#filled with bubbles and glitter here

[bookshelfdreams]

my sincerest apologies to mr david jenkins, I am so sorry for ever doubting you but that

that was

yk i'll be honest i didn't think y'all could pull it off. i didn't think it was possible to salvage all the parallel arcs, the overstuffed plots, the izzy trainwreck, i really thought there was at least a 60% chance y'all were just doing fanservice & it wouldn't be possible to tie it all together neatly and beautifully but turns out

TURNS OUT

it was never a wreck at all, the train left the station and arrived safely where it was meant to go and it all made sense it all came together and it's SO FUCKING BEAUTIFUL i'll be thinking about this for the rest of my life

thank you and i'm sorry

[melting-sugar-cubes]

[softbabybelle]

make the new fic a series thank

corruption 002. 𓍯𓂃 r ֶָ֢cameron

rafe cameron x shy!reader

𝜗𝜚 summary : you've been avoiding rafe since your shared moment in his bedroom and he's been trying to reach out to you by every means possible. of course he finds you at a fucking glitter party.

𝜗𝜚 words : 2.6k

𝜗𝜚 c!w : drinking, weed, icky men, use of 'slut', violence, swearing, suggestive.

part 1, part 3.

to say you'd been avoiding rafe cameron was putting it very, very lightly.

you hadn't uttered a word of the moment let alone the kiss you'd shared with your best friend's older brother to anybody. much less to sarah. you were sure she'd murder you both before you could finish the sentence.

but you couldn't help it, the kiss had plagued your memory.

it stung when you tried to think of anything else. you were so buzzed, a floaty feeling as your head turned to nothing but pure fuzz. rafe's hands were big and warm, fitting around your waist like a glove and his lips oh so soft. you'd never kissed anyone before him, and you were sure now that you never again wanted to kiss anyone but him.

rafe had a pretty good idea why, though was still slightly confused to your sudden detachment.

he knew you were shy, practically cowering in on yourself when any attention was directed your way. he knew he was pushing you, all but forcing your hand when offering you a blunt and not wasting a minute asking are you sure? before crashing his lips into yours.

though he'd be lying if he said he wasn't growing frustrated with the sudden radio silence.

he walked through the doors of kelce's house. he'd been here a number of times, especially for events just like the one tonight.

rafe had to hand it to him. kelce knew how to throw a house party.

despite the blaring music around him and the glitter that was swarming him, all he could think of was you. he'd tried getting a hold of you on various occasions but it was as if you'd fallen off the map. he wondered why you hadn't visited sarah until he found her in the kitchen, stating that she was off to your house.

meaning you had been avoiding him. hell, you'd been avoiding tannyhill altogether.

"man, my fucking eyes." rafe actually had to hold a hand to his eyes when he took sight of topper. kelce had been trying this new thing where he added a 'theme' to each of his houseparty's. tonight's theme was glitter.

topper's face was decorated in gold glitter, swarming through the golden locks of his hair and dripping onto his white shirt. "where's your glitter?"

an annoyed squint was all he offered. "i'm not putting that shit on me."

"kelce isn't gonna be happy. we're supposed to be supporting this whole 'theme' thing." rafe rolled his eyes as topper spoke. they moved through the house, making their way to the living room where most the party was.

kelce's house was huge and the kook's sure as hell filled it.

"dude." the sight of kelce filled his vision. he was seated on the couch, his arm strewn across the back, around some girl rafe didn't care to know the name of. "where's your glitter?"

but his words fell on deaf ears.

rafe's eyes were too busy travelling across the room, landing on you.

you weren't sitting on the couch with your friends or the chairs behind you. you were seated on the carpet, hands playing with a dainty bracelet that you often wore on your wrist. rafe wondered for a moment were you messing with it to soothe the anxiety he knew was bubbling in you. you didn't often come to things like these.

you were dressed in a white, almost silverish dress with two thin straps winding around your shoulders. he swore you never showed so much skin in public, usually a cardigan drawn over you.

pink glitter dusted your hair and he could see it faintly tracing your skin along with your eyelids and your nails painted the same glittery pink.

he was almost getting sick of the glitter everywhere, but you seemed to be changing his mind on the matter.

the chatter continued through the room and they quickly turned their attention away from rafe. you, however, couldn't seem to. you felt your cheeks heat up at the mere sight of him.

how could you ever look him in the eyes again? especially after that night. you'd been so desperate, asking him with a please to kiss you. you'd rutted your hips subconsciously against him, all doey eyed and all but begging for his lips. you'd never done such a thing, acted such a way. you were sure you could never face him ever again after it.

but rafe only took that as a challenge.

you watched as he walked towards you, plopping onto the free armchair you'd chosen to sit next to. like this, he could have fooled himself into thinking you were sitting pretty on your knees for him.

"hey, sweetheart." his tone was a soft greeting, lips playing into a quirk.

a squeaked out "hi." was his response before you whipped your head away from him, turning red in the face. the colour of your cheeks almost matched the glitter in your hair.

"leave her alone." sarah was dressed in a shimmery gold dress, almost the same shape as yours. it was apparent that you'd been matching. yet she also found a way to match with her boyfriend, same golden glitter decorating her face as his did. "she doesn't need you following her around like a dog."

rafe rolled his eyes, watching his sister blow out the smoke from a blunt and pass it off to her boyfriend. it appeared as though two blunts were going around the circle gathered in the middle of the living room. most people at the party were off doing their own thing. they wouldn't dare join.

"it's―it's okay, sarah." your meek words caused sarah's brows to furrow while rafe's face only went slack, a smirk filled with pride falling across his lips.

you didn't often speak up to sarah.

but you did, for him. perhaps it was just a quiet argument, nothing extreme. but to rafe? well he thought you ought to gain a reward.

"y/n?" your eyes snapped across the room to a boy on the couch. rafe believed his name was max, dark hair and dark eyes, shorter than himself. "you want a pull?"

a breathy giggle passed your lips as your cheeks turned pink for a reason nobody but rafe knew. "no, thank you." was your gentle response.

good girl rafe uttered in his head.

as if on cue, your eyes glanced up at him where he sat on the armchair. he gave you the smallest of nods, one not perceptible to anyone but you.

and you knew as you squirmed on your knees that you'd done the right thing.

"please." a huffed laugh fell from sarah. "y/n would have to be possessed by satan himself before she'd touch weed."

again, your eyes flickered back to rafe, this time more hesitantly.

he had this amused look on his face, as if he could read you so well. and he could. perhaps that was the scary part. these people surrounding you, they'd known you for forever. sarah was your best friend, you were closer with nobody else in the world, you told her all your filthy secrets and she shared all of hers.

but rafe... it was rafe who seemed to know you the most out of everyone in the entire room.

he was aware of your filthy little secret, not sarah.

she was completely naive to you sitting in her brothers room, atop his lap, glazed over eyes as you begged him over and over again to kiss you, a blunt being passed between you two.

a shaky breath left your lips and you stood. "'m gonna go get a drink."

"there's juice in the fridge!" kelce called after you, knowing you wouldn't actually dare drink any of the other beverages he had to offer. alcohol simply wasn't your 'scene'.

apparently weed was.

you didn't actually make it to the kitchen, though. rafe stopped you in the hallway before you could, his large hand coming to wrap around your upper arm.

skin on skin.

your head felt suddenly floaty. "shit." he let go of your arm once you were backed against the wall, swallowing thickly. "there's fuckin' glitter everywhere." wiping his hands against his jeans, coating it with pink glitter.

you frowned at his words. "'s on theme." you mumbled.

you were acutely aware of how trapped you were, between the wall and rafe's towering body. you never realised how tall he was until he was so close to you. "why are you avoiding me, huh?"

you couldn't look at him. you couldn't be this close. you couldn't. you couldn't. you couldn't.

all you could think of was his hands on your waist, his lips on your own. you could have let out a whimper at the mere flashback. "'m not."

"don't give me that shit, princess." his two fingers hooked under your chin, forcing your eyes to look up at him. this is when you panicked, eyes turning wide as saucers, top lip biting your bottom, as much as he'd told you to stop beforehand. "what, you're gone all shy 'cause you knew you wanted me to fuck you, is that it?"

for the first time, words slipped so easily from you. "rafe!" hands reached up, trying to cover his mouth.

you should've known better than that, though.

his hand swiftly grabbed your wrist, pushing it downwards. you were sure it'd leave a mark by morning. in a strange way, you hoped it did. a mark of his fingers digging into your skin. like his touch would still be there by the time you woke in your bed.

"scared people'll hear, huh? scared they won't think you're the good girl you're pretendin' to be?" he tilted his head gauging your reactions. "asked you a question, angel."

his grip tightened on your wrist and you couldn't help but whimper out, "yes." aware of the many bodies surrounding you, anyone could have easily spotted you two.

perhaps that was the upside to kelce inviting every single person to have ever lived on figure eight to his house parties. they were a bunch of nobodies. they didn't know you and you didn't know them. they didn't matter. what mattered was rafe, standing right in front of you, bending down lower so his lips could reach your ear.

"worried what they think, huh? 'n 'm the only one in this whole fuckin' house who knows who you are." suddenly his fingers softened against your chin, rough hold loosening while his fingers traced gently across your cheek. "so worried about what they think of you. y'can still be my good girl, yeah?"

you swore then and there that rafe had ripped every pretty thought that had ever developed in your head.

you were totally and utterly dumb.

and all you could offer him was a haste nod.

"y/n?" rafe allowed his hands to fall away from your skin at the sound of your name being called. you blinked, trying to come back to reality after rafe had messed you up completely. you were met with the sight of max, looking dangerously between the two of you. "he bothering you?"

you looked up at rafe in confusion while the blonde boy merely made a scowl at max. "wh―no, no he's not bothering me." your voice was sickly sweet, innocence radiating off it.

you didn't understand max's intentions.

that was why you were safe with rafe, who would make sure no man ever got to act on such thoughts.

none but himself. of course.

"come outside 'n smoke a blunt with me, then, yeah?" once again, your brows furrowed at his words. you didn't really know max all that well, just that he was a newfound friend of topper's. he moved to the outerbanks not too long ago.

"dude, are you deaf?" it was rafe who responded, instinctively standing out further than you, almost as if he were shielding you from the boy. "she said no, what―five fuckin' minutes ago?"

max's eyes squinted. "listen, with all due respect, wasn't fucking talking to you."

rafe's lips quirked upwards, tongue digging into his cheek. you looked nervously between the boys. "yeah, well you're talkin' to me now. fuck off 'n find someone else to go smoke a blunt with, yeah?"

"think i'll take this one, actually." you felt the boy reach out for you, grabbing your upper arm and dragging you forward. you stumbled as he did so, his grip made from seemingly iron.

rafe's face dropped almost instantly. his eyes glared at the hand that held you. his eyes flickered up to your face, head bent, nervously biting your bottom lip while your face contorted into a kind of stinging pain. "get your fucking hands off of her."

"yeah?" max suddenly pulled you closer, hitting your back against his chest. your eyes went wide as they looked for rafe's. you wouldn't admit it aloud, but sudden white hot fear filled your chest. "or what?"

a breathy chuckle left rafe's lips as he nodded to himself. it was almost as if he were mulling a thought over. it didn't take him long to decide.

max didn't get to let out another word before rafe was throwing a punch across his face, knocking the breath out of him.

the boy stumbled backwards, shouting out a swear and clutching his face. you felt rafe's hands immediately win you back, pulling you closer to him as your breath picked up. your eyes glanced around the house, a hundred eyes suddenly all looking at you. you didn't like this. you didn't like any of this at all. and it was all your fault.

"rafe." you practically whimpered out, hand tugging at his sleeve. you could feel tears welling in your waterline. "please, let's just g―"

"take her." max was wiping his bloody nose with the back of his hand. "don't fucking want the slut anyw―"

it was safe to say that max didn't get to finish his sentence because before you could do anything to stop it, rafe was discarding you. he was practically on top of max within a blink of an eye.

you called out for rafe, begging him to stop.

you didn't want any of this, and it was all your fault.

panic filled you and suddenly there was too much air in your lungs. you felt wet hot tears against your cheeks and you tried getting rafe to stop but too many people were surrounding you now, enclosing in on you.

people knew you were shy. you didn't like meeting new people or talking in groups.

but it went so much deeper than that.

the people surrounding you made your head fuzzy. the loud noises of screaming and yelling, some telling him to stop, some egging him on further. it was all beginning to get too much and you couldn't feel yourself breathe.

you only allowed yourself to leave out a breath when topper and kelce came running through the crowd, pushing people apart to get to rafe. they all but pulled the blonde boy off of max, kelce holding him by his chest and telling him to relax.

you couldn't actually hear anything, you could just see lips moving.

everything was a blur.

rafe was yelling back at kelce, half explaining-half shouting past him to max.

he didn't stop until his gaze reached your watery eyes.

"rafe!" you could hear sarah yelling from beside you. "what the fuck is wrong with you?"

you wanted to stay to help the boy. oh you did dearly. he'd done so much for you already. but you were a coward and the panic in your chest, the frosty fear in your stomach. it wasn't going to simmer away while you stared at rafe, hands all bloody and knuckles split.

so you turned.

and you ran from it. from all of it. from him.

[connorsui]

Sylus x wife! Reader || Imagine

"A sticker crown!"

The house was quiet, a warmth settling into every corner as you opened the front door and slipped off your shoes. The soft glow of evening light filtered through the windows, giving the entire place a serene feel. There was no immediate sound of movement downstairs, but something more faint came from upstairs—a soft giggle, the high-pitched sound unmistakable.

"Sylus? ...Are you up there?" you called out, the smile already pulling at your lips.

No answer—just more giggling.

Curious, you made your way up the stairs, your steps slow and deliberate as you approached the source of the sound. The door to your daughter’s room was slightly ajar, and as you pushed it open, the scene that greeted you filled you with pure amusement. Toys were scattered all around the room, dolls and baby pink teddy bears seated around a small tea table with plastic cups clinking on the surface. But the real sight was in the center of the chaos.

There was Sylus, your formidable, commanding husband, lying flat on the floor with his hands clasped on his chest, eyes closed, and a faint smile playing on his lips.

"No, no, Daddy! Stay put! You not pretty yet!" your daughter scolded in the sweetest little voice, her small hands busy rummaging through a pile of stickers.

"I'm as still as I can be, sweetie," Sylus murmured, barely moving a muscle. "I'm not going anywhere."

You covered your mouth to stifle the laugh that threatened to bubble up as you stepped further into the room, but the moment was short-lived as your daughter spotted you. Her eyes lit up in pure delight, and she gasped as if you���d appeared from nowhere.

"Mummy!, Mummy! Look! Look how pretty Daddy is now!" She scrambled up from her spot, her tiny hand reaching for yours as she dragged you closer to the spectacle. "Daddy won’t scare anymore! People will like Daddy now!"

You bit your lip to contain your laughter when you got a proper look at Sylus. His face, once an intimidating picture of authority and dominance, was now decorated with Hello Kitty stickers and glittering stars. The contrast was almost too much to handle.

“Well, don’t you look handsome as ever?” you teased, standing over him with an affectionate grin.

Sylus cracked an eye open and smirked. "And how can I resist? My own princess demands I become a statue for her enjoyment."

“You are fulfilling your role quite beautifully," you said, trying to peel one of the stickers off his cheek, only for your daughter to intervene, placing her tiny hand on yours with the fiercest pout she could manage.

“No, Mummy! Daddy needs to be pretty!”

You and Sylus exchanged a glance, amused as ever, while your daughter grabbed a fresh set of stickers, picking the sparkliest one of the bunch. With a proud smile, she pressed a glittery star right onto Sylus’ nose.

"Yaaay!"

Before you could respond, Sylus' smirk widened. "Princess, why don’t you add some of your beauty onto Mommy? Make her feel just as pretty as me."

Your daughter, to both your surprise, frowned and shook her head, her little hands resting on her hips. "No! Mommy is already pretty. Mommy doesn’t need stickers, she’s not mean! Mommy is nice so Mommy doesn’t need to be pretty!"

With that final declaration, she slapped another heart-shaped sticker onto Sylus' forehead, sealing his fate.

That was the last straw—you couldn't hold back anymore, laughter bursting from your lips. "Oh my God," you gasped, wiping at the corner of your eye.

Sylus, however, rolled his eyes dramatically. "Help me here…for once, I'll be the one begging."

“Oh, isn’t that a rarity coming from you?” You knelt beside him, gently peeling off the stickers from his face, one by one.

Meanwhile, your daughter looked on, fidgeting with her toys before tugging on your arm. "Mummy… is it bedtime now?"

You glanced outside, the fading light of the day casting soft shadows across the room. "Yes, sweetie. It’s bedtime. As much as you love playtime, it’s time to rest for now."

"The moon is out?" she asked, tilting her head.

You nodded, peeling the last of the glitter from Sylus' face and then guiding your daughter to her bed. Tucking her in with care, you kissed her forehead. "Yes, the moon is out. But when the sun comes back, you can play more."

She smiled sleepily, already closing her eyes. "Okay… Night, Mummy."

You and Sylus quietly left the room, gently closing the door behind you. As you walked back down the stairs together, you couldn’t help but giggle. “How long has she been doing that to you?” you asked, barely containing your amusement.

Sylus sighed dramatically. “Ever since you left. She said I look too angry and I have to be ‘kind’ more often. She believed her toys and her drawings would do me great favors.”

You chuckled, leaning up to kiss his cheek. “Well… she’s not wrong. You did look far better than all the years we’ve been together in that moment.”

“Oh really? Is that what I needed to love you?” Sylus arched a brow, his teasing tone back in full force.

“Mmhmm,” you hummed, stifling another laugh.

Sylus shook his head, a laugh of his own escaping. “Please... save me next time.”

You grinned, leaning into him. "Sylus, don't be mean."

[teddybeartoji]

彡 NO GARDEN CAN BLOOM WITHOUT THE SUN

☆. contains: bf!satoru gojo x gn!reader; fluff fluff fluff!!!! they're in love!!!!!! satoru is the king of acts of service!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! wc: 1.5k

"c'mon, show me those chompers, baby!"

sat on the bathroom counter, you watch your boyfriend bare his fangs at you in the most adorable way. his eyes are pressed shut, his smile so wide that it's almost reaching his ears – he's showing how you should do it.

unable to contain the sleepy chuckles that bubble up your throat, satoru's eyes crack open. he's sleepy, too. but he's still here; he's still determined to make you happy, to make you feel good, to make you smile. he's determined to take care of you no matter what.

he ushers you with a laugh of his own, showing you the lump of toothpaste sitting on your new toothbrush.

(he bought you matching ones the other day. he's very proud of himself.)

(you love him.)

you can't say no to him. his free hand squeezes your waist, a sign that he's here and he's waiting. he's not being impatient, though – no, never that. he's just reassuring; skin on skin, he wants you to know he's never leaving.

to him it isn't dramatic to be thinking about his everlasting devotion while doing a menial task like this (if you can even call it that) – it's more than normal actually. he simply cannot stop; you're eating him from the inside and he's grateful.

you do as he says and clench your teeth together while pulling your lips back. you're sure you look a little silly but satoru couldn't disagree more.

"there we go! you look like a little tiger!" he leans in and brushes his nose against yours, making it scrunch up and that makes him giggle in turn. he feels giddy around you, he feels like he's in heaven.

he wets the toothbrush before bringing up to your mouth. he takes his hand from your hip and places it on your jaw instead, gently guiding your face up so he can see a little better.

bristles brush against your enamels and you peer at satoru. he looks awfully concentrated – he's cute like this. there's a small crease between his brows, his crystalline eyes glued to your canines as he watches your mouth fill with foam.

blindly, you play with the hem of his shirt; your fingers graze his marble skin and he shudders at the light touch. the fluorescent light coming from behind you illuminates his face and you waste no time in counting the freckles that adorn his skin. again. you've done it a thousand times before and you'll do it a thousand times more. they're your stars – his smile being the sun and his pretty blue eyes the equivalent of the moon in the sky. he's your guide during the day and the night, you'd be utterly lost without him.

he's your world.

satoru wipes the corner of your mouth, collecting some of the extra toothpaste that's threatening to trickle down your skin and smears it into his shirt, laughing loudly when you gasp at his antics. you smack his stomach and watch his head loll back with a dopey grin. his chest rumbles, hearty giggles bubbling up his throat. his adam's apple bobs before he lowers his head back down, his gaze meeting yours. he's so full of love, he just might burst.

"was gonna wash it anyway."

he looks proud of himself and you snort at his answer.

"yersuchachild."

the toothpaste in your mouth is making it hard to sound serious, your words coming out all muddled and slurred as you splutter at him. he doesn't care for your lecturing – his mind is filled with hearts and sparkles and rainbows and kittens and puppies and pastries and warm blankets and glitter and roses and the color pink and the color red and your eyes and everything else that could possibly be associated with the word love. he watches your mouth move and he sees flower petals falling, he watches you blink and he sees shooting stars, he watches you breathe and he feels at home.

he's your air.

you're a perfect match – you breathe him in and he makes a home inside your lungs. you keep him safe, you cradle him with your gentle hands and hide him from the cruel world. and he in turn takes care of your heart; he warms it, he tends to it like it's a garden. he waters and he weeds, he plants new seeds and he reaps what he has sowed with the softest smile in the world.

no garden can bloom without the sun.

satoru places the toothbrush in your mouth before yanking the dirty t-shirt off of his body. he raises his brows, seeking for praise. "better?"

you nod sleepily and the brush between your teeth bounces up and down, making satoru laugh again. you give him a smile and his breath hitches just a little. all foamy and pretty – he loves you so fucking much.

he goes back to his job, carefully brushing over your front teeth and then the sides. he gives your cheeks a squeeze, telling you to open up again and then he's leaning in so close that you almost choke on the paste in your mouth. a smirk tugs on his lips as he squints his eyes, glaring at your teeth like he's a proper dentist.

your fingers itch for him and you refuse to suffer when he's right there; you trace over the scars that cover his tummy, his whole body, and you hum. finally, you decide to just rest your hands on the waistband of his pyjamas – you need to be touching him, always and forever.

but the sleepiness is starting to take over; your eyes feel heavy and satoru doesn't miss your slow blinks. he speeds up his movements, whispering for you to show him your tongue. he quickly cleans it, intent on giving you his hundred percent.

when he deems that he's finally done, he takes the brush from your mouth and leans back, taking a good look at the masterpiece before him; half-asleep, mouth covered in toothpaste & content. he couldn't wish for anything else.

without giving you time to react, he lunges forward, pressing his plump lips against yours. he holds your cheeks like you're made out of glass and you grasp at his skin like he's about to fade away—

— but you won't break and he won't disappear.

seperating from him, you're met with the most bashful fucking smile in the world. his hands rest on his hips and he really couldn't be more proud of himself. frothy lips and sparkling eyes, you simply stare at him and just let the butterflies fill your stomach. there's no stopping them anyway.

"okay, c'mon, sleepyhead." satoru taps your thighs. "wash your mouth."

he comes up close again, his nose touching yours. "or do you want me to do that for you, too?"

he's a little cocky and he's a little smug and you think it's only fair; he has every right to be – you're wrapped around his finger like honey around a dipper. but alas, you plop off the counter and press yourself flush against him before turning around and facing the sink. he doesn't move, staying glued behind you like it's where he's meant to be.

(it is.)

his arms snake around your middle, patiently waiting for you to finish cleaning up. satoru sways his hips, gently, as if trying to lull you to sleep. he stares at you through the mirror, unable to tear his eyes from you. his own shirt drapes over your figure, soft skin peeking from under the collar, just waiting for him to press his lips against it. you feel like putty in his hold, like his own personal plushie and he has never been this excited to go to bed. he can't wait to sleep with you – to curl around you, to hug and kiss, to feel your heartbeat under his heavy head.

(every morning he wakes up already dreaming about spending the night with you again. you rest together, you heal together.)

you raise your head from the sink and satoru is already handing you a towel. you thank him with your eyes and dry yourself off. he rests his head on your shoulder and your fingers crawl between his messy white strands, you rub at his scalp and he closes his eyes. a purr reverberates through his body and then through yours and another smile makes it's way onto your face. it's inevitable; he just makes you so fucking happy.

hearts beating together, you stand there in your bathroom. it feels special, it is special – he always makes you feel like this, no matter where, no matter when; like a lock and a key, like a blanket and a pillow, like a piece of paper and a pen, like rain and thunder, like the ocean and the beach—

— like a ray of sunlight and a blooming flower.

+ hii my beloved satoru lovers just felt like tagging you guys bc... i felt like it<333 @twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat @staryukis @mossmurdock @neptuneblue @lxnarphase @nkogneatho @cockaiine @kentophilia @sugulani @13curses @blankwashed i love you

[sakuraszn]

ⵌ THE JEALOUS HERO !

ft. katsuki bakugo x assistant! reader

synopsis. Bakugo gets increasingly agitated when fans and other heroes flirt with his assistant during this annual hero party. His possessiveness eventually boils over, forcing him to confront his feelings.

cw. sfw content┊fluff ┊mutual feelings┊cocky bakugo┊jealousy and possessive acts┊flirtatious attitudes between these two

nia’s notes. I don’t know why but I have this obsession between boss/ceo and assistant routes they’re honestly just too good. might make future drabbles between these two🤭1.5k words.

The annual Hero Gala was supposed to be a celebration. A night when the best and most promising in hero society gathered to let loose and toast their accomplishments. However, for Katsuki Bakugo, it was a task—just another loud, crowded event where he had to deal with suckups and reporters all in your face asking dumb questions and trying to get into your personal life any chance they got. But this year, things were different. This year, he wasn’t just a lone wolf. This year, he had you.

As his assistant, you were always at his side, managing schedules, coordinating media appearances, and generally keeping him from blowing up at everyone who annoyed him; which was almost everyone who came into the presence of the "Great Explosion Murder God: Dynamite". You were humorous, smart, and had a sharp tongue that Bakugo secretly found entertaining when you used it on others. And though he’d never admit it, he liked having you around. Perhaps too much.

The ballroom was packed with heroes in their finest suits and dresses. The chandeliers glittered overhead, and soft music played as waiters threaded through the crowd with trays of champagne. Bakugo, dressed in a sleek black suit with orange accents that matched his hero costume, stood near the edge of the room, scowling into his glass of sparkling water.

You stood beside him, dressed in a deep red gown that hugged your figure and shimmered in the low light. You’d pulled your hair back, exposing the curve of your neck, and Bakugo found himself glancing at it more often than he liked.

“Try to smile,” you teased, nudging him lightly. “You look like you’re about to kill someone.”

“I might if one more idiot comes over here,” he grumbled, eyes watching the crowd.

You laughed, and the sound made his chest tighten. “Lighten up, Dynamite. It’s a party.”

Before he could retort, a group of his old friends approached, one of them—Denki, a flashy hero from another agency—zeroing in on you.

“Hey, Bakugo,” Denki greeted, barely sparing him a glance before turning his full attention to you. “And who’s this lovely lady?”

You smiled politely. “I’m Bakugo’s assistant.”

“Assistant, huh?” Denki said his grin widening. “Didn't expect Kacchan to have an assistant, you must be a miracle worker to put up with this guy.”

Bakugo bristled, his grip tightening on his glass.

“She’s not here to be flirted with Dunce Face,” he snapped, stepping closer to you.

Denki raised his hands in surrender, laughing. “Relax, man. I’m just being friendly.”

“Don’t.” Bakugo's voice was low, like a storm brewing on the horizon, filled with a tension that made the air crackle.

You tugged gently on his arm, your touch grounding him. “It’s fine, Katsuki,” you reassured, meeting his intense gaze with a sweet smile.

For a moment, he stood there, caught off guard by the way your voice softened his name. It was disarming. Before he could find his words, you turned to get a drink, leaving him alone with Denki and the rest of his rowdy friends.

“She’s got you on a leash, huh?” Denki teased, laughter bubbling up in the air. Bakugo felt the heat rise in his chest, fury bubbling just beneath the surface. He glared at Denki, struggling to contain the impulse to unleash an explosive retort—specifically directed at this idiot beside him. The last thing he needed was to be the punchline of this dumb gala, especially when you had just walked away.

The night dragged on, and Bakugo’s mood only deepened. Everywhere he turned, someone was talking to you, laughing with you, flirting with you. He watched as a top hero from another agency leaned in too close for his liking, as a rookie hero handed you a rose and as a civilian guest tried to touch your arm.

And through it all, you smiled and handled it with grace, completely clueless of the storm brewing inside Bakugo.

By the time the gala was winding down, he’d had enough. He found you near the bar, chatting with a group of heroes he didn’t recognize, and stormed over.

“We’re leaving,” he barked, grasping your wrist.

You blinked up at him in surprise. “What? The event isn’t over yet—”

“I don’t care. Let’s go.”

Without waiting for a response, he pulled you out of the ballroom and into a quiet hallway.

“Katsuki, what the hell?” you pressed, yanking your arm free.

He rounded on you, his crimson eyes blazing. “What the hell are you doing? Letting all those idiots flirt with you like that?”

Your eyebrows shot up. “Excuse me? I wasn’t ‘letting’ anyone do anything. I was being polite.”

“Polite, my ass!” he snarled, his voice cutting through the stillness of the hallway. “They were all over you!”

You stepped forward, confusion and anger rushing through your veins. “So what if they were?” you shot back, arms crossed tight against your chest. “Why does it even matter to you?”

His eyes blazed like twin stars ready to explode. “Because you’re fucking mine!” The confession erupted from him, raw and unfiltered, filling the air with a tension that was noticeable. Silence hung between you, heavy and thick, as if the heavens itself held its breath.

You blinked, stunned, words trapped in your throat.

“What?”

As the realization of his outburst washed over him, Bakugo looked away, his expression a storm of confusion and anger. He ran a frustrated hand through his spiky hair, trying to regain control. “I mean… You work for me. You’re my assistant. You’re not supposed to…” His voice faltered, frustration boiling over like a raging inferno. “Damn it!”

The intensity in his gaze ignited something inside you—an unrelenting pull that drew you closer. “Katsuki,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, yet filled with a heartfelt urgency. “Is that really what this is about?”

The silence stretched, the weight of unsaid words and unacknowledged feelings pressing down like the world’s greatest burden. Each heartbeat pulsed with a longing that was impossible to ignore. You could see the conflict raging within him; pride clashed with vulnerability, and fear tangled with desire.

“Why do you care?” you pressed on softly, craving for him to let down his walls, to reveal the truth that lay just beneath the surface. “What you feel—it’s not wrong.”

For a fleeting moment, the mask slipped, and you caught a glimpse of the man behind the hero—a man torn between his duty and the simmering emotions that threatened to consume him. “I don’t want to see you with anyone else,” he admitted, his voice thick with vulnerability, eyes darkening. “It drives me insane.”

At that moment, the world outside faded away, leaving just the two of you standing on the edge of something you both craved yet feared. Could you leap into the unknown together, or would pride keep you forever apart? The air crackled with unknown possibilities, and one truth beamed brighter than all: what you held for each other was far from simple. It was complicated, messy, and real—more than either of you had ever bargained for.

He didn’t answer, refusing to meet your gaze as his face grew warm with a dust of red painting the heroes cheeks.

You reached out, gently touching his arm. “If you have something to say, just say it.”

He sighed, finally looking at you. “I don’t like seeing other people flirt with you, okay? It pisses me off. And I know I shouldn’t feel that way, but I do. Because… Because I like you. More than I should.”

For a moment, there was silence. Then you smiled, your expression soft. “You’re an idiot, you know that?” You chuckled.

“what?”

“You’ve been jealous all night over nothing,” you said, shaking your head. “If you’d just told me how you felt sooner, we could’ve avoided all this drama.”

Bakugo blinked. “Wait… You’re not mad?”

“Mad? No.” You grinned. “Relieved, actually I’ve been waiting for you to figure this out for a while now.”

He stared at you, his brain struggling to catch up. “You… like me too?”

“Obviously,” you teased, stepping closer. “Why else do you think I put up with you?”

He huffed, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “You’re still annoying.”

“And you’re still a hothead,” you shot back. “But I guess we balance each other out.”

Before he could respond, you leaned up and pressed your lips against his with a warmth that caught him off guard. The kiss was deep and lingering, an intoxicating blend of intensity and passion that silenced any sarcastic retorts he might have had. You felt the heat radiate from him, and for once, Bakugo didn’t argue, melting into the moment as the world around you faded away.

bonus:

The next day, the Hero Gala was the talk of the city, but Bakugo didn’t care. Let them gossip. Let them imagine. All that mattered was that you were his—and he wasn’t about to let anyone take you away.

He might not have been the best at expressing his feelings, but he’d make sure you knew how much you meant to him every. damn. day.

Because if there was one thing Katsuki Bakugo never did, it was half-ass anything.

And loving you was no exception.

©sakuraszn! xoxo

[hotmentransformed]

New Year's Kiss

Elliot stood awkwardly near the bathroom, feeling as out of place as always at events like this. This New Year's party was everything that he hated: loud music, flashy lights that pulsed with every eardrum-shattering bass drop, and a crowd of people who seemed to all know one another. The bar was furnished with exposed brick walls and ceilings strung with glittering lights. Partygoers laughed and drank toasting to a great year and to the great year to come. The space was buzzing, a vignette of colorful outfits, party hats, and the unmistakable stench of alcohol.

Elliot pulled his green shirt tighter around himself, hoping to shrink into the background and disappear to anywhere but here.

He’d always been a skinny guy—narrow shoulders, wiry arms, and legs that made pants shopping a nightmare. His blond hair, thin and perpetually messy, fell into his eyes, which were a muted gray. He was completely invisible. Perfectly unremarkable. Crowds made him anxious, and parties like this were just reminders of everything he wasn’t—charismatic, stylish, or fun.

As the music pulsated, he gazed into the crowd, feigning knowledge of the pop song by bobbing around like a chicken. Around him, people danced and laughed and sang, the countdown to midnight drawing closer. He could hear short snippets of other people's conversations—plans for the new year, flirtatious banter, and the occasional drunken holler.

“Why did I come here?” he groaned to himself, scanning for the exit. He had been invited by a coworker who promised him it would be fun, but he had disappeared within five minutes of their arrival. Typical.

Coming to this New Year's party was a huge mistake. He didn’t belong here. There were too many people, too much noise, and an overwhelming vibe that he couldn’t match. He glanced at the door. Maybe if he slipped out quietly, no one would notice, not that anyone even noticed that he was here now.

Before he could make a break for it, the countdown began, and the crowd’s energy surged to a fever pitch. The numbers ticked down as Elliot shifted uncomfortably, his gaze fixed on the exit. He would leave right after the count was over; everyone would be distracted by the festivities.

Three… two… one!

Before Elliot had a chance to react, a large hand grabbed his arm and quickly spun him around. Through the dim lighting, his eyes managed to focus on a handsome man with a wide grin and a mischievous glint in his bright eyes. His curly hair tufted out from under his hat, and his t-shirt’s sleeves were cut so deep, that his toned chest and abs peeked out. Without hesitation, the man leaned in and kissed him—a bold, celebratory kiss, filled with lust.

Elliot’s mind went blank. His instincts screamed in objection. He shoved the man away, his face burning with humiliation and anger. A New Year's Kiss? Why couldn’t it have been a hot girl? Why did it have to be him? Elliot spat out, cleansing his mouth of the man’s saliva. The man only smirked, unfazed, and winked before disappearing into the crowd.

His train of thought was broken by a strange warmth dancing across his arms. The unfamiliar sensation was not necessarily unpleasant, but it was certainly unnerving. He tugged lightly at the sleeves of his shirt, trying to ease the sensation. Now, the party was feeling even more stifling and stuffy. He tugged at his neckline, trying to cool off. He needed to get out of here. He slowly stumbled towards the exit.

Before he could fully process what was happening, a bubbly voice called out in his direction, “Hey, you!”

Elliot turned to see a hot girl wearing a tight bralette beaming at him. She sauntered closer, her eyes running over him with shameless intrigue.

“Don’t think I’ve seen you before,” she said, resting a hand on her slim waist. Her gaze dropped briefly to his arms. “Wow, you’re really built.”

Elliot blinked, startled. Was she talking about him? His arms felt tighter in the shirt, and his sleeves were snug against his biceps, but he wasn’t built. Was he? “I, uh… thanks,” he mumbled, glancing at the exit. 

The woman grinned and slithered closer, her manicured hand rubbing circles softly along his back. “Do you work out? Because, wow…”

Elliot’s cheeks burned. Normally, he would’ve been thrilled by this kind of attention from a girl, but instead, he felt… nothing. No spark of attraction, no thrill at her touch. He only felt uncomfortable.

“I should, uh, get some air,” he said, sidestepping her. Elliot turned and pushed into the crowd, the strange warmth growing more intense.

The shirt was unbearably tight. seemingly shrinking with each step he took, the seams pulling more and more across his chest and shoulders. It clung to him like a second skin. He tugged at the neckline, but it did little to alleviate the discomfort, only shifting the tightness across his broadening torso. His pants, too, felt increasingly restrictive. The waistband dug into his hips, almost as if it was going to burst from his body.

His breath came in shallow bursts as the sensation intensified, the tightness only growing worse. Sweat pooled at his brow, dripping down his forehead and into his eyes, making his vision blur. He wiped it away absentmindedly, but it kept coming—his skin slick and damp with perspiration.

He tried rubbing at his shoulders, hoping to shift the fabric, but it stuck to his skin, refusing to budge. His hands moved to rub his scalp to calm him down. His hands ran through his dark mass of hair. His fingers sank deeper into the dampness of his thick sweaty locks.

His face itched with the heat, and he could feel the sweat beading along his hairline. He could see clearly once again as the sweat no longer dripped into his eyes: dark, thick, bushy eyebrows caught the droplets. He gulped, bobbing his large Adam's apple, the air in his lungs tight and labored.

Elliot could barely hear the crowd around him as he pushed slowly through. His sole focus was on how restrictive his clothes felt around his body. He needed to get his shirt off.

He ducked into a corner and clawed at the sleeves, peeling it from his arms and off of his body. The fabric resisted before coming free, leaving him only in the tight white tank top he’d worn underneath.

Elliot froze, staring down at himself with deep brown eyes.

His chest was massive, his pecs straining against the tank top. Thick, rounded shoulders and bulging biceps filled out his upper body, veins snaking down his forearms. His once-flat torso was now carved with a defined six-pack that pressed against the tight cotton. His pants were stretched tightly across his massive thighs, which were firm with strength and power. His massive bulge jutted forward, positioned between his tree trunk legs. A thick carpet of dark hair covered his chest and trailed downward, adding to the rugged look.

He ran a now-massive hand over his chest. The sensation of the firmness of his muscles, his huge body, his monster cock. They all felt foreign yet oddly natural.

People ogled him as he moved through the party again, their gazes lingering admiringly. Elliot didn't notice. The strange warmth had faded, replaced by a swagger that guided him through the crowd.

He spotted the man who had kissed him earlier, leaning casually against the bar, laughing and conversing with a small group of friends. The sight of him—his lean figure, sharp features, and playful smile—sent a fresh surge of heat through Elliot’s body. But this time, it wasn’t the anger and disgust that had taken hold of him before. It was something primal. His pants grew tighter as his cock hardened at the thought of the man’s touch.

Guided solely by his passion and without further deliberation, Elliot barreled through the crowd, his presence booming. When the man turned, his eyes widened in recognition, quickly followed by a gleam of admiration. The adoration and lust in his gaze were unmistakable.

Elliot didn’t waste another second: He leaned in, his hand cupping the man’s jaw tenderly and assertively. His lips met the man’s in a deep, passionate kiss. The man’s arms immediately wrapped around Elliot’s broad shoulders, pulling him closer, his body melting into the solid hunk of a man.

Their lips parted, and Elliot gazed longingly at his boyfriend. His timbre now alluring and husky voice, he let the words roll off of his tongue:

New year, new me!

[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

[fear-less]

anyone of your choice x a reader who is like luna lovegood.... hear me out

₊˚⊹˚ 𐙚 butterfly wings

paring: sirius black x f!reader

➥ In which Sirius Black, seeking solitude on a quiet Friday night, unexpectedly meets a quirky girl who hums Muggle songs, has silly looking hair and clothes, and sees the world through a completely different lens, making him question everything he thought he knew about life and himself.

warnings: written in 2nd pov, she/her pronouns used, flufffff, sirius experiences love at first sight lowkey, ditzy reader, hair described as wavy, lmk if i missed anything

a/n: enjoy this short & sweet fic 😋 feel free to request more pics like this.. lowkey had a blast writing this fic ngl, also how are we loving this alive era !!?? finals are gonna end me tho, hoping to post more when im on break <3

1.1k words

The sun was just starting to dip behind the horizon, casting a warm golden glow across the Hogwarts grounds. Sirius Black was leaning lazily against a tree near the edge of the black lake, watching the evening sky. His thoughts were far from the upcoming Potions exam, or even from the constant tension with his family. No, tonight he was simply enjoying the stillness of the moment—until the sound of a soft humming reached his ears.

He turned to see a girl wearing clothes nowhere near their dress robes, skipping through the tall grass, a pair of oversized, mismatched socks peeking out from beneath the hem of her skirt. In one hand, you clutched a jar that looked suspiciously like it was filled with glitter, and in the other, a half-eaten pumpkin pastie. The evening breeze tugged at your hair, but it only seemed to make you twirl in delight, as though you were dancing with the wind itself.

​​Sirius couldn’t help but smile despite himself. There was something about the way she seemed entirely out of sync with reality, like you were living in a world all your own. It was... fascinating. Most people would’ve been inside on a Friday night, but not you. No, you were humming a song Sirius couldn’t quite place, looking up at the sky as if you expected to find something wonderful there.

Sirius raised an eyebrow as you continued humming, a soft, dreamy melody he now realized was some Muggle song. He considered whether or not to interrupt your song with a conversation. He had come down to the lake to escape the raucous laughter of his friends—he hadn’t planned on talking to anyone, least of all you. But there was something about your carefree presence that pulled him in, something he couldn’t quite explain.

As he watched you, he suddenly felt a strange urge to approach. What am I doing? he thought, before shrugging off the hesitation. Usually, he had no trouble talking to girls. But you were different. There was no rush to impress you or prove something, no game to be played. You were in your own world, so completely other that he felt like he had to break through that bubble of yours, even if it meant making a fool of himself.

He decided, somewhat impulsively, to walk toward you as if he was leaving, hoping you'd say something to stop him—maybe comment on the sunset, or ask if he had seen any magical creatures lately. Something to start a conversation.

As he got closer, a familiar thought crossed his mind. Wait a second… He remembered you now. You were the girl with the wild ideas and strange ways of looking at the world. The one who always seemed to have her mind in the clouds, lost in thoughts others couldn’t seem to follow. You wore mismatched socks, and your shoes were always a little too unconventional for anyone else’s taste. Your hair—today it was streaked with a few colorful hints of pink and blue, strands loosely braided here and there on your wavy hair—was the subject of endless teasing. But you never seemed to care. Whenever the others made fun of you, you'd just smile and continue on as if you hadn’t heard a word. The kind of carefree confidence Sirius had always envied, yet never fully understood.

As Sirius approached, lost in this memory, you suddenly broke the silence, your voice light and dreamy. "If you walk any closer and choose not to move, you might just bump into me," you said, still gazing up at the sky as though you were watching constellations rearrange themselves.

Sirius froze, taken aback, his steps stuttering to a stop. A sheepish smile tugged at his lips, part embarrassed, part amused. "Oh, sorry," he said, rubbing the back of his neck, "I wasn't really paying attention."

He had been so distracted by the way your hair caught the fading light that he hadn't even realized how close he’d gotten. It was wild, yet soft, a tangled mess of waves and braids, with hints of color streaking through like a sunset painted in your locks. It was almost… magical.

You gave a simple nod in response, finally pulling your gaze away from the sky to look at him. The moment your eyes locked, Sirius felt an unexpected jolt of warmth spread across his chest. You weren't fazed, but there was something in the way you looked at him—as if he were just another curious face in the crowd. It was strange. Everyone knew who Sirius Black was. But to you? He might as well have been a stranger.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. You just studied each other.

Sirius shifted uncomfortably under your gaze, feeling the familiar prickle of self-consciousness creeping up his neck. Why was it so easy to talk to people who were busy trying to impress him, but with you? It was like he’d been dropped into a world where none of his usual tricks or charm worked.

You squinted at him, your gaze flickering as if you were trying to place him, but the recognition didn’t come. You looked at him like he was someone new, someone you had never seen before.

And, strangely, that made him feel more vulnerable than anything else.

When you finally looked away, returning your attention to the horizon, Sirius took a breath, trying to shake off the uncomfortable feeling of being seen in a way he wasn’t used to. He was about to say something when you broke the silence once more.

"Did you know," you said, your voice soft and faraway, "that sometimes the stars make shapes in the sky that are only visible to certain people? Some call it a ‘soul alignment,’ but I think it’s more about... perspective." You looked back at him, your eyes sparkling with a quiet certainty. "Maybe we’ll see something special tonight. Something we weren’t supposed to."

Sirius blinked, his confusion evident. "Soul alignment? What do you mean?"

You smiled gently, not offering an explanation, but instead turning back to the sky. "You wouldn’t understand it yet. But it’s something that will make sense eventually."

Sirius opened his mouth to respond, but for some reason, his usual quick-wit failed him. The bizarre serenity in your voice, the way you looked at the sky like it held secrets only you knew, left him momentarily speechless.

He watched as you turned the jar of stardust in your hands, staring at the sparkles inside. It wasn’t real, was it? But somehow, in your hands, it felt like it might be.

"So," he began, slowly, unsure of where this conversation was headed but unable to resist it, "how do you see the world, then? Different from everyone else?"

You paused, considering the question. Then, with a soft laugh, you turned to him. "Not different. Just... more patient."

And for the first time in his life, Sirius Black felt the weight of the stars overhead. Maybe it was the stardust in the jar, or maybe it was the quiet, patient way you saw the world—but whatever it was, he realized that he wanted to see it, too.

[ginxyy]

Midnight glow

The warm hum of conversation filled the room, punctuated by the occasional burst of laughter or the clink of glasses. The New Year’s Eve party was intimate, a mix of close friends and acquaintances who gathered to celebrate the turning of the year in a cozy apartment high above the city. Twinkling string lights adorned the walls, and the skyline outside the window sparkled like a galaxy brought to life.

S.Coups—or Seungcheol, as you knew him now—stood near the makeshift bar, chatting animatedly with Joshua. He wasn’t in stage mode tonight. There were no cameras, no performances, just him. Casual, approachable, and radiating a kind of warmth that made it hard not to gravitate toward him.

You watched him out of the corner of your eye, a glass of champagne in your hand. He had always been charming, but tonight, something about him seemed even more magnetic. Maybe it was the way he threw his head back when he laughed or the way his sleeves were rolled up just enough to show his strong forearms.

“Staring much?” a voice teased beside you. It was Seungkwan, wearing a mischievous grin.

“I’m not—” you started, but he raised a hand, cutting you off.

“Relax, I’m only kidding. But you should go talk to him. He hasn’t stopped looking over here.”

Your heart stuttered at his words, and you turned your head just enough to catch Seungcheol’s eyes flicker to you before he looked away, pretending to listen to Joshua again.

Seungkwan nudged you. “See?”

With a deep breath, you set your glass down and crossed the room. As you approached, Joshua stepped aside with a knowing smile, leaving you alone with Seungcheol.

“Hey,” you said, suddenly feeling shy under his steady gaze.

“Hey.” His lips curved into a small smile. “Having fun?”

“Yeah, it’s a great party,” you replied, glancing around. “It’s nice to see you like this. Relaxed.”

He chuckled, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah, I guess I’m not always like this, huh? It’s a nice change from the usual chaos.”

You both fell into an easy conversation, talking about everything and nothing. The minutes slipped by unnoticed as the party buzzed around you. With each word, you felt the wall of formality that came with his fame crumble. He wasn’t just S.Coups, the leader of SEVENTEEN; he was Seungcheol, a man who smiled easily and listened intently.

As the countdown to midnight approached, the atmosphere shifted. People began gathering near the large windows to watch the fireworks, couples holding hands and friends laughing as they prepared to ring in the new year.

Seungcheol looked at you, his expression unreadable. “Want to go somewhere quieter?”

���Sure.”

He led you to the balcony, where the city stretched out in a glittering expanse. The cold air nipped at your cheeks, but it was refreshing after the warmth of the crowded apartment. Seungcheol shrugged off his jacket and draped it over your shoulders without a word, the scent of his cologne wrapping around you like a hug.

“Thanks,” you said softly, pulling the jacket tighter around yourself.

He leaned against the railing, his hands in his pockets. “I’ve been meaning to tell you something tonight.”

You tilted your head, curiosity bubbling. “What is it?”

He hesitated, his eyes searching yours as if trying to find the right words. “This past year has been crazy. With work, touring, and everything else, it’s easy to get caught up in it all. But whenever I saw you—whether it was at a concert or just hanging out—I felt grounded. Like I could breathe again.”

Your heart raced as he spoke, the sincerity in his voice making it hard to look away.

“I guess what I’m trying to say is…” He trailed off, looking down briefly before meeting your gaze again. “You mean a lot to me. More than I’ve probably let on.”

Before you could respond, the sound of the countdown reached your ears.

“Ten… Nine…”

Seungcheol straightened, his eyes never leaving yours. The world around you seemed to blur, the voices of the partygoers fading into the background.

“Eight… Seven…”

The air between you crackled with anticipation.

“Six… Five…”

“Can I?” he asked softly, his voice barely audible over the noise.

“Four… Three…”

You nodded, a smile tugging at your lips.

“Two… One…”

As the clock struck midnight and the city erupted into fireworks, Seungcheol closed the distance between you, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that was both tender and passionate. His hands cupped your face, holding you as if you were the only thing that mattered in that moment.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, a soft laugh escaping his lips. “Happy New Year.”

You smiled, your heart full. “Happy New Year, Seungcheol.”

The fireworks lit up the sky, but neither of you noticed. All that mattered was the warmth of his arms around you and the promise of what the new year might bring.

[ruruumin]

happy birthday, mi amor.

₊˚ ᗢ itoshi sae x gn! reader.

⤷ special happy birthday gift to my beloved moot @kaiser1ns!

“what happened in here?” you ask, seeing your boyfriend at the center of what seemed to be a glitter explosion. 

your living room was decorated head to toe with birthday decorations. from banners with your name on it to streamers being thrown across every piece of furniture, everything was placed meticulously. there were even balloons filling the empty corners of the house with your favorite colors. alongside a multitude of giftbags on the table, there was a white cake box, a sweet treat you can only assume came from your favorite bakery. 

still in his sports jacket, sae is covered in confetti with a cheesy ‘happy birthday’ cone hat. in his hands was a small confetti popper. based on his appearance and the somewhat irked expression on his face, you assume he played with the string so much that it exploded on him early. 

“surprise happy birthday,” he replies plainly, as if you had forgotten about your own birthday. he’s still holding onto the popper despite nothing being inside. he was trying to make up for the lack of pizazz with a smile as soft as tofu.

you reach out to hold his bicep, feeling a little embarrassed with your appearance. you had come back from a long day of work and classes, and you just finished a nice dinner with your friends. ending the day off with sae was the best thing you could have ever asked for, if it wasn’t for the messy look on your face and your hair being in all sorts of different shapes. 

sae wasn’t the loud, affectionate person but he made up for it with moments like these. reaching over to hold onto your cheek, he brings you close to him, looking down at you with the same look in his eyes that you see every morning. tender and sweet, you’d say.

“you didn’t have to do all of this y’know.” you smile, “you’re still in your uniform. did you rush over to my place after practice?” 

“it’s your birthday.” translation: yes.

your chest bubbles up with happiness as he kisses the top of your head, nudging you over towards the table. he gives you your own happy birthday hat, kissing you again on your temple as he opens up the white cake box. it was your favorite flavor, the one that he learned immediately and kept in the back of his head after your first date. 

lighting up the candles, he slowly claps for you, singing what might have been the worst rendition of happy birthday you've ever heard. but nonetheless, the moment couldn't be anymore perfect.

“happy birthday, mi amor,” he mutters, watching as you blow out your candles. his chest feels the same enveloping warmth he has come to associate with you. he mentally captures this scene like a polaroid, keeping it close to him like a heart locket he’ll look back on again in the future.

he hopes that whatever wish you made for the year will include him and more tender moments like this.

[writingwisterias]

Movie Nights

Leon Kenndey x Reader (Use's Fem pronouns)

Warnings: Tooth-rotting fluff! Girl Dad Leon Summary: Leon returns home to his girls who have built a fort and prepared a movie night (I thought of DI! Leon but any will do!)

Leon's keys were loud as he fiddled with the front door, your little girl giggled in your arms - the sound attempted to be muted with your hand over her mouth. Your own giggles threaten to spill as you watch her excitement. "Girls?" Leon's voice thundered through the house. Normally his baby girl would have bounded through the home, racing as fast as she could to launch herself into his arms. But there wasn't the sound of her footsteps slapping against the wood or her distant giggles from wherever she was in the house. His heartbeat quickened slightly panic trying to worm his way into his chest.

You both could hear his footsteps around the house, his biker boots thumping as he checked every room. You both giggled at the loud thud as they came to a stop at the doorway of the room you were in. Leon smiled at the sight of the fairy lights that gave the room a warm glow, only muted by the numerous bedsheets that covered the room creating a fort. His sigh was audible as he freed it, his anxiety now settling; the action making you feel guilty for insisting your little girl hid to scare him. "I wonder where my girl has gone" he chuckled, his words dramatised for effect. Leon's heart swelled as his daughter bounded out of the sheets, starfishing before him as she released the tiniest scream. The intention was to scare him but not trigger any of his PTSD that lingered after all his years of service. He pretended to jump, flinching away dramatically; holding a hand to his chest as he pretended to catch his breath.

You watched as they hugged each other, Leon's frame engulfing hers as he held her. Breathing in the sweet smell of the cheap body mist she insisted he bought her last week, she chirped, "Welcome home, daddy," she chirped in his chest. He muttered his own welcome, the sound muffled in her blonde hair. So, what's going on here, then pumpkin?" he asked her, pointing at the fort before them. The small girl giggled, "Mommy made us a fort to watch movies"

Leon smiled when he saw you, his eyes sparkingly with admiration as he saw your grin. "Did she now? I see you both have your Pj's on" He replied, his fingers rubbing against the soft fabric as he held her. She nodded, her hair flying all over her face as more giggles filled the room. This was why Leon kept fighting, in hopes he could protect the innocence of his little girl; to hide her from all the horrors of the world. "Yes! You have to wear them too or no cookies" She demanded, her little fingers poking his chest to prove her point. "Is that the rules?" He laughed. "No PJs - No cookies....no homemade cookies" You teased, a smile plastered on your features. Leon groaned but complied guiding his daughter back to you as he left to change.

He loved being sandwiched in the middle of the both of you. His little girl resting her head on his lap as she watched the same Disney princess movie, his heart melted every time he heard her voice sing along. Your head rested against his shoulder, your hands entwined as you took in this small little bubble, the fluffy blankets a cushions making it cosy and safe away from everything else if just but a moment. Leon never thought he would get the chance to have this, assuming her would be worked to the bone or drink himself to death. But since finding you, the speed dial on his motorbike lowered, and the levels in all the bottles never dropped, and finally home seemed more welcoming. Even if he did find pink glitter on all of his shirts, the specks sticking to his work boots. His laptop was covered in Disney-themed stickers; his head was constantly filled with that one annoying song he could never get rid of. He wouldn't change it for anything though- this is what he wanted; all tucked away safely in a fort....with Elsa serenading them.

[celestialprincesse]

🎀🍼

What time is it?! More single mom!reader time!

Someone dropped into my inbox asking for Single mom! getting upset at her daughter and yelling at her and then crying about it. I needed a minute to cook but I'm here now.

"Come on, Lottie." You huff desperately, covered to your elbows in suds and applesauce as you try and fail to get your daughter into the bubble filled tub. "If you take a bath, I'll let you watch Bluey before bed." Has the three year old perking up, albeit barely, still stroppy about some trivial thing or another. She's probably still sour about you saying no to having cake for dinner, despite the fact that you'd relented this morning and allowed cake for breakfast, on the condition that she also had some strawberries to 'cancel the sugar out'.

"I wan' see Riley!" She pouts, stomping a tiny, chubby foot against the tiled bathroom floor. Ever since you'd dog sat for Simon on his latest deployment, Charlotte had decided that Riley was more her dog than his, and despite the fact that you too, absolutely adore Riley, the thought of bothering Simon any more makes you physically wince. "We can see Riley tomorrow." You attempt to bargain, growing more frustrated the longer you sit on the edge of the bath with your daughter looking at you like you're unreasonable. You never thought you'd see the day where you could get genuinely upset at a three year old covered in apple sauce and glitter glue. You've already had to fish a clip on earring from her mess of hair, and now you're at the end of your very, very long, single mother special edition, extra strength rope. "Wan' see him now!" Has you practically on the verge of tears. Today has been one of those impossible days where all you can think of as you're working out how much you have to spend for the month and whether you need to call a plumber out for the kitchen sink, is whether it's all worth it. Sure, going back and grovelling would be shameful, gut wrenchingly so, but at least then you wouldn't be alone.

"Charlotte, get in the bath or I'll put you to bed with no TV time." The unrelenting growl of your own voice feels foreign as it echoes around the tiny bathroom. You hate playing the bad cop, that was never your role, you'd always been the one to pick Lottie up after her dad laid down the law, take her for ice cream in the park or to feed the ducks. Now you're forced to do both. Charlotte, being three and having no care for the fact that she's making your life more difficult than it needs to be, simply sticks out her bottom lip and quivers her chin a little. Which, under normal circumstances, would make you give in and try to chase her down with a wet wipe, or coax her with the mermaid barbie doll that 'lives' in the bath. "Charlotte. Bath. Now." Of course, she'd had to have your spirited nature and unwillingness to give in passed on to her like a flaming torch, like you were Prometheus, being punished for giving fire to man. "No!" She shrieks, and that's enough to tip you over the edge. "Fine, bed then! Go on! Go and get in bed all dirty and see if I care." You snap, fingers pinching frustratedly at the bridge of your nose, trying to hold back the angry tears threatening to spill.

You're too consumed by hurt and endlessly roiling frustration to see where she storms off to, allowing yourself just a moment to sit on the edge of your shitty bathtub and let it all out. It was hardly ever that you got angry at Lottie. It was practically impossible given your situation. She doesn't understand where her daddy is or why you needed to go without him, nor why she can't always go and play with Simon and Riley whenever she wants.

"Charlotte?" Simon is confused and more than a little concerned at the snotty three year old currently stood at his door, cheeks ruddy with tears and little fists balled as she walks past him into his flat. "Wan' play wif Riley." She babbles, toddling through his entrance hall to the living rim, where the K9 gladly greets her with licks to her cheeks, making her giggle. "Where's mummy, Lottie?" Riley is called to heel, told to calm down so that Simon can understand why he's currently got your three year old crying in his lounge. "Baffroom." The toddler mumbles, seemingly perfectly content to get comfortable on his couch with Riley, burying her little face in the fluffy golden scruff of his neck. "What do you mean, bathroom, poppet? Is mummy alright?" "Mummy cryin'." "Did something happen?" In her usual way, Charlotte completely zones out from his line of questioning, too engaged with snuggling his dog.

The toddler wails and kicks when she's hoisted up onto his hip and carried back through the concerningly open door of your apartment, still swinging slightly on its hinges from where Lottie had thrown it open. "Love?" Simon calls into the seemingly empty house, your daughter on his hip and Riley waiting at his feet, wet nose twitching for any smell of the familiar woman who feeds him treats and scratches behind his ears. In seconds, Riley is tearing into the dimly lit bathroom, jolting you from your meltdown, followed rapidly by Simon and a tired looking toddler. "Love? Darling, what happened?" He's crouching at your bare feet as you sit defeatedly on the rim of the tub, your chin in his hands, tilted this way and that as though to make sure you're not hurt.

"Charlotte wouldn't get in the bath and - and" You can barely get your words out before you're wailing into your hands again, hiccuping pathetically at your situation and the fact that such a simple thing has the strength to derail you entirely. "Ah. Wondered why she came round mine all huffy and puffy." "Oh my God, I'm so sorry - You must think I'm awful." "I don' think you're awful. I think you're fuc-fudging amazing. Look at you, are you jokin'? Raisin a kid all alone, startin' a new life just the two of you. You're a trooper, yeah? I've seen soldiers weaker than you." "You don't really think that." You sniffle, inadvertently leaning your cheek into his palm when he reaches up to wipe your tears. "Course I do. You're brave and kind and beautiful. You've done a hell of a job with the little spitfire over there. Don't think I've ever come across a woman I admire the way I do you."

The way his words, aloof, distant Simon Riley's words make butterflies flutter in your stomach should be illegal. The way his eyes are so warm and dark like the comfort of a warm bed after a long day makes your heart pound and your breath catch. You know you shouldn't feel like this, for Charlotte's sake, and his, and yours, and yet you can't stop yourself. For the first time, you're falling, hard. Not for danger or the lure of the unknown. No. You're falling for the safe, gentle domesticity that Simon offers you in the waiting palm of his hand, like feeding a frightened animal in the hopes of coaxing them into the safe warmth of a home.

｡ ﾟ ꒰ঌ ✦໒꒱ ༘*.ﾟ

I didn't mean for this to be 1.2k oops I got totally carried away 😚

[strawberrystepmom]

gojo x f!reader. reader is referred to as my girl. a little fluffy christmas moment bc i will give the me whatever she wants. wc 989

divider thanks to @/saradika-graphics

“I told you not to get me anything,” you whine with a pout when Satoru passes you a wrapped gift box.

Sitting cross legged in front of the tree the two of you decorated together, he has just finished opening the things you gifted him. Weeks ago, you vowed to keep it simple this year but then you sat down and started purchasing and the history is now unwrapped and sitting in his lap. A new scarf in a lovely light purple you will love seeing him wear and a handmade book you drew the illustrations for yourself to match the others you’ve given him over the years are the two hits this Christmas but he thanked you exuberantly for every other gift in the pile surrounding him with a kiss each time.

Now he lays on his belly on the ground and cups his face in his palms, staring up at you with furrowed brows. You’re gazing at the box so tenderly he wonders if you think that it’s the gift itself and he sighs.

“Just open it, you’re killing me here.”

The paper is so intricate and beautiful you feel bad even considering ripping into it, pink with delicate white and gold glitter snowflakes and a matching white ribbon. Thumbing at the tape keeping the edge closed, he groans and moves to grab it out of your lap but you pluck it from atop your thigh and whine. Patience has never been his strong suit, it is why there is paper strewn across the floor around the two of you, but he can wait given you didn’t ask for anything to open in the first place.

“It’s my gift! Let me open it at my own pace.”

Gently tugging the tape away from the paper, you stick your tongue out of the corner of your mouth while lifting each of the paper flaps and a box slides out. It’s white, nondescript, something you could get anywhere. A childlike urge in you makes you want to shake it to hear what’s inside but you refrain. You take your time opening the box while Satoru kicks his legs out impatiently behind him.

“Now you’re doing it on purpose.”

You giggle because you are, it’s always a pleasure to make him wait given how overindulged he is, but you are just as eager to see what’s inside as he is for your reaction. Opening the box, you furrow your brows and gasp when the shiny glass dome of a snow globe comes into view. They’re your favorite of all the holiday decorations and he knows it just as he knows everything else about you. There’s no hiding anything from him.

“Oh baby,” you coo and he beams, grin as sparkly as the snowflakes on the wrapping paper shedding glitter into your lap. Pulling the globe out you grunt dramatically over the weight of the thing and gasp again when it’s in your full view.

The two of you, a pair of tiny ice skaters, permanently encased in a globe depicting a scene of a frozen pond. The base of the globe is silver and heavy and there’s an engraving in the metal your eyes are too blurry to read, tears filling them while capturing the small details of the little couple inside the bubble.

“Why did you do this?”

Your beloved shimmies across the floor on his elbows to deposit his head in your lap and you carefully stroke his hair with your free hand. Looking up at you, his cheeks pink and warm from the heat in your living room, your heart stills for a moment. He is your everything and not just on Christmas. Sniffling, you continue petting his soft white strands and set the snow globe down on the floor by the two of you.

“Because I love you, obviously.” You grin down at him and giggle. “And I got a little jealous of the way you looked at the guy in the snow globe on the dresser. Is there something I should know?”

Your giggle becomes a full blown laugh and you lean down to kiss him, cupping his face in your hands like always.

“The way I look at Santa?”

“Yeah. What’s that all about?”

Shaking your head, you kiss him again and a satisfied sigh leaves him. Santa is surely not any competitor he needs to plan to get rid of but at least you can replace that old bag with someone a lot more handsome who is holding your little sculpted hand on glistening ice.

“Turn the knob, play the song too.”

You tip your head to the side quizzically and he reaches to turn the key himself, the notes of your holiday favorite song playing while the two of you turn around and around inside a world of his own making. Sniffling, you lean down to kiss him again and he stops you before you can adjust yourself to sitting upward.

“You like it?”

“I love it.”

He smiles and smacks his lips.

“Not as much as I love you.”

Leaning back down, you pepper his face with kisses and he considers it your attempt to get the last word, something he simply cannot allow.

“Merry Christmas, my girl.”

“Merry.”

A wet snack on his cheek from your lips.

“Christmas.”

Another kiss on the tip of his nose.

“Satoru.”

And finally, blissfully, a kiss to his forehead straight from the one he loves the most.

[loverangels]

photo booth

pairings: leo valdez x fem!reader

synopsis: telling leo I love you right before your pictures

The warm evening breeze of the funfair danced through your hair as you walked beside Leo Valdez, your fingers intertwined with his. The fair was in full swing—lights glittering against the night sky, music drifting from every direction, and the smell of fresh popcorn and cotton candy lingering in the air. Leo was cracking jokes every other second, making you laugh until your stomach hurt. You’d been dating for a few months now, and every moment with him just felt like the most natural thing in the world.

As you walked past the cotton candy stand, you spotted it. A small photo booth tucked into a corner, glowing with the bright, inviting lights. You froze, your eyes lighting up in pure excitement.

“Leo, look! A photo booth!” you squealed, your voice filled with so much joy it could barely be contained.

Leo glanced at it, then back at you with a raised eyebrow. “A photo booth? You know what happens in those things, right? Terrible pictures, awkward moments…”

You gasped in mock offense, gripping his hand tighter as you bounced on your heels. “What do you mean terrible pictures? They’re cute and full of memories! We have to go in!” You tugged on his hand, practically dragging him toward the booth.

“I don’t know..” Leo’s voice held a teasing edge, but you could tell he wasn’t entirely opposed to the idea. After all, it was you asking.

“Come onnnn, Leo, pleeease,” you begged, your lips forming a pout as you looked up at him with wide eyes, knowing exactly how hard it was for him to resist when you looked at him like that.

With a dramatic sigh and a roll of his eyes, Leo finally gave in. “Alright, alright, but only because you’re way too cute when you beg,” he said, a grin tugging at the corners of his lips.

“Yes!” You cheered, pulling him all the way to the booth. Once inside, you both slipped into the small space, the curtain falling behind you. The booth smelled of old-timey film and laughter. You sat down beside Leo, your legs brushing against his as the space was cozy enough that you could feel the heat of his body beside yours. It was almost as if the outside world faded away, leaving only the two of you in this tiny, magical little bubble.

Leo immediately leaned back with a dramatic sigh, pretending to be uninterested, but you could see the playful spark in his eyes.

“Look at us,” you said, grinning at him as you leaned in a little closer, your heart fluttering in your chest. “You’re sitting in a photo booth with me. You’re so lucky,” you teased.

Leo rolled his eyes dramatically but couldn’t suppress the soft smile that tugged at his lips. “Oh, I know, totally lucky. Here I am, stuck with you,” he said with mock sarcasm, but there was no denying the affectionate tone in his voice.

You could hardly contain your joy, and you couldn’t stop smiling as you looked at him. His eyes, those deep brown eyes, always filled with a mischievous glint, always looking at you as though you were the most important thing in the world. His messy hair, the way he fiddled with the edge of his jacket when he was nervous, how his lips always curled up into that cocky grin that made your heart skip a beat.

You just couldn’t get enough of him.

“God, Leo,” you whispered softly, your voice catching a little in your throat as you studied him, the moment feeling too perfect for words. “You’re just... perfect. I— I love you.” The words came out before you could stop them, your heart pounding as you realized what you’d just said. You hadn’t told him that before. It felt like the right time, and it just slipped out.

Leo froze for a moment, his eyes widening as if he didn’t quite believe what he’d just heard. His gaze softened, his smile turning from playful to genuine as he leaned in closer to you. He could hardly believe it, and yet, his heart was racing in the best way.

“I... I love you too.” he murmured, his voice filled with a quiet joy. His hand reached up to gently cup your face, his thumb grazing your cheek in a tender caress. “So much, you have no idea.”

Your heart soared. There was something so utterly comforting about hearing him say it back. The words felt like a promise, a bond between the two of you that went beyond anything you’d ever imagined. You couldn’t stop smiling, feeling as though your entire world was filled with light in that very moment.

Without giving you any time to react, Leo leaned in, capturing your lips in a kiss. It was soft at first—sweet, tender, and full of the love you both had just confessed. His hands cupped your face, pulling you even closer, while you melted into him, feeling his lips move against yours with a mix of tenderness and heat.

The camera snapped, capturing the moment, the kiss, the love that passed between the two of you. You didn’t even notice the flashes at first, too lost in the feeling of his lips against yours and his hand at the back of your neck, pulling you closer. It was just you and him, the entire world falling away.

The next flash came, and another. Leo’s lips moved to your neck, leaving light kisses along the sensitive skin there, and you gasped, your eyes fluttering shut at the sensation. He was so gentle, his hands exploring the curve of your back as his lips brushed against your collarbone.

“I love you,” he whispered against your skin, making you shiver at the feeling of his breath against you. “I love you so much”

A soft giggle bubbled out of you, and you pulled him back into another kiss, this one full of heat and desire. His hands found their way to your waist, tugging you into his lap as you straddled him, your chest pressed against his. The space in the booth felt so small, but it made everything feel so intimate, so perfect. You could feel the warmth of his body, the way his heart beat against yours, the tenderness in his touch.

“You’re mine, you know that?” Leo murmured between kisses, his hands sliding up your sides as he kissed you deeper, if that was even possible. “You’re all mine.”

“Always,” you whispered back, completely caught up in him, the world outside the booth nothing but a distant memory.

Suddenly, a loud click interrupted your moment, and you pulled back to see the camera snap another picture. Your face was flushed, and your lips were swollen from the kiss. You giggled softly, pressing your forehead against Leo’s as you caught your breath. “Leo... we have to get the pictures before someone sees.”

He smirked, his lips still hovering near yours. “Who cares if someone sees?” he said with that same cheeky grin you loved so much. “Let them see how much we love each other.”

You rolled your eyes, but before you could move, Leo pulled you back in, kissing you passionately once more, this time a little deeper, a little more desperate. His tongue teased yours, his hands holding you close as you kissed him with the same intensity, the same need.

Suddenly, you heard a tiny gasp, and you pulled back, horrified. A small child had opened the curtain, eyes wide in shock. You jumped back in surprise, your face turning bright red. You scrambled off Leo’s lap and sat up, trying to fix yourself as quickly as possible. “Oh my god, Leo! A kid saw us!”

Leo shot the little kid an annoyed look, his lips covered in lipstick. “Hey, kid, love isn’t a crime!” he said, trying to sound casual but clearly struggling to hide his grin.

You scrambled to gather the photos, your face flushed as you looked at Leo in disbelief. “We need to get these before their parents come!” you whispered urgently.

With one last look at the child, who was now turning to run away, Leo grabbed your hand and pulled you out of the booth, his lips still curling into a grin. You both rushed to the counter, grabbing the photos just as the child’s parents started to approach.

Leo winked at you, his hands still on your waist as you both ran, laughing, away from the scene.

“Well, that was one way to make a memory, huh?” Leo grinned, kissing you on the cheek as you both ran off into the bustling fairground, leaving behind the chaos and holding tightly onto the sweet, stolen moments you’d just shared.

And as the pictures printed in your hands, you couldn’t help but feel that, yes, this was the best memory you’d ever make.

[acourtofmoonlightandstars]

Find me - Chapter 1

Pairing: Azriel x fem!reader

Summary: At a ball you meet the one person you thought you would never see again, you left him once. Will you leave him again?

Word count: Currently no idea

Warnings: Some sugestiveness, angst and minor details of Azriels work as a spymaster.

Note: So this is loosely based on a dream I once had, it was heartbreaking so I thought I might as well use writing as therapy

Chapter 2

The ballroom was huge and the light flickering from the crystal chandeliers that hung above your head made all jewels, sequin and glitter reflect the light. It was a beautiful sight.

You walked through the crowd of people, looking for no one in particular. You had no idea how or when you’d gotten here, you weren’t even quite sure who had invited you. Usually you stayed within the borders of your own court. But it seemed that you’d made an exception for once.

Everyone seemed somewhat familiar. You smiled at the friends who laughed around the tables filled with food as they filled each other goblets with fairy wine, at the couples who snuck away to find somewhere a little more secluded to steal a minute or two and at those who filled the room with laughter that echoed through the room.

As a waiter walked past you, you grabbed a flute of champagne from his tray. You sipped at the bubbly drink as you scanned the room once more, hoping to see at least one person you recognized. And then you spotted him.

He was beautiful in his black suit, it was such a stark contrast from his usual leathers and blue siphons. His wings were tucked close to him, almost as if he was afraid to take up space. His hair was combed back, revealing his forehead and the slight wrinkle he had between his brows. Your breath hitched, and you suddenly wished you were able to turn invisible at will.

You wanted nothing more than to walk up to him and ruffle his hair, once again revealing his somewhat loose curls that you’d once loved to run your fingers through in the late hours of the night. You wanted nothing more than to once again kiss his lips, to taste him.

But you had left him, that much you knew. But you just couldn’t remember why.

His shadows pooled around his feet, and indicated the constant stream of information that was always available to the Shadowsinger of the Night Court. You felt something cold around your ankle, and as you hiked up your skirt you saw the little rouge shadow that had slipped past its master. It almost looked like a puppy happy to be reunited with its owner as it twirled around you.

You giggled, which only seemed to amuse it even more.

In the hope that you could turn it away before he noticed its absence, you looked towards where he had been mere seconds before, and your eyes met his right away. The eyes you had once loved to stare into for hours at the time, the hazel pools of a man you once knew, seemed sad all of the sudden.

It was an emotion that seemed so out of character for him, and you felt your heart breaking a little at the sight of it, especially knowing that you were most likely the cause of the sadness and the purple shadows that hung underneath his eyes.

Azriel furrowed his brows at the rouge shadow as he no undoubtedly tried calling it back to him. But it seemed like it refused to listen to his quiet command. He walked towards you with a confidence that would make lesser males crumble in his presence.

You felt the blush creeping up your neck before it settled in your cheeks.

“Excuse me” he almost whispered, as he went out of his way to not meet your eyes. He bent down and physically yanked the shadow from you. You could’ve sworn it looked almost sad to leave you behind.

He stood up, and quickly turned away from you, almost fleeing. You don’t know what came over you but you grabbed his wrist and saw him stiffen as your skin came into contact with his.

“Y/N… Please, dont” it was an almost silent plea, one who broke your heart, but there was no way you were letting him walk away from you.

You pulled him towards you, forcing him to face you. He had a pained expression on his face and his eyes were closed. Despite of that you still send a small smile his way. Your other hand found his other wrist and you slowly pulled his arms around your waist.

He reacted instantly and despite not even noticing, he pulled you closer to him. “I’m so sorry” You whispered as you raised your hand to his cold cheek. He leaned into your touch as he finally looked at you, a single tear escaping his eyes. Your thumb quickly whisked it away before anyone had a chance to notice it.

The shadows swirled around the two of you desperate to give you some privacy, and even his wings seemed to be shielding the two of you from wandering eyes.

“I don’t know why I left you, I won't ever leave you again, please just give me another chance” you whispered, your voice threatened to crack, as his eyes searched your face for any sign of a deception, any sign of what you were saying, was nothing more than a lie.

“Don’t say things you might regret…”

You shook your head and sent a small smile his way, it was filled with regret and sadness. “It’s always been you and I’m here now and I promise it won't ever happen again”

But were you able to promise him that? You still couldn’t remember why or how you had left him behind, it was like a distant memory that was locked away, one you couldn’t access.

He pulled you from the ground and you couldn’t help the giggle when he nuzzled his nose into the crook of your neck. Desperate for your scent, desperate to feel your heartbeat against his own. “You better mean it” he whispered against your exposed skin.

You pulled at his hair, ruining it even though he had most likely done his best to bend his curls to his will for the event tonight. But you didn’t care, you always liked him better with his bed head anyways.

He kissed his way from that sweet spot where your neck met your shoulder, he nibbled at your ear and kissed you from there, down your cheekbones until his lips hovered over your own. And in a blink of an eye he stole your shallow breaths from your mouth with his own. He ate every whimper and small moan, as if they all belonged to him and him alone, as if it would be the crime of the century if any other male heard it.

“You do know you’re in a public place right? Everyone can see you” the voice was teasing, but in no way cruel. Without letting you down Azriel turned towards the other winged male that now stood in front of the two of you.

Azriel laughed, and his brother realized he hadn’t heard that sound in months.

“I apologize Cass” and he felt you stiffen in his arms, and sent you a reassuring smile, before once again returning you to the ground. He was here, the Lord of Bloodshed, Cassian. But of course he was, they would all most likely be here.

“It’s all good. But Nesta is gonna hate that she skipped this ball tonight, she would’ve loved to see you take a female in front of all these fancy fae”

This time it was your time to laugh, and you flet how your muscles relaxed at his way of addressing the elephant in the room. Azriel couldn’t help but to pull you closer to his side, lips kissing the top of your head.

“So you must be the one who broke my brother's heart” Cassian said as he crossed his arms, to anyone beside you and Azriel, he would look angry, almost disappointed in the way he stood before you. But all you could see was the happiness he held for his brother.

Cassian sent you a small smile. “Don’t worry, I don’t judge, my own mate was indecisive as well”

You couldn’t help but almost wince at his words. It wasn’t that you were indecisive, or at least you didn’t think that was it…

“It’s okay. It all worked out in the end” Azriel said.

The night went on and his hand never left your hip, he pulled you as close to him as he could whenever he felt a male came too close to you. You adored his possessiveness. Now you just needed to feel like you’d earned it.

The two of you spent almost every day together after the ball. It didn’t take him long to introduce you to the rest of his family. The inner circle of the Night Court.

Your father had told you the stories of both their power and their beauty, but despite all the stories, they were kind, welcoming and warm. You felt right at home.

At no point did you regret making contact with him the night of the ball. In fact you could feel yourself falling in love with Azriel, a little more every day.

He adored you, and he spared no expenses in showing you exactly how much you meant to him. Everytime he came home from a mission, he would bring you flowers from the given court. He would either make you homemade meals, or take you out to eat at the most beautiful restaurants in the city.

He would take you on flights over Valaris, on walks near the Sidra or just down to the nearest cafe or bakery to pick up something sweet or warm whenever you felt a little down. Apart from that he spoiled you rotten with gifts, to such a degree you almost had more diamonds than Amren.

You were however your happiest whenever you woke up to him by your side, and nothing beat the beauty that was his eyes as they reflected the morning sun. They were like liquid gold. He was beautiful, and sometimes you couldn’t help but wonder if this was all a dream.

As time went on he opened more and more up to you. He told you about his life, both the good and the bad. About his childhood, who he had become after Rhys and Cassian had found him. He told you about his role in the court as both shadowsinger and spymaster, and how he had days where he loathed who he was and what he had done, and others where he celebrated the screams he carved from the lungs of his prisoners.

And despite his fears you didn’t flee or coward when he reached out for you. You had instead held him, and whispered sweet nothing in his ear, confirming that you loved him despite all he had gone through, and that you loved him because of who he was. He had cried in your arms at your words.

You saw him, all of him and you loved both the good and the bad.

At no point had you ever expected to be with a man of his profession, but here you were. The people of Valaris were quick to catch on. They always greeted the two of you, they helped you with picking his gifts and selecting his favorite sweets at the bakery he loved to visit each sunday morning.

The fact that you got to be his in Valaris of all places, was more than enough. Being out and public to all fae, to all courts, would only paint a target on your back. One that he feared would take you from him too soon, whereas you feared that you would be used against him. You had no interest in ever letting it come to that.

After All you wanted nothing more than to protect him, to keep him safe, and he felt the same. He had given you one of his shadows, the rouge that had left his side that night of the ball. After all it seemed like it liked you more than him anyways, but this way he would know if you were ever in any kind of danger.

Nesta had told him it was a little much, especially since the two of you were basically joined at the hip, it was rare that you saw one of you without the other. You were one soul separated into two people. It was clear for all to see.

The inner circle had quickly started making bets on just when the bond would snap for the two of you. And despite the fact that you always rolled your eyes when they began speculating, you couldn’t help but hope that they were right.

Your brother had his mate, and so did Azriels brothers. It would only be right if the two of you had one too right? And if so why wouldn’t the Cauldron grant you eachother? With every fiber of your being you hoped that he was yours and that you were his.

One morning you stood in the courtyard at the house of wind as the sun was slowly rising from its usual hiding place beneath the horizon. Azriel was circling you, wearing nothing but his boots and leather pants.

The look of his tattoos and his muscles were now covered with sweat that was glistening in the morning sun, was enough for you to skip practice and go back to bed with him. You wanted nothing more than to be entangled in him and his scent.

The sun that shone through the fine membrane of his wings made him look like a god of death and war. What a sight to see. He sent you a dazzling smirk as he saw the pure lust and adoration in your eyes. He most likely smelled it on you as well.

You smirked back and sent him a little wave. But it wasn't enough for him to lose focus on his task at hand. It rarely was.

“You look so beautiful angel,” he said. Despite what you might’ve thought he couldn’t help but adore you in the morning light either. He was mere seconds away from abandoning his workout only to throw you over your shoulder and have his way with you. Where that would be, he didn’t care. You chuckled. It was his favorite sound in the entire world, and he hoped that he would always be the one to make you laugh.

And then you felt it. It was as if the world shifted on its axis, it was like it had been so many months ago. It was the same feeling you had the first time you had left him. And as the memories came rushing back to you, you paled.

As your smile dropped and your eyes became distant, almost as if a fog now hid them from the world. “Y/N…?” You heard his fear and desperation as he said your name.

“Promise me you’ll find me, promise me” It was all you could say, you struggled with getting the words out as you felt yourself drifting from this reality. You saw him spring towards you, his wings giving him momentum.

And then everything went dark.

When you woke up the darkness was still surrounding you. You laid there with your eyes closed for a few minutes as you tried to recall his features, his name, where you had been. But there was nothing, nothing except an ache in that place that usually held your heart.

All you remembered was the feeling of running your hands through his hair, how his lips sent electricity down your spine as he kissed that sweet spot right beneath your ear, whenever he snuck up behind you. You remember his rough hands, and a feeling of something cold that you couldn’t quite place. Everything else was a blur.

As you opened your eyes you looked towards the small clock that stood on your bedside table. 06:45. You had to get up soon, but the mere thought of leaving your bed made your head spin. It felt like you had lost something precious, it felt like you had lost your heart, and in its stead there was now only a black hole filled with nothing but emptiness and pain.

You had no idea how to start your day, it felt like you should stay right here, stay at home and mourn the loss of him.

Maybe he remembers, maybe he will be able to find me. You thought as you tried soothing the emptiness in your chest by rubbing the palm of your hand over where it ached.

But how could he? He was after all only a figment of your imagination, he was after all only a character in your dream. But he felt real, and you could nothing but hope that someone, someday would ever love you as unconditionally as he had.

At the other end of Prythian, Azriel Shadowsinger, Spymaster of the Night Court, had woken with such pain in his chest that he for a second had been convinced he had been stabbed in his sleep. And as his dream, no his memories of you, flooded his senses he knew what he needed to do.

You had to be real, he needed you to be real. So he sent out his shadows in search of the one person who now held his heart, the one person he would never stop looking for, you, his mate.

I promise you angle, I will find you

note: aaaaah this is my first ever acotar fic! don't be afraid to leave feedback, I would very much appreciate it! I feel like a part two would be absolutely amazing, but maybe I'll just do it as a stand alone since it's kind of heartbreaking. But we'll see!