make that happen." The words hung there, improbable and tantalizing.

The shock on your face must've been comical, but he wasn't joking. He held out a pair of worn football cleats, their spikes glinting in the light. "These," he said, "Just wear them and lie down on the couch over there." The skepticism in your eyes was palpable, but curiosity had always been your constant companion. You took the cleats, feeling their weight and wondering if there was some kind of VR gear hidden in the garage.

In the living room, you sat down on the plush sofa, the football cleats in your hands feeling like a relic from another life. The muscular man nodded and said, "Whenever you're ready." You slipped them on, feeling a little silly. But as you leaned back and closed your eyes, you felt a strange tingling in your fingers, then a wave of warmth washing over your body. You didn't see the contraption you'd imagined, but you felt something shift within you.

The world around you grew hazy, and you felt yourself sinking into the couch. A gentle pressure, like the weight of a warm blanket, pushed you down, and you realized that you were indeed lying down. A brilliant white light filled your vision, so intense it was like staring into the sun, but without the pain. It grew, enveloping you in a cocoon of luminescence. You felt a moment of panic, unsure of what was happening, but it quickly dissipated, leaving you in a new reality.

As the light faded, you found yourself in a living room that was not your own, but somehow felt eerily familiar. The layout was different, the furniture untouched by time's hand, and yet it was as if you'd seen it all before. The scent of freshly baked cookies wafted from the kitchen, and you heard the distant clang of metal on metal – the sound of pans being moved around. You looked down at your hands and saw that they were smaller, smoother, and unmarred by the decades of work and life experience. You were ten again, shrunk back to the size and mindset of a child.

Your mother, a stunningly beautiful woman with auburn hair and a warm smile, walked into the room. She was younger, her skin untouched by wrinkles, and she looked at you with the same love and concern she had when you were truly that age. "Sweetie, are you okay?" she asked, her eyes filled with genuine worry. You nodded, trying to process the sudden shift in reality. Your father, a towering figure of strength and discipline, followed closely behind. He was in his prime, his muscles still flexed from a career of playing football, a game he had mastered.

In the new timeline, you grew into a lean and muscular teenager, your body stretching to match your father's height. The football field became your playground, and the pep rallies echoed with chants of your name. You were the star of the high school team, the one everyone looked up to, both literally and figuratively. The muscular man's garage sale was a distant memory, replaced by the sweat and grind of early morning practices and the roar of the crowd on Friday nights. Your father's guidance was invaluable, his knowledge and experience sculpting not just your body, but also your strategy and passion for the game.

As you approached graduation, the college recruiters came knocking, their eyes gleaming at the prospect of having you on their team. The letters of interest turned into full-blown scholarship offers, each more enticing than the last. Your father, ever the proud coach, helped you navigate the sea of opportunities, pushing you to consider the schools that would not only challenge you on the field but also in the classroom. You chose one that reflected your newfound ambition, a place where you could grow both as a player and as a person.

In college, your body continued to transform under the meticulous regimen of workouts and diet that your father had ingrained in you. The gym became your second home, a sanctuary where you pushed your limits and honed your skills. The weight of the barbell above your chest grew heavier, but so did your resolve to become the best. Your muscles swelled and tightened, each rep and set a testament to the hours spent sweating and grunting in the pursuit of perfection. Your teammates looked up to you, not just for your strength, but for the dedication and discipline that you brought to the table.

As you slept on the sofa, your chest expanded with every breath you took, the fabric of your shirt stretching taut against the newfound muscle beneath. Your stomach, once a gentle slope of middle age, now rippled with the promise of a six-pack. Each abdominal muscle defined and strong, as if it had been chiseled from marble. Your back, once a canvas of experience, grew wide and powerful, a testament to the hours spent under the barbell's embrace. Your shoulders, once rounded from years of office work, turned into boulders that seemed to hold up the very roof of the garage. The veins in your arms popped out like a map of uncharted territory, tracing the new contours of your bulging biceps and triceps, shaped like the letter 'V' of victory, and your forearms thickened, becoming sturdy branches that could bend steel.

Your neck grew thick and powerful, a pillar of strength that could support the weight of your new identity. Your legs, once mere supports for your daily grind, transformed into the mighty trunks of an ancient tree. The muscles grew and swelled, each fiber pulsing with the vitality of youth. Your calves, once hidden under the layers of life's sedentary routine, now bulged like rocks that had been shaped by the relentless tides of time. And your feet, once confined to the comfort of retirement shoes, had grown into the very essence of athleticism, perfectly filling the football cleats as if they had been waiting for this moment all along. The transformation was palpable, your body reshaping before the muscular man's very eyes. He watched with a knowing smile, understanding that the magic of the cleats was more than mere nostalgia; it was a gateway to a different path, one of athletic prowess and potential.

The smell of the garage, a mix of oil and dust, was replaced in your mind by the scent of freshly cut grass and the faint aroma of sweat. The sound of the garage door opening and closing was drowned out by the cheers of the crowds at the college games. Each day, as you trained harder than ever before, you felt the burning in your lungs, the ache in your muscles, and the thrill of victory that came with every successful tackle. The summer sun kissed your skin, turning it a deep, rich bronze as you pushed through sprint after sprint, your legs moving with the grace of a gazelle and the power of a locomotive. Your lung capacity grew, allowing you to run further, faster, and longer than anyone else on the field. The other players looked at you with a mix of awe and envy, knowing that you had tapped into something extraordinary.

In the real world, the fabric of your t-shirt stretched and tore as your chest expanded. The pants that had once fit comfortably now strained against your growing thighs, the seams threatening to give way at any moment. The football cleats, once too large, now hugged your transformed feet like a second skin. And the bulge in your black briefs grew, a not-so-subtle reminder of the legacy of strength passed down from your father. The transformation was more than just physical; you felt the youthful exuberance bubbling up inside of you, the excitement of endless possibilities that came with being a college student. Your skin smoothed out, the lines of age retreating before the relentless march of time.

Your face, once etched with the stories of a life well-lived, now reflected the freshness of youth. The handsome features you inherited from your mother and father shone through, sculpted by the genetic lottery into a visage that could turn heads. Your cheekbones sharpened, your jawline grew more pronounced, and your eyes sparkled with the mischief of a young man. The wrinkles that had once been the map of your life's journey were erased, leaving only the promise of uncharted adventures ahead.

As the transformation reached its crescendo, your body grew taller, your legs stretching to accommodate the newfound inches. Your feet, now encased in the football cleats, bent at unnatural angles to support your heightened frame. The sensation was strange, but the pain was a distant memory, replaced by the invincibility of youth. With a final surge of power, you felt the sofa beneath you give way as you toppled over, landing on the garage floor with a thud that echoed through the space.

The muscular man, Jack, rushed over from the garage, his face a mix of surprise and amusement. "You okay there, buddy?" he inquired, his eyes glinting with curiosity. You sat up, grinning from ear to ear, and quipped, "Must've had too much fun at the party last night!" Your voice was different now, lighter, younger. You felt like a college student again, carefree and ready to tackle the world.

Jack chuckled and handed you your old clothes, which now looked like they belonged to a child. The fabric hung loosely on your new body, a stark contrast to the form-fitting muscles that rippled beneath. You looked at him, and in that moment, you realized that Jack was no stranger. In this new reality, you had met him at one of your high school games. He'd been in the stands, a tower of muscle and wisdom, and you had looked up to him as a mentor, a big brother who had taken you under his wing. His friendship had been a beacon of guidance and support as you navigated the complexities of adolescence and the pressures of athletic greatness.

The bond between you had grown stronger over the years. You had shared countless moments of triumph and defeat, of laughter and tears, all while pushing each other to be the best you could be. Jack had become your confidant, the one who knew your deepest secrets and fears. He'd seen you at your most vulnerable, and yet he had never judged you. Instead, he had offered his friendship and encouragement, showing you the path to greatness that lay before you.