#look at fizz's little face in that second one

[thats-a-mood-gabriella]

We don't talk enough about not only Fizz making it rain on Ozzie during his solo

But also him trying to hold Ozzie up during his pole dance and nearly collapsing under Ozzie's weight.

I love them.

[pseudowho]

"Oh! Kento-- wait-- please please please--"

Kento turned back on the bustling Tokyo street, the night bullied away by neon signs, light pollution, and the pollution of the wayward drunken laughers. He only came on staff nights out, now, because you'd be there. He peered at you, tie-loose, hair-mussed and bleary, as you knelt in front of a Gacha machine. You rummaged in your purse for a coin.

Kento grunted, smirking, and reached into his clinking pocket, swaying back to you with liquor-rusted words.

"You're drunk. Here--"

"A-ha!" You birthed a 500 yen coin from your purse, triumphant, and Kento felt childishly disappointed that he couldn't pay for your inebriation treat for you. He watched you fumble the coin into the Gacha machine, and turn the wheel, crank, crank, cranking until there sounded a hollow tok, and a skrrr-skrrr-skrrr, tok.

The Gacha pod landed in the dispenser. You gasped, biting your lip in sweet anticipation, and looking up at Kento. He could barely contain himself from his own adoration, wanting nothing more than to reach down and grasp your plush cheeks and press his lips to yours and taste the drink off your tongue and--

"Kiss, Kento."

Kento frog-blinked, wondering if he'd spoken such impurities aloud, and opened his mouth to apologise. But he paused again, leaning down over you, knelt on the pavement, where you held the Gacha pod up to him, and repeated yourself, ditzy-drunk.

"Kiss it, Kento. For luck. For me."

Self-conscious, and grumbling in a way that only deepened your grin, Kento leaned down, pressing a chaste kiss to the Gacha pod as you laughed. He straightened up, looking up and down the street to see if anyone saw, his vision a few seconds slower than his mind, wading through whiskey.

Heat rose up Kento's neck, and he opened his mouth again to suggest something stupid like why don't you come back to mine for another drink and--

"Awww, damn! This one again!" Kento looked down at you, owlish and inquisitive. You held up a little keychain, with a disappointed half-smile on your lips. You grimaced up at him, shrugging.

"That was my last shot I think. This line discontinues next week. Never mind." You tapped the front of the Gacha machine, stroking the green image of the one you were after, wistful.

Kento pulled you to your feet, and you linked your arm through his, swaying down the street together. Kento swallowed hard, wishing you were on his back, but instead blurted out;

"I'm sorry my kiss wasn't lucky enough."

You sighed, pensive, swinging your keychain on one finger.

"I'm sure they're plenty lucky. Just, maybe not for me."

Kento barely registered your words, distracted and glancing back down the street at the flashing Gacha machine, growing ever more distant.

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

Between lessons a few days later, you crept into your office to dump essays on your desk, and snatch five minutes of peace. Settling your mug down, you saw the glimmer of brightly coloured plastic on the centre of your keyboard.

You blinked, curious, before a smile of realisation broke out across your face. A Gacha pod. You recalled, with your cheeks growing hot, how you had begged Kento for his lucky kiss, and how he hadn't corrected you when you told him that his lucky kisses would only be lucky for another girl. You felt a sting of humiliation...

...but, nobody else could have left this gift. Taking a deep breath, and pressing your lips to the pod (unknowingly stealing a kiss that had already been left there for you), you cracked it open-- and squealed with delight, ecstatic and fizzing with joy, to find your collection completed in the eleventh hour.

Later, at the first ring of the lunchtime bell, you knocked on the door to Kento's office. No answer. You knocked again, and gently opened the door, peering round and calling out.

"Kento...?"

Still, no answer. You crept in, closing the door behind you. His office was empty, his desk sparse and functional as always, not wanting to turn his desk into anything that would suggest he thought of work as home. The cupboard on his desk, was, however, straining at its latch, wonky at the closing seam from something stuffed inside.

Curious once more, you stroked the bursting seam of the cupboard, and undid the latch.

A veritable ball-pit burst forth over the office, with Gacha pods of yellow and red and orange and pink and blue and purple and black and white and--

--and every colour, except for green. Dozens and dozens of Gacha pods...except, for green. That one, you held in your purse. You swallowed hard, blinking back tears, and collected Gacha after Gacha, from beneath cupboards and radiators, rolled to all four corners of Kento's office.

Setting to work, you sat cross-legged on the floor, emptying the pods of their keychains one by one. Thousands and thousands of yen tallied before your eyes, and the plain, unassuming desk behind you said nothing of your coworker's secret obsession. And how he couldn't face you. And how you would never have known.

You sat in silence, with a lap full of empty Gacha pods, and listening to the birds singing songs of summer outside the window. You thought, and thought, and thought. You ripped pages from your notebook, tearing them to shreds, and set to work once more. By the time you were finished, the lunch bell rang again. You crammed the final Gacha back into the cupboard.

You could only wait, and hope.

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

The warm summer rain started as evening began to roll in. You looked out of the Bistro window from your table for two, your belly twisted with nerves. Your green prize was clasped in your hand, a lucky charm; one earned with far more luck than a simple kiss could give.

You heard the jangling of a bell behind you. You dared not look up, instead just listening-- slow, familiar footsteps. The rattling clunk of a tote bag being placed before you, filled with Gacha pods. The rustle of a stack of carefully unfolded little notes, all with one word on; 'tomorrow'. 'Café'. 'You'. 'Me'. '8pm.'

"You broke into my cupboard."

You pursed the smile between your lips, your eyes closing with the silken chastisement, made without venom. Kento's cologne washed over you as he sat on the chair opposite, removing his glasses in a way that softened his face completely, looking at his lap with a smile. When he looked up at you, it was with a love so unapologetic that you could have cried.

You felt your nose stinging again, and set your green Gacha prize on the table between the two of you. Sheets of rain washed down the Bistro windows, and you cleared your throat, your voice cracking.

"This is quite the prize."

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

"Kento! I'm home!"

You dumped your shoes and bag at the door, padding into the living room on bare feet. Kento leaned away from the stove, twirling spaghetti, and offering you the smiles he offered nobody else. He anticipated you, as your mouth opened.

"--yes, I went to the Gachapon. They're on the sofa. Pre-kissed."

You gasped in delight, in the same way you had that night, and bounced onto the sofa, two Gacha leaping with you.

"Two?" You cried, to his shrug, "I only said one-- you can't keep funding my habit, Kento--"

"I'm sure one would have been fine. But, just in case."

You barely registered Kento stepping over to you in his apron, with two steaming bowls, so focused were you on cracking open your Gacha pods. Taking a deep breath, you undid the wrapper...and cheered, your arms flinging into the air.

"Your kisses really are lucky, Kento, gosh...well, one more, then, I--"

You had cracked open the final Gacha. A ring tumbled into your hand, and your brain short-circuited. You trembled, rolling it around in your palm. The two halves of the pod clattered to the floor, forgotten. Your vision swam, and you sniffled, and looked up.

Kento had dipped onto one knee before you, aproned and still, with two bowls of pasta In his hands. In the crucial moment, he seemed anxious. He cleared his throat, his voice thickening.

"I would...like to fund your habit for the rest of our lives. If you'll have me."

A laugh bubbled through your tears, and you wiped your cheeks, allowing Kento to slide the ring into place on your finger. You held his broad hand in serene silence, time standing still, before you spoke.

"...so this ring is just...just one in the collection, right? Wait-- no, Kento, COME BACK, PLEASE-- I'M JUST FUCKING WITH YOU--"

[strawberry-bubblef]

Could I please request house wardens catching they're s/o threwing up overblot ink and they're just like 'It's fine' but the ink is slowly taking over and tearing apart their insides? Like, they're not overbloting cuz they're magicless but when they fought off the house wardens, the blot got into their system, and it's not pretty.

Housewarden catching their s/o throwing up blot ink

Riddle Rosehearts

It happened after the fight. After the dust settled, the roses stopped bleeding, and Riddle returned to himself,confused, breathless, horrified.

You were the first to run to him, ignoring the warnings, the lingering sparks of magic still fizzing in the air. You had touched his face, still streaked with blot, and smiled shakily.

“It’s over,” you whispered. “You’re okay now.”

But he hadn’t noticed your hands trembling. He hadn’t seen the ink beneath your fingernails.

The first time you coughed up ink, it was just a droplet. Small. Easy to hide. You wiped it with your sleeve, heart hammering. You told yourself it was a fluke.

Then came the second time. The third.

You started avoiding mirrors because you didn’t want to see the veins blackening faintly beneath your skin.

The corruption wasn’t magical,it couldn’t be. You were magicless. That was the rule. You couldn’t overblot. You shouldn’t be able to.

But maybe… maybe the rules didn’t apply to whatever the blot had become inside you.

And then, one day, Riddle walked into your shared study and found you hunched over the wastebasket, coughing violently.

“Y/N—?” His voice pitched up in panic. He was at your side in seconds, kneeling, grabbing your shoulders,only to freeze as he saw what you’d expelled.

Thick, black ink. Unmistakable.

It clung to your lips. Coated your hand. Pooled at your knees like tar.

You looked up at him with a pale smile. “It’s… fine.”

His heart stopped. “No. No, it isn’t.” His voice was shaking. “You’re not a mage, you—this shouldn't even be possible !”

You tried to stand, but your legs gave out, a fresh stream of ink spilling from your lips. It hissed faintly as it hit the floor, like it was alive.

Riddle caught you before you collapsed, his gloves smearing against the substance as he cradled you. His hands were trembling.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he whispered, his voice cracking. “How long?”

“Since the fight,” you mumbled, barely conscious. “I thought it would pass. I'm not like you… I didn’t think it could overtake me…”

“You’re not overblotting,” he said in disbelief, eyes wide as he looked at your body. “But it’s inside you. It’s killing you.”

You gave a weak laugh. “Guess I'm breaking a few rules, huh?”

He didn’t laugh.

“Don’t joke,” he whispered, forehead pressed to yours. “You didn’t break rules. I did. And you’re paying the price.”

Tears welled in his eyes.

“I won’t let this stand. I won’t lose you. Even if I have to rewrite the rules of magic itself.”

And for the first time in a long while, Riddle Rosehearts broke a rule,he left your side only to begin researching forbidden magics, his pristine record forgotten.

Because if the system allowed this… then it didn’t deserve his obedience.

Leona Kingscholar

He finds you behind the botanical garden, hunched over, your hand pressed against your mouth as thick, viscous ink drips through your fingers.

You don’t hear him at first.

You’re too busy trying not to throw up again, trying to breathe, trying to pretend this isn’t as bad as it feels.

But Leona sees. And he freezes.

“…What the hell.”

His voice is low, almost too quiet. Not angry. Not yet. Just… stunned.

You turn your head slightly, weakly, forcing a smile that looks more like a grimace. “Hey…”

His eyes narrow at the blot staining your lips and chin.

“What is that?”

You try to wipe it away. “It’s just… a little leftover blot. From the fights. I guess it got in me somehow—”

“You guess?” He cuts you off, but there’s no venom in it. Just a sharp edge of disbelief. “You’re throwing it up.”

You glance away, embarrassed. “I didn’t think it’d get this bad.”

Leona steps forward, slowly. His expression isn’t scowling or pissed—it’s something worse.

Worried.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I didn’t want you to worry. You’ve already got enough going on.”

A long silence stretches between you.

Then, softly,so softly it almost doesn’t sound like him,he mutters, “Don’t do that.”

You blink up at him. “Do what?”

“Decide for me.” He looks at you now, and there’s a tightness in his voice that pulls something deep in your chest. “If you’re hurting—especially because of me—I want to know. You don’t get to protect me by putting yourself through hell.”

You try to make a joke, to lighten the moment. “Wow. That sounded dangerously close to sentiment.”

But he doesn’t smile. He just exhales and crouches in front of you, eye-level now.

“You look like your insides are fucking breaking apart.”

“…They might be.”

He tenses, jaw clenching, but he doesn’t lash out. He just reaches out and rests his hand behind your back, steadying you as you tremble.

“You’re magicless. You shouldn't even be able to survive it.” His voice is low, rough. His grip on you tightens slightly,anger, panic, frustration, all twisted into his jaw. “Do you have any idea what this’ll do to you?”

You manage a laugh. “Think I’m finding out.”

His ears flatten. His tail lashes behind him. But his hands don’t leave you.

“I’m taking you to someone who can help,” he says, his voice firm but careful. “You don’t argue. You don’t pretend. You let me take care of it this time.”

You’re too tired to fight. You lean into him, and he lifts you without complaint, one arm around your shoulders, the other under your knees.

His brow stays furrowed the entire time.

He doesn’t say much else. But the way he holds you,secure, protective, just a little too tight,says enough.

And just before you slip into unconsciousness, you hear him murmur something into your hair.

“You saved my damn life. So don’t think I’m letting you throw yours away.”

Azul Ashengrotto

He thought it was a joke at first.

You were always trying to hide things from him, especially when it came to your injuries. You were proud, and he admired that,even if it made him worry. But when he caught you stumbling out of the Mostro Lounge’s back hallway, one hand gripping the wall, the other pressed against your lips, he didn’t smile.

Then you collapsed to your knees.

And the ink came spilling out.

Thick, black, vile. It hit the floor in splatters, sticky and alive, like it didn’t want to leave your body. Your back arched with the force of it, and you coughed so hard it sounded like something inside you cracked.

Azul dropped the clipboard he’d been holding.

His shoes echoed across the polished floor as he rushed to you, faster than he’d ever let himself move in public. “Y/N—!”

You waved a shaky hand, still hunched over. “It’s okay, it’s just—just a little blot..”

“That,”kneeled beside you, “is not a little blot!”

You were tired. Your eyes were glassy. And the ink,gods, the ink was boiling. Like it was trying to crawl its way back down your throat.

He tried to reach for you, but paused, hesitating. What if touching you made it worse? What if his magic triggered something else?

You noticed. Even through the haze, you gave him a soft, crooked smile. “Don’t look so scared… I’m magicless, remember? I can’t overblot.”

“You don’t need magic to be consumed by it,” he snapped, voice cracking. “You were exposed. Weren’t you? During the fights—against me—”

“…Yeah.”

He closed his eyes for just a moment. His chest hurt.

“How long?”

You hesitated.

“How long, Y/N?”

“…Two weeks.”

Azul’s hands trembled, just slightly. He never trembled.

“I could’ve helped you,” he whispered.

“I didn’t want you to see me like this.”

A bitter, strangled sound left his throat,something between a scoff and a gasp.

“You think I’d care about appearances when you’re dying in front of me?”

You leaned into him, your strength fading fast. He caught you this time, arms curling around your form as the ink soaked into his sleeves. He didn’t flinch.

“Stay with me,” he said softly, his voice lower than it had ever been. “I don’t care what it takes. I’ll find a way. I don’t need a contract. I don’t need payment. I just—"

He cut himself off.

Held you tighter.

Pressed his forehead to yours, eyes wide and shining.

“…Please,” he breathed. “Don’t leave me alone again.”

You managed to whisper his name before everything went dark.

And Azul stayed there, holding you, ink pooling around him like a curse he couldn’t bargain his way out of.

Kalim Al Asim

You didn’t want him to see it.

You’d been hiding it for days, shivers, the way you sometimes gripped your stomach like something was tearing through you. You kept smiling, waving off his concern, calling it a cold, stress, anything to keep his eyes off the truth.

But Kalim was nothing if not persistent.

He followed you when you left the party early, weaving through the celebration in Scarabia with apologies and excuses. You’d said you needed air. But he found you behind the dorm, bent over and gasping, your hand trembling as it caught the wall to steady yourself.

“Y/N?” His voice was light at first. Confused.

You turned to him too late.

The ink was already pouring from your mouth.

Thick, black, and writhing,like it was fighting to stay inside. It hit the sand like tar, steaming in the desert air. Kalim froze. His breath caught in his throat.

“Y/N?!”

You coughed again, nearly collapsing, but he caught you just before you hit the ground. His hands were on your shoulders, then your back, his jewelry clinking as he tried to support you.

“I—I’m fine—” you gasped, barely able to lift your head.

“No, no you’re not! That’s blot! That’s overblot ink, what—what’s happening?!”

You looked up at him with eyes too tired to lie. “It got in me. During the fight..with Jamil..”

Kalim blinked.

Once.

Twice.

Then he shook his head, violently. “No. No, no, no—that’s impossible, you’re not even a mage, you can’t—”

“I know. I can’t overblot.” You gave a hollow laugh that turned into a rasping cough. “But it’s inside me. It’s still killing me, just… slower.”

You expected panic. You expected fear.

What you didn’t expect was Kalim to wrap his arms around you and hold on like he’d drown without you.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered into your shoulder, voice shaking. “I didn’t know. I should’ve known. I—”

“It’s not your fault—”

“It is,” he said, louder now. “It is, because I would’ve never let you near him if I knew this could happen! I would’ve protected you-I would’ve done something—!”

You coughed again, ink dribbling past your lips. Kalim wiped it away with a shaking thumb.

“…Why didn’t you tell me?”

You couldn’t answer. Not with the way the pain twisted inside you.

But your silence said enough.

Kalim pressed his forehead against yours, holding you close even as the ink stained his white and gold sleeves.

“I’m going to fix this,” he whispered. “I don’t care how long it takes, or what I have to give up. You’re my light, Y/N. And I won’t let you go out.”

He pulled you closer still.

Kalim Al-Asim felt helpless in the face of something he couldn’t fix with love alone.

Vil Schoenheit

Vil had always prided himself on control.

Poise. Discipline. Perfection. His life was a routine of polished movements, carefully chosen words, and flawless performances. Emotions were something to be harnessed, not shown. Mess was something to be cleaned up not lived through.

And yet.

He found you doubled over in the pristine bathroom of Pomefiore, retching up a substance that didn’t belong in any world where things made sense.

It was black. Viscous. Blot.

It clung to your mouth like tar, trailing in thin strings from your lips as you spat the rest into the sink. Your hands were shaking, gripping the edges of the porcelain like you might fall apart if you let go.

Vil stopped in the doorway. Time seemed to catch its breath.

“…Y/N?”

Your eyes flicked to him through the mirror.Hollow.

“…Hey,” you said hoarsely. “You’re not supposed to be back yet.”

He didn’t respond. He walked forward, slowly, carefully,as if any sudden move would break you entirely. His reflection stood beside yours, immaculate as always, but you,you looked like death.

“I told you I was fine,” you whispered, voice cracking.

Vil reached for your chin, tilting your face toward his with the gentlest touch he’d ever given anyone. His hand didn’t shake but his breath did.

“That,” he said coolly, “is not fine.”

You tried to smile, but it slipped before it even formed. “It’s… from the SDC. I didn’t notice at first. But the ink,it’s been in me since then.”

His eyes flickered, sharp and calculating, but you could see the fracture behind them.

“You knew,” he said, voice dangerously low. “And you kept it from me.”

“I didn’t want to worry you.”

Vil laughed,humorless, bitter. “You didn’t want to worry me? Y/N, you are coughing up blot. That’s not a worry, it’s a nightmare.”

You tried to sit up straighter, but the movement sent a violent spasm through your chest, and more ink spilled out of you. Vil caught you as you crumpled, holding you upright against him, not caring that the blot was staining his gloves, his robe,him.

“I didn’t think it’d get this bad,” you admitted, voice trembling. “I thought it would go away.”

“Things like this don’t just go away,” he snapped, but his arms were steady around you. “It festers. It spreads. And now—” He cut himself off. His breath hitched.

And then softer, almost pleading: “Why didn’t you let me help you?”

You looked up at him, tears burning at the corners of your eyes. “Because I knew you'd look at me like this. Like I’m broken. Like I ruined something.”

His expression shattered.

“I don’t care if it’s broken,” he said, voice thick. “We fix broken things. We heal them. But I can’t do that if you keep hiding it.”

You tried to protest, but he pulled you closer.

“From this moment on,” he murmured, voice fierce and low, “you are not hiding another thing from me. Not your pain. Not your fear. Nothing.”

“…Okay,” you whispered.

He brushed the hair from your face, cradling you like something fragile, precious. For once, he didn’t care about his appearance, or who might see him kneeling on the bathroom floor, covered in ink. All he cared about was keeping you here.

Alive. Safe.

His.

“You are not dying from this,” Vil said, not a hope but a command. “I won’t allow it.”

Idia Shroud

It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.

You’d promised. You told him it was just a scratch,that when the fight was over, you’d be fine. He’d seen you tired, bruised but still standing. Still smiling.

So why were you now curled up on the floor of his room in Ignihyde, your back pressed to the side of his bed, trembling as you violently coughed up black blot like your lungs were trying to reject your own insides?

“Wh-What the hell?!” Idia dropped the tablet in his hands. The clatter echoed too loud in the silence.

You wiped at your mouth, slowly turning your head to look at him with dull, glassy eyes. “It’s fine,” you muttered. “It’s just… leftover. From the overblot. I must’ve absorbed some of it.”

“‘Just’—??” Idia’s voice cracked, his hair flaring in jagged bursts. “That’s blot, Y/N. Not a nosebleed. Not a cold. That’s corrupted magic and pure suffering in liquid form!”

You tried to stand, but your legs gave out, and Idia was at your side before you hit the ground.

His hands hovered, twitching nervously. “Okay. Okayokayokay. This is—this is fine. Not fine fine, obviously, this is nightmare fuel tier, but like—okay, okay, I can fix this. Maybe.”

You leaned against him, breathing shallow. “Idia…”

“No. Don’t ‘Idia’ me right now,” he said, breath quick. “Why didn’t you say something?! I have monitoring programs—scans—serums—okay, mostly for Ortho, but still. I could’ve done something..!”

You rested your head on his shoulder. “Didn’t want to bother you.”

He froze.

“…Bother me?” he repeated in a whisper. “You really think you’d ever be a bother?”

Your silence said it all.

His voice cracked. “You’re the only person who makes this dumb room feel like something more than a digital grave. You show up, and suddenly it’s like I’m not just a spooky background character anymore. You make me feel like I matter. And you thought this wasn’t important enough to tell me?”

You didn’t mean to cry. You hadn’t even noticed it until the ink mixed with tears on your cheeks.

“I didn’t want you to see me like this.”

He pulled you into his chest not with elegance, not with a dramatic speech, but with desperation. “I see you,” he whispered. “Not the ink. Not the breaking down part. Just… you.”

His fingers curled into your shirt as his voice went quiet.

“…I’m scared.”

“Me too,” you admitted.

He nodded, shakily. “Then we’re scared together.”

He adjusted your weight against him, wrapping his arms around you tighter,awkward, too warm, a little sweaty, but real.

“You’re not allowed to die,” he muttered. “I didn’t install a save point. Don’t make me invent necromancy.”

You gave a tiny, painful laugh.

And for once, it didn’t sound like a game anymore.

Malleus Draconia

The storm was still raging when you stumbled through the doors of Diasomnia.

Lightning cracked above the towers, thunder rolling across the moors, but the sound of it couldn’t drown out your gasps or the slick, wet sound of black ink splattering onto the cold floor beneath your feet.

You barely made it three steps before you collapsed to your knees, one hand bracing yourself while the other gripped your stomach. It felt like fire. Like something inside you was trying to rot its way out.

And then—

“Y/N.”

Malleus’ voice.

He appeared beside you in the blink of an eye, his presence nearly making the air vibrate with how quickly his magic reacted to your pain.

You looked up, vision swimming, lips trembling. “I—I’m fine.”

You weren’t.

You were coughing up tar-black blot like your lungs were lined with it, like your very soul had been stained by it. No magical signature, no spell. Just residue,something left behind after fighting too many overblots made of sorrow and rage.

Malleus knelt in front of you, his hands hovering at first, not daring to touch until you looked at him and gave the smallest nod.

The moment you did, he reached out and pulled you close, cradling you as if your body were made of glass.

“You’re not fine,” he said, voice lower than usual. There was a storm brewing inside him now, too. You could feel it.

“I didn’t want you to see me like this,” you whispered, breath hitching. “I didn’t want you to worry.”

Malleus’ grip tightened slightly, his forehead resting against yours.

“I am always worried,” he murmured. “But I would rather be frightened by your truth than soothed by your silence.”

You flinched as another wave of pain struck, your spine arching as you coughed up more of the ink. It burned your throat. It felt like it was eating you alive.

And still—still—you clutched at his sleeve, as if asking him not to leave.

“I’m here,” he whispered immediately. “I will not leave. Not now. Not ever.”

You barely noticed the flickering green glow wrapping around you until you felt it seep into your bones. Gentle, ancient magic,dragged from deep within Malleus himself. Not offensive, not protective. Restorative.

But it didn’t work.

Not completely.

Because the blot wasn’t a spell. It wasn’t something that could be undone by fae power or reversed by time-honored rites. It was corruption,infectious,cruel and it was already far too deep inside.

Still, he tried.

He kept one hand against your chest, the other against your cheek, murmuring in an old tongue that only the fae still remembered. His words weren’t spells,they were promises.

The ink didn’t vanish, but it slowed. Your shaking eased. The agony remained, but Malleus' magic acted like a shield,like a steady breath amid the smoke.

“I failed you,” you whispered weakly. “I should’ve been stronger.”

He shook his head, his voice tight. “No. You were braver than I ever deserved. You fought battles we could not see. You bore a weight alone that should have crushed you and still, you stood.”

A long pause. Then:

“You were never meant to burn alone.”

He pressed his forehead to yours again, his next words barely audible:

“If this ink dares to take you from me… then I shall walk into the dark and bring you back myself.”

You shuddered, tears slipping free at last.

You didn’t want to die.

And under Malleus’ trembling hands, you felt the same truth written in his every touch:

He would not let you.

English is not my first language !

[p0orbaby]

Alexia putellas “Jealousy looks good on you” and “why are you looking at me like you want to kill me?”

-

You’re not normally the jealous type.

You’re confident. Grounded. You have a handle on things—especially when “things” are a six-time Player of the Year with impossibly good cheekbones and a weird obsession with organising the fridge by yoghurt flavour.

You trust Alexia.

You do.

Which is why the sight of her leaning a little too close to some sports journalist—blonde, giggly, armed with an aggressively plunging neckline—shouldn’t make your jaw clench the way it does.

But it does.

It’s the tail-end of a press event, one you weren’t technically invited to but Alexia told you to “just come” with that smug glint in her eye that usually means you’ll end up in her lap by the end of the night.

You’re across the room when it happens. Sipping your drink. Watching her tilt her head and laugh at something the blonde says, that familiar dimple flashing.

Your blood fizzes.

Aitana clocks it immediately. She sidles up next to you, grinning into her glass.

“You’re doing that thing with your eyes.”

“What thing.”

“The ‘I’m pretending I don’t care but I’m seconds away from flipping a table’ thing.”

You glance back toward Alexia. “She’s still talking to her?”

Aitana shrugs. “They’re just talking.”

“She touched her arm.”

“She also touched the complimentary hummus.”

You shoot her a look.

“I’m just saying,” Aitana says, amused. “If you’re going to throw hands, aim high. That dress doesn’t have a lot of structural integrity.”

You snort. Then straighten up as Alexia starts walking toward you, all soft hair and smug expression and maddeningly slow steps.

“Hi,” she says, like she didn’t just flirt in 1080p across a crowded room.

You shoot her a look. Flat. Blinking. Dry.

She slows, just a little, gaze scanning your face like she’s trying to decide if you’re genuinely pissed or just playing.

“You alright?” she asks, voice laced with something too innocent.

You don’t answer immediately. You cross your arms instead, eyes trailing to where the journalist is still lingering by the canapé table, looking around like she’s lost something. Maybe a sense of boundaries.

Alexia follows your gaze. She smiles.

Smiles.

You raise a brow. “She funny, was she?”

Alexia exhales a soft laugh through her nose, head tilting like she’s enjoying this a little too much. “I was being polite.”

“She touched your arm.”

“She also asked if hummus was dairy-free. I’m not sure she’s all there.”

You give her a long, measured look.

And she just looks back at you. Steady. A little smug. That calm arrogance that always drives you mad—in both the best and worst ways.

Then finally, softly, she says:

“Why are you looking at me like you want to kill me?”

You don’t blink. “Who says I don’t?”

She pauses. Watches your jaw work. The slight tension in your shoulders. The way you haven’t let her touch you yet, even though she’s right there.

Then, slowly—deliberately—she steps closer, toe bumping gently against the front of your boot.

Her smirk creeps in, slow and crooked.

“Jealousy looks good on you.”

“I wasn’t jealous,” you lie.

“Oh no?”

“I just don’t like people touching what’s mine.”

That earns you a look. One of those slow, dangerous smiles that makes your spine feel like jelly.

“Yours, huh?”

You nod once.

Alexia leans in, mouth by your ear, voice low enough to make you swallow.

“Say that again later when you’ve got your hands on my hips and your mouth on my neck.”

You blink.

Aitana, still nearby, mutters, “Jesus Christ,” before walking off with a grimace.

Alexia kisses your cheek once, soft, then lets her hand slip around your waist as she murmurs, “Let’s go home. I want to hear more about what’s yours.”

And suddenly, you don’t mind the jealousy at all.

[pukefactory]

I was reading through your ENA writings, and I was wondering: Would you do headcanons or stories for a more angsty prompt? I was wondering how ENA might navigate the downs of a relationship. 'Cause like, ENA literally has a part of herself called her "meanie side". She'd definitely say something she regrets at some point. Doesn't help that she probably hasn't had very many relationships of this type.

Could you write some headcanons for what happens if ENA's meanie side says something... well, really mean, and how she navigates the aftermath of driving her partner to tears?

It's fine if not! That definitely seems to be a little outside the general vibe with these. Plus, I even have some ideas of my own for this, too!

(For example, maybe her partner gains a bit of a phobia of her meanie side's voice, so she forcefully tries to change it into her more friendly-sounding salesperson voice, but that's really hard because it seems like her meanie side talks when she's distressed in general, like her PTSD-like response to the vending machine refusing to sell her stuff, or when Froggy calls her when she arrives at the Purge event.)

Sorry, you're making my own creative gears whirl, lol! All that to say, it's cool if you'd rather do more wholesome stuff.

•☽────✧˖°˖ I DON’T KNOW HOW TO LOVE ˖°˖✧────☾•

★ Summary: A Compilation of Headcanons Featuring Salesperson Ena Trying To Make Up To The Reader After Saying Something Hurtful

★ Character(s): Salesperson Ena (Ena: Dream BBQ)

★ Genre: Headcanons, SFW

★ Warning(s): None - Completely Safe!

★ Image Credits: @JoelG

☆ The words are out before she even processes them. Ena’s Meanie side, fueled by frustration, sharpens her tongue like a blade, and the moment your face crumples, her geometric form glitches. “Oh… Oh, WAIT.” The red side is already scrambling to take control, but the damage is done. A hard swallow, a glitchy stammer, and her face flickers between a grimace and a forced salesman’s grin. “A-alright, that was a limited-time offer of cruelty—uh, poorly advertised, terrible customer service. I’d like to issue an immediate recall—”

☆ The realization sends her into a spiral. She grips her hat, her polygons jagged, her expression contorting between stiff remorse and an agonized smirk. “No-no-no-no-no, I-I, um—LOOK OVER THERE!” (There’s nothing there.) “Uh, NO NEED TO CRY, HAH, IT WAS A JOKE! …A bad one, really bad, I mean, did you get it? No? Not funny? Oh. Ohhh, geez.” Her hands wave wildly, like trying to physically catch her mistake midair, but all she’s doing is digging the hole deeper.

☆ The Salesperson side desperately tries to salvage the situation, slipping into her usual corporate babble as if she can sell her way out of emotional devastation. “I have an INCREDIBLE deal for you today! A fantastic, once-in-a-lifetime, super-duper-special ‘I’m Sorry’ package! It comes with—uh—regret! Profound self-loathing! A, uh, complete reimbursement of all emotional damages! Act now and receive bonus guilt!” She grips her hat. “That… that didn’t help, did it.”

☆ The Meanie side hunches forward, knees drawn to her chest, voice quieter now, almost trembling. “I—I didn’t mean it like that…” The weight of the moment presses down on her, cracks spiderwebbing along her skin. “I say stupid things. Mean things. I-I don’t even think before I—” She hiccups, trying to contain the mess of static in her chest. “I just wanted to be heard. Not… not this.”

☆ The second you leave, the performance is over. No business chatter, no outbursts—just silence. Ena folds in on herself, static fizzing at her edges. Her polygons warp and distort, a physical manifestation of regret. She hugs herself, claws digging into her polygonal sleeves, whispering, “That was so, so stupid. Stupid. Stupid.” The word repeats until it’s nothing but glitchy noise.

☆ Ena isn’t great at this. She tries every trick in her book—witty remarks, elaborate business metaphors, even writing an entire jingle about how sorry she is (it’s terrible). But when all else fails, she just slumps forward, hands clasped, voice trembling between glitchy laughter and something achingly real. “I really don’t want to lose you. Not over my dumb mouth. Not over me.”

☆ She leaves gifts that make zero sense—a business card that just says “SORRY” in bold letters, a rock painted like a sad face, an actual coupon that reads, “Redeem this for one (1) unfiltered Ena sincerity session.” Eventually, she just shows up, staring, fingers twitching. “So, uh… did you use the coupon yet?” A pause. “I-It’s refundable.”

☆ Eventually, she cracks. Underneath the layers of glitchy bravado, underneath the business-talk deflections, she’s just… scared. “I don’t… I don’t know how to do this right,” she admits, voice warping between pitches. “I don’t know how to be—uh—soft. Or gentle. Or—consistently good. I just—” She wrings her hands. “I never meant to hurt you. But I did. And that—it—it sucks. And I suck. And I wanna—fix it. If—if you let me.”

☆ The Meanie side knows she’s the problem. Always the one who pushes too hard, who says the wrong thing. What if this is the time she can’t fix it? What if she just… loses you? That thought alone is enough to crack her voice into something unsteady, her edges blurred with static. “You… you don’t have to forgive me,” she murmurs. “But I—I really hope you do.”

☆ When you finally—finally—lean into her, still sniffling but not leaving, Ena’s entire form stabilizes. No more warping polygons, no more distortion. Just a deep, shaky exhale. “Okay,” she whispers, almost afraid to move. “Okay. This is still a disaster. But, uh… I think I can work with ‘disaster’ better than ‘gone.’” A small, wobbly grin. “Let’s… let’s fix this together, yeah?”

[leighsartworks216]

Kiss-Proof

Sylus x implied fem!Reader

Inspired by this fic by @peachlynnie

Also inspired by an Archie comic lol

Warnings: fluff, kissing, established relationship, lipstick, implied sexual content at the end

Word Count: 948

Main Masterlist

First Love and Deepspace Masterlist

Second Love and Deepspace Masterlist

AO3

Tag List Form (fill this out to be tagged in future fics)

How he got roped into this situation, he has no idea. Not that he's complaining. What could be better than his partner straddling his lap, kissing him over and over again?

You plant a kiss at a bare spot on his cheek without ceremony. You pull away, hopeful, only to deflate when the vibrant imprint of your lips are left behind. "Ugh, this one transfers, too." The tube of lipstick is tossed off to the side with the other failures.

Sylus grabs the makeup wipe from the previous attempts (almost completely covered in various shades of pink and red). His hand holds your jaw warmly, thumb on your chin, as his other thumb brushes the wipe over your lips.

He could suggest taking you shopping to the high end stores that would most certainly have lipstick proven not to smudge or transfer, but then you'd have to get up and stop testing it. His lips still have some red staining them, and his cheeks, neck and forehead are almost completely covered. He'd hate to stop now.

"How many more do you have to test?" he asks.

You shift in his lap, forcing him to stop his ministrations in favor of holding your hip to support you. You grab another lipstick tube from a pile andshift the remaining ones around. "Like, five more? At least one of these has to work."

He shifts his legs, settling you back into place, and draws your attention back to him so he can wipe away the last smidge of tint at the corners of your mouth. "If none of these work, I'll buy you some more," he promises. He nods slightly as he sets the wipe aside. "Go ahead, try this one."

You use a little compact mirror to help you get the shade on right. It's a warm red, bloody and tempting. It’s the same shade as his eyes after a couple glasses of Gin Fizz, when he looks at you with unbridled affection, enhanced with his slight intoxication.

Sylus would be the first to admit how much he loves watching this. He loves the comfort you have to propose this silly idea, to crawl into his lap with a bag of lipsticks and makeup wipes and the intensity of an executive making a pitch to a board room. He loves getting to watch the concentration on your face as you glide the applicator over your top lip, following the natural line to ensure it's perfect. Loves the mild frustration when you mess up the corner. Loves that you trust him to fix it with the wipe wrapped over his thumb nail. Loves the quiet thanks you mutter before you get back to work.

Fully applied, you hum impatiently as you turn the tube over to read the directions. "'Wait two minutes.' Damn."

"The best results take time," Sylus teases.

You shoot him a half-hearted glare. "Fine. What should we talk about for two minutes?"

He hums as he taps a finger on your hip. "I don't think I ever asked: Why are you so eager to find a lipstick that doesn't transfer?"

"Well," you wipe your thumb along his lip, dragging the lingering color with it, "it's embarrassing to drink from a glass and leave a big smudge behind."

He chuckles. "That's what's got you so worried, sweetie?"

You trace the rouge up to his prominent cupid's bow. "Mm, not completely." You wonder what he'd look like with lipstick on him properly. You're sure he'd look amazing. Hell, even like this, covered with all your kisses, he looks good. You're damn near convinced he can pull any look off.

He squeezes your sides. "Tell me," he implores, voice soft and tender.

You sigh. "When we go to auctions, I feel like I can't kiss you," you admit quietly. "Everyone there is so... imposing. I don't want to, well, do this to you," you gesture at all the lipstick stains, "and ruin your reputation."

"Sweetie." He cups your cheek in his large hand. It holds you perfectly, always. You lean into it without a second thought. He smiles. "My reputation isn't that fragile. Besides..."

His voice gets lower as he draws you in. You could get high on the way his eyes flicker to your mouth. His nose brushes yours, hot breath shared in the centimeters of space left between you.

"How else will they know who I belong to?"

Your breath hitches. His mouth is on yours, seeking, claiming, drawing you deeper into him. You feel the creamy texture of smudged lipstick as you hold his face, slide your fingers along his neck into his hair. It streaks along his perfect skin.

His tongue licks the seam of your lips, begs for entrance. You tug at his hair as you let him in. He groans into your mouth, sighs a wanton rendition of your name. Your shirt slips up your waist as he dives a hand below the fabric to press against your bare skin.

You pull away sharply. "The lipstick!"

His eyes look murderous for being disturbed, by you of all people. Still, he contains himself enough not to dive right back in. Just barely. What he can’t contain is the furrow in his brow and the frown he wears.

You ignore the smudges of color on his skin, matching stains on your hands, as you tilt his head up to better look at his lips. They're still stained with that light red from before, but-

"Sy! It worked! This one didn't smudge!"

"Perfect." He pulls you roughly back down to him, biting your colored lip before licking it sinfully. "Let's take it for a test run, shall we?"

---

Tag List:

@the-golden-jhope @huen1ngk41 @armycaratlover @sylusfluffymeow @cheesemachine44 @nyx2021 @angel-jupiter @thelittlebutton @pikachuzhc @pomegranatepip @cordidy

[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

[throatgoat4u]

just pepsi?

in which... chris loves pepsi and you think it's mid

a/n: anotha one thank yew. i cannot believe i had the motivation to write not only one fic but two while simultaneously working on like three others. crazy shit man. especially fluff too. anyways, this ones short. should i start writing for chris more? also, you will see something about it tasting like caramel. not me, google said it. i would've never guessed caramel but i didn't know how to describe the taste so i searched it up and google said caramel. oh well. enjoy!

toodles sluts

you hear the fizz before you see it. the sharp hiss of carbonation escaping as chris cracks open a can of pepsi, followed by the soft gulp when he takes the first sip. it’s weirdly satisfying—like the audio equivalent of a perfectly folded blanket or a brand-new notebook.

you’re sitting cross-legged on the couch, your phone in your lap, half-watching something on tv when chris plops down beside you. the cushion sinks under his weight, and without a word, he rests his arm across the back of the couch, fingertips just barely grazing your shoulder.

“you always take the first sip like it’s the best thing you’ve ever had,” you say, glancing at him.

he grins, licking a stray drop off his bottom lip. “because it is.”

you roll your eyes. “it’s just pepsi.”

he gasps like you’ve just insulted his entire family. “just pepsi?” he repeats, clutching the can to his chest. “excuse me, but this is the nectar of the gods.”

you snort. “pretty sure that’s ambrosia.”

“nah,” he says, shaking his head. “they got it wrong. it’s this.” to prove his point, he takes another dramatic sip and lets out a satisfied sigh.

you reach for the can, but he pulls it away at the last second, eyes sparkling with amusement. “oh, you want some now? after disrespecting it like that?”

“shut up.” you roll your eyes again, but you’re smiling now. “just give me some.”

he hums, pretending to think about it, then shrugs. “i dunno... i mean, i’d hate to taint your delicate taste buds with something so mediocre.”

you give him a flat look and make a grab for the can, but he’s faster. he shifts, holding it just out of reach, laughing when you huff in frustration.

“you’re so annoying,” you mutter, but there’s no heat behind it.

he finally relents, handing over the can. “fine, fine. one sip. but only because i’m a generous man.”

you take it, feeling the lingering warmth from his hand on the aluminum. lifting it to your lips, you take a sip, the familiar taste of caramel and fizz hitting your tongue. it’s good, but you keep your expression neutral, just to mess with him.

“eh,” you say, handing it back.

he looks personally offended. “eh?”

“yeah. i’ve had better.”

chris stares at you for a moment, then shakes his head, clicking his tongue. “that’s crazy. genuinely the worst thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“oh, please.”

“no, for real. i don’t even know you anymore.” he looks off into the distance, all dramatic, before taking another sip like he’s using it to soothe his broken heart.

you bump your knee against his. “you’ll survive.”

he exhales, setting the can on the coffee table before turning to face you fully. his expression softens just a little, teasing smile still in place but not as cocky. “you know, i’d still pick you over pepsi,” he says, like it’s some grand confession.

“oh, wow. what an honor.”

“it is,” he says, serious now. “you should feel special.”

you pretend to consider it, then shrug. “i guess i do.”

his smile widens, all easy and lopsided, and when he shifts closer, his arm drapes naturally around your shoulders this time, like it belongs there.

and yeah. maybe it kinda does.

© throatgoat4u

dividers: @bernardsbendystraws

[halfway-happyyy]

wasted on each other {frank castle}

synopsis: the one where frank teaches his girl a lesson on communication. minors DNI !

warnings: public sex, spanking, unprotected p-in-v, dirty talk, praise, frank is a little (consensually!) mean to his girl in this. fluff-filled ending because you can never go wrong with those.

Frank Castle has never prided himself on much, but if there's one thing he reckons he does well, it's being an attentive partner. Like how most times, all he has to do to see what she wants or needs is just to look at her. How he can tell just by the precise shade of her eyes, whether she needs a tight hug, or a plate of bolognese from Nello’s down the street, or a hard, thorough fucking. Tonight, it’s the latter. 

She’s been bratty for days now. Their schedules have been so up and down the last week that to him, they're like two ships passing in the night. Even he feels their recent lack of intimacy acutely; it's in the heavy ache of his balls and perhaps in his own shortness with her. 

He brings the frosty neck of the beer bottle to his lips and takes a sip. Savours the slightly bitter fizz on his tongue, before cocking his head to the side in question. 

“When’s the last time you ate somethin’ kid?” 

���Around noon, Frank,” She takes a long sip from her own bottle before shrugging. “Guess I must have forgotten to video chat you while I was doing it.” 

Irritation flares warm and raw just beneath the surface of his skin as he levels his gaze with hers. 

“This mouth you've been givin’ me for the last coupla days is getting real fuckin’ old, you know that?” 

He expects her to shy back now; it’s usually how these situations go down, but to his surprise, a smirk ghosts the edges of her lips. 

She's feelin' brave tonight.

“Yeah, is it getting on your nerves, Frank?” 

He nods. “Every last fuckin’ one ‘em, kid.” He leans toward her across the table and raises his voice slightly to be heard above the din of the dive bar. “You know the drill, baby. If you need somethin’ from me, all you gotta do is ask.” 

She elicits a laugh that bears no warmth. “I don’t need anything from you, Frank.” And yet, she can’t even look him in the eye when she says it.

“I think you're forgetting that I bite harder than that tone of yours ever could.” 

That does it. He watches the blush seep into the apples of her cheeks and sits back in his chair with a shit-eating grin. 

She opens her mouth to say something back, but then David and Sarah are there, and Frank watches satisfied, as the venom fizzles in her throat.

“Would you two excuse us for a second?” He asks. “She forgot something in the truck.” 

David waves it off. “Yeah but don't take too long, we still gotta agree on a karaoke song. I'm thinking something along the lines of Tarzan Boy or Hungry Heart…” 

The goosebumps that bloom in waves on Frank’s arms have less to do with the April evening chill and more to do with the anticipation of what the evening is about to hold. Wordlessly, he backs her up against the rough brick wall of the bar and takes her face in his hands. 

“Look at me, kid.” 

She hesitates a beat before meeting his gaze. 

“What’s gotten into you recently, huh?”

She opens her mouth to say something, but all Frank catches is a breathless whimper. 

“I find it interesting that all that mouth of yours has done the past couple of days is spew bullshit, but now that I have you out here, you're powerless to say anything of substance.” 

She swallows hard before murmuring, “I need you, Frank.” 

There it is. 

“No fuckin’ shit, kid. Open up for me,” He kicks at her ankles to widen her stance. They're in the mouth of the dank alleyway, entirely unshielded by anyone walking by, and the notion of it causes Frank’s dick to swell in the crotch of his jeans. He reaches beneath her dress, and as his fingertips make the familiar journey up her inner thigh, he curses to himself when he realizes she's forgone underwear for the evening. He leans forward so that his lips are mere inches away from the shell of her ear. 

“You don't need anything from me, though, right?” His fingers slide back and forth against the warm slick of her slit with ease. “You said that earlier. But you’re wearing a fuckin’ dress without underwear tonight, and I can feel how wet you are right now, so I know you're bluffing. Yeah, what I think you need from me is a goddamn attitude adjustment.” 

He presses a little harder so that the first couple inches of his fingers sink into her and smirks when he feels her squirm beneath him. 

“Think I should fuck you right here and now, baby. Give you exactly what you want. Make you walk back into that bar with my come drippin’ down your legs, so that every single person there knows what kind of a girl you've been lately, hm? How does that sound?” 

“Fuck, Frank.” she whines. 

He elicits a bark of a laugh and shakes his head. “Nah, I don’t think so, baby. Turn around.” 

While he waits patiently for her to do as she's told, he casts a quick glance around to be sure they’re still alone. His time serving in the military - the gift that truly kept on giving - had left him with a permanent nagging in the back of his mind that there were always a set of eyes on him somewhere. 

“Hike your dress up for me, please. Attagirl.” 

Again, she does as she’s told, one hand holding up the material, the other bracing herself against the jagged edges of the wall, and Frank makes a mental note to kiss away the bruises on the palms of her hands later on. He reaches down to rub a warm palm over the rounded curve of her ass cheek and marvels at the way she quivers beneath him despite not having been touched yet. He watches, mesmerized, as goosebumps mar the normally smooth planes of her skin and licks his lips.

“Stand still, and do your best to take this like a good girl, yeah?” He leans in to press a chaste kiss to the nape of her neck, and without warning, lifts his hand high and brings it down against her ass with a resounding thwack.

She jerks beneath him, and Frank surmises that she's got her bottom lip wedged between her teeth because the only sound she makes is a muffled whimper. And Jesus, he’s gotta get his erection in check before they head back into the bar. 

“You really gotta start communicatin’ better with me, baby,” He growls before letting fly a flurry of stinging smacks. He stops the barrage to tease a calloused fingertip down the stripe of her weeping cunt, earning him a desperate, high-pitched moan. “Shh, sh, it’s alright,” he coaxes hoarsely. “I’ve got you.” His forehead falls to the curve of her shoulder, and he takes a deep breath in, trying in vain to ignore the heaving ache in his balls. “God, I swear sometimes you test me just to get this kind of treatment.” Frank delivers a couple more unforgiving slaps, and rasps, “I really think you could come for me like this. I think that the pain is half the pleasure for you. I’m sure all I’d have to do is push a couple fingers back into this tight pussy of yours, and I could have you falling apart around them in seconds flat.” 

His words have a tremendous effect on her, and when she whispers, “please, Frankie…” he can hear how wrecked her voice is; how consumed with need she is for him, and the smile that pulls the corners of his lips upward borders maliciousness.

Frank clicks his tongue and gives his head a half-shake. “And there are those manners I’ve been missin’ all week. Funny, how that happens, huh?” He presses another quick kiss to the side of her neck, caressing a palm around the warm, raw skin of her ass cheek, and gently pulls her dress back down over her body. “Now. You and I are gonna head back into that bar, and if you’re good, you’ll get the rest later. Nod that pretty head of yours if you’re alright with that.” Even under the caliginous light provided by the street lamps, Frank can see that her pupils are blown wide with lust. 

She swallows hard and nods her head.

“Good.” He kisses her temple and flexes his fist a couple of times, willing the blood to flow to other parts of his body than just his dick. “After you, sweetheart.” 

~

The ride home is mostly silent, save for the muffled sound of the FM radio in the background. Frank’s trying his best to concentrate on the unusually heavy Friday evening traffic, but with the rock-hard erection he’s sporting, it’s certainly not the easiest task he’s ever accomplished. He steals a quick glance at his passenger; notices that despite the chill, her skin bears a subtle sheen of perspiration. Her eyes are closed, and her chest rises and falls in a measured manner, as if she’s trying her best to focus on something.

Frank averts his gaze back to the road and clears his throat. “How badly do you wanna touch yourself right now, baby? And so help me God, if you give me another bullshit smart-ass answer, I'll deny your orgasms for the next week.” 

She turns to look at him. “I want it so bad, Frank.” 

A smirk twitches on his lips. “Go ahead, then.” 

He watches from his periphery as she props a leg up against his dashboard and hikes her dress up past her thighs for the second time that evening. She sucks two fingers into her mouth, getting them slick with her spit, and then dances them down the front of her body to her clit. She goes easy on herself at first, pressing slow, firm circles into her swollen bundle of nerves, and Frank doesn't have to check to know she's likely already dripping down her legs, and onto the buttery leather beneath her.

“How does that feel, hm?” 

Her eyes close, and all she can manage is a low, desperate mewl, and at this point, Frank's starting to feel a little lightheaded from the lack of blood to his brain. 

“I know you can do better than that, sweetheart. Give yourself some more.” 

She does as she’s told and inserts a finger into her hot, wet core, and it’s all Frank can do to keep from groaning out loudly. 

“Like this, Frankie?” Her breathy voice is barely above a whisper, and he nods his head at her in approval.

“Exactly like that. Keep goin’.” 

“Wish it was your cock,” She whimpers. 

Her words send what feels like every ounce of blood left in his body back to his dick, and his knuckles whiten as his grip on the steering wheel tightens. “I’m sure you do, baby. But I'm still not convinced you've earned it yet.”

She pushes a second finger into herself and cries out at the sensation, her other hand still pressing roving circles into her clit. It’s quiet in the truck; the only audible noises between them now are the obscene sounds her fingers make as she fucks herself with them, and the wrecked moans that erupt from somewhere deep inside of her every couple of seconds. Frank can tell she’s close; can see it in the way her legs shake under the waves of pleasure that crash over her. Can actually just hear it.

“Stop,” he orders firmly.

She’s too wrapped up in what she’s doing, so close to the precipice she can’t turn back, but Frank isn’t having another second of it. He wraps a large hand around her wrist and squeezes tightly. “You don’t get to come yet. Stop.” 

With a frustrated sigh, her ministrations cease, and her head drops back against the leather rest behind her. She removes her legs from his dash and smoothes her dress back down. “Fuck, Frank, I was so close-

Irritation flares again, in tandem with the throbbing of his cock. “Is that damn mouth comin’ back again?” 

She takes a deep breath and shakes her head no.

“I didn’t think so.” 

When they finally roll to a halt in front of the apartment, he lets the truck idle a moment before speaking again.

“I need a minute here, kid. You go in without me.” He lifts the back of her hand to his lips and kisses it before setting it down. “Go on, I’ll be right behind ya. And don’t even think about touching yourself. Is that clear?” 

She nods once. “Crystal.” 

As Frank watches her disappear in the orange glow of the front foyer, he wonders briefly how he got so lucky with her. Taking a couple of deep, steadying breaths, he turns the ignition over and sits in the ticking silence. Yeah, part of this evening is about wanting her to know how important proper communication is to him. But mostly, he just wants her to know how utterly significant she is and how her thoughts, opinions, and feelings matter to him more than she could ever know. 

Their apartment is entirely void of any noise when he enters it, but the sliver of golden light from the lamp in their bedroom spills out onto the hardwood floor in front of it, and beckons him forth. He steps into their room wordlessly and drops down onto the edge of their bed with a sigh. She’s opposite him, against the far wall, her gaze sharp yet glassy, in equal measure. 

“C’mere, kid.” His hoarse voice never rises above a whisper.

She walks over to where he’s sat, stopping just shy of him completely.

“Come a little closer,” She does as she’s told, and she’s so close to him that he can feel the sheer heat radiating from her. “Will you take this off for me?” He’s got the hem of her dress in his grasp. 

She nods and steps back to shuck the material from her body for the final time. Her, entirely nude before him is a sight he reckons he’ll never truly tire of because every time it happens, it feels like the first time all over again. 

He holds her gaze for what feels like years before finally murmuring - “you really are breathtaking, y'know that?” 

Her sighs sharply before shrugging. “Only you think so, Frank.” 

He shakes his head. “No way, kid. Come back over here.” They regard each other with a rare intensity, and without breaking eye contact, he reaches for her hand and interlocks their fingers together. It never ceases to amaze him, just how perfectly they fit together and how sometimes it feels like they were supposed to meet from the very beginning of everything. 

She clears her throat before whispering, “I need you, Frank.”

And there it is. 

He stands from the bed to take her face in his hands and kisses her deeply. Though their push and pull is languid in every way imaginable, an underlying frenzy lingers just beneath the surface of it. Her taste on his tongue is so familiar, so intrinsically her, that it very nearly causes tears to prick behind his eyes. When he pulls away to study her, he can’t help noticing the way her lips glisten with their shared saliva. 

“You have me, kid. All of me.”

“Even when I’m being a brat?” She simpers.

Frank guffaws. “Yeah, even then.”  

Her fingers paw at the cool metal of his belt buckle. “May I?” 

He nods. “It’s all yours, sweetheart.” 

She makes quick work of unlooping the belt from his jeans and letting the denim pool on the floor around his feet. He shucks the cotton tee shirt from his torso, tossing it somewhere off to the side. He doesn’t miss the look in her eyes as she watches him shimmy the boxers from his legs, and the way his cock, finally freed from the confines of his boxers, slaps up against his abdomen. He sucks his bottom lip between his teeth and groans out as the cool bedroom air kisses his warm skin, and swiping a fingertip under his swollen head, he catches the string of pre-come dripping from it and brings it to her parted lips. She happily obliges him, sucking his finger into her mouth and groaning around it at the salty-sweet taste of him on her tongue. 

“Fuck,” Frank curses when he feels his dick jump at the sensation of her hot, wet mouth. “Get on the bed for me, will ya?” 

She doesn’t need any coaxing, leaving Frank’s side in a hurry to settle herself against the down pillows. 

He crawls onto the bed, spits into the palm of his hand, and takes his cock in his fist, knowing exactly how much she loves watching him touch himself. He feels a bead of sweat roll down the side of his face, but does nothing to wipe it away, instead focusing on stroking himself hard, and tight. “Jesus,” he growls, head falling back in ecstasy. 

“How does that feel, Frankie?” She asks, mirroring his own query from before. 

“It's nothin’ compared to you, sweetheart.” 

He stops his ministrations with a low groan, and shimmies closer to her, lining the head of his cock up against her. “Think you've earned it yet?” He rubs himself up and down the length of her slick slit, and slaps his cock thrice against her swollen clit, making her cry out into the still bedroom air before them. “Answer me, beautiful.”

“Probably not, Frankie.” 

That makes him laugh. “Yeah, you're right, baby. Probably not. But, I'm gonna give it to you anyway.” In one swift motion, he's buried to the hilt inside of her, her all-consuming warmth causing Frank's head to drop back unbridled pleasure. 

“Oh my god, Frank.” She whimpers, tensing involuntarily around him. 

He inhales deeply and traces a reassuring fingertip from her hip, up to her ribs. “Just take a deep breath, baby. I know it's a lot. I know I normally go slow with ya,” she inhales deeply, and slowly but surely, her walls loosen a little around him. “Ugh fuck, attagirl.”

Sheathing himself inside of her is one of those things he knows he'll never forget. It’s impossibly warm and so tight it’s almost painful- but it's also easily the most satisfied he's ever been. He goes slowly at first - he wants to make sure she can feel every inch of him as he splits her open. His head drops to her collarbone, and a long sigh pushes past his parted lips. 

“Fuck, you feel so goddamn good.”

He slams his hips home again, causing her to spasm around him at the dizzying sensation of it all. His lips have found that achingly delicate part of her neck again, where they lick and suck and nibble and leave miniscule bruises in their wake.

Mementos. 

He ruts into her shamelessly now; the aching push and pull of his cock inside of her has them both breathing heavily, ready, and awaiting the nearing end. Resting on the support of his elbows, his large, warm hands move to cradle her head, and he kisses her temple tenderly. He's close now; his steadied movements fall in and out of rhythm, his cock throbbing and pulsing inside of her with each powerful thrust. She arches into him, bettering the angle at which he’s driving into her, and purposely rakes her fingernails across the toned flesh of his back. He groans loudly at this particular sensation - his relationship with pain has always been a complicated one. Tilting his head back, his eyes close and his mouth falls slack with mounting pleasure. 

“Tell me, sweetheart. Talk to me.” his hiss is so low, it's almost lost beneath the explicit sounds of their fucking. 

There was no way he was going for a marathon tonight. Not with all of the build-up beforehand.

She drags a sharp fingernail down the front of his chest and squeezes him. “Let go for me, Frank. I want all of it.” 

His brows furrow, and his mouth twists up in a tight O. Tossing his head back, his hips still against hers, and he fills her to the brim with his warm release. He'll never get over the feeling of finishing inside of her. The warm, wet hug of her walls as they continue milking the orgasm from his softening cock. “Fuck, baby…” He whines.

Utterly spent and still riding the high of post-orgasm haze, his forehead drops to the crook of her neck where he allows himself a moment of respite before slipping from her heat and rolling back onto the space of bed beside her. It’s mostly silent in the room while they try to regulate their breathing; the only other noise being the slight pitter-patter of drizzle on glass window panes and the odd car horn in the distance. Frank turns on his side and gestures for her to turn over too so that he can curl up around her, and she happily obliges him. 

After a while, she excuses herself to use the washroom, and for some reason, Frank feels her absence immediately. When she doesn't come back right away, he leaves the comfort of their bed to investigate. He finds her in the shower, a guttering candle the only source of light in the room.

“May I join you?” He asks quietly.

She hesitates a moment before saying, “Course you can, Frank.” 

He steps into the shower behind her, taking note of the redness remaining on the rounded curve of her butt cheek. His brows furrow as he rubs a gentle palm over it and asks if she's alright. 

“I'm perfectly fine, Frank.” she smiles. 

He regards her for a while before sighing heavily. 

“You know I love you, right?” 

Her eyes widen at his words. He doesn't allow himself to say it often, but he needs her to know he feels it for her with every fiber of his being. 

“Frank, I- 

He shakes his head. He has to get it out before he loses his nerve entirely. “You are the most important thing in my life, and I just need you to know that I value every single aspect of you,” he clears his throat, trying in vain to rid the emotion from it. “Your opinions, your thoughts on things, your feelings - all of it matters to me, kid. Its why I put such an emphasis on communication between us,” he closes the gap between them to brush the warm pad of his thumb over her cheek. “I'm sorry if I ever made you feel like it didn't.” 

A small smile blooms on her face that has the power to set his entire mind at ease.

“I love you too, Frank.”

[redr0sewrites]

im a handful (but thats what hands are for)

🍇A/n: the title is a song lyric,,,, iykyk

🍇Cw: smut, dirty talk, praise + degradation, pwp, fingering, riding, breeding kink, a bit of angst???, implied switch!Touya, fem!reader

🍇divider

you and Dabi had always been complete opposites in terms of demeanor. while he was carefree and frivalous, you always prided yourself on being complex and thorough. with the ever burning tension between you two, it was no wonder that you had ended up in the position you were in now- although this was certainly not the first time- pressed down on your bed with one of Japans, no, the worlds most dangerous criminals finger fucking you to hell and back.

"there she is," he whispers, the same words as the first time you'd let him fuck you. "knew there was a pretty little slut under that cold exterior."

you follow your script with practiced expertise, repeating the same words you'd uttered all those months ago- and so did he.

"ffuck you-"

"isn't that what i'm already doing 'ma?"

Dabi was mesmerized with you, to say the least. from the hitch of your breath when he first curled a finger into your pretty cunt, to the soft whines that slowly fill the room with each ministration, followed by the delectable squelch of your pussy as your clit rocks against his knuckles.

it was clear in every sense of the word that he was purely obsessed, almost worshipful- not limited to, but especially in bed.

"yea? y'like that?"

piercing blue eyes watch your every move, keeping careful catalog of every twitch and shudder you make in response to his actions. Dabi's thumb finds your clit with practiced ease, and he rubs swift circles over the sensitive bud.

"Dabi, oh-h, fuck-"

"thats not my name, hun," he coos, leaning down to press an almost condescending kiss to your forehead.

"y'really are worked up, huh? c'mon, we're all alone, you can say it."

"ffuck, Touya!"

"there she is," he smirks, curling his fingers and sliding in a third as you whimper. you can practically see his mind whirling with sawtrap level plans to keep you in bed with him, to finally let him truly be yours. in all the times you both had slept together, you had never fallen asleep beside him, never stayed the night, hell, never even mentioned it outside of the bedroom. it had started off as a challenge, but that soon melted into a raw, desperate, carnivorous need to be yours. Touya had never been wanted, so he rarely even dared to allow himself to want in turn- but fuck, did he want you.

he watches you as you cum like a sheep watches its guard dog, knowing deep down that you could ruin him, sink your teeth into his neck and tear out the remains of his bleeding, broken heart- and yet, the dog stays ever loyal, defending its livestock even at its own expense.

your ability to speak seemed to flee as your orgasm washes over you, sending ripples of pleasure across the planes of your body. all the while Touya continuously pumps his fingers in and out of your dripping cunt, prolonging your pleasure as the world around you fizzes in and out of focus.

"y'alright?" he rasps, pulling his hand away from your sticky cunt- only to lick your release right off his fingers. you make a face and he snickers, and for just a second, you can see a ripple within the veil of time, and instead of one of the most dangerous people in the world, a snarky, beautiful young man is sitting in front of you. that was the difference between Dabi and Touya in your eyes- he could act cold and nonchalant all he wanted, but behind closed doors, he was your Touya.

"you want a taste?" his words pull you from your stupor, and you roll your eyes.

"no thanks, i'm good."

"are you sure? you taste sweet, y'know," he teases, and you laugh in spite of yourself.

"bull."

"don't knock it till ya try it," he snickers, before shifting to stand up. your body reacts without thinking, and you grab his wrist.

"where are you going?" you demand, and he turns to look at you, almost.... surprised.

"i was gonna go get something to clean up, but i guess if you'd rather be covered in your own slick-"

"what about you?" you motion to the obvious strain in his boxers, and he rolls his eyes.

"you worried about me, doll?"

"sit back down."

he obeys almost immediately, your commanding tone wiping the attitude out of his demeanor- but it isn't enough to diminish the teasing smirk off his face.

"why? ya gonna suck me off?"

"no," you murmur as you begin to shift closer until your hovering over him. with one hand, you push him down against the mattress, and he relaxes compliantly, like a ragdoll beneath your fingertips. you look down at him, lust clouding your gaze as he stares up at you with those big, blue eyes.

"then what're you gonna do, ma?" he mumbles, voice noticeably raspier.

"you'll see, Touya. be patient." you continue to hover over him, keeping yourself from fully straddling him just yet. he'd already shed most of his clothes earlier, leaving him bare before you in nothing but his boxers. his cock is already hard, straining up against the thin material of his undergarments.

you take your time to admire the pretty scene laying down in front of you- and pretty it is. his scars are even more defined in the dim lighting, and the streetlights from outside your window illuminate the silvery piercings holding him together.

you had been cursed- or rather, blessed- with intrusive thoughts of tearing them all out one by one with your teeth while he burnt you alive from the inside. it was disgustingly, beautifully gruesome, almost carnivorous, the way you loved- no. lusted for him. you desperately want him to be your undoing- and you, his- but you could never let yourself love him. not when he would never love you. you keep that in mind as you trail a hand over his chest and pectorals, yet your heart pays careful attention of the way his breathing hitches at your gentle touch.

"so pretty," you murmur, before leaning down to press a kiss to the conjunction of his neck and collarbone. Touya practically melts, getting all squirmy and unsure beneath you like he always did whenever you show him any attention.

"shut up," he hisses, but his words hold no bite as he shudders beneath you.

"mhm," you continue your assault on his neck, pressing gentle kisses across the scarred flesh.

"you nervous, Touya?" you tease, and he sucks in a breath.

"i said shut up."

"of course, baby~" you coo, pretending to ignore the strained whine that leaves his mouth at your words. he always got like this after a long day, all compliant and needy, but it was rare that he was this quiet. you indulge his good behavior, and your hands, which were previously exploring his chest, travel down to find purchase on the waistband of his boxers.

"can i take these off?"

"yea," he rasps, lifting his hips up off the mattress to assist you in removing his undergarments. his cock springs free, lightly tapping against his stomach in its erect state. you once again marvel at his complacency, and your heart flutters at how much he trusts you. then your brain tells your heart to shut the fuck up. regardless, you make eye contact with him as you spit into your palm before gingerly running a finger up the side of his aching length, causing Touya to grit his teeth to prevent another whine slipping out.

"don't tease," he grumbles, blue eyes narrowing in adorable irritation. you hum, watching the way his body tenses as you situate yourself above his aching length, aligning him with your entrance. scarred hands tentatively hover over your hips, and he looks up at you almost questioningly. you give a nod of approval and he grabs your soft flesh, rubbing small circles with his thumb over the plush of your hips.

"y'ready?" you mumble, before slowly sinking his tip between your folds. Touya nods breathlessly, watching as your cunt slowly begins to swallow up his length. his tip slowly protrudes into your gummy walls, and you shudder around his size. he's barely halfway in and he's already practicing breathing exercises to keep himself from cumming too early, with the way your squeezing him so tight.

you watch his stomach twitch beneath your hand as you sink further down his length. Touya's head is thrown back, and with every inch engulfed into your aching heat he lets out a few more tantalizing noises. your thighs burn as you finally seat yourself on his cock, with your clit ever so lightly brushing up against his navel as you get situated. you give yourself a second to get used to the slight burn you've associated with having him inside of you, and Touya squirms beneath you as he too struggles to adjust.

slowly but surely, you begin to roll your hips against his, marveling at the way his tip kisses your g-spot. Touya gasps as you raise your hips, almost letting him slip out of you entirely, before slamming yourself back down hard onto his cock. he lets out a strangled moan, squeezing your hips so tight youre sure that they'll bruise.

"yea? y'like that?" you parrot his words from earlier, rolling your hips in a desperate effort to coax out more of his lovely noises.

"ha-ah, fuck, you're so-o tight, 'm not gonna last, m'gonna cum in this pretty pussy," he slurs, looking up at you with hazy eyes.

"yea? s'that what you wanna do Touya? gonna make me yours?"

Touya nods eagerly, rocking his hips up into yours. his thrust hits your g spot perfectly, and you let out a wanton moan. he immediately takes a firm hold of your hips, pistoning his cock up into you again and again, repetitively hitting that spot so deep inside of you.

"you can, y'know." you pant, sweat dripping from your brow.

"huh?"

"cum inside."

Touya sputters something incomprehensible, and you have the audacity to giggle. at him.

"m' on the pill, hun. y'really are worked up, huh?"

Touya lets out a choked moan, recognizing his own words being spat back at him as he rolls his hips impossibly harder against yours. a scarred hand reaches between you both to rub harsh circles on your clit, and you gush, clenching around him at his ministrations.

"i, hah, 'm close- i want you, closer, please," he babbles, wrapping his free arm around your waist and pulling you tight against him. Touya nuzzles into your chest, his lips finding purchase on one of your nipples. your pussy squeezes him tight as he sucks lightly, and his cock twitches once, twice, three times before he cums. he presses down hard on your clit as he spurts inside you, continuing to fuck his release deeper into your spongey walls. those actions alone push you over the edge, and you call out his name as your second orgasm of the night washes over you like a tidal wave.

Touya continues rutting up into you for a few more seconds, prolonging both of your orgasms and pressing sloppy kisses to your chest and collar. he isn't sure what to focus on, or even if he can focus. his mind is fuzzy, filled with you, you, you. nonetheless, your happy to indulge as you paw at his chest, continuing to grind down against him until the pleasure begins to melt into overstimulation. Touya can barely comprehend the fact that you had just let him cum inside of you, and it sparked the possessive side of him that so often reared up in these moments with you.

"o-oh fuck, ffuuuck fuck fuck," he's gasping, cock twitching desperately as he pulls out. cum is dripping down between both of your legs, hot release pooling on the sheets beneath him. you hover over him for a second before collapsing down besides him, and a firm arm wraps around your body, pulling you flush against him. Touya marvels as you melt into his embrace, nuzzling into his neck. if he could cry, he probably would, he wants you insatiably, impossibly close. in this moment, he knows that if he could crawl inside your skin, he would. he would tear out his own burning heart and hand it to you on a silver platter in return for moments like this, where he could be soft, where he could be Touya instead of Dabi.

"shit," you mumble against his skin. "that was... wow. better than ever."

"good enough to make you stay the night?" the words slip out before he can stop them, and he regrets it almost instantly as you tense. fuck his sex-addled brain and his stupid mouth. he's fully prepared for you to immediately get up and leave, but instead, you surprise him like you always do.

"i didn't think you wanted me to stay," you whisper, and he blinks hard.

"f'course i did. i still do."

"..okay. i'll stay."

he can't help the smile that stretches across his face as you snuggle into him deeper.

"on one condition- or maybe two."

his heart sinks.

"we clean up first."

damn.

"and you have to promise that we'll discuss this in the morning. i don't want to keep doing... this. if we're going to continue to sleep together, i want to be, like, more than just friends."

Touya is silent for a moment, and he swears that his heart is beating so loud that the entirety of Japan can hear it. you had just said that. he was sure he must be dreaming.

"really?"

"yes, really. now let me go so i can clean this mess up before it dries!"

"...never. i'm not ever letting go of you ever again."

"ugh, you're such a handful," you grumble, curling into his warmth as he lets out a raspy chuckle.

"i guess you're stuck holding me."

"..yea. guess i am"

hey guys ! im so insane over him actually. he's literally eldest daughter syndrome (me) in the form of a traumatized man (i would not fix him. i support his atrocities. id help him fuck up endeavor.)

ANYWAYS SEND IN DABI/TOUYA OR JUST BNHA ASKS OR THIRSTS PLS

[synthetickitsune]

Mingyu (SVT) | Bath bombs fluff | 0.7k | gn!reader

You believe in humor. 

He believes in cuteness.

So that’s how you ended up facing a dilemma that you’d never think you’d have - whose bath bomb will get used first?

His, naturally, is honestly too pretty to be allowed to just fizz out into nothing. A little beige fluffy looking puppy. Adorable, beautiful, perfect. You’d feel like a monster pulling it under water.

And yours is a toaster.

It’s funny, okay? And cute too, just in a different way. Maybe you should’ve just gone bath bomb shopping to the store together instead of shopping online where the options were limitless.

Mingyu chuckles when he sees you pout looking at the two options. He hugs you from behind, leaning his head against yours. You know he finds it funny - and honestly it is. Every second standing in front of the two options you commit into your memory because you’re happy and life is good, and you get to have little breakdowns because of something as silly as a bath bomb.

“Let’s use yours when we’re having a bad day, hm?” he suggests and you laugh out loud, finally releasing the tension in your body, and nod.

“So you mean right after we finish this bath, right? Because my day’s about to get significantly worse if we’re sacrificing this beauty,” you sigh as you run a finger over the puppy’s snout. It fits so perfectly into your palm - how are you supposed to kill it?!

“It’s his fate, baby,” Mingyu reminds you, a smile in his voice, because he loves how deeply you appreciate the little details of everything. He hugs you tighter.

“He doesn’t deserve it. He’s a masterpiece,” you insist. 

“No, you are,” he coos into your ear and chuckles when you roll your eyes and call him cringy. You sigh softly. If only you could stop time right now. With your boyfriend pressed against you, squeezing you like he can hold you together, come what may, little puppy in your palm, and the prospect of a long, hot bath in front of you.

“The water will get cold,” he nudges his nose into your cheek, “Let’s get in.”

You give Mingyu a stern look when you hand him the puppy to safely join him in the tub. He just watches with his dumb smile and lip between his teeth, his eyes basically heart shaped and never leaving your body. He does hold the bath bomb above the water though, so you let him get away with being cheesy despite the heat rising to your cheeks that has nothing to do with the hot water.

You stifle a moan when you let your shoulders dip below the surface and the warmth that envelops your tense muscles begins working its magic. All thoughts evacuate your mind. There’s just the feeling of your bones turning into jelly and your legs brushing against Mingyu’s. The only thing that could elevate this experience to perfection would be some nice, relaxing scent…

“Love? It’s time,” he says gently, chuckling at the frown tugging at your face upon your moment of peace being disrupted, “We need to let him go.”

You reluctantly straighten up and look at the puppy still resting in your boyfriend’s palm. Giving the bath bomb one last pat, you guide his hand down and watch as the puppy starts floating and slowly dissipating. It feels strangely like a funeral full of colors and bubbles, and the bathroom fills with a fresh scent. Are you a monster when you melt back into the warm bath again after sparing one last thought for the puppy?

“Better?” Mingyu asks, leaning back himself. You just give him a nod.

“I promise I’ll be less dramatic with the toaster one,” you hum. He gives you a sceptical look. “I’ll just throw it in. You’ll be dramatic and act like you’re getting electrocuted.”

“Hey!” he pouts, kicking you lightly under the water, “Why am I the one dying?”

“To make me laugh?” you flutter your eyelashes at him with the sweetest smile. He opens his mouth and closes it just as fast, the pout remains on his lips but his eyes soften. Victory.

You laugh and lean forward, easily catching his lips in a kiss. He sighs against your mouth, but as always he’s already thinking about the best way to execute the scene. Because he’s wrapped around your finger like that.

[heartsforjh]

I saw your post saying you'd cook writing something for Luke.

Sooo.....

Luke childhood friends to lovers would be pretty cool

ofc! thanks sm for the request 🙂🫶 fair warning: i did not in fact cook, this is more like a snack 😭

“so… can i get your number before i go? maybe we can hang?” ethan edwards, one of the hockey players from school, asks. his tone is casual but there’s a flicker of hope in his eyes.

you smile, holding your hand out for his phone.

“sure, why not?”

you punch your number into his phone, your fingers brushing against the screen as the room buzzes with laughter and music. handing it back, you grin. “there you go.”

ethan thanks you before heading off, and you take a sip of your drink, the cold fizz tingling against your lips. the exchange admittedly, leaves you feeling giddy. you’re stood leaning against the counter top, before a sharp voice immediately drags you out of your thoughts.

“the fuck was that?” you freeze, instantly recognizing the voice. it’s Luke’s—your best friend since you were in diapers. his tone is irritated, and when you turn around, you’re met with his all too familiar, towering frame. it would be intimidating if this wasn’t the same boy you used to watch cry over having to do homework as a kid.

“what was what?” you ask, surprised by his sudden tone. casually, you take another sip of your drink.

“i’m serious! what was that?!” he repeats, his voice more insistent now.

you sigh, placing your drink on the counter and giving him your full attention. “what do you mean? he asked for my number, so i gave it to him.”

Luke runs a hand through his long hair, visibly stressed. “so what— you guys are a thing now?”

you blink, caught off guard by his reaction. “oh my gosh. just because he has my number doesn’t mean we’re a thing… not yet, at least.”

you can’t help but tease him a little, curious about the frustration he’s displaying. something about his reaction feels… different, almost protective.

“that’s my friend! you can’t just… you can’t do that with my friends!” his voice rises slightly, cracking in a way that betrays the emotion he’s trying to hide.

“why not? they’re not just your friends Luke.” you frown, not happy about the possessiveness in his tone. this isn’t the first time he’s acted this way. growing up, he always had a hard time sharing—specifically his teammates or neighborhood friends. he had no problem playing dress up but firmly shut you out when it came to anything with the boys.

Luke exhales sharply, his shoulders slumping. “its not ethan i care about, y/n. it’s you. you’re mine. i love you, and i don’t want ethan—or anyone else—to have you.”

the words hang in the air, thick and heavy. your mouth fallls open slightly, shock washing over you. Luke looks just as stunned, whatever bit of confidence he had found before already crumbling as he runs a hand down his face.

“forget it. just… forget i said anything y/n. do whatever you want.” he moves to leave, his frustration spilling into his steps. he’s quick to try to up and leave.

but you’re quicker. grabbing his arm, you step in front of him, blocking his path. instinctively you stroke your thumb on his arm in a comforting way, and you tilt your head up to look at him. you’re so close now, the faint smell of his cologne filling the small space between you.

“first of all, Luke, don’t ever walk away from me like that.” you say firmly, voice soft but unwavering. “second of all, i love you too.”

he sighs. “no y/n i mean it like—”

you cut him off, your voice steady and reassuring. “i know exactly what you meant. i said i love you too.”

“wait—you do?” he asks, his voice quiet and, expression of disbelief.

you nod, a soft smile growing on your face “i’ve loved you since we were kids Luke. i think i knew the day quinn ripped my barbie’s head off and you got into a fight with him over it.”

Luke lets out a breathy laugh, glancing down before meeting your eyes again. “that was second grade. i’ve known i loved you since kindergarten, when you let me have the last blue Play-Doh. so, technically, i’ve got you beat.

you roll your eyes, laughing softly. “not everything’s a competition, Luke.”

“really? cuz it feels like i’ve been in competition for you my whole life.” he admits, only half joking. he somehow finds the confidence to snake his arms around your waist.

“come on lu. you should know that nobody could ever compare to you.”

his cheeks flush slightly, and he grins, sheepish but hopeful. “you mean that?”

“of course i do.” you say softly.

“so… uh… wanna be my girlfriend?” the words tumble out quickly, his confidence once again faltering as he rubs the back of his neck.

you laugh, shaking your head. “what was that?

he groans, looking at the ceiling for a moment before repeating himself, slower this time. “do you wanna be my girlfriend? it’s okay if not, i just really—”

“of course i do!” you cut him off, grinning up at him. he lets out a sigh of relief, hand falling back to your side, gently caressing up and down.

“hey.” he says suddenly, glancing towards the door. “let’s ditch this party.”

you nod without hesitation, lettting him take your hand and lead you toward the exit. the two of you walked in as friends, but as you step out into the cool night air, hand in hand, you know you’re leaving as so much more.

sorry for the wait but i really hope y’all enjoyed this one :) next part of the quinny smau is coming out next so keep an eye out!

[callme-holly]

can u perhaps write an enemies to lovers fic w darry and greaser!reader who rolls w the shepards or some other gang or smth and is not intimidated by darry whatsoever, instead just teases n pisses him off in a very “you want to kiss me so bad it makes you look stupid” way iykwim. THANK U im obsessed with ur fics the way i sprinted to send this when i saw ur requests open

𝐝𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠

[𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐬 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫]

a/n: i love love love this omg. im obsessed stop

You were the last person Darry ever saw himself falling for, the last person he should ever be considering getting involved with, getting flustered by. You were trouble through and through, the only girl running with the Shepards; someone he knew he should stay away from and yet he kept being drawn back to you. 

You knew it too. You knew he was addicted to you, knew that he liked you more than he’d ever let on, and it drove him fucking insane. You’d flash him sweet little smiles, teasing him with sultry comments that had his heart thudding and all the blood in his body rushing south. 

He tried so damn hard to ignore it, to push aside the feeling everytime time it arose in his chest. But everytime you so much as looked at him, he wanted to kiss you until you shut your pretty little mouth. He hated that he craved your attention; he was a man who had control, not some desperate, needy teenager in love. And yet the tension between you two never eased; in fact, it only got stronger. 

It had always been clear to most of the greasers in Tulsa that the Curtis' door was open to anyone when they needed somewhere to go. You weren't exactly desperate; you had no reason to let yourself into the home, none at all, and yet you did anyway, walking in like you owned the place, that casual smirk plastered on your face, your hair falling in a way that drove Darry insane. 

He looked up at the sound of the door slamming shut, prepared to scold whoever it was---but his breath caught in his throat the moment he saw you, and all he could manage was a pitiful little huff of air. You glanced over at him, eyes brightening knowingly.

"You should really shut your mouth, Curtis. You look stupid." You brushed past him and made your way into the kitchen, heading straight to the fridge to grab yourself a coke. Darry followed after you, stunned into silence for a few seconds, before he seemed to get a grip, crossing his arms over his chest and straightening up so that he's towering over you.

"I told ya about slamming the door."  He growled, and you rolled your eyes. "What're y'doing here?" 

You cracked open the can, the fizz filling the room as you took a long sip, watching him through your lashes. He tried to ignore the things it did to him, focusing on his anger instead of the need clawing at him. "Just visiting. Didn't realise the door wasn't open no more."

"Don't get smart."  His voice was low and dangerous, and you just raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.

"You don't scare me, Darry." You set the drink down on the counter, hopping up to sit on the surface. "In fact, you're not exactly intimidating when your face is flushed red."  You flashed him a coy smile, batting your eyes innocently at him . "Maybe you should go get a cold shower, huh? That'll help cool you off."

"Shut up." He snapped, stepping towards you. He was suddenly glad no one else was home, that no one would see him getting so worked up over simple teasing.  You snorted softly, leaning   against the kitchen island. 

"Just admit it, Curtis. You wanna kiss me so bad..."   You trailed off, your tongue swiping over your lips playfully, "Anyone can see it."   Darry swallowed heavily, his eyes roaming over you quickly before looking back at your face. He scoffed. 

"Youp're fucking stupid," he growled, his voice a low rumble in his chest, and it made your stomach flip. He stepped towards you, his arms caging you in against the counter, and your eyes flickered down to his lips,  a slow smile pulling at your own. 

"Not stupid enough to fall for you, Curtis." You whispered, before closing the distance between you both, your hand slipping into his hair, tugging at the strands at the nape of his neck. It was fervent, a clash of  teeth and tongues that left them both panting against each other when you pulled away, a grin still firmly affixed on your face. Darry's hands were on your hips, his thumbs rubbing lazy circles into your skin, and you found that you didn't mind the touch; in fact, you revelled in it. And that seemed to satisfy him.

"Still not fallin' for me?" He teased, and you hummed, tilting your head as his lips made their way down the side of your neck.

"Never in a million years." 

But anyone who knew you well enough knew that wasn't true at all. Because you were fucking stupid, and you had fallen for Darrell Curtis. 

And he knew it. 

[targaryenrealnessdarling]

Last Christmas

21/12: Dressing Up and Dry Humping - Michael Gavey Word Count: 1.8k~ | Warnings: semi-public heavy petting, fingering, dry humping

12 Days of Smuff Masterlist

A/N: can be read as a little add on for this series

Even though she's wearing many, many layers of thermal clothes, she's done a good job of making it look like at least half. Black tights, skirt and the worst Christmas jumper she could find in the charity shop. Though not tacky enough to rival the ones she had back home, this one was a close second. Garish. Bright. Unapologetic.

God, it really was Christmas.

A stuffy, hot room, filled with people and steaming roast dinners, one paid for bottle of prosecco by the unj, and then on the lash before they broke up for the holidays. Sounded like a good night to her.

It was nights like this that made her remember last christmas party. Whenever she thought about it too much, the heat began to pool in her belly. Back then, she'd been fearless. Sucking off Michael Gavey in the common room while a party took place next door? She'd never imagine herself doing something so brave now.

Although, she could be tempted. Depends what he was dressed like.

In all honestly it had been a while since she'd seen him last, he'd been so preoccupied with his studies and then when he was done, it was her and…their schedules just never seemed to align at all. Until tonight hopefully.

But as she was filing into the hall, weaving through the groups of friends who assigned their seats at individual tables adorned with candles and Christmas crackers, she realised with a burning embarrassment at the back of her neck she may have misplaced what ‘dressing up’ meant.

Everyone was in smart clothes. 

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

She was only offered a small relief when she spotted Michael, in a neat little button up and smart trousers. His blue eyes glimmered with recognition in a way that her stomach clench, until his brows furrowed in amusement at her…less than smart jumper.

“What the fuck is that?” he half laughed, trying to bite it back as soon as it left his mouth, judging the look on her embarrassed face.

She ran her fingers awkwardly through her hair, brushing it from her hot face. “I um…might have misinterpreted the theme…”

He let out a snort, holding a glass in one hand as his eyes did a full scan of her. Equal parts amused and appreciative. “Misinterpreted? I'd say you did a sharp left—”

She swatted his arm, semi-hard but not enough to hurt, “shut it. It's a Christmas dinner! I thought that meant…you know…festive.”

Michael bit back a grin, leaning over to grasp another glass to offer her, to at least calm her ever-rising nerves. She looked quite out of place amongst the smart shirts and sleek dresses.

She sat beside him at the table, her hands clasped under it to try and hide the design of her jumper somewhat. Michael in turn, patted her arm.

“Hey,” he whispers, quiet enough to not disturb the chatter at the table, “it looks cute. In a ‘holiday disaster’ kind of way.”

She scoffs, taking a tart sip of her prosecco, “thanks, makes me feel so much better.”

“You should,” he replied, leaning closer still. “You’re the only one who looks like they actually want to be here.”

She let out a breathy laugh, watching as the hum of conversation became laughter. Popping champagne corks, the air buzzing with sharp fizz. As dinner was served and alcohol flowed, combined with the holiday spirit, there was the slight edge of recklessness inching closer in.

After demolishing her sticky toffee pudding, watching as Michael beside her scooped the remnants of his crème brulé out the ramekin placed in front of him, she could feel her head swim, watching him. Even something so simple as the hair that curled at the nape of his neck, the slight bulge of his veins on the back of his hand…had that tightening tug in her stomach.

God what is wrong with me...

As the tables were pushed to the walls of the room and music blared, people began to crowd the middle, a sort of dance floor in lieu of a proper one. Those who were dressed posh, sleek, were now a mess of drunken excitement, sticky with alcohol on their skin.

Michael handed her another glass of prosecco, his eyes a little glassy behind his thin, black spectacles. “Come on,” he murmured, reaching for her hand without hesitation. His fingers were warm and firm around hers, and she didn’t even think to pull away.

“Where are we going?” she asked, stumbling slightly as he tugged her through the doorway and into the dimly lit hall.

“Somewhere less…” He gestured vaguely over his shoulder, where two students were drunkenly reenacting a scene from Love Actually. “...that.”

The walls were strung with fairy lights that blurred softly in her vision, the prosecco’s fizz buzzing in her veins. Michael turned another corner, pulling her into a quieter wing of the dorm, laughing softly as their hands remained clasped, glasses clinking.

They stopped in a small, half-forgotten lounge, the kind of place nobody bothered to sit in except during exams. A sagging sofa and a low coffee table sat under a window framed by frosted glass. They stood there for a moment, catching their breath, the air cooler and quieter now.

She smiled lopsided as he turned to her, giggling as her back met the wall with him crowding her.

“Better?” He asked.

“Hmm, I'm still wearing this monstrosity,” she snorted, gesturing down to her jumper again.

His gaze followed, but the flush on his face told her that he was likely looking at something else. In this enclosed space, pressed together in secret, she would be a fool to kid even herself that she didn't feel it too.

She laughs softly. A memory coming to her.

“What?” Michael asks, drawing his eyes back up to her again.

“No it's just…this feels familiar, doesn't it?” She smirks.

He raises his eyebrows, for a moment, unsure what she means. Until the realisation makes his lips turn up at the corners.

“Ah, last Christmas? i think I’m still traumatised by the sound of Jingle Bell Rock,” he quipped, his fingers tracing lazy circles along her hip. “Not to mention the fact that we were two seconds away from someone walking in.”

“Two seconds is generous,” she replied, laughing again, the memory as vivid now as it had been then.

She felt his breath against her neck as he leaned in, propping his glass alongside hers on a nearby window sill, the low rumble of his laugh stuttering against her skin.

“Different room this time, though.”

Her breath hitched but her smile remained, “It’s not exactly the same.”

He hummed, his hand tracing a ladder made up her tights, under her skirt. Her skin tingled anywhere he touched, and especially when he grazed against the gusset. So close.

“Michael, what—”

Rrrip!

She gasped and looked down, wide-eyed, to see his fingers hooked in the delicate fabric, a jagged tear exposing the sliver of black lace beneath.

“Oops,” Michael grinned.

Her mouth opened, then closed, words failing her as she glared up at him. “You didn’t just— those were my good tights, Michael Gavey!”

“Don't full-name me,” he smirked, pushing his chest against hers to further cage her in, his fingers maddeningly hooking into her underwear, relishing in the squeak of surprise she let out as he dragged his digits through her wetness. She would be ashamed to admit how the pads of his fingers combined with the cool air that hit her made her weak.

“Michael..” she warns softly, but he doesn't interpret it as one. 

He's come a long way since blushing terribly, stuttering and nervous with her between his legs.

Her hand found his shoulder, a silent moan escaping her lips, fighting to remain quiet as two fingers slid inside her, too slowly. Too agonisingly slowly. He crooked them forward, towards him, finding her sweet spot after a few moments of exploration.

She internally cursed him for giving him experience he could use against her. He's getting too good at that.

He mouthed at her neck, lowering to where it met her shoulder, pushing into her to the knuckles with a deliberately unhurried pace. She tried to rock her hips to encourage him, to save her sanity and go faster at least. But he didn't.

He was preoccupied.

The way his hips were rolling against hers, the solid press of him through his jeans grinding in time with his fingers. The stretch stole the breath from her lungs but she daren’t say anything. She could feel his breath hitch against her skin as he rutted against her.

She could feel his restraint unravelling slowly, the way his hands trembled slightly even as they worked her, the way his hips ground against her like he couldn’t help himself.

Her fingers threaded through his hair, pulling him closer as he groaned softly into her neck. “Fuck,” he murmured, though the words sounded half to himself. His voice was rough, like he was holding himself back, savouring every moment.

Too drunk, too overwhelmed to rush him, she let her head fall back, biting her lip to keep herself from crying out as his fingers curled just right inside her. He was getting off on this too, and something about that made her heart hammer in her chest.

Her fingers scraped against his scalp as she felt herself clench around him, her lips parting to utter his name but caught by the rolling waves of pleasure viewing through her body. Through the haze she felt the grind of his erection against her thigh speed up slightly, until he groaned, a low shudder, as he drunkenly spilled into his boxers.

For a moment, neither of them moved, the quiet punctuated only by their laboured breathing and the muffled thrum of music still filtering through the dorm walls. His weight pressed heavily against her, his arm wrapped around her waist as though anchoring himself.

“Jesus,” he muttered after a long silence, his voice muffled against her shoulder. He lifted his head to look at her, and she giggled slightly and righted his glasses. He pulled his fingers out from her, but stayed nestled inside her underwear. “We should…probably get cleaned up before someone comes looking.”

She ran her fingers down his face, a look of soft admiration and a gleam of excitement in her eyes.

“Or…” she offered, stealing his attention, “we could make them really regret looking.”

She would never get bored of making him laugh, or smile. And when he did, her chest fluttered with warmth, his own cheeks flushed. The grin that stretched across his face was so boyish, so disarming.

“Just like old times?”

She nodded in confirmation, “just like old times.”

General Taglist:

@1lluminaticonfirmed @aemondsfavouritebastard @all-for-aemond @bellstwd @blackswxnn

@blairfox04 @buckybarnesb-tch @castellomargot @cl-0-vr @eddieslut69

@emmaisafictionwhore @eponaartemisa @hb8301 @jamespotterismydaddy @justbelljust

@minholy223 @mochi-rose @natty2017 @nenelysian @nixiefics

@primonizzutto @qyburnsghost @randomdragonfires @risefallrise @sheshellsseashells

[angelfleurry]

Could you do dangonronpa 2 cast kiss head cannons

SDR2 Kiss Headcanons!:

Hii, Anon!! I wasn’t sure if you meant first kiss or just general kiss headcanons, so I just did general. If you want first kiss headcanons, feel free to request again!.

Spoilers ahead <3

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Hajime Hinata:

♡ My guy is so awkward bless him.

♡ Does he need a reason to kiss you? Is there an appropriate moment? Is it okay if he just…

♡ Oh, oh you’ve kissed him, okay.

♡ Okay, his turn.

♡ He’s so nervous, but simultaneously so very eager to kiss you.

♡ He tends to lean in, but he does it so awkwardly that you can’t help but giggle.

♡ He kind of pauses at that, and just looks at you for a moment.

♡ It’s only when he sees that kind expression on your face that he realises he’s okay.

♡ That’s when he just goes for it.

♡ Doesn’t kiss you very often in public, if not at all, he’s more of a behind closed doors kind of guy.

♡ He’s very romantic with it, it surprises you.

♡ Always has a hand supporting you, even if it’s not necessary, as he kisses you.

♡ Hajime’s kisses aren’t short, but they’re not long, they’re just at that perfect middle length.

♡ Once he figures out how to get there, that is.

♡ Doesn’t know what to do when you kiss him.

♡ He just sits there, processing, looking at you as his face reddens.

♡ He kind of debates kissing you back in his head, and half the time he goes for it, and the rest he just dips his head and pulls you close.

♡ Is very much a lip-kisser, it just feels right.

♡ If you need a bit of comfort, he’ll kiss your forehead.

Nagito Komaeda:

♡ It took a while to get to this stage.

♡ There were moments, just split seconds, where everything seemed to be building up to it.

♡ But then, the moment would be lost.

♡ Nagito would start to talk, or some interference would occur.

♡ It did frustrate you a little bit, but you knew that was just your eagerness talking.

♡ Truthfully, you knew it was to be expected, so you just decided to wait it out.

♡ It’s not like you were reliant on the idea, it was more so you just wanted to.

♡ But, if there’s one thing about love, is that you must pay mind to the other person.

♡ And you, my darling, did remarkably at that.

♡ You knew the time would come, and as long as everything else about your relationship was healthy and happy, you were in no rush.

♡ Eventually you both got past that initial stage, but we can save that memory for another time.

♡ For a majority of the time, Nagito’s a very hesitant kisser.

♡ What I mean by this, is that he’d rather wait for you to initiate something that even dare to do it himself.

♡ However, once you do it, he’s so ecstatic.

♡ If you could peek into his brain, all you’d be able to see would be soft pink bubbles fizzing up to the surface, popping energetically.

♡ He feels so hesitant to even say the words, as if he’s being too entitled, but he’ll ask you to kiss him again.

♡ Sometimes, he has waves where he’s incredibly clingy, and this will be where he allows himself to initiate contact first.

♡ Treats you as if you were a porcelain doll, even if he’s really needy for contact.

♡ It’s as if he thinks you’ll break should he be too quick, or too harsh.

♡ Forehead kisses are really special for him.

♡ They make him feel so safe, so cherished, even if he struggles to comprehend that fact.

♡ If you kiss him on the lips, that’s it, he’s so bewildered every time.

♡ Always raises a hand to the spot you kissed him, and just sits there for a second, processing.

♡ When you look at him, though, he’s smiling.

Kazuichi Souda:

♡ He can be such an awkward kisser, it’s adorable really.

♡ Kazuichi’s very eager once that initial barrier’s been moved past.

♡ Sometimes, you won’t even be able to fully enjoy it as he kisses you so very quickly.

♡ He can’t help himself.

♡ But when it’s at that reasonable pace, it’s actually very tender.

♡ Like, you can tell the man desperately wants to kiss you, but there’s such an edge of sweetness to it.

♡ It does something to your heart, honestly.

♡ Likes to play little games where you both go back and forth giving each other light pecks.

♡ He’s got a preference for kissing your lips, but if you tell him there’s somewhere else you enjoy being kissed, he’ll gladly oblige.

♡ If he’s going somewhere where it means he won’t be with you, he always kisses you goodbye.

♡ He’ll do it in front of his friends, and your friends, so long as that’s okay with you.

♡ He just loves to show off that he has a partner!!

♡ Enjoys being able to kiss you when you’re both cuddled up together.

♡ Please, please, surprise him with kisses!

♡ Give him that peck on the cheek, kiss his forehead, go for the lips!

♡ Makes him all giddy!!

♡ It’s so funny how he can be so composed in public, or as composed as Kazuichi can be, but then behind closed door’s, he’s so bashful.

♡ His face goes bright red, even if he tries to act cool about it.

♡ But, he can’t shake that quivery smile as he wraps his arms around you.

♡ “You’re so cute, ya��know that?” he’ll ask, and all you can do is laugh.

Fuyuhiko Kuzuryuu:

♡ He’s very quick with it.

♡ I just can’t picture him being one to regularly kiss.

♡ It’s nice, of course it is, but it’s just not something he initiates.

♡ He won’t complain if you kiss him though, just make sure it’s okay with him first.

♡ He doesn’t regularly want to be kissed like that, and you respect that.

♡ If he does kiss you, it’s very quick.

♡ It’s not harsh, but it’s quick.

♡ It’s like a swift peck and then he’s out.

♡ Always gives you kind words of acknowledgement as he does it though, he’s not neglectful.

♡ He doesn’t really know what to do with himself, so he prefers not to get too snuggly.

Gundham Tanaka:

♡ Nose kisses, NOSE KISSES.

♡ He’s not kissed anyone before you, so he’s still learning about his preferences!

♡ But, he’s discovered he’s really fond of nose kisses.

♡ It’s not as nerve-wracking as lip kissing is, but it’s still a way he can physically show he loves you.

♡ Finds it really endearing when you tell him to close his eyes so you can kiss his nose.

♡ He does the same to you, and you find at just as sweet.

♡ He’s also fond of nose-brushing.

♡ Like, the both of you just gently rubbing noses together.

♡ It’s calming for him.

♡ He’s also fond of kissing your hand.

♡ It’s just so formal, but so wonderfully romantic.

♡ The perfect way for a dark lord such as himself to show his affection to you.

♡ Is convinced you’re performing some kind of ritual on him.

♡ Is it really this normal to feel so very…fuzzy once you kiss him?

TeruTeru Hanamura:

♡ Oh my goodness, he’s so down.

♡ We all know Teru’s got a major issue when it comes to more deeply intimate shenanigans, but what may be a surprise is that he’s honestly a big sap when it comes to physical affection.

♡ Kiss him anywhere, he’ll welcome it.

♡ Only time I can picture him not wanting to is when he’s extremely, and I mean extremely, stressed. Just try and help out if you can then.

♡ However, this is a very rare occurrance.

♡ After all, it’s TeruTeru - he’s more than happy to indulge himself in your affections.

♡ But, that doesn’t mean he won’t do the same for you.

♡ The second you start dating, this man will in fact try to be affectionate with you.

♡ Once it’s specified you’re okay with kissing, that’s it.

♡ Is very much kissing you once you wake up.

♡ It’s probably his favourite way to greet you, even if you’ve not left the same room.

♡ It’s so nice to see a smile start to form on your face after he does it, and it only encourages him to kiss you again.

♡ Is no stranger to kissing your hand either.

♡ “Oh, sweetheart, you’ve got something on your face,” he’ll tell you, smiling, “Let me…”

♡ That sly fox!

♡ It’s very hard to not be all giggly once he’s done kissing you, even if it’s just a simple peck on the cheek.

♡ Has a surprising touch of wholesomeness to him in this regard.

Nekomaru Nidai:

♡ He finds it adorable.

♡ The idea you want to kiss him sends him to a laughing fit, but it’s all from a kind place.

♡ Is very much open to it.

♡ He’s very awkward with it though.

♡ A very messy kisser, but it’s alright!

♡ He wants to hold you, but he’s a little worried he’ll be too heavy-handed.

♡ Kind of guide him if that’s what you want, and then he’ll settle.

♡ Forehead kisses are a cherished form of affection.

♡ His lip kissing skills need a bit of work, but you don’t mind guiding.

Ultimate Imposter:

♡ Oh, this one’s difficult!

♡ He’s not sure whether to be himself, or be the person he’s impersonating.

♡ Surely you know, right?

♡ I can’t imagine him letting you enter a relationship with him without informing you of his identity.

♡ Or, lack of thereof.

♡ As a result, I feel like his kisses are lacking in something.

♡ He wants to kiss you, and he will, but he’s blocking his proper emotions.

♡ Still, he’s rather soft about it.

♡ Just tell him you love him afterwards, it’ll give him a bit of ease.

♡ If you’re to kiss him, he’ll be happy, but he can’t quite show it.

♡ Likes it when you kiss his hands.

♡ It feels strange when you kiss him on his lips.

♡ He loves the feeling, but it takes him aback.

♡ How on Earth can a man so devoid of any identity still be able to be loved so tenderly…?

♡ Does he cry or not, that is the question.

[the-winter-spider]

Yours, Always | Part Twenty-Four

Bucky x reader AU

Word Count: 7k

Warning: Light smut ?? lol nothing descriptive

A/N: Two in a row, trying to edit and wrap this up for yall, still a few more parts left!!!

p.s i dont remember if i wrote the scene about buckys flashback with his arm before and if i didnt no i didnt LOL i was not going back and rereading to find out lol according to my google docs layout i havent buuuuut idk LOL <3

Masterpost

-----

You’re already sweating when you step away from the fire. Your plastic cup is nearly empty, and the warmth from the cheap vodka is curling in your chest like a smirk. The music is too loud, and someone’s yelling about where to find the marshmallows, but all you’re focused on is the trek toward the cooler near the fence line. You pass by kids you half-know, half-like, all of them sunk into the grass, drunk off their faces. You dodge a couple making out against a tree.

That’s when you hear it.

“No, I’m serious! He won’t let me touch him…like, at all.”

You slow your steps instinctively.

“I tried everything. I even gave him a chance to hook up in his truck and he pulled away. Like literally pulled back and said he wasn’t in the mood. What guy says that?”

It’s Bucky’s girlfriend. Her voice is sharp with frustration, teetering on humiliation. Her friends giggle, one of them says, “Maybe he’s gay.”

You choke mid-sip.

The beer fizzes up into your nose, and you cough violently, bending over with one hand braced on your thigh, your cup sloshing in the other. You’re so caught off guard you don’t realize they’re staring at you until the coughing dies down.

“Hey,” one of the girls says, eyes narrowing. “Aren’t you Bucky’s best friend?”

You wipe your mouth and nod, already regretting everything.

“So… is something wrong with him?” Leah, his girlfriend asks, arms crossed tight over her chest like a shield. “Because he’ll make out with me but that’s it. He doesn’t even want to touch my boobs unless I, like, move his hands there. That’s not normal.”

You blink at her. The burn in your throat hasn’t even faded yet. You’re tipsy, your head buzzing, and you’re tired of pretending. “Maybe,” you say slowly, smiling a little too wide, “he just doesn’t want you like that, I wouldn't blame him.”

Her friends gasp and then she slaps you.

Hard.

The impact isn’t as shocking as the sound. A crack, like someone snapping a stick in two. Your head jerks sideways and the cup tumbles from your hand. Everyone hears it, even over the music. A ripple spreads through the party like a wave and then a moment of silence.

You press your palm to your cheek, skin already stinging, and… you laugh.

Not a cruel laugh. Not a broken one either. Just something dry and sharp that bubbles up from your chest like the only logical response. You’re not even mad. Because she has no idea that Bucky and you took each other's virginities last summer in the bed of his truck. Under the stars and the cicadas screaming. She doesn’t know you’ve already had the thing she’s begging for.

There’s movement in the crowd, Bucky pushing his way through bodies. His face is a storm, wild and searching. He’s breathless when he gets to you.

“What’s going on?” he asks, eyes flicking from you to her.

“She was being mean to me!” Leah blurts out, clutching her chest like she’s in a soap opera as she latches onto his arm like a sloth looking for its favourite branch.

Bucky’s eyes shift back to you, and for a second he looks confused, like this doesn’t track. Because it doesn’t. You’ve never been cruel. Never been careless with anyone, especially not someone he was dating. 

But this time you had but he doesn’t know that, he wouldn't believe it. You’re about to brush it off, let it slide like it means nothing, when he sees it.

The red blooming across your cheekbone. The outline of her hand and his whole expression changes.

He steps around her without a word and reaches for you, his fingers grazing your jaw, gentle and trembling. “What happened?” he whispers, so quiet only you hear it.

You don’t answer, you don’t need to. His jaw tightens, his hands fall to his sides. He turns back to her, voice louder now, sharper. “We’re done.”

Gasps echo behind you.

Her mouth falls open. “What?! You can’t break up with me! Why?”

Bucky’s voice doesn’t shake. “You hit my girl.”

“I thought I was your girl!”

He lets out a humorless laugh, runs a hand through his hair like it might settle the fire in his chest. “You were never my anything.”

You don’t even wait for the explosion that follows. You just grab his hand and tug him with you, away from the fire, away from the whispers.

The stars are smeared above you like paint on water. You walk in silence for a while, the dry grass crunching under your shoes.

“Sorry,” you say eventually, your cheek still throbbing.

“For what?” he asks. “She was dead weight.”

You glance at him. “Then why were you with her?”

He shrugs. “Stupid teenage boy thing, I guess. Killing time while I wait for my soulmate.”

Your heart stutters. “You think you’ve got a soulmate out there?”

“I don’t know,” he says. “Maybe I think I already found her.”

You pretend not to hear that last part. You keep your eyes on the moonlit path ahead.

“We really gotta stop coming to these parties,” you say, bumping his shoulder with yours. “Somehow we always end up causing a scene.”

He chuckles. “Yeah, I think we might actually be the problem.”

You both laugh, the sound of it softer than the wind. The firelight fades behind you. The party disappears. It’s just the two of you now, always finding each other in the mess.

 -----

You don’t say much on the walk back from the café. The silence isn’t uncomfortable, not anymore. It stretches between you like something sacred, a thread tugging gently at both of you, keeping you close even when your hands aren’t touching.

The streets are still warm from the afternoon sun, though the breeze has cooled, brushing against your skin and catching in your hair. Bucky’s walking just slightly slower than usual, his arm brushing yours, close enough to feel him but not quite holding. You glance at him once and catch him already looking at you, his mouth curved into the softest, smallest smile. You don’t say anything. You just smile back and keep walking.

By the time you reach the hotel, there’s a quietness settled between you. Inside, Bucky tosses his key card on the nightstand and shrugs off his jacket. You toe off your shoes, stretching your toes into the plush carpet. The lamp on the nightstand casts a golden glow across the room, warm and soft, like it’s trying to match the mood.

“What do you wanna eat?” he asks, already reaching for the room service menu.

You curl your legs beneath you on the edge of the bed and shrug, your eyes skimming the list like it’s in another language. “Anything. I just want fries.”

He huffs a laugh. “Shocking.”

You smile as he picks up the phone to order burgers, two orders of fries, and a slice of chocolate cake. You raise your brows at him when he hangs up, and he just says, “It’s for you. I know you’ll want it later.”

You don’t correct him. He’s right, he usually is.

The bed dips as he sits beside you, and you both lean back slowly until you’re stretched out side by side, your shoulders touching, eyes turned toward the TV.

You scroll through the channels aimlessly before you land on a movie that makes you both freeze. It’s one of those childhood staples, the kind with bad dialogue, familiar one-liners, and a soundtrack that instantly transports you.

“You remember this?” you murmur.

Bucky chuckles. “We watched it in your basement, like, a hundred times.”

“And you cried at the ending every single time.”

“I did not cry,” he says, grinning as he turns to face you, propping himself up on one elbow.

“You definitely cried,” you insist, nudging his shoulder.

The movie plays, the food arrives. The fries are too hot and the burgers are too greasy, and it’s perfect. Bucky moans dramatically after the first bite and you laugh until your stomach hurts. He catches a fry mid-air when you throw one at him and nearly chokes from laughing too hard. You wipe ketchup from his chin. He eats the last bite of your burger when you pretend to be full, then steals a bite of cake and feeds you the rest.

It’s dumb and easy and warm in the way only home ever was.

Eventually, the movie ends, and your playlist begins, songs you chose just for him. 

“I’ve been working on this for awhile,” you say, unlocking your phone and handing it to him. “I saved songs that made me think of you. Stuff you missed, stuff I think you’d like.”

He scrolls through slowly. “You made me a playlist?”

Your voice is quiet. “Of course I did.”

He smiles without saying anything, tapping the first song.

“Iris” by the Goo Goo Dolls fills the space, soft, aching, familiar.

You turn your head to watch him, the way his eyes go soft at the chorus, the way his lips press into a line and then slowly part like he’s breathing the song in. He doesn’t say anything. He just listens.

Then comes “Super Trouper.” You both laugh when it starts, the way it always made you laugh, even when you were kids and had no idea what heartbreak really felt like.

And then “Mr. Brightside.” And Bucky groans, flopping back onto the pillows like he’s been betrayed. “This damn song I had it on repeat when I was deployed.”

“I knew you’d say that,” you grin.

You lie there in silence for a while after that, letting the music hum in the background, the lights low, the air filled with the scent of chocolate and salt and something warmer.

“I missed this,” Bucky says eventually, voice quiet.

You turn toward him. “What? Cake?”

He rolls his eyes, nudging your knee with his. “This…you. This feeling, like the world could actually be….soft, especially after everything.” 

Your heart swells, too full to fit inside your ribs. “I missed it too.”

You both fall quiet again. Then something bubbles up, some memory, some line from the movie and you say it in a ridiculous voice. He snorts. You try to hold back your laugh, but it bursts out. He doubles over. You both laugh so hard your sides hurt, your cheeks burn, tears leak from your eyes.

The laughter fades. Slowly…gently. Until all that’s left is breath and warmth and the way you’re still looking at each other.

He reaches for you.

His fingers brush a piece of hair behind your ear, slow and reverent. His touch lingers, drifting along your jaw. Traces the curve of your face like he’s trying to memorize it all over again. His eyes are darker now, heavier with something unspoken.

His hand trails down to your chin, then to your lips. You’re breathing harder now. You don’t even realize it until his thumb drags lightly along your bottom lip, and your chest rises sharply, like your body is answering for you before your mind can.

He leans in, closer, his face inches from yours.

“Are you sure?” he whispers, his voice low and hoarse.

You nod. “I’m sure.”

Then he kisses you.

It’s soft at first, barely there. Like a memory trying to find its way back. Then your hand finds the back of his neck, and he tilts into you, and the kiss deepens. Grows. Becomes something hungry and aching and full of everything you’ve both been holding back.

His hands slide under your shirt, fingertips skating along your skin like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. You tug at his, lifting it over his head, tossing it aside. He helps you out of yours. You’re both breathing hard now, chests pressed together, skin on skin.

There’s a pause. A moment suspended in time.

His forehead rests against yours.

“You’re still the only person I’ve ever done this with,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “Only you.”

Your heart breaks open. You kiss him again.

It’s slow at first, painfully slow. Like you’re both rediscovering something you never really forgot, that you never got the chance to truly have, something you took for granted. His hands are everywhere. Yours are too. There’s a desperation in it, but also a tenderness. A need to be careful. A need to feel.

And when he finally presses into you, you gasp his name, your hands trembling where they clutch at his back. He stills for a second, his eyes locked on yours, and the look there, it’s worship. 

You move together in a rhythm that feels like coming home. Every breath, every sound, every movement, it’s all laced with years of want and grief and hope. His skin is hot beneath your hands, the muscles in his back flexing under your fingertips as you cling to him. You feel his breath in your ear, his whispered affirmations, the way he groans softly when your name slips past his lips.

His hands cradle your face like he’s afraid you’ll disappear, his mouth trailing along your jaw, your collarbone, your shoulder. Each kiss is a vow. Each touch, a promise. It’s not fast or wild, it’s unhurried and reverent. Like you’re something holy. Like this is something sacred.

He murmurs things you can barely hear. You’re beautiful. I missed you. I missed this. I missed us. You feel his thumb brushing away a tear you didn’t even realize had fallen. You open your eyes to find his already on you, so full of you it’s almost too much to bear.

When your hips meet again, everything in you clenches. It’s slow, drawn out. You gasp his name, and he holds you closer, his forehead pressed to yours like he’s trying to fuse your bodies, your hearts, your souls. You wrap your arms tighter around him and breathe him in like he’s oxygen.

You feel every second of it, every inch, every wordless I love you tucked into the press of his body against yours. He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t pull away. He moves with you, over and over again, until the ache becomes something molten, something rising and breaking and settling in its place like truth.

And when the wave crests, when your nails dig into his right shoulder and your lips part in a silent cry, he’s right there with you, hand cupping the back of your head, his own breath stuttering in your ear as he follows.

After, your bodies are tangled beneath the sheets. Skin against skin, legs woven together like you’re afraid of being pulled apart. His arm is wrapped around your waist, hand warm and steady over the dip of your back. You’re both facing each other, noses barely apart, breath shared in the hush between heartbeats. His eyes are heavy-lidded, glazed with something soft and unguarded. A sleepy smile curves at his mouth one of those quiet, private ones that only ever belonged to you.

He kisses your forehead. Then your temple. Then the corner of your mouth.

“It’s always been you,” he murmurs, voice low and thick with truth. His thumb begins to draw slow, lazy circles along the small of your back. “Only you ever was you.”

You reach for his hand and slide your fingers through his like second nature. Like no time has passed. “I know,” you whisper.

For a while, there’s only silence. It’s comfortable and intimate. His thumb shifts from your back to your hip, and when his eyes lift to yours again, they’re serious, searching.

“It’s not time yet, is it?” he asks, gently. Not accusing, just… knowing.

You shake your head, blinking back the sting in your eyes. “I just want to tell Lily. I want to put everything behind me before we start anything new. I want it to be clean. Whole.”

He blinks too, and a single tear slips down his cheek, catching the light. But he doesn’t look away. “Don’t apologize,” he says, voice rough but unwavering. “Don’t feel bad. I told you before…I’d wait a lifetime for you.” His fingers squeeze yours. “I meant it.”

You stare at him, heart swelling so tight it almost hurts. “I can’t believe I’m worth all this to you, Buck.”

You lean in and kiss him, it's slow, reverent. Your foreheads pressed together, breath mingling in the quiet.

He smiles, the kind of smile that cracks something open inside you. “You’re worth more than the whole goddamn universe to me, beautiful.”

---

The chaos didn’t sound like freedom, not at first.

It sounded like more fire. More screaming. More boots stomping over dirt floors slick with blood. It wasn’t the first time the world had gone to hell around him, and it wouldn’t be the last. But this time… this time something was different.

Bucky’s vision was blurring around the edges. Too much blood loss. Too much pain. His left arm dangled off the edge of the rusted table they’d strapped him to, what was left of it anyway. Bone. Flesh. Muscle, ruined. Shredded. A machete, twice, clean through. They hadn’t even bothered to stitch him up, just wrapped the limb in wire and filth and left it to rot when the screaming stopped giving them answers.

The others had broken weeks ago. Sam was the only one still kicking and cussing and keeping the rest of them sane. God, Sam. Bucky didn’t even know if he made it through the night.

There was shouting outside now. Gunfire that wasn’t from their captors. A different rhythm, a different rage.

American.

It hits him slow, like a delayed explosion, this might be it. Not the end. The beginning.

“Bucky—” It’s Sam’s voice now. Close, too close. Bucky doesn't even remember the last time he saw Sam, probably the night they were taken. 

He blinks, heavy lids fluttering. His body is ice, sweat coating his chest, making his dog tags stick. He can barely turn his head. But Sam is there, stumbling through the busted-open door, rifle still raised, blood smeared across his temple.

“Jesus Christ,” Sam breathes, voice cracking. “Buck—Buck, I got you. I got you.”

He’s at Bucky’s side in a second, eyes flicking down to the mangled arm.

“Oh my god.” Sam turns his head. “MEDIC! GET IN HERE! NOW!”

Bucky coughs. Tries to sit up. Fails.

Sam catches his shoulder, eases him down. “No. No, don’t move. You hear me?”

“You… look like shit,” Bucky rasps, lips split and dry.

“You’re one to talk,” Sam answers, but there’s no humor in it. His voice is shaking. “Shit. Buck. I thought you were dead. I heard the screaming and then it was just silent, I thought I lost you man.” 

Bucky tries to nod, but even that’s too much.

“They did something,” he says instead, barely audible. “To my arm…”

“I see it, man. I see it. I got you, okay? We’re getting out.”

Bucky lets out a rattled breath. “Don’t think I’m gonna make it.”

“Don’t say that,” Sam snaps, grabbing a clean cloth from the medic who’s now at his side, pressing it against the open wound. “You don’t get to say that. You’re gonna make it.”

But Bucky’s eyes are fluttering now, his body starting to go slack.

He can feel it, his heart slowing, his body pulling away from itself.

“Sam…”

“No—no, no, don’t do this—”

“Listen to me,” Bucky croaks, forcing his eyes open, locking them on Sam’s face. “You go find her.”

Sam shakes his head, confused. “What?”

“Y/N,” Bucky says, every word a slice of glass through his throat. “You go find her. You tell her…”

Sam grips tighter, panic bubbling in his chest. “Bucky—”

“You tell her…” Bucky’s voice trembles. “I’ve been in love with her my whole damn life. Since I was eight. My life didn’t start until I met her.”

Sam’s eyes burn. “Buck—”

“You tell her that,” Bucky breathes, voice fading. “Please. You tell her.”

The medic is shouting something now. Hands on Bucky’s arm. Wrapping. Stabilizing. The hum of a chopper in the distance. Sam’s vision blurs, but he doesn’t let go.

“No,” Sam growls. “You’re gonna tell her yourself. You hear me? That was too damn poetic for me. You’re not dying on a goddamn monologue.”

Bucky lets out a weak laugh, a gasp of breath that’s more pain than sound, and then, he passes out. His head tips back, the table rattles. The medic curses.

Sam keeps holding his hand.

“You better hold on, Barnes,” he says, fierce and quiet. “She’s been waiting long enough.”

—

The light filtering in through the narrow hotel curtains is soft and golden, casting a sleepy warmth across the tangled sheets and the quiet space between you. You’re sitting at the edge of the bed, one sock on, the other dangling from your fingertips. The room smells like him. Like cedarwood and clean soap and something warmer beneath it that you can’t name but know by heart. It smells like home.

Behind you, Bucky stretches, shirtless, his arm slung over his face before he groans softly. “God, I hate being away from you,” he mumbles, voice still raspy from sleep.

You turn, watching him with a fond, amused smile. “You say that every time,” you tease gently, pulling your sock on.

He peeks at you through his fingers. “That’s because it’s true. I hate it. I wanna glue myself to you.”

That makes you laugh, soft and full and real and you roll your eyes as you stand and tug your shirt over your head. “That’d get uncomfortable quick,” you say. “You’d get annoyed with me by lunch. I’ve been told I’m annoying.”

He props himself up on one elbow, watching you like you’re the only thing that exists in the room. “Never enough of you,” he says quietly. “I’ve got years to make up for. Years I should’ve been there. All this lost time, it’s like a hole in my chest. Every second with you, it fills a little more of it in.”

You swallow hard, standing frozen in place for a moment. Because goddamn, he means it. You see it in his eyes. You feel it in your chest.

You cross to him, sitting at the edge of the bed again, brushing your fingers through his hair gently. “What’s your plan today?” you ask, keeping your voice soft.

He sighs and leans into your touch. “New physiotherapist, another new doctor,” he says, nodding toward his left arm. “It’s been acting up again. Some nerve issues, maybe. They want to run tests. I don’t know.”

Your brows draw together in quiet concern. “Your arm?”

He nods again, but it’s casual, like it’s not the thing that wakes him up some nights with a searing jolt or makes it hard for him to button his own shirts some mornings.

He doesn’t have his shirt on, and your gaze drops to the line of scar tissue along his shoulder. That old, familiar ache curls in your chest as you shift closer, kneeling up on the bed beside him. Your fingers reach out gently and trace the jagged line that runs along his skin. He holds still, barely breathing.

Then, without a word, you lean in and press a kiss to it. Then another. A slow, unhurried trail of soft kisses up his shoulder and down the line of the scar. He exhales shakily beneath you.

“I love you,” he says, and it’s not rushed. Not breathless. It’s steady and certain and worn into the fibers of who he is.

You lift your head, looking at him through the blur of your lashes. “Yeah,” you whisper. “I know and I’ve always loved you, Buck. I always will.”

There’s a beat of silence between you, and then he exhales, huffing a soft, teasing breath through a crooked smile. “You always gotta one-up me, huh?”

You blink. “What?”

He grins wider. “I say I love you, and you gotta make it sound like a vow you carved into the damn universe.”

You laugh, pressing your palm to his chest. “Sorry,” you murmur. “I like winning and for the record, it is.” 

Bucky sits up a little straighter, eyes narrowing in mock challenge. “You’ll never beat me.”

“At what?” you ask, amused.

He doesn’t answer right away. He just lifts your hand to his lips, kisses the inside of your wrist, and then rests it over his heart.

“This,” he says quietly. “I already won. I’ve got the greatest trophy of all time.”

You raise an eyebrow, playing along. “Oh yeah?”

He nods, eyes locked on yours. “Yeah, your heart.”

Everything inside you just… stills. There’s no smart reply, no flirty comeback. Just this moment. This man and the sacred truth that has always been sitting quietly between you.

You lean in and kiss him again, slower this time, more grateful than anything. Then you press your forehead to his and let yourself breathe it in, his calm, his warmth, the feel of rightness.

After a long moment, you pull back just enough to speak. “I’m going to Sarah’s,” you say softly, brushing your thumb along his jaw. “Steve and I are telling Lily today.”

Bucky’s expression shifts gently. 

“He texted me last night,” you say. “I didn’t say anything because yesterday was about us,” you say. “Just us.”

He nods again, lacing your fingers together. “Okay.”

You linger there for a while longer, tangled in each other’s warmth, until the world starts to creep back in the soft buzz of the phone charging on the nightstand. Eventually, you sit up and stretch, tugging your shirt over your head again, your skin still flushed, your hair mussed, you brush it and fix yourself up in record time. Bucky props himself up on one elbow, watching you, admiring you.

“You really have to go?” he murmurs.

You look over your shoulder at him, mouth tilted in a soft smile. “Yeah, I do.”

He nods, slowly. You can tell he hates it not because of Steve but because you’re leaving the room. Which means leaving this. The little pocket of time where everything felt suspended and untouched by reality.

Bucky sits up fully, swinging his legs off the bed. He grabs his jeans off the floor and tugs them on without breaking eye contact.

You kiss his forehead, then step back, reaching for your bag. “Alright,” you murmur. “Wish me luck.”

He leans against the doorframe, shirtless, eyes tracing you like he doesn’t want to forget how you look right now. “You don’t need luck,” he says. “You’re the strongest person I know.”

You smile and step toward the door, then pause. “I’ll see you later?”

His eyes soften. “Yeah, you will.”

And then you slip out into the hallway, the door clicking softly behind you.

----

You wipe your palms on your jeans for the third time before Steve even pulls the car into park. The porch light is already on, casting a warm yellow glow over the steps, and you can see the soft flicker of something on inside maybe a candle, maybe the TV. He cuts the engine, then turns to look at you.

“She’s gonna love you,” he says, but the way he fidgets with his keys tells you he’s nervous anyway.

“You’ve said that three times,” you say, teasing gently, though your own stomach twists with nerves. You’ve been dating for months. Real months and this…the home visit, the meet-the-mom this feels like something more. Something heavier. Especially because you know…you’re the first girl he’s brought home since her. Since the grief that swallowed him whole. And this is your first time meeting anyone's Mom because with him it was never like this, Winnie met you the first day you met him, there was no big anxious meeting. 

Steve exhales. “I haven’t done this in a long time. I haven’t brought anyone home since…”

“I know,” you say softly, reaching for his hand. “It’s okay.”

And it is, you’re not trying to replace anyone, you never have been. You know you never could because no one could ever replace Bucky. But you can’t pretend this isn’t a big deal, for both of you.

The door swings open before he can knock.

“There you are!” Sarah beams, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. Her hair is a little shorter than in the photos on the fridge you’ve seen at Steve’s place, streaked with more gray, but her eyes are kind, sharp. She pulls Steve into a hug and then, without hesitation, does the same to you. She smells like fresh herbs and something sweet in the oven. “Dinner’s just about done. Come on in, shoes off. I’m not mopping twice this week.”

You laugh, already relaxing just a little. Steve rolls his eyes but kicks his boots off, brushing your hand as you toe yours off beside his.

Dinner is simple, cozy. There’s a casserole bubbling in the oven, garlic bread wrapped in foil on the stovetop, a little bowl of salad that’s mostly croutons and cheese. The radio hums from the corner, some old song crooning softly beneath the clatter of dishes and Sarah’s storytelling. She talks fast, like Steve, and you recognize little bits of him in her, the sarcasm, the warmth, the way she smiles when she talks about someone she loves.

You and Steve settle into the old wooden chairs at the table while she finishes plating. When she asks him to run downstairs to the cellar to grab “the good wine, the one behind the pickle jars, you’ll know it when you see it,” Steve hesitates, glancing at you.

“I’ll be fine,” you say, smiling. “Go get the wine. I wanna know what the ‘good stuff’ tastes like.”

“Don’t believe her if she says I’m drinking more than one glass,” Steve mutters to his mom, but he kisses your temple before disappearing down the creaky stairs.

And then it’s just you and Sarah.

The silence isn’t awkward. It’s quiet, but it hums with something familiar. She sits across from you, tucking the dish towel in her lap like it’s muscle memory, and folds her hands.

“He’s happy,” she says. “He’s finally happy.”

You glance toward the basement door. “I hope so.”

Sarah smiles. “You’re good for him. I haven’t seen that look on his face in years. Not since…” She trails off, the implication hanging in the air like steam.

“Natasha,” you offer gently.

She nods. “It gutted him. Losing her like that.” Her voice dips lower, not mournful exactly, but honest. “I didn’t think he’d recover from it. He carried that loss like it was stitched into his skin.”

You swallow. “I understand that kind of loss,” you say. “Maybe that’s part of why we… why we understand each other.”

“I know you do,” Sarah says, and her tone shifts. Her eyes soften, her brows pull just slightly. “I can see it in your eyes.”

Your brows furrow. “What do you mean?”

“I see the loss of a great love,” she says. “It’s in the way you look when you think no one’s watching. That kind of ache, it doesn’t fade. It just gets quieter.” She pauses, then adds, more to herself than to you, “It’s the same look I see when I catch myself in the mirror.”

You blink. “Sarah…”

She lifts a hand to wave it off gently. “I’m not trying to put anything on you, sweetheart. I just… I’m saying I know that look.” Before you can respond before the silence can turn too fragile, Steve returns, wine bottle in hand and grin on his face.

“Found it,” he says, oblivious to the weight that’s just been shared. “And I only knocked over two pickle jars.”

Sarah stands and takes the bottle. “That’s a new record.”

You smile at him, still feeling the echo of her words in your chest, and when he slides his hand across the table to link his fingers with yours, you squeeze his hand just a little tighter.

Sarah says nothing more about it for the rest of the night.

--------

You pull into the driveway and park beside Sarah’s old Buick. The house hasn’t changed, the same rose bushes, same wind chimes, same smell of lemon cleaner and cinnamon that greets you the second you step inside. It still feels like home.

Before you can even knock, the door swings open and Sarah pulls you into a hug, warm and firm and familiar.

“Oh, honey,” she murmurs against your hair. “It’s good to see you.”

You cling to her a second longer than you mean to. “You too,” you say, your voice a little shaky.

She pulls back and studies your face. “Come in. I made tea.”

You follow her into the kitchen, sliding into your usual seat at the table. The teapot is already steeping, and there are lemon cookies on a plate between you.

“Where’s Steve and Lily?” you ask.

Sarah smiles as she pours the tea. “Steve had to take her to get frozen yogurt. She wouldn’t stop asking.”

You laugh softly. “Of course she wouldn't.”

Sarah slides a mug toward you, then sits down across from you. Her eyes are gentle, knowing.

“You’re nervous,” she says.

You nod. “I feel… awful. Like I failed them. Failed all of us.”

Sarah takes your hand. “You didn’t fail anyone, sweetheart.”

“I left. I broke our family.”

She shakes her head slowly. “No. You loved with your whole heart. You tried. You showed up, every day. That’s not failure. That’s life.”

Your eyes sting. “I just… I worry about Lily.”

“She’s got two parents who love her more than anything. That’s what matters.”

You nod, wiping under your eye. “I didn’t want this to hurt anyone.”

Sarah leans back in her chair and smiles, slow and thoughtful. “You know,” she begins, “Steve’s father wasn’t my first love.”

That makes you pause. “No?”

She shakes her head. “No. I met someone when I was barely out of high school. Thought I’d marry him. Life had other plans. But if he showed up on my doorstep today…” She trails off, eyes far away for a moment. “I don’t know what I’d do.”

You’re quiet for a beat.

She reaches across the table again. “What you and Bucky have… it’s rare. That kind of bond, that kind of love, it’s once in a lifetime and I saw it then, when you first walked through my front door, clear as day. You don’t let that slip through your fingers especially when life is being gracious to give you a second chance at it.” 

You swallow hard.

Sarah’s eyes glisten just a little, but her voice stays steady. “My son is a wonderful man, don’t I know it and my boy, he’ll be okay. You’ll be okay. We’ll all be okay.”

You nod slowly, letting the truth of it settle inside your chest.

Then the door creaks open and you hear Lily’s laughter burst through the hall.

“Time to talk,” Sarah says gently.

You hear the sound of little feet thudding up the stairs before you see her, her laughter floating into the kitchen as Steve trails behind her, carrying the remains of a half-melted frozen yogurt in a to-go cup. He looks a little more tired than when you saw him last, like everything he’s been carrying finally settled into his shoulders overnight.

“Mommy!” Lily beams when she sees you, and you open your arms without hesitation as she throws herself into your lap. She’s sticky from the yogurt, her cheeks flushed from the cold and excitement, but she smells like coconut shampoo and sunshine, like childhood bottled into something you want to hold on to forever.

“Hey, Bug,” you murmur, wrapping your arms around her, breathing her in.

Steve pulls out the chair beside you, setting the yogurt cup on the table with a quiet clink. Sarah slips out of the room without a word, giving you space like she somehow knew before you even asked.

“Lils,” Steve says gently, his voice soft in the way he only ever uses with her. “We were hoping we could talk with you for a little bit.”

Lily leans back in your lap, blinking at the two of you like she’s trying to figure out if she’s in trouble or if this is one of those grown-up talks she’s supposed to sit still for.

You stroke her hair back from her face. “It’s not bad, sweetheart. Nothing scary. We just… we want to talk to you about something important. Something about our family.”

She nods solemnly, lips pressed together, already bracing herself for something she doesn’t fully understand yet.

Steve glances at you. You nod. And then he begins.

“You know how sometimes families look a little different?” he says gently. “Some kids have two moms. Some have one parent. Some have step-parents. Some have two dads. Every family’s a little different, and that’s okay.”

Lily nods. “Like Emma in my class has two houses.”

“Exactly,” you say softly, smoothing her hair. “Like that.”

Steve leans forward a little. “Your mom and I… we’ve been trying really hard to make things work. We’ve been talking a lot, and we’ve decided that it’s best if we don’t live together anymore.”

Lily’s eyebrows furrow. “You’re getting divorced?”

The word lands heavier than you expected. You feel it in your chest, sharp and inevitable. But you nod, holding her hand. “Yes, we are. But that doesn’t mean we’re not still your parents. That doesn’t mean we don’t love you. You’re everything to us, okay?”

She’s quiet for a long beat, her little fingers fidgeting with the hem of your sleeve. Steve reaches across the table and takes her other hand gently.

“You’re still going to have both of us,” he says. “We’re going to work together. We’re going to be a team. And we’re going to make sure you always feel safe, no matter where you are.”

Lily swallows, her voice small. “So who do I live with now?”

You exchange a glance with Steve again, and you smile, reassuring. “You’ll have two homes. You’ll stay with Daddy during the school week, and you’ll come see Mommy every weekend. We’ll figure out holidays together. You’ll always have a place in both our lives, baby.”

Her eyes brim with tears, and your heart seizes. “But I like when we’re all together,” she whispers.

You pull her close again, pressing your cheek to her temple. “I know, baby. I know. We do too. But this way, you get more love. More space. More people who care about you.”

She sniffles into your shirt, and Steve reaches out to tuck her hair behind her ear.

“You’re the best thing that ever happened to us,” he says. “Nothing about that changes.”

She pulls at a string on the cuff of her sweatshirt. “So… are we not a family anymore?”

That question slices through you, clean and cruel and innocent. Steve’s hand finds yours between you on the couch, squeezing gently. He answers first.

“We are always a family,” he says, voice low. “We’re just going to be a different kind of family now. Two houses. Two places that are home. But the same love. The same team.”

You nod, trying to blink back the sting behind your eyes. “We love you so much, baby. That’s not changing. That will never change.”

She stares at you for a long moment. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No,” you both say at once.

You reach forward, taking her small hands in yours. “No, baby. Not even close. This isn’t about you, it’s about us. Sometimes, even when people love each other, they realize they’re better as friends and that’s okay.”

Lily’s lips press together tightly. Her eyes flick to Steve. “Are you mad at each other?”

Steve shakes his head. “No, bug. Not mad. We’ve just… grown in different directions. But we still care about each other. A lot.”

She looks down. “So I’ll go back and forth?”

“That’s right,” you say gently. “And we’ll talk all the time. You’ll always know where you’ll be, and you’ll always have a say.”

Her nose scrunches. “But what about Christmas?”

You smile a little, tears spilling over now. “We’re going to do our best to spend holidays together, if that’s what you want. It might be different, but we’ll figure it out. Together.”

She nods slowly, processing. There’s a long silence. The kind where you want to reach for her, but you’re not sure if it’ll help or make it worse. She crawls off the armchair and settles between the two of you on the couch without a word. Your arm comes around her instinctively, and Steve mirrors it on her other side. She rests her head against your chest and closes her eyes.

After a beat, her voice floats up small, steady, and certain. “As long as we still love each other… we’ll be okay, right?”

“Right, bug,” Steve says, his voice thick with emotion.

She grins, nabs a cookie off the plate like she’s earned it, and hops off your lap. In a blur of curls and socked feet, she darts down the hallway, her voice trailing behind her. “I’m telling Grandma I want pancakes for dinner!”

And just like that, she’s gone light on her feet, all sunshine and survival. You and Steve sit there, side by side, “I didn’t think it’d go that well,” he murmurs after a moment.

You exhale, your eyes still on the spot where she disappeared. “She’s stronger than both of us.”

Steve looks over, and there’s something reverent in the way he does it. “She’s strong like you,” he says. “You’re the strongest person I know.”

You don’t answer. You just reach for his hand one last time.

Because love, even when it changes shape, still leaves something soft behind.