#some thrilling heroics

[great-raven-parade]

Funniest possible outcome. Victoria and her nisse terrorize Faerie for the rest of forever

[shortfictionweeklychallenge]

Short Fiction Weekly Challenge

Time for a new prompt from the Short Fiction Weekly Challenge, tumblr edition.  Let it spark your imagination.  Any character, any fandom, any original world.   Reblogs welcome!

Post your story to your blog and send the link to Short Fiction Weekly Challenge!  We’ll send the link out to all our followers to enjoy.

This week’s SFWC prompt:

Week of February 2, 2024

Metrics: How does your character measure success? Or failure? This isn’t necessarily what they value most--they might value having friends, but measure it by how big a crowd they gather at parties, which isn’t the same thing. It’s a key difference, often leading a character (or person, for that matter) to pursue and win what they think will make them happy, and be confused why it doesn’t. So, think again: how does your character measure success or failure, and how does that affect their story?

Feel free to continue submitting stories for any prompt.  A masterpiece missed the deadline?  Don’t let it gather electronic dust.  Submit it anyway and Short Fiction Weekly Challenge will publish it.  

This week’s featured previous prompts are: 

Time for Some Thrilling Heroics: Our characters are heroes in their stories, aren't they? What heroic thing (or things) did they do? What moments in their adventures stand out? The ones where they shine? Did they lead a battle or talk their opponents into backing down? Did they hack the network or keep the hackers out? Did they lead people to safety while the world crumbled? Did they save the day when all hope was lost? How? Whether they’re the Chosen One or The One Who Happened to be in The Neighborhood When Everything Hit The Fan or The One Who Has Had All They Can Stand and Can’t Stand Any More, it’s time for some thrilling heroics!

Carry On: How does your character get back to "normal"? To recover from their injury, whether physical, mental, or emotional? Life goes on and so does your character. How do they do it? Some recover with barely a pause, others take longer. Not everyone has healthy coping strategies. Maybe they cope by moving through unhealthy or destructive habits before they can start to heal. Sometimes healing leaves scars that never go away. Write a story about your character carrying on. Keeping calm optional.

Got an idea for a prompt?  Submit it here.

[doolallymagpie]

hm. steven strait as ciaphas cain.

[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

[obliviouskara]

Supergirl doesn’t huff. She doesn’t. She’s National City’s superhero, beloved and adorned. Has captivated the hearts of many, saving it tragedy after tragedy. Supergirl is indestructible, bullets bounce off of her, laser beams shoot out from her eyes. Her enemies tremble at the sight of her and yet here is she, huffing like a petulant child withheld her favorite candy all because Lena Luthor keeps ignoring her.

In Lena’s defense, she’s not ignoring ignoring her but she’s also like not giving her the time of day.

While all of National City’s — some would even argue including Metropolis, eyes are on her she can’t seem to capture a specific pair of exquisite emerald hues that belonged to a certain L-Corp CEO.

It doesn’t matter that she’s saved said tech genius multiple times now (not that she loves to dwell on the fact of just how many times she had to save her) but Supergirl always comes to her rescue. Always. Even more times than the media tabloids can count. So much so that there are rumors spreading, mostly from magazines wanting clickbait headlines. Headlines like how the resident superhero has been spotted carrying a certain CEO to safety way too many times.

People talk, tweet, whisper. Who wouldn’t? A Luthor and Super working together is a headline worthy to keep people talking. But no matter how hard Supergirl tries, nothing seems to be working. She can't catch her attention. At least not the kind of attention she secretly hopes to get out from her.

The CEO thanks Supergirl, as she always does. So polite yet begrudgingly reserved.

Supergirl earnestly tries to make sure to be her knight and shining amour and if from time to time she makes a show or flare about it, that’s her business. None of this garner any huge reaction from Lena though.

So, it makes her huff because she’s Supergirl. Although she would never admit it out loud, she does get a little thrill when people watch her in awe. She tries to hide the proud smirk when she successfully blows a house caught on fire with one breath. She doesn't even break a sweat.

If only Lena would look at her the same way.

But as fate might have it, the L-Corp CEO would simply give her a grateful smile and a practiced “thank you” and she’s off— goes on with her day as if she wasn’t just inches away from death.

Lena doesn’t bat an eye when the Kryptonian does her heroic stunts which some would argue is a bit over the top for someone who isn’t even of acquaintance to the CEO.

Supergirl’s touches are so soft, careful, reverent in such way when she rushes towards Lena’s safety like a scene straight out from a comic. This makes Sam, Lena’s friend and arguably only friend she allows to judge her to an extent—  raise a few eyebrows.

So, the National City’s superhero pouts.

Pouting like a six-year told being told to go to bed earlier than she would have wanted. This inevitably pushes her to find ways to impress the green-eyed CEO who watches her with the most blank expression.

She’d even once sent her a wink when she punches a particular large alien straight to oblivion while staring directly at the CEO. Lena's reaction? Nothing. Didn't even crack a smile. She seemed almost unimpressed. Borderline bored. The only thing she receives is a smack in the head from Alex telling her to “stop being inappropriate while wearing the suit”.

Thankfully, Kara doesn’t have pout for long because while Lena barely gives Supergirl the time of day, she gets a completely 180 when she’s Kara Danvers.

For some reason, Lena smiles wider - brighter whenever she’s around the shy, fidgety, clumsy reporter. A CATCO reporter that Lena seems to be head over heels with.

Lena doesn’t even shy away showing how much she enjoys Kara’s company. It should embarrass Kara how much Lena unabashedly favors her in more ways than one but she’d be lying if she doesn’t admit how much she loves spending time with the her. The undivided attention is just a cherry on top.

While Lena barely makes conversation with the resident superhero, she has lunch dates with Kara. Movie dates. She filled her office with flowers as a thank you for the article she published describing about the new acquisition and owner of Luthor Corp now turned L-Corp even though Kara shyly explained that she was simply doing her job, all while the Kyrptonin simply gets a “that’s lucky” for saving her from almost plummeting to her death.

Kara doesn’t miss the slight change of expression on Lena’s face when the Supergirl nervously explained how she found out Lena was in danger.

Was that jealousy? That’s ridiculous! Why would Lena even care that Kara and Supergirl are friends?

But Kara, oblivious Kara only seem to see herself worthy of Lena Luthor when Kara is her alter ego. She feels more confident when she’s Supergirl than she is as Kara. She’s not really sure why. Probably because she feels she has more to offer compared to her reporter persona. Kara is just so…Kara. Simple. Flimsy. Boring.

Lena doesn’t deserve simple. How could someone be as amazing as Lena Luthor possibly find shy, nervous, boring reporter Kara Danvers interesting? She’s just being kind. That’s just how Lena is. Even though Lena literally bought a million-dollar company she knew absolutely nothing about all for Kara. An investment that left Sam completely speechless and Jess losing sleep for a week.

Kara convinces herself that Lena is just a good person and that’s one of the many things she loves about her best friend.

But it continues, and Lena falls for Kara even more. She falls for her perfect smiles the way her face lights up with each new random fact her brain comes up with, her silly jokes that Alex points out are not even that funny but Lena laughs the loudest if only to bring another smile on Kara’s face, their genuine conversations that has Lena opening parts of herself that she has never told anyone about maybe other than Sam and super platonic cuddling.

This makes Kara as Supergirl bolder. She becomes confident in expressing how she feels for Lena while she wears a cape. Lena isn’t the only one falling. So is Kara. Hard.

She falls for Lena’s genuine kindness; how smart Lena is and yet somehow, it’s like she doesn’t know how amazing she is. She falls for the CEO even when she’s wearing the suit that the lines between her and her superhero alter ego almost blurs. Almost.

So, she openly flirts without shame. For someone who’s supposed to be professional in her line of duty, she seems to make it a hobby to send a overtly flirty smile or wink towards the CEO. Supergirl lifts 10-ton trucks in front of Lena, intentionally flexing her biceps basically just to show off. To get the slightest reaction out of Lena but all she gets is a tight lip smile before Lena shoots Kara a text to have lunch.

And while Lena spends more time publicly with Kara, they barely get swarmed with paparazzi. I mean, who would find Lena having lunch with an unknown reporter interesting.? That’s not news worthy.

It’s not even gossip worthy.

But as soon as she’s standing close with Supergirl, their photos are front and center of every magazine cover.

It becomes a headline in a span of minutes, twitter loses their mind. They earn a little fan club even and Lena tries her best to ignore it.

Really, she does but it bothers her a little. Not for the reasons people might think. She finds every headline of her and Supergirl “dating” irritating if not annoying because that’s not exactly the blonde she wants her name to be associated with.

Sure, she and Kara are getting closer - Lena can feel it. A connection more than friends tethering their bond, an unspoken knowledge neither one of them brave enough to admit. Yet.

She ponders. Hopefully.

The nonstop rumors about her and Supergirl are starting to get on her nerves since last thing she wants is for Kara to get the wrong impression.

Lena considers what she and Kara have fragile. Delicate. Like the slightest turmoil would send it crashing. She can’t have that. Not if she can help it. She won’t allow rumors about her and a hero with an awful god complex ruin it.

She worries what Kara might think of her connection with Supergirl because there isn’t. It’s purely transactional. Business at best. They’re barely even friends.

She’s given the superhero the coldest shoulder she can whenever they’re in close proximity. It's probably not fair but she makes sure to keep a respectable distance between them. It doesn’t help however that the superhero seems to enjoy being close to her.

Hovering almost. It infuriates her even more.

So, she tries to hide it. It’s not the alien’s fault Lena has fallen for the reporter. It’s not Supergirl’s fault she has issues and is overprotective of her relationship with Kara.

Lena isn’t a fan however of the fact that Supergirl somehow is never shy to leave a comment of what she thinks about Lena. While Lena doubles her effort to make sure she doesn’t mention Supergirl in any of her interviews unless necessary, Supergirl is the complete total opposite.

She talks about Lena. A lot. Her projects, her advocacy (How did she even have the time to remember that? Lena’s only mentioned it once) and what she does for the community. It’s so hard to hate the superhero when she’s nothing but nice and supportive towards the scientist.

Almost like this unwavering and undying devotion which to her is a little dramatic since she doesn’t even think highly of herself at times.

Lena thinks, “Thanks but like, can you please just shut up about me for one second?!”

Apparently, Supergirl does and she praises Lena every chance she gets, every time a microphone is shoved towards her asking what she thinks of the L-Corp CEO.

Lena knows the media is doing it on purpose too and it’s fueling whatever rumors that are going on about them. And while she appreciates Superhero’s opinions and generous words, there is only one opinion that she really cares about.

She was mortified when she saw Kara staring at a photo of her with Supergirl, arms wrapped protective around her in one of the magazines on her desk (she’s sure Sam did it on purpose, she doesn’t remember ever getting a copy for herself), Lena immediately snatches it out from Kara’s hands, shoves it inside her drawer and starts rambling defensively preparing for a full-blown explanation to whatever possible questions were running through the reporter’s mind. Noticeably, Kara barely says a word.

Even as Kara stays silent, Lena still feels as though she needs to explain herself. She tells Kara nothing is going on, and she doesn’t see Supergirl that way at all. She shouldn’t be defensive when Kara has not made as much fuss about it but she can’t help it. Sweet, nice, understanding Kara Danvers just smiles and says “I don’t know. You two look good together”.

Now it’s Lena that freezes. She stands there, gob smacked and absolutely lost because what was that supposed to mean?

Does it bother her that Kara almost seemed okay with it? Does Kara think something is actually going on or she doesn’t think much of it? Did Lena expect a little bit jealousy? That’s insane and frankly quiet immature for her to hope to get a rise out of Kara. But Kara simply shrugged and started devouring their shared lunch.

It’s fine. Lena’s fine. She doesn’t care that Kara doesn’t care. This is good. This should be good. It doesn’t bother her at all. Or so she tells herself. Until it does.

Lena tried to casually prob the topic again. Tries her best to not sound too desperate. She thinks of the easiest way to brooch the topic without being conspicuous. With perfect timing, the TV flashes an image and it showed a picture of Supergirl clutching on Lena protectively from a blast, another poor attempt on her life.

Whether it’s because of Supergirl’s overprotectiveness or just her natural aura which was how the photo was taken, it came out beautiful. Stunning. Almost breath taking that you would think it was staged.

On top of that it’s also intimate. The way the superhero is holding her. Lena barely remembers being held by the super. She was too busy trying to not have a panic attack after just seconds away from an exploding bomb.

Lena held her breathe. Any minute now.

Lena had been glancing at Kara’s direction since the news started, waiting. The news anchor mentioned what everyone else was already thinking. How sweet they both look, that somehow, they manage to turn what supposedly should have been an image that would portray fear and anxiousness into something almost heartwarming. She waits, and waits until she breaks the silence herself.

“I can’t believe people actually assume I’m dating Supergirl.” Lena scoffs, forces a laugh as tries to be casual, as if her heart isn’t about to beat out of her chest wondering what Kara might be thinking.

“I wouldn’t blame them. You two make a great couple.”

Before Lena could even respond, Kara adds, “I mean, you and Supergirl? It’s Supergirl, Lena. Everyone wants her. Half of National City probably has a crush on her. I wouldn’t be surprised if you did.” Kara finishes off, with a fond roll in her eyes as if to tell her it’s not a big deal. That it’s normal.  She takes the remote out from Lena’s hands while she uses the other to shove popcorn in her mouth. Lena swears she could almost see a smirk forming Kara’s lips. As if she was smug about something.

But it wouldn’t make any sense. Also, why was Kara so fine with it? And why was Lena so annoyed that it didn’t bother Kara? They’ve been going out on dates but nothing about it were friendly. At least not to Lena. Was she reading things wrong? She knows she’s not.

Lena’s too smart to be reading into things. She has three PHDs for crying out loud. She can explain quantum physics in her sleep but this? Lena has never been so sure and so confused about something in her life.

It’s possible to assume what she has with Kara is simply friendship but it’s hard to deny that there’s something more. She feels it. In the way she lights up when Kara is around, when a single text from the reporter brightens up even her darkest days.Good morning and Good Night shouldn’t be causing butterflies to fly rampant in your stomach or make your chest ache with so much joy. But it does. It does for Kara.

“Not me though,” Lena finally says after finding her voice. She looks away, afraid that blue eyes can see beyond the facade she’s trying to keep up. “I don’t… I don’t see her that way.”

Kara pauses mid-way from ingulfing her popcorn. Lips purse as if she’s thinking hard about something. “Really?” Kara doesn’t even hide the surprise in her voice as she slowly turns to face Lena, popcorn temporarily forgotten. “Why not?” Why was Kara whining about this? Lena should be whining, not her.

“What do you mean, ‘Why not?’”

“I mean.. Why don’t you.. But she’s so.. — it’s Supergirl, Lena! She’s like the strongest woman ever! She’s a superhero and she’s so..” Kara blushes, as if trying to find the right words but also somehow struggling to let them out at the same time. This confuses Lena even more.

“She should totally be your type! She’s like everyone’s type!” Kara throws her hands trying to make a point.

Lena just stares at her. Unimpressed. Scrunching her nose, she turns her attention back to the screen changing the channel. “Well, she’s not.” The CEO deadpans and that was the end of it.

Lena tries to forget about that disaster of a movie night. She really does. She wills herself not to think about it. She tries pushing it at the back on her mind for two days until Lena reaches her limit.

She’s furious. How dare Kara Danvers just — push her away like she’s nothing. ‘She should be your type’ plays on her head nonstop almost mocking her and it makes her want to scream! How could someone be this —ugh.

That’s how Sam finds her. Pacing around her office like a mad woman on a mission rage written all over her face. She looks like a ticking time bomb just seconds from exploding.

“Looks like someone woke up at the wrong side of the bed this morning,” cautiously Sam approaches, like walking close to a wild animal. She makes sure to leave a respectable distance just in case.

“Unbelievable!” Lena starts her rant, her hands balled into a fist. “I can’t believe out of all people she thinks Supergirl is perfect for me.”

“I mean she’s not—”

“Samantha Arias, I swear to god not today.”

Sam immediately lifts both hands in surrender, taking another step back.

“Here I was worried sick of what she might think about these stupid rumors only to find out she obviously doesn’t care! The nerve! She thinks supergirl should totally be my type?! Supergirl?!”

Sam opens her mouth attempting to ask a question or two but seeing as Lena is close to throwing the nearest thing she could grab against the wall, she decided against it.

But the thing is, Kara Danvers does care. She probably cares more than anyone. Kara Danvers cares about Lena Luthor so much that it bothered the Kryptonian that Supergirl isn’t Lena’s type hence why she’s huffing again.

However, another incident, another threat to Lena’s life changes everything.

It was such a close call that it leaves them both breathless and the girl of steel shaking as she holds Lena close. Blue eyes scan each and every corner of Lena’s face making sure she’s okay. Making sure she’s real and nothing bad has happened. She made it on time. She's safe. Normally, Lena wouldn’t allow this much intimacy between them but after this attack she needed something to ground her a little.

“You’re okay. Thank Rao, you’re okay.” Lena doesn’t move, her feet appear to be rooted both by shock and fear while Supergirl continues to examine every inch of her face. “I was so scared I was going to lose you,” Supergirl whispers and Lena could hear the tremble in her voice.

Everything happened so fast that Lena was having trouble trying to process everything. The attempt on her life, how she was merrily inches away from death. She remembers the exact moment she came to terms with it. This was it. Finally, from all the attempts on her life that this was the one to take her out. She should have known. An exploding bomb in her car was a classic. Lena would have been okay with it if not for a specific blonde reporter that she wished was with her at that very moment. She can’t die. Not yet. Not until she tells Kara how she feels. They at least deserve that.

However, the reality is Kara's not here. Supergirl is. Supergirl is the one holding her. Holding her the way she would have hoped a certain blonde reporting was holding her.

Lena had to close her eyes to stop looking back at blue eyes staring at her with so much concern. This can’t happen. She’s not — she can’t be. She loves Kara Danvers. She might be pissed at her but she knows deep down she’s in love with the nervous fidgety reporter and not to this impenetrable woman right in front of her.

Her head shakes as Supergirl’s tighten her grip as if too afraid Lena might slip away. During these moments when Lena allows herself to feel, she genuinely does not know what to make of it. Why does Supergirl care about her so much. No one is watching. There are no cameras recording their interaction.

She assumes it was all for publicly but this, it feels different. When it’s just them and no one else. Supergirl stands close to her, completely shaken and unbalanced. There is genuine fear in her eyes at the thought of being too late or not being fast enough. Lena has never felt safer.

As she starts to pulls away, green eyes meet glassy blue. She convinces herself it’s the dust and not the resident superhero actually in tears because that would mean…

“I thought I was going to lose you.”

“But why do you—”

Before Lena could respond, she feels a pair of lips against her own and everything around them seems to disappear.

It barely registers to her what is happening, completely getting lost on the pair of lips against her own. Lena feels a shiver run down her spine at the way Supergirl is kissing her, making her grab unto the superhero’s shoulder.

The action was meant to push the super away because this can’t be happening. These were not the pair of lips she wanted on her but somehow, it feels right. Like this was how things were suppose to be. She feels her heart raising as Supergirl deepens the kiss, feeling herself getting pushed slightly until the back of her knee hits against a hard surface but it barely registers to Lena because Supergirl is kissing her in a way she's never been kissed before.

Finally, Lena finds the strength to pull away the need to breathe outweighing her body’s desire. And for the first time, she wills herself to stare at the pair of brilliant oceanic eyes that she’s been trying so hard to ignore. She lets her eyes track down every detail of the superheroes face, trying to figuring out a puzzle with missing pieces. Blue eyes stare back at her with a mix of desire and unbridled affection as Lena continues to gasp for air and stares.

Something about Supergirl’s smile, the strong line of her jaw, the way her soft lips parts as she patiently waits for Lena to say something seems so familiar. Like an answer at the tip of her tongue but can’t seem to get it out. It’s frustrating as it is captivating and all Lena wants to do is drink it in, see past the mask that this superhero constantly wears and be able to see what all this means.

Being this close, Lena can see the moment Supergirl lips rise to form a smile. A smile Lena is all too familiar with now that she’s finally inches away from the superhero. It’s all too familiar now and finally, it dawns to her.

A tiny gasp leaves her lips at the realization, emerald eyes never leaving blue as Supergirl’s smile brightens. As if she too understands that Lena has finally figured it out. With trembling delicate fingers, Lena reaches up and cup Supergirl’s cheeks and instinctively, Supergirl leans against her touch. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Lena feels a gentle squeeze where Supergirl is holding her and she lets out a breath she didn’t even know she was holding.

“Kara?” Lena whispers, barely hiding the tremble of her own voice and there it was. The smile of the woman she’s been not so secretly in love with plastered on National City hero’s face.

“I am madly in love with you, Miss Lena Luthor.”

[polygonpiscine]

🐢📖 Raph sat cross-legged on the couch, a worn and dog-eared issue of “Jupiter Jim” in his hands. Leo and Donnie entered the room, their usual banter already in full swing.

Raph looked up from the comic, catching the tail end of Leo and Donnie’s debate. He grinned, always entertained by his brothers’ banter. “Ah, the age-old argument: science versus fiction. “Can’t we just enjoy the story for what it is?”

Leo shot a teasing grin at Donnie. “Exactly! Raph gets it. Besides, Jupiter Jim is a classic. You can’t beat the nostalgia.”

Donnie shook his head, unconvinced. “Nostalgia doesn’t make up for scientific inaccuracies, there are way more scientifically accurate space adventures out there grounded in reality, Jupiter Jim is overrated.”

Leo jumped to the comic’s defense. “Whoa, hold up! Jupiter Jim is totally old-school, the OG of space heroes. He’s, like, a classic legend. And his laser blaster? Way cooler than any gadget you’ve whipped up, Donnie.”

“please. Jupiter Jim's laser blasters happen to have a fancy design, that's all. They're not any better than my meticulously crafted gadgets because, let's face it, they wouldn't work!"

Leo grinned mischievously. “And yours aren’t any better, Donnie. They malfunction every time we’re in a tight spot.”

Donnie huffed. “Hey, those were isolated incidents! And I fixed them, didn’t I?”

Raph chimed in with a laugh. “lighten up! It’s just a comic. No need to overanalyze it.”

Donnie huffed, crossing his arms. “Fine, fine. But don’t come crying to me when you need a gadget to save your shell.”

Mikey popped his head in, curious. “What’s all the fuss about? Are we reading comics now?”

Raph gestured to the comic in his hands. “Yep, we’re diving into the wild adventures of Jupiter Jim. You in?”

Mikey's eyes lit up with excitement as he bounded over to the couch. "Absolutely! Nothing beats a good old-fashioned space adventure."

Without hesitation, Mikey plopped himself down right in Raph's lap, earning a grunt of surprise from his brother.

Raph chuckled, giving Mikey a playful shove. "Hey, watch it, Mikey! You're gonna crease the pages."

Mikey laughed, unbothered by Raph’s protest. “Relax, big bro! I’ll be gentle.”

Raph mock-glared at him before wrapping an arm around Mikey’s shoulder, pulling him closer. “Alright, but if Jupiter Jim gets crumpled, you’re buying me a new copy.”

“Always” Mikey beamed

"Alright, you knuckleheads. Chapter one: 'The Galactic Crusade,'" Raph announced in his rough voice, setting the scene. As he delved into the thrilling tale of Jupiter Jim's quest to save the galaxy, his brothers were captivated.

Leo's eyes sparkled with excitement as he imagined himself as the heroic Jupiter Jim, leading his team to victory. Donnie nodded along, though he couldn't help but raise an eyebrow at some of the scientific inaccuracies woven into the story.

"Impressive storytelling," Donnie mused, "but I think Jupiter Jim’s laser blaster would need a lot more power to take down a black hole."

His comment hung in the air, earning him a glare from Leo. "Donnie, can't you just enjoy the story for once without dissecting every detail?"

Donnie shrugged, unfazed by Leo's glare. "Hey, I'm just saying. A black hole is no joke. It’s scientifically impossible for a laser blaster to close a black hole. The amount of energy required would be astronomical, far beyond the capabilities of any handheld weapon, no matter how 'fancy' its design."

Leo sighed, shaking his head. "Sometimes, Donnie, you just gotta let your imagination take over. It’s not always about the science."

As the story ended, Raph chuckled, closing the comic with a satisfied smile. “Taking it one chapter at a time, guys. But I’m glad you’re all enjoying it.”

Leo grinned at his brothers. "Thanks for indulging me, guys. 'Jupiter Jim' may not be scientifically accurate, but it's always an adventure."

Donnie smirked. "Ah, so you admit it's not accurate."

Leo winked. "Well, Donnie, I guess sometimes we just have to let our imaginations defy gravity, right?"

[charmed-quill]

The Bet// F.W x Reader Part 2

authors note at end

Summary: Fred Weasley and y/n make a bet: whoever gets a date to the Yule Ball first wins. But what starts as harmless competition devolves into full-blown war.

Word count: 4.7k

Previous Part

Look, Fred Weasley wasn’t the worst person in the world to go to the Yule Ball with.  

Not y/n’s first choice, not by a long shot, but also not the worst.  

Still, standing in her dorm, adjusting her dress for what felt like the millionth time, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was… off.  

It wasn’t like Fred had never seen her in a dress before. They’d been friends for six years, of course he had. 

But this? 

This was different. The whole "dressing up" thing was throwing her for a loop.  

The last time she wore something this fancy was her cousin’s wedding when she was ten, and even then, she had hated every second of it. She still remembered the way the lace had itched against her skin, how uncomfortable the frilly socks had been inside her too-tight shoes.  

But this dress it wasn’t stiff or scratchy, wasn’t something her mum had picked out last minute. 

It was hers.

 And it looked…good.  

Angelina had swept her hair into an elegant bun, leaving just a few soft curls framing her face, while Alicia had carefully applied her makeup, just enough to highlight her features without making her feel like she was wearing a mask.  

Y/n barely recognized herself.  

It was uncanny, looking in the mirror and seeing someone who actually—Merlin forbid—looked pretty.  

She swallowed, fingers tightening slightly on the fabric of her dress.  

It was just one night. Just Fred. Nothing had to change.  

Taking a deep breath, she steadied herself, ignoring the way her stomach flipped at the thought of heading downstairs.

—

Fred stood by the fireplace, hands stuffed in his pockets, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. The common room buzzed with energy, students heading off to the Great Hall in clusters, adjusting dress robes and exchanging last-minute compliments.  

George, Lee, Angelina, and Alicia had left just moments ago, after much teasing and knowing smirks thrown his way.  She’ll be down in a moment, they had assured him before disappearing through the portrait hole.  

But it had been more than a moment.  

Fred huffed, glancing up the dormitory stairs. Had she changed her mind? He wouldn’t blame her. Their whole arrangement, or whatever you’d call it, was far from ideal. A last-minute   truce  , born out of mutual stubbornness and sabotage. He knew y/n hadn’t exactly been   thrilled   about going with him.  

Still… part of him didn’t want to be left standing alone in the common room like some abandoned fool.  

With a sigh, he ran a hand through his hair and took a step toward the stairs. If she wasn’t coming down, he’d bloody well—  

The door opened.  

Fred froze.  

His words, his thoughts,   everything   slammed to a stop as y/n stepped into the warm glow of the common room.  

She looked…  

 Merlin.   

Fred wasn’t sure what he had been expecting, he’d seen her in dresses before, plenty of times. 

But this? This was something else entirely.  

The firelight cast a golden hue over her, catching on the delicate fabric of her dress as it moved with her. Her hair, swept up with effortless elegance, framed her face in soft tendrils, highlighting the curve of her jaw and the brightness of her eyes. Her makeup was subtle, just enough to make every little detail stand out, her lips, her cheekbones, the way her lashes fluttered slightly as she scanned the room.  

She was beautiful.  

And Fred?  

Fred was stunned.

He barely managed to school his expression before she looked up, meeting his gaze.  

"Got tired of waiting?" she teased, stepping forward, smoothing her hands over the fabric of her dress.  

Fred cleared his throat, forcing himself to breathe properly. "Thought you’d done a runner," he said, managing a smirk. "Was ready to heroically charge up the stairs and rescue you."  

Y/n rolled her eyes. "You just wanted an excuse to break into the girls' dormitory."  

Fred chuckled, but it came out almost   nervous, and since when was he, nervous   around her?  

His eyes flicked over her once more, like his brain was still trying to process that this was   actually y/n standing in front of him.  

"You clean up alright, y/l/n," he said, voice lighter, teasing, though there was something else beneath it—something even he wasn’t sure he wanted to acknowledge.  

Y/n raised an eyebrow, tilting her chin slightly. "Just alright?"  

Fred grinned, stepping closer, offering her his arm. "Don’t get a big head about it."  

She huffed, but there was a flicker of something in her eyes, something challenging, something thrilling.  

As she looped her arm through his, Fred couldn’t help but feel like maybe, just maybe, this arrangement wasn’t as terrible as he had thought.

—-

Fred and y/n stepped through the entrance to the Great Hall, and for the first time that night, neither of them had anything to say.  

The entire space had been transformed.  

The usual long house tables were gone, replaced by elegant round ones draped in shimmering fabric, flickering candlelight bouncing off crystal goblets and golden plates. The ceiling was enchanted to reflect a breathtaking winter sky, soft flakes of snow drifting lazily down before vanishing just above their heads. Ice sculptures lined the edges of the hall, carved into delicate figures that seemed to move when you weren’t looking. The chandeliers overhead twinkled like a thousand tiny stars.  

It was… stunning.  

Fred let out a low whistle, eyes sweeping over the scene. "Blimey," he muttered. "They really went all out, huh?"  

Y/n didn’t answer right away.  

She was still taking it all in, her gaze moving from the enchanted icicles hanging from the balconies to the grand staircase leading to the raised dance floor. She had never seen the castle look like this before, so ethereal, so dreamlike.  

It almost felt unreal, like stepping into some sort of fairytale.  

Fred glanced at her, catching the way her eyes shone under the candlelight, the soft parting of her lips as she stared in quiet wonder.  

Something shifted in his chest.  

"You alright there, y/l/n?" His voice was teasing, but noticeably softer than usual.  

Y/n blinked, snapping out of whatever spell the Great Hall had cast over her. "Yeah," she said, glancing up at him. "It’s just… I dunno. I wasn’t expecting it to be so—"  

"Romantic?" Fred finished, raising an eyebrow, his smirk playful but his voice lighter.  

Y/n scoffed, nudging him with her elbow. "I was gonna say impressive, but sure, Weasley. Whatever helps you sleep at night."  

Fred chuckled, but he didn’t tease her back. Instead, he let his gaze linger for just a second longer than necessary.  

The music swelled in the background, students filing in around them, laughter and chatter filling the air. The entire evening stretched before them, full of possibilities neither of them had really considered until now.  

Fred shifted slightly, adjusting his grip on her arm before tilting his head down toward her. "Guess we better get on with it, then," he murmured.  

Y/n met his gaze, something flickering between them that neither of them wanted to name just yet.  

With a quiet breath, she nodded.  

Y/n stood beside Fred, her hands clasped in front of her as she watched the champions and their dates take to the center of the dance floor. The music started soft and elegant, a slow waltz drifting through the air, filling the Great Hall with something delicate, almost fragile. The enchanted ceiling reflected the winter sky, stars glittering overhead like they had been placed there just for this moment. Snowflakes spiraled lazily down before vanishing into shimmering wisps of light.  

It was beautiful.  

She had never seen Hogwarts like this before. Had never felt this kind of stillness, this quiet anticipation that wrapped around her like a whisper. The usual laughter and chaos of the Great Hall had been replaced by something softer, something weighty in its beauty.  

She stole a glance at Fred.  

He was watching the dancers, a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth like he was amused by the whole thing, but there was something else there, too. A quietness she wasn’t used to seeing in him.  

And that was when it hit her

Something felt different tonight.  

They had been friends for years, partners in crime, rivals in pranks, always pushing and pulling, always toeing the line between bickering and camaraderie. But this, standing here beside him in a ballroom full of flickering candlelight, the warmth of his arm just inches from hers, the way he had looked at her when she had walked down those dormitory steps,   

It didn’t feel the same.  

It wasn’t uncomfortable, not exactly. But it was new. Like she had stepped into something she hadn’t expected, something unfamiliar but thrilling all the same.  

The music swelled, couples twirling across the dance floor in graceful, sweeping movements, and suddenly, she was hyper-aware of Fred beside her. Of the way his fingers twitched slightly at his sides, like he was debating something.  

She swallowed.  

"Getting bored already?" she asked, keeping her voice light, teasing, as if nothing in the world had changed.  

Fred turned his head, his gaze flickering to hers. He smirked, but not in his usual way, not in the way that made her roll her eyes or shove his shoulder. This was something softer, something amused and knowing all at once.  

"Nah," he murmured, tilting his head slightly. "Just waiting to see if you trip over your own feet when we dance."  

Y/n scoffed, nudging him with her elbow. "Bold of you to assume I’ll dance with you at all."  

Fred chuckled, looking back at the floor. "We’ll see about that, y/l/n."  

And something about the way he said it sent warmth curling through her chest.  

She exhaled slowly, turning her attention back to the dancers, pretending she wasn’t thinking about the way his voice had dipped just slightly, or the way her stomach had flipped at the sound of it.  

Y/n barely had time to protest before Fred was tugging her toward the dance floor, his grip firm but light as he grinned down at her, mischief dancing in his eyes.  

"Come on, y/l/n," he teased, his voice low enough that it sent a strange, warm shiver down her spine. "Let’s show them how it’s done."  

She rolled her eyes but let him lead her anyway, her fingers curling against the fabric of his robes as they moved into the sea of swirling couples. The candlelight flickered overhead, casting soft golden glows against the ice sculptures, the music swelling around them in a gentle rhythm.  

Fred slid a hand to her waist, his touch lighter than expected, and lifted their joined hands. "Try not to step on my toes, yeah?"  

Y/n huffed, settling her free hand on his shoulder. "I’d worry more about your own coordination, Weasley. We both know you’re all limbs and recklessness."  

Fred chuckled, the sound low and warm, and for a second, she forgot they were in the middle of a crowded ballroom, surrounded by students, teachers, and swirling magic.  

"You know," he mused as they moved to the beat, "I don’t think we ever settled our bet."  

Y/n raised a brow, amused. "Oh? And what exactly needs settling? I’d say it was a draw at best."  

Fred scoffed, spinning her suddenly, pulling her effortlessly back into his arms before she even had time to process it. "A draw?" he echoed, shaking his head. "No, no, no. I clearly won. You were the one who asked me, remember?"  

Y/n narrowed her eyes, her fingers tightening slightly against his shoulder. "That is not how I remember it."  

Fred grinned. "Sounds like selective memory to me, love."  

She huffed. "Fine. Even if I asked you first, which I didn’t, you were already on your way to ask me."  

"Exactly!" Fred said triumphantly. "Which means I still would’ve won in the end."  

Y/n rolled her eyes, but there was no real heat behind it.  

Because the truth was, she wasn’t even thinking about the bet anymore.  

She wasn’t thinking about the competition or the weeks of sabotage.  

She was thinking about the way Fred’s hand rested so easily at her waist, how effortless it felt to fall into step with him, how his grin softened when he looked at her now—like maybe this wasn’t just about winning anymore.  

And that realization sent her stomach flipping in ways she wasn’t prepared for.  

She exhaled slowly, focusing on keeping her voice steady. "You’re impossible, you know that?"  

Fred smirked, tugging her just a little closer as they turned with the music. "And yet, here you are, dancing with me anyway."  

Y/n swallowed, feeling that damn warmth creep into her chest again, curling beneath her ribs, making it increasingly difficult to remind herself that this was just Fred.  

Just Fred Weasley.  

Her best friend.  

Her rival.  

Her date.  

And, Merlin help her, something about that last word felt different now.

Dancing with Fred Weasley was dangerously easy.  

Y/n had expected him to be all awkward footwork and dramatic spins meant to throw her off balance, but instead, he led her through the steps effortlessly, his grip firm but light, his movements confident without being cocky.  

The warmth of his palm at her waist sent a slow heat curling in her stomach, something she tried desperately to ignore.  

Because it was just Fred.  

Fred, who she had spent the last several weeks sabotaging. Fred, who had annoyed her beyond reason since they were twelve. Fred, who, despite all of that, made her laugh more than anyone else ever had.  

And maybe that was the problem.  

Because something had been shifting between them, something she had been too stubborn to see before tonight.  

The music changed to something slower, couples swaying close, and Fred leaned in slightly, his breath warm against her ear.  

"Alright, y/l/n," he murmured, his tone far too smug. "Who do you reckon is shagging who by the end of the night?"  

Y/n snorted, instantly snapping out of whatever ridiculous romantic haze had been creeping up on her.  

"Subtle, Weasley," she said dryly, shooting a glance around the ballroom.  

Her eyes landed on Jack Carmichael and his date, who had definitely been sneaking off toward a shadowy alcove near the back of the hall. She nodded toward them.  

"That one’s a given," she said. "He’s been trying to get her out of here for the last half-hour."  

Fred followed her gaze, chuckling. "Bet you ten Sickles he barely makes it up the stairs before she tells him to piss off."  

Y/n grinned. "You’re on."  

Fred twirled her unexpectedly, pulling her back in a little closer than before, and she hated the way her breath caught.  

Get it together, she scolded herself.  

Fred’s eyes flicked toward the table where a few sixth-years were gathered, drinking out of goblets that definitely weren’t filled with pumpkin juice.  

"Alright, new bet," he said. "Who snuck in the booze?"  

Y/n scanned the room, eyes narrowing. "I’d say Nathaniel Burke, but he’s an idiot and would’ve gotten caught already."  

Fred smirked. "True. So?"  

She exhaled through her nose, thinking, then grinned. "My money’s on Lillian Moore. She looks too innocent. It’s always the innocent ones."  

Fred laughed, his grip at her waist tightening briefly. "You know, y/l/n, you might be onto something."  

Y/n opened her mouth to throw another sarcastic remark his way, but something in her chest twisted unexpectedly when he smiled at her.  

Something warm, something alarming, something that had been creeping in for weeks without her permission.  

Because suddenly she was remembering every little moment leading up to this

The way he had looked at her when she first stepped into the common room tonight. The way he had teased her but never once insulted her. The way he had waited for her reaction before taking her hand, before leading her into this dance.  

And, Merlin help her, she realized all at once that this hadn’t just started tonight.  

It had been building for weeks.  

Every time he had grinned at her, every time they had gone back and forth with playful insults, every time their arguments had felt more like flirting than fighting

She had been falling for Fred Weasley.  

And she hadn’t even noticed until now.  

The thought was so overwhelming that she nearly stepped on his foot.  

Fred raised an eyebrow. "That hesitation, was that you losing the bet already?"  

Y/n blinked, snapping herself out of it. "Absolutely not."  

Fred chuckled, shaking his head, completely unaware of the internal crisis she was currently having.  

She swallowed hard, forcing herself to focus on the banter, on the laughter, on anything except the fact that she was looking at him differently now.  

Because the second she acknowledged it?  

She knew there would be no going back.

—-

Fred leaned back against the wall, his butterbeer warm in his hands, the golden glow of the Great Hall flickering over y/n’s face as she took a sip of her own.  

She was grinning, her lips still curled in amusement from whatever ridiculous bet they had just made, her eyes bright despite the dim lighting. She was leaning slightly toward him, like it was natural, like it had always been that way.  

And maybe it had.  

Fred took a slow sip of his drink, pretending he wasn’t completely distracted by her.  

By the way she looked tonight. By the way she always looked, if he was being honest.  

And suddenly, it hit him.  

This wasn’t new.  

This feeling, this warmth curling in his chest, the way he kept catching himself looking at her longer than necessary, this hadn’t come out of nowhere. It had been building, sneaking up on him so slowly he hadn’t even noticed it.  

It was there in the little moments, moments he could suddenly recall with sharp, stupid clarity.  

Like the time she had shoved a stolen Chocolate Frog into his pocket during first year, grinning as she whispered, “Take the fall for me, Weasley.”  

Or the time she had patched him up in second year when one of his own pranks had backfired, muttering the whole time about “how much of an idiot he was”, but her hands had been so gentle as she wiped the blood off his chin.  

Or the way she always seemed to understand him, even when he didn’t say anything.  

The way she could read his moods better than anyone else could, the way she knew when he needed a joke and when he needed quiet.  

The way she never treated him like a joke, even when he made himself one.  

Fred swallowed, staring at his butterbeer like it held all the answers.  

He hadn’t meant to feel like this.  

Hadn’t meant to notice how pretty she looked when she was focused on something, or how her nose scrunched when she was thinking, or how her eyes lit up when she was about to start an argument with him.  

But here he was.  

And for the first time, he wasn’t quite sure what to do about it.  

"Oi, Weasley," y/n nudged him with her elbow, snapping him out of his spiraling thoughts.  

Fred blinked, forcing himself to smirk. "Y’know, y/l/n, if you wanted to get close to me, you could’ve just asked."  

She scoffed. "Please, I just wanted to make sure you hadn’t passed out. You looked a little dazed there."  

Fred chuckled, shaking his head. "Just thinking."  

Y/n raised an eyebrow. "Dangerous habit for you."  

Fred snorted, taking another sip of his drink.  

Yeah.  

Dangerous indeed.

The Great Hall had gotten too much.  

Too crowded, too warm, too many couples tucked into corners, whispering to each other like the entire world had disappeared around them. Everywhere Fred turned, there was some overly romantic display, some sickeningly sweet gesture, and Merlin help him, he needed fresh air.  

So, naturally, he grabbed y/n’s hand.  

"Come on," he muttered, already tugging her toward the doors before she could argue.  

Y/n let him, though he could feel her curious gaze on him as they slipped out of the hall, the sound of music and chatter fading behind them.  

"Where exactly are we going, Weasley?" she asked as they stepped into the cool night air.  

Fred inhaled deeply, letting the crisp air fill his lungs. "Anywhere but in there. Too many people snogging like their lives depend on it."  

Y/n snorted. "Jealous?"  

Fred rolled his eyes, nudging her with his shoulder. "Oh, absolutely. Watching Kevin Whitby nearly eat his date’s face off was thrilling."  

Y/n gagged. "Disgusting. Alright, lead the way."  

And so they walked.  

The path leading away from the castle was quiet, save for the faint sounds of the ball still drifting from the open windows. The stars above were bright, the sky clear, and the lake stretched before them like a dark, endless mirror. The wind was cold but pleasant, ruffling the edges of their dress robes as they followed the stone path toward the water.  

It was… nice.  

Comfortable.  

Like they had done this a hundred times before.  

And maybe they had, maybe not in fancy dress robes, maybe not with the weight of something unspoken pressing against Fred’s ribs, but it was still them.  

Still easy.  

They fell into natural conversation, talking about nothing and everything—making fun of McLaggen’s tragic dance moves, placing one final bet on whether or not Olivia Davies had smuggled an entire bottle of firewhiskey under her cloak.  

But beneath it all, Fred could feel it.  

That… thing.  

That stupid, frustrating thing that had settled in his chest hours ago and refused to leave.  

Because every time y/n laughed, something in him twisted.  

Because every time she nudged him, teasing and light, it sent something warm rushing through him.  

Because every time she looked at him, really looked at him, he felt like she was about to figure him out.  

And that, that scared him more than anything else.  

He had spent so long not noticing. Had spent years thinking of her as just y/n—his best friend, his competition, the one person who could match him beat for beat.  

But now?  

Now, all he could think about was the way she looked under the stars, how the silver light caught in her hair, how her lips curled when she was about to say something smug.  

Now, he was noticing everything.  

And he wasn’t sure he liked it.  

Y/n nudged him again. "You’re quiet."  

Fred blinked, forcing himself to smirk. "Unusual, isn’t it?"  

"Extremely." She shot him a suspicious glance. "You sure you’re not getting emotional over all the romance in the air?"  

Fred snorted, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Oh yeah, I’m the emotional one. Not the girl who gasped at the ballroom decorations like she walked into a bloody fairytale."  

Y/n gasped again, but this time out of offense. "I did not—"  

"Did too."  

"Fred—"  

"You even twirled, y/l/n," he teased, his smirk widening. "Don’t try to deny it, I saw it with my own two eyes."  

She groaned, throwing her head back dramatically. "I hate you."  

Fred grinned. "No, you don’t."  

Y/n turned to shove him, but he caught her wrist before she could, laughing as he held it up between them.  

And suddenly

The laughter faded.  

Not completely, not abruptly, but just enough.  

Because suddenly Fred was staring at her, and she was staring back, and something about the night felt too still.  

Her wrist was small in his grip, her pulse just barely thrumming beneath his fingertips.  

For a second, just a second, he almost didn’t let go.  

But then

He did.  

And whatever had settled between them slipped away before it could take root.  

Fred cleared his throat, shoving his hands back into his pockets. "Anyway. Should probably head back before George accuses me of running off and eloping."  

Y/n snorted. "I dunno, Weasley. I think we’d make a pretty tragic love story."  

Fred smirked, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.  

"Yeah," he muttered. "Tragic."  

And as they made their way back up toward the castle, Fred ignored the fact that something about that word didn’t sit right with him at all.

They were just steps away from the castle doors when Fred couldn’t hold it in any longer.  

It had been building all night, all week, really, if he was honest. Maybe even longer than that.  

Every glance, every laugh, every stupid little moment that had felt so normal before had suddenly taken on a different meaning.  

And now, standing beneath the stars, the castle glowing softly in the distance, it hit him all at once.  

He loved her.  

Maybe he always had.  

Maybe he had just been too thick to realize it until now.  

But now, now it was all he could think about.  

Y/n was walking just ahead of him, her dress shifting with the breeze, hair slightly undone from the night, still looking as effortlessly beautiful as she had when she first stepped down the dormitory stairs.  

And Fred, heart pounding in his chest, suddenly realized he couldn’t go inside without saying it.  

Without doing something about it.  

"Y/n."  

His voice was quieter than usual, but she stopped immediately, turning to face him with a curious tilt of her head.  

She hadn’t expected him to stop. Hadn’t expected his voice to sound so… careful.  

Fred took a breath. Now or never.  

"I—" He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair, trying to find the words when really, there was only one way to say it.  

"I like you."  

Silence.  

Fred barely noticed the cold anymore, heat rushing through his chest as he watched her eyes widen, her lips parting slightly in surprise.  

Maybe he should’ve eased into it. Maybe he should’ve said it differently. But hell, there was no stopping now.  

He took a step closer.  

"I like you, y/n," he repeated, voice steadier this time. "And I—I don’t mean in the way we joke about, or the way everyone always thinks we do. I mean, really. And I think I have for a while, I just…" He let out a breathless laugh, shaking his head. "I was too much of an idiot to see it."  

Her lips parted like she was going to say something, but nothing came out.  

She just… stared at him.  

Fred’s heart dropped.  

Oh, hell.  

Maybe he’d messed this up. Maybe he’d just ruined everything

But then

Y/n moved forward so fast he barely had time to react.  

Her hands curled into the front of his dress robes, pulling him down as she kissed him.  

Fred’s mind blanked.  

For a second, he didn’t breathe.  

Didn’t think.  

Didn’t do anything except feel.  

Because Merlin’s bloody beard, he hadn’t expected that.  

But then, instinct took over, and his hands were at her waist, tugging her closer, his heart pounding so loudly he was sure she could hear it.  

It was slow, softer than he ever thought a first kiss between them would be. No teasing, no sarcasm, just… her.  

Just them.  

The night was silent around them, the only sound between them the faint hitch of breath, the quiet shift of fabric, the snowflakes drifting through the air like the universe had planned this all along.  

When they finally pulled away, Fred’s forehead rested against hers, his grin so wide it was almost ridiculous.  

"So, uh…" He exhaled, still catching his breath, his hands still resting firmly on her waist. "Can I take that as a yes?"  

Y/n laughed, arms still wrapped around his neck, eyes shining with something he had never seen before but desperately wanted to see again.  

"Fred Weasley," she murmured, shaking her head fondly. "You are such a bloody idiot."  

Fred smirked, tilting his head slightly. "Yeah, but I’m your idiot now, yeah?"  

Y/n grinned, tugging him down into another kiss.  

And Fred?  

Fred was completely okay with that.

A/n: so I wasn't planning on writing a part 2 for this but so many people asked so I hope you enjoy this!!!

[l4ndonorizz]

looser cooks dinner / lando norris

pairing: lando norris x reader

song: blindheart - digital memories

summary: a rainy day ruins lando’s plans, so he crashes yours instead. What starts as trivia and teasing quickly turns into a game of "never have I ever"—and things get a little too real when feelings get involved

wc: 2k

The steady rhythm of rain pattering against your window was the only sound in your cozy living room as you sat curled up on the couch, flipping absentmindedly through your phone. The plans you'd made for the day were officially canceled thanks to the downpour outside, and you’d resigned yourself to a quiet afternoon indoors. A little disappointed, sure, but a rainy day at home wasn’t the worst thing.

Just as you were about to settle into a Netflix binge, a familiar sound pulled your attention—someone knocking at your door. You frowned, glancing out the window where the rain was coming down even harder now. Who would be out in this weather?

When you opened the door, your frown melted into surprise. Standing there, completely drenched but grinning like an idiot, was Lando Norris. His hair was plastered to his forehead, his hoodie soaked through, and droplets of rainwater dripped from his nose. Despite his bedraggled state, he looked utterly unbothered.

"Lando?" you said, struggling not to laugh. "What are you doing here? It’s pouring!"

Lando shrugged, wiping the rain from his face with the back of his hand. “My plans got canceled,” he said, stepping into your apartment without waiting for an invitation. “Figured I’d come to hang out with you instead.”

You closed the door behind him, shaking your head in disbelief. "You didn’t think to call first? I could’ve told you to stay dry."

He grinned, kicking off his soaked shoes. “Where’s the fun in that?”

You sighed, grabbing a towel and tossing it at him. "You’re ridiculous."

Lando caught the towel mid-air, already rubbing it over his hair, water droplets falling onto your hardwood floor. "Yeah, but you love me for it," he teased, winking in your direction.

Your heart did that stupid little flip it always seemed to do whenever he was around. Rolling your eyes, you walked toward the kitchen, trying to ignore the way your stomach fluttered. "Do you want some tea or something? You look like a drowned rat."

"Sure. I’ll take whatever you’re having," he called out, following you and dragging the towel through his hair. "What were you up to before I heroically saved you from a boring afternoon?"

You laughed, filling the kettle. "Heroic, huh? I was just about to put on a movie or something. Not exactly thrilling."

“Good thing I showed up, then,” Lando said, leaning against the counter and flashing that mischievous smile that always made your heart race. “I make everything more exciting.”

You shot him a playful look. "Big words for someone who looks like they just swam through a monsoon."

He smirked, his eyes sparkling as he leaned in slightly. "Maybe I just wanted an excuse to come see you."

Your breath caught in your throat at the teasing glint in his eyes, but before you could respond, Lando pulled back, grabbing the tea towel hanging by the sink and starting to dry off his arms.

The kettle whistled, saving you from having to come up with a reply. As you poured the tea, the atmosphere in the room shifted, the rain outside creating a soft backdrop to the moment between you two.

“So,” Lando said, breaking the quiet as he sat at your small kitchen table, “what’s the plan, then? You got a movie picked out, or are we improvising?”

You handed him a steaming mug and shrugged, sitting down across from him. “Depends. Are you in the mood for something chill, or are you going to make us do something ridiculous?”

Lando’s grin widened, his playful side kicking in. “You know me too well. I was thinking…we could go for a walk. Maybe grab some food somewhere.”

“In this rain?” you raised an eyebrow. “You’re not dragging me out in that mess.”

“Okay,” he said, sipping his tea. “what about some indoor games? But…” He leaned in, his eyes twinkling with mischief, “only if we make it interesting. Loser cooks dinner.”

You laughed, already feeling the competitive spark in the air. "What games?"

You handed him a steaming mug of tea and shrugged. “Depends. Are you in the mood for something chill, or are you gonna make us do something ridiculous?”

Lando’s eyes lit up with mischief as he took a sip. “How about we play a game? Trivia quiz, but we make it interesting. Loser has to spill a secret.”

You raised an eyebrow, already feeling the competitive tension in the air. "Trivia? You really think you can beat me?"

He leaned forward, his grin widening. "I don't think—I know."

With a roll of your eyes, you grabbed your phone to pull up a random trivia app. “Alright, Norris, let’s see what you’ve got.”

The game started off light—questions about history, geography, and random pop culture tidbits. Every time Lando got an answer right, he made sure to flash you that cocky grin, and every time he got one wrong, you made sure to gloat just a little.

“So,” you said, smirking after he missed a question about 80s pop music, “looks like you owe me a secret.”

Lando leaned back in his chair, pretending to think deeply before giving you a cheeky grin. “Alright. Secret time. Sometimes, I forget which way the track goes.”

You burst out laughing, nearly spilling your tea. “Seriously?”

He laughed too, holding up his hands. “Okay, okay. Only once! And it was during practice. Not during a race!”

The game continued, with you winning most of the rounds. Lando’s competitiveness flared as the trivia questions became harder, and you could see him getting more serious with each wrong answer.

But then he smirked. “Let’s switch it up. Enough with trivia. How about we play 'Never Have I Ever'? Or are you too scared?”

You narrowed your eyes, accepting the challenge immediately. “Scared? Please. Let’s do it.”

Lando leaned forward, his grin widening. “Alright. I’ll go first. Never have I ever... thrown up after a race.”

You hesitated for a second before raising your hand in mock defeat. “Fine, you got me. I haven’t.”

Lando nodded, pleased with himself. “Your turn.”

“Never have I ever… crashed a go-kart into a wall,” you shot back with a teasing smile.

Lando’s face turned a bit pink, and he raised his hand sheepishly. “I was 11, alright? It was an accident.”

You both laughed, but as the game progressed, the questions got more personal, more daring. The atmosphere between you two shifted slightly, becoming more intimate, more...charged.

Lando’s eyes sparkled as he spoke next. “Never have I ever kissed someone I really liked but pretended it didn’t mean anything.”

You paused, your heart skipping a beat. There was something in the way he said it, like it wasn’t just part of the game anymore.

You raised your hand slowly, feeling a flush creep up your neck. Lando’s eyes flickered with interest, and the tension in the room seemed to heighten. You couldn’t help but ask, “What about you?”

He didn’t raise his hand, just sat there, staring at you. His playful smirk faded, replaced by something quieter, more serious.

“Never have I ever…” Lando started, but this time his voice was softer. His gaze met yours, holding it for just a little too long. “Fallen for a best friend and didn’t know what to do about it.”

Your heart pounded in your chest. The rain outside, the cozy warmth of the kitchen, and the playful banter from before felt like a backdrop to the sudden shift between you two. You couldn’t look away from him, and the quiet confession in his eyes made your pulse race.

Neither of you raised a hand.

The air was thick with unsaid words, and for the first time, the comfortable dynamic you’d always had felt different—heavier, like you were both standing on the edge of something.

"Lando," you started, unsure of what to say next, but he cut you off, his voice soft but steady.

“I didn’t come here just because my plans were canceled,” he admitted, his gaze never wavering from yours. “I wanted to see you.”

The words hung in the air between you, and you realized in that moment that everything had changed. Somewhere between the laughter and the silly games, the lines between friendship and something more had blurred.

You didn’t know what to say. The playful banter from earlier was gone, replaced with an intensity you weren’t prepared for. You opened your mouth to respond, but Lando stood up, closing the distance between you and taking your hand gently.

He smiled softly, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. "Never have I ever… been this nervous."

You stared at him, your heart racing, and without thinking, you reached up and placed your other hand on his cheek, feeling the warmth of his skin.

“Well,” you whispered, “you’re not alone.”

And with that, you leaned in, the distance between you disappearing as you kissed him, the rain outside a quiet backdrop to the moment you'd both been waiting for, without even knowing it.

The kiss was soft at first, hesitant, like you were both testing the waters. But when Lando’s hand slid up to gently cup your cheek, everything shifted. The hesitation melted away, and you deepened the kiss, feeling the warmth of his lips against yours. The rain outside seemed to fade into the background, leaving just the two of you in the quiet intimacy of the moment.

Lando pulled you closer, his other hand resting on your waist as the kiss grew more intense. The soft hum of the rain and the warmth of the room seemed to wrap around you both, creating a bubble where nothing else existed.

When you finally pulled away, breathless, Lando rested his forehead against yours, his eyes still closed as he whispered, “That was… not how I expected today to go.”

You laughed softly, your hands still resting on his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing. “Yeah, me neither.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The room was filled with the comfortable silence that only came after something long overdue. Lando opened his eyes slowly, his thumb brushing over your cheek as he looked at you with a tenderness that made your heart race all over again.

“What happens now?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

Lando smiled softly, his eyes flickering down to your lips before meeting your gaze again. “Now… I think we stop pretending this is just friendship.”

Your breath hitched in your throat, the weight of his words settling in. “You mean…?”

He nodded, his smile growing. “Yeah. I mean… I’ve liked you for a while now. Just didn’t know how to say it.”

You blinked, the realization hitting you like a wave. All the little moments, the teasing glances, the playful flirting—it had all meant something more. “I didn’t know you felt that way.”

Lando chuckled softly, his hand dropping to yours. “I wasn’t exactly subtle.”

You smiled, feeling the tension between you unravel into something lighter, more certain. “I guess I was too busy pretending I didn’t feel the same.”

Lando’s grin widened, and he leaned in, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead. “Well, now that we’ve cleared that up…”

You couldn’t help but laugh, your heart feeling lighter than it had in weeks. “Now what?”

“Well,” Lando said, glancing around the kitchen, “I did promise we’d cook dinner. And since you technically beat me in trivia…”

You raised an eyebrow, stepping back slightly but keeping your hand in his. “Oh, no. You’re still cooking. I won fair and square.”

Lando pouted dramatically, but there was a playful glint in his eyes. “Fine. But you’re helping.”

You couldn’t stop the smile from spreading across your face as you nodded. “Deal.”

[bryan-writes]

Green smoke and golden smiles— barty crouch jr x reader

Summary: you find yourself at a Gryffindor party, celebrating with Lily and the marauders on a win against Slytherin. Barty decides to crash it, prank the Gryffindors and steal you away to get to know you.

Hufflepuff reader, fluff, Barty calls reader darling and my lady, super cute!

Credit to @strangergraphics-archive for the lovely dividers :)

The Gryffindor common room was alive in a way that only followed a narrow victory against Slytherin. Laughter and voices bounced off the stone walls, and red and gold streamers, charmed to burst into mini-fireworks, spiraled across the ceiling in dizzying loops. Near the bar, which boasted an impressive line-up of Butterbeer, Firewhiskey, and an alarming amount of snacks, Lily Evans was chatting animatedly with you, the token Hufflepuff in the crowd. Your easygoing friendship with Lily had opened doors you’d never anticipated, including one straight into the rowdy, reckless world of the Gryffindors.

You couldn’t help but smile as you glanced around, feeling a familiar, comfortable warmth. James was being his usual self, arm slung around Lily’s shoulders as he tried and failed to impress her with exaggerated retellings of his quidditch heroics. Sirius was close by, grinning and tossing popcorn into Peter’s mouth like it was some kind of game, while Remus sat on the sofa next to you, watching them with a faintly amused smile, occasionally chuckling at your comments and sipping a warm mug of Butterbeer. You were surrounded by friends, wrapped in warmth and cheer, and yet there was something gnawing at the edge of your mind— a sense that tonight wasn’t going to stay peaceful for long.

In the back of your head, you could practically hear the gears of fate turning. After all, a win this close against Slytherin? They wouldn’t let a game this hard fought go without consequence.

And that’s when it happened. The Gryffindor portrait door burst open, the fat lady yelling obscenities as Barty Crouch Jr. strolled in, looking like he had every right to be there. With his classic lopsided grin, he paused at the threshold, one brow arched as he scanned the room with a gaze sharp enough to unsettle even the most stalwart lion. Trailing behind him were a small group of his Slytherin friends, each wearing expressions that ranged from smug to wary as they took in the Gryffindor revelry.

A hush fell over the crowd for a heartbeat. Then, true to Gryffindor form, James leaned toward Sirius with a snort, whispering just loud enough for you to hear, “Since when does Crouch drop by without hexing someone first?”

Sirius grinned, nudging him back. “Just give it a minute.”

Barty, meanwhile, held up his hands, that smirk never leaving his face. “Evening, Gryffindors!” He announced, voice effortlessly cutting through the chatter. “Thought I’d drop by to congratulate you lot on your narrow— and I mean narrow— victory today.”

A few students raised their Butterbeers, chuckling, though Lily rolled her eyes, muttering, “Oh, this should be good…”

He walked right up to her, bowing with an exaggerated flourish. “Lily Evans! Captain of this unruly pride of lions.” His grin widened and his eyes flitted around the group. “A spectacular game, truly. It’s Gryffindors like you who make these matches worth every bit of trouble”

“Oh, I’m sure that’s not all you’re here for,” Lily said, unimpressed but unable to hide her faint smile. Barty’s charm had an annoying way of creeping up on even the most suspicious of people.

You were trying not to laugh when he caught sight of you, and his expression shifted from playful to intrigued, his eyes narrowing just a bit as they took you in. Then, in one smooth motion, he turned from Lily and closed the space between you with a look of casual interest, leaning in just close enough to spark a thrill of excitement in your stomach.

“And who might you be, tucked away here among all these lions?” He asked, eyes gleaming.

“Y/N,” you replied, fighting to keep your tone neutral. “I’m here with Lily.”

”Y/N,” he repeated slowly, as if savoring it. “The one and only Hufflepuff in a den of Gryffindors. Fascinating. Tell me, darling, how does one of your gentle disposition find themselves here, surrounded by all this… ferocity?”

”Just lucky, I suppose,” you quipped, surprised at how easily the words came.

He let out a low chuckle, glancing at the marauders with an amused smirk before looking back at you. “You’re certainly braver than I’d have guessed,” he murmured, a spark of something playful in his eyes. “Though, I’d advise staying close. If I know Gryffindors, there’s bound to be some… retaliation.”

You raised a brow, feigning innocence. “Retaliation? For what?”

He leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper that sent a chill down your spine. “Oh, nothing too sinister. Just a little fog to set the mood.”

Before you could question him further, a loud pop echoed through the common room, and in an instant the space was filled with thick, swirling green mist, tinted in unmistakeable colors. There were shrieks and laughter as green fireworks began going off, Gryffindors stumbling blindly, coughing and waving their hands in front of their faces. Even the maraduers were caught off guard, fumbling around in the chaos, yelling and laughing as they tried to locate each other.

In the confusion, you felt a hand slip around yours, warm and steady. You didn’t need to see his face to know it was Barty. With a grin you couldn’t see but could practically feel, he pulled you through the haze and out into the hallway, leaving the chaos behind you.

Once outside, he turned to you, grinning as he gave a mock bow. “My lady, saved from the treacherous fog by none other than yours truly.”

You laughed, catching your breath, swatting at the green powder bound to stain your sweater. “Saved? You started that!”

”Perhaps,” he said, looking infuriatingly pleased with himself, “But you can’t deny I got you out in one piece, can you?”

”I suppose I can’t,” you admitted, unable to stop smiling. “Though, I have to admit, that was… well-executed.”

”I’m a man of many talents, what can I say?” He shrugged, as if leading a stealth operation into the Gryffindor common room was just another day for him. Then, his tone softened, though the mischievous light never left his eyes. “But tell me, Y/N… what are you doing here?”

You crossed your arms, pretending to scrutinize him. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to chat me up, Crouch.”

”Trying?” He raised an eyebrow, placing a hand over his heart. “You wound me. Here I thought I was doing a splendid job.”

You laughed, feeling a blush creep up at his confidence. “Maybe you are, just a little.”

”Only a little?” He asked, feigning disappointment. But he was smiling, that lopsided grin that could probably melt ice if it tried. “Well, that’s a start.”

He took a step closer, eyes flickering over you with a hint of genuine curiosity. “It’s not every day I meet someone who can handle a little chaos with such grace. Most would’ve hexed me by now.”

”Maybe I have a soft spot for chaos,” you teased, feeling bolder than usual.

“Oh, dangerous,” he murmured, eyes lighting up. “And here I thought Hufflepuff were all sweetness and sunshine.”

”Well, maybe we are,” you replied, unable to hold back a smile. “But we’re also more than people think.”

At that, he let out a laugh, warm and rich. “I’ll have to remember that.” Then, offering his arm with a wink, he leaned closer. “So, what do you say, darling? Feel like risking another adventure tonight?”

You glanced back toward the common room, where the Gryffindors were slowly recovering from the smoke bomb. The thought of slipping away into a night of spontaneity with Barty felt like a much better way to spend the rest of your evening.

Grinning, you looped your arm through his. “Alright, Crouch. Show me what you’ve got.”

With that, he led you down the hallway, the two of you walking in step as the night stretched out before you, filled with possibility, laughter, and just the right amount of trouble.

[tkdb-hell]

Can I have 42 with leo pls?? I feel like this fits him so well cause canonically he's needy as hell

#42 - Distracting kisses from someone that are meant to stop the other person from finishing their work, and give them kisses instead.

Kisses Prompt List • Kisses Masterlist

(I do my best to write the reader as gender neutral unless otherwise specified - if you send me an ask and prefer masc or fem, please let me know)

♡ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT ♡

The clock ticked steadily in the corner of the room, a quiet reminder of the hours passing by as you hunched over your desk. Papers were spread out like a battlefield of evidence—scrawled notes, charts, and anomaly data you had painstakingly gathered over the past week. The glow of your desk lamp was the only source of light, and it illuminated your furrowed brow as you wrote.

“Honor roll,” came a familiar drawl from behind you, cutting through the silence.

You sighed, not even glancing back. “What is it, Leo?”

Leo Kurosagi leaned against the doorframe, headphones looped around his neck, his sharp yellow eyes glinting with mischief. He wore his usual smirk—the one that said he was about to be the most infuriating person in the room.

“I’m bored.”

“That’s a you problem,” you replied dryly, flipping a page in your report.

He scoffed. “I’ve been waiting for you to finish this thrilling masterpiece for hours. I think I’ve been pretty damn patient.”

“Two hours isn’t exactly heroic patience, Leo,” you countered, scribbling another note.

Leo’s footsteps padded closer, and you felt his presence loom over your shoulder. He reached out, picking up a random page from your pile.

“This is so dull,” he whined, scanning the report. “‘Anomaly contained with assistance from Jabberwock Ghouls.’ Yawn. Can’t you spice it up a little? Throw in something fun, like how I swooped in to save the day?”

“You tripped over your own feet during that case,” you shot back, snatching the paper from his hands and placing it back on the desk.

“Details,” he dismissed, leaning down so his chin almost rested on your shoulder. “Come on, Honor Roll. Take a break. This isn’t due until tomorrow, right?”

“Yes, but I don’t want to be up all night finishing it.” You tried to focus on the page in front of you, but his closeness made it impossible to concentrate. “Go do a livestream or something.”

“But I want your attention,” he said, his voice dropping into a lower, more petulant tone. “You’re always so fucking serious when you’re working.”

“That’s because I actually work, Leo,” you teased, giving him a quick glance. “Unlike some people.”

He gasped mockingly. “How dare you? I’m a very influential member of society.”

You snorted, but before you could fire back, you felt his hands on the back of your chair, spinning it around to face him. His smirk was wider now, his eyes glinting with a mixture of playfulness and determination.

“Leo, I’m working,” you reminded him, trying to turn the chair back around, but he held firm.

“Correction: you were working,” he said, leaning down until his face was inches from yours. “Now you’re taking a break.”

“Leo—”

The rest of your sentence was cut off as his lips pressed against yours, soft and warm and utterly distracting. His hands slid to the arms of your chair, trapping you in place as he kissed you with a slow, deliberate intent.

It was unfair how easily he made you forget everything else. The report, the deadline, the fatigue—all of it dissolved under the weight of his touch. You let out a muffled protest, but it quickly melted into a sigh as his fingers brushed your jaw, tilting your face up for a better angle.

When he finally pulled back, his smirk was infuriatingly smug. “See? Way more fun than that boring ass paperwork.”

You blinked, trying to gather your thoughts. “You can’t just kiss me to stop me from working.”

“Uhh, yeah I can?” he countered, leaning in for another kiss.

This time, you placed your hands on his chest, stopping him just short. “Leo, seriously. I need to finish this.”

He groaned dramatically, straightening up and throwing his head back like you’d just told him the world was ending. “You’re so boring Honor Roll. Fine, I’ll just suffer in loneliness over here while you obsess over your precious report.”

“Good,” you replied with a small smile, turning back to your desk. “Suffering builds character.”

You barely had time to write another word before you felt his arms wrap around your shoulders from behind. His lips brushed your ear as he whispered, “You’re going to miss me when I’m gone.”

“Leo—”

And just like that, his lips were on yours again, his weight tipping your chair back slightly as he pulled you closer. You couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled out of you, muffled by his kiss, and he took full advantage of your momentary weakness to deepen it.

This time, you let him win.

When he finally pulled away, you were breathless, and he looked downright triumphant. “There,” he said smugly, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “Now you’re ready to write about how amazing I am.”

You shook your head, smiling despite yourself. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And you’re adorable when you’re flustered,” he replied, pressing one last kiss to your forehead before releasing you. “I’ll leave you alone—for now. But don't keep me waiting much longer.”

As he sauntered off, you turned back to your work, cheeks still warm and lips tingling. You sighed, shaking your head.

Leo Kurosagi: the ultimate distraction.

[imsobadatnicknames2]

To my great surprise, one of my friends expressed interest in DnD, bringing the total people interested including myself to a whopping THREE! Now, I've only played DnD a few times at a game shop and literally no other TTRPGs, but I'd be open in checking out other stuff (and can hopefully persuade my friends)! Would you happen to have any recs for maybe a bit more of an intro/beginners game that one could run with three players total? (If you happen to know any that maximizes a player feeling badass, that'd be neat & appreciated, as I think that's the main draw for them lol). Anyways, thanks for your time :3

Hiiii thanks for your question! So have in mind that I haven't played any of these firsthand because I'm mostly into games that mechanically emphasize disempowerment (the games i run tend to go less for the Found Family of Heroic Misfits Go on an Epic Quest approach and more for the Gang of Amoral Treasure Hunters Get Themselves Killed While Looking For Treasure in a Dark Scary Hole one), so I'm going off mainly from the play experience implied by reading the rules themselves and by what I've heard other people say about them.

First of all Is Quest RPG

I've seen it recommended a couple times by @thydungeongal and after reading a bit of it I have to agree with her assessment that this is the game that most D&D players seem to ACTUALLY want to play when they start invoking Rule 0 and the Rule of Cool and playing fast and loose with mechanics. It's a game where the explicit design intention seems to be natively supporting the style of gameplay that most popular D&D Actual Play shows feature, without any of the negatives of trying to fit 5e's square peg into that particular round hole. It's also available for free, which is pretty nice.

I would also recommend Brighthammer: Rules Light High Fantasy (which is a hack of Sledgehammer: Rules Light Dark Fantasy)

It's a simple system with a d100 resolution mechanic which fits into two eight-page mini-zines, one for the players and one for the GM.

It leans into the heroic fantasy angle specifically by letting players continually accumulate advantage to rolls during combat encounters by performing heroic actions, such as defending an ally or an innocent bystander. This one is also free and it's a pretty quick read so you don't lose anything by checking it out.

Next up is The Basic Hack

This one is a slightly streamlined version of The Black Hack, which itself is a massively streamlined version of early editions of D&D. Just like The Black Hack, it uses D&D's classic six-attribute array and a lot of other mechanical elements that make it pretty easily compatible with a lot of D&D materials while still being a very distinct system of its own, but where it differs from TBH is that it simplifies a lot of its mechanics and overall has a less gritty and more heroic tone.

Lastly there is Break!!, which is the only game in this list that is going to cost you any non-zero amount of money

Break!! has some old-school sensibilities here and there (seems to take some inspiration specifically from games like Cairn and ITO) but aesthetically and tonally it takes most of its cues from fantasy anime and JRPGs. It has a pretty cool-looking setting, and some interesting twists on classic fantasy TTRPG races and classes. You get everything from "basically a D&D fighter with a different name" to "paladin meets magical girl" to "literally an isekai protagonist". Anyway one way in which it leans into making the players feel pwoerful and badass is that its initiative system rewards being proactive in fights: whatever side starts the fight gets to act first, with no checks or rolls required. Also, it handles health depletion on a per-encounter basis. Health regenerates fully imbetween fights, essentially ensures that players always start fights at full strength and gets rid of long-term resource depletion. Which, you know, i like long-term resource depletion for my games, but if what you want to do is feel like badass heroes this is definitely the way to go, and it still has some interesting long-term consequences for running out of health in a fight.

[felassan]

"Journal #3 Dragon Age: The Veilguard is coming October 31 Pre-orders Open Now Hello everyone, We’re excited to finally share the release date for Dragon Age: The Veilguard, which is officially October 31, 2024 worldwide! Please note, this is a simultaneous release; we will announce exact timing at a later date. We want to extend a huge shout out to the Dragon Age community for your patience and enthusiasm; we can't wait for you to jump into the role of Rook and embark on your journey to save Thedas. We know the wait has been long, but the wait will be worth it. In the meantime, we want to give you a hint at what's in store for you in Dragon Age: The Veilguard. You're leading a desperate fight for the future of Thedas with your companions, the stakes are higher than ever. So grab a seat and click on the thumbnail below to watch this brand new trailer (includes some small story spoilers). “As someone who’s been working on Dragon Age for over 15 years, I know just how much our community has been looking forward to this day, and I’m equally excited to share and celebrate that the game will officially launch on October 31,” said John Epler, Creative Director of Dragon Age: The Veilguard. “We wanted to give you the choice to really express yourself, and do that in a world full of adventure and danger. So whether you’re a Warrior, Rogue or a Mage, we can’t wait for you to gear up, gather your party, and set out for another thrilling adventure through Thedas this Halloween.” As a character-driven RPG, Dragon Age: The Veilguard offers you a crafted experience woven from the threads of rich storytelling and fantasy worldbuilding the franchise is known for. In this bold, heroic adventure, you will experience expansive and dynamic stories that navigate love, loss, and complex choices that affect relationships and the fate of each member of the Veilguard. In true Dragon Age fashion, these bonds of fellowship are the foundation upon which Rook’s journey is built, and it will be up to you to determine how their personal story unfolds. Pre-Orders Now Open Fans who pre-order* the Standard Edition of Dragon Age: The Veilguard for $69.99 USD‡ on PlayStation 5 and Xbox Series X|S, or $59.99 USD‡ on PC via Steam, EA App and Epic Games Store will receive cosmetic Blood Dragon Armor sets for Warrior, Mage and Rogue classes. EA Play Pro† members on the EA App will enjoy unlimited access to the EA Play Pro Edition* starting October 31st. Check out the full breakdown of the different editions we have available here: Digital Editions"

"- Standard Edition  - Dragon Age: The Veilguard - PC: $59.99‡| Console: $69.99 USD‡"

"- Deluxe Edition - Dragon Age: The Veilguard - 3 Rook armor sets (cosmetic only) - 6 Rook weapons (cosmetic only) - 7 Companion armor sets (cosmetic only) - 7 Companion weapons (cosmetic only) - PC: $79.99 USD‡ | Console: $89.99 USD‡"

"- Pre-Order Bonus* - All Pre-Orders (Standard & Deluxe) will receive: - Blood Dragon Armor Set (Warrior, Mage, Rogue - cosmetic only)"

- “Rook’s Coffer” Edition (Does NOT include Game) - Lyrium Dagger - Thedas Map with Quiver Tube - Rook’s Deck - Potion Flask - Enchanted Die - $150 USD‡"

"- Vyrantium Pack by Scanavo (Does NOT include Game) - Exclusive SteelBook® Case (No Game) - ICONART™ Metal Print and magnet wall mount - Notebook - Collector’s rigid Outerbox Check in with your local retailer to find out about the availability of this edition in your region"

"The Art of Dragon Age: The Veilguard by Dark Horse (Does NOT include Game, Deluxe Edition shown above)  - Standard Edition - 256-page art book providing a behind-the-scenes look at Dragon Age: The Veilguard - $49.99 USD‡ - Deluxe Edition - Includes extra prints - Includes exclusive slipcase - Alternate cover - $99.99 USD‡ - BioWare Gear Edition - Only available while supplies last, sold exclusively on the BioWare Gear website - Includes an exclusive print - BioWare Gear Edition alternate cover - $55.00 USD‡ What’s Coming?"

"ICYMI, we released our August Roadmap this week! Next week, we’ll have a dive into our game’s combat and more information on our PC Specs. There’s a lot more to come in September and October, too; so keep your eyes peeled on our socials.  We're beyond excited to be on this adventure with you, and we can't wait for you to get your hands on the game. Chat soon. - The Dragon Age Community Team *Conditions & restrictions apply. See https://www.ea.com/games/dragon-age/dragon-age-the-veilguard/disclaimers for details. ‡Offers may vary or change. see retailer site for details. †Conditions, limitations and exclusions apply. See EA Play Terms for details."

[source]

[lesbiansforboromir]

Here's a more compact review of the War of the Rohirrim film for anyone interested! SPOILERS AHEAD!!

Positives;

The backgrounds were all very beautifully painted and the lighting really elevated the character design and smoothed over the janky animation. Where other aspects of the film fall off, often the background artistry and lighting over all of it still manages to convey a very dramatic and immersive moment to the viewer. It's probably the best part of the film.

The part where Helm's ice-ghost phase is teased was really cool and atmospheric and I got a little thrill of what I'd kind of always been wanting from this film.

Frealaf was pretty lovely (what little we got of him) and I appreciated that his darker skin tone was implicitely associated with his Gondorian heritage. I THINK I appreciate the idea that Frealaf's father was Gondorian, though I wish it had been better utilised.

I also really liked the moment where Helm is about to fight Freca and he gives his crown, signet ring and mantle over to Frealaf in this like... symbolic giving up of his Kingship in this moment where his actions are about to make him unworthy of it.

I appreciated Olwyn existing as an older female character in a purely action based roll.

Helm's voice actor and design were pretty cool, I came around to enjoying how much effort they put into making him extremely imposing.

Hama being a twink who was born to be a bard but forced to be a heroic second prince was a nice touch.

General Targg of Dunland might have been my favourite character, inspite of the fact that I am really curious to know where this organised military of Dunland is for him to reach the rank of 'General' in.

Negatives;

Gurl the racism. See here for more details.

The overall narrative seems to me direly lacking in like... basis. I am lead to believe Hera's journey is about her reclaiming her right to choose her own life for herself. But she is never actually pressured into any choice, nor does it appear that her father ever restricted her freedom in any way. So I don't really see where her choices were actually removed to such a degree. If her desire is to see her choices respected by the men in her life, well that never happens for either Helm nor Wulf, who force her to let them die or to kill them, respectively. It feels like in their rush to censor any negative aspects of Helm they kind of removed the reason Hera is frustrated in the first place, he cant be TOO much of a misogynist etc etc.

This is twisted up within 'gurl the racism' but Wulf's manner and presentation make me FEEL like he is a villain we are supposed to mildly feel for? We see him as a child, we see him struggle with what he's doing, we see his clear desperation and despair and hear him talk about loneliness and suffering... but at the end of the day in the way that it is presented Wulf is fundamentally foul and deluding himself and all his problems appear to be of his own making. In general it is extremely uncomfortable for the 'obsessive stalker' villain to also every now and then say 'I am devastated because of how my dunlending blood has been prejudiced against all my life by your family and the wider rohir society' like... by only him mentioning it but it never being actually acknowledged by anyone else it just comes across so shallow and unsettling.

This is a review from my book-biased perspective so understand it within that lense but still gurl... the lore. What the hell do you mean the eagles speak a language only a wizard can understand? No they can just speak! What do you mean there is A watcher in the water in some undisclosed lake in Rohan somewhere? There is one Watcher and it's name is very specific to the doomed Moria expedition! At least give this new squid fellow a rohir name. Speaking of!!

IS IT SO HARD TO NAME ROHIR CHARACTERS IN..... ROHIRRIC?? OLD ENGLISH IS RIGHT THERE... HERA HAS NO MEANING... THERE ARE SO MANY COOL HISTORICAL ANGLO SAXON PRINCESSES YOU COULD CHOOSE FROM...

Included in the 'gurl, the lore' segment but in need of it's own post so I will try to be brief; (Theoden voice) where was Gondor... when a herd of Mumakil were marched by Haradrim mercenaries across the Anduin, up through the Pelennor, across Calenadhon and over Rohan's southern border... did they sneak by... were they stealth Mumakil, did they have elven cloaks too.

But also Where Was Gondor just in general. Like to the detriment of the actual narrative, opening up plot holes that didn't even need to be there, the fact that Gondor is ALSO supposed to be at war right now is completely ignored and discarded.

THE BATTLE OF EDORAS... TF ARE YOU ALL DOING! Like I know it is kind of hypocritical of me to request sensible war tactics when we're adapting Tolkien, he did not give a good example, but like... where were the horse archers, why are you charging down an infantry-only army, why even be on a horse if you aren't going to use greater mobility to your advantage, this isn't a siege, this is YOUR territory this is an open field!! Come on! AND ANOTHER THING, did we really have to make the victory of the Dunlendings over Edoras so disconnected from their own effort? Like betrayal is fine, but this was also a well supplied and competant force, and that was a major part of their victory. These were matched combatants! Just kind of another way in which the dunlendings were robbed of any cohesive motive, narrative or skill.

To my admittedly untrained eye... the animation sucks? Like it's clunky and janky and you can see the frames transitioning between each other, the movements often feel awkward and a lot of the drawings are just bad! The Eagles are SO stiff, as are the horses which seems like a cardinal sin in the Horse Lord Film. And then I couple that with the multiple completely unnecessary spinning camera shots Hera gets which are annoying, superfluous and a bizarre thing to spend time on when the rest of the film needs so much more care and attention. In general the GULF of difference between how beautiful the backgrounds are vs how bland the character art is is kind of jarring.

Hera's design.... I hate it. Look I know it's anime but DID Hera have to have thigh high boots... did she really... Why is she so pale if she's supposedly riding sleeveless across the vast countryside everyday? Can a single supposedly feminist film about a 'wild' female protagonist let that woman be like... dirty, or not so agonisingly thin, or give her messy or god forbid short hair. At one point when she is grabbed by a troll and hung in the air they linger uncomfortably long on her ass which her costume design is specifically designed to allow for maximum viewing detail.

The designs of the Dunlendings, Haradrim and especially the Mumakil are all so grim. Like I liked Freca's design to a degree, it was more potent with symbolism and patterning and such, but the rest of it is just SO FUCKIN- well they're ugly! and therefore evil! Do you get it? The ugly grey animalistic people are evil! The Mumakil have literal red snake eyes just so you know they're 'evil animals'. I can't take it anymore, at one point the guy who Eomer throws a spear at in the trilogy just... turns up, like it's literally just him down to the facepaint. And speaking of...

SHUT UP ABOUT THE PJ TRILOGY, SHUT UP AB- besties this film's intro plays alongside the ring theme... THE RING MUSICAL THEME!!!!?? Lines from the films are reused so often and so WILDLY outside of their actual context and meaning that it makes me flinch.

There is a plump little fellow called Leif who is the royal Page I think and everytime someone called Freca fat in such a vitriolic way I was like wow... I mean Leif is right there guys!

Overall a 4/10 from me, it is a watcheable but shallow film that I suspect was more of a cynical attempt by Warner Bros to keep their death grip on the rights to the books, since I think they would have expired if they didn't do something with them soon.

[featherbreak]

"Here are some of the traditional heroic tropes I went with: ... TWINS BUT ONE TWIN IS A BEEFALO AND THE OTHER TWIN IS A POT OF YOPLAIT ZERO PERCENT YOGHURT" - Tamsyn Muir, re: Gideon the Ninth, Jan. 21, 2019

Ianthe Tridentarius: @eldritchw1tch Coronabeth Tridentarius: @archanonhiru Photos: @featherbreak at Dragoncon 2024

for months i have been anticipating this truly inspired cosplay - directly inspired by that @tazmuir quote - by a dear friend & their actual sibling, & was thrilled to get to capture it at last at DC 2024. pls love them & despair

[stranglethorn-bonfire-bash]

"Once upon a time, on Bonfire Isle..."

We hope you're as excited as we are for the return of the Stranglethorn Bonfire Bash! For our 9th consecutive year, we're thrilled to bring you another summer of creative collaboration, original games, and faction neutral beachside RP on the private server Epsilon!

We're also proud to announce that, for the first time ever, we're doing THREE DAYS of the Bash! Join us Friday 08/23, Saturday 08/24, & Sunday 08/25!

This year we'll divert from the natural and venture into the fantastical with our official theme: FABLES & FAIRY TALES. Dive into stories new and old to draw inspiration from legends both heroic and fearsome, and use those elements to craft a unique themed beachwear look that represents one of our two teams, HEROES & VILLAINS.

Not only is the Art Bash returning, but so is the team-based competition! Get ready to join our official discord on 07/23 so you can pick your team and sign up to participate in 3 weeks of themed art prompts.

Our Charity Art Raffle is returning for its 2nd year, featuring 19 incredible artists who are donating their time and skills to help us raise money for our chosen nonprofit! Full details on the charity and all the artists + prizes coming soon!

More information on everything as well as our full schedule will be released in the coming weeks, so for now, keep your eyes on our socials and check out our site for some answers to your potential questions!

See you soon, beachgoers!

(Thank you to the incredible Grimm, @/nehima on discord, for once again shooting and editing this video!)

[clanwarrior-tumbly]

So i hope its okay... Can i request arven penny nemona and kieran Meeting a pokemon Trainer that is basiclly Pokemon sword/shield MC and maybe hop or marni come to visit? Or it can just be Just the Trainer i wouldn't mind anyway here's the team

A inteleon is kinda like a big brother to the team but still is Sometimes mischevous

Zamazenta who May look cold but is essentialy a big puppy

Gerdevoir who kinda has a sibling like rivaly with with salazle on who's stronger

Salazle who is a little diva but both her or gardevoir will beat you up if you insult the other

And a sylveon and glaceon who are like peas in a pod and will go out to defend the other if something happend

Anyway you don't have to write it if you don't want to since its kinda long and have a good day/night 💜💛

Arven

Apparently saving a region from an ecological crisis wasn't your first rodeo..as you've done this in Galar too.

After sharing stories of how you became champion, prevented Chairman Rose from causing a second "Darkest Day" with Eternatus, revived the Hero Duo (with Zamazenta being living proof), etc...Arven's fully convinced you need a vacation.

Funny enough, Paldea was meant to be your fresh start and a way to begin your studies like a normal kid.

But of course that didn't happen.

Facing the Titan Pokémon together reminds you of the Dynamaxed ones, but you thanked Arceus they weren't that gigantic nor have any brutal G-Max moves.

When it comes to food, Arven learns you can make a mean curry dish, often trading each other recipes.

In fact, you've made so many types that your team is just happy to eat whatever you've cooked up.

Speaking of which..your current team is the same one from Galar. You decided they were ready for a new adventure in a new region by your side.

Inteleon, once a timid Sobble, tended to sneak bites of curry/sandwiches from the others, but otherwise acts like a cool older brother to your team.

His Snipe Shot is deadly and he lowkey missed being able to Gigantamax, although he likes how flashy he becomes when terastalized.

Zamazenta actually enjoys belly rubs, discovering this only after witnessing Arven give Mabosstiff pets on the stomach.

Gardevoir and Salazzle have been rivals since they were a Ralts and Salandit, having a few sparring matches during camps/picnics.

But trust they will BOTH go on the offense if anyone dared hurt the other. Arven witnessed this firsthand down in Area Zero when an Iron Hands attacked Salazzle with a ground move, and Gardevoir's Moonblast absolutely destroyed it.

Finally, Sylveon and Glaceon were two inseparable Eevees. You couldn't catch one without taking the other with you, and ever since then they've stuck together like glue, even evolving at the same time.

When Hop and Marni visited you in Paldea (whether to just travel or study abroad), Arven gets a little jealous that they were your friends before he was..but learns to get along with them.

Penny

Assuming she was studying abroad in Galar (after ditching Team Star) when the events of SWSH took place, she definitely would have seen your face around social media and on nearly ever TV station.

She knew you defeated Leon in the championship.

But she NEVER would've guessed it was you who also stopped the second Darkest Day from happening--and quelled Eternatus, of all things.

It was like you were the protagonist of some epic anime, doing all this heroic stuff yet being so casual when talking about it to her, Arven, and Nemona.

But she wants to hear all about your adventures!

Even though she was a little jealous you did all these cool things while she had to continue her studies.

She's thrilled to meet your Sylveon and Glaceon, finding their strong bond to be sweet and similar to her own Eeveelutions.

If you went to Crown Tundra, she immediately asks if you met her father and apologizes on his behalf if he was too overbearing.

But you amuse her with the story of how Calyrex kept temporarily possessing his body to speak to you.

The first time you brought out Zamazenta, Penny was a little intimidated by the way it looked at her menacingly...

Until it does the same thing Miraidon/Koraidon did to her during Operation Starfall:

And that is tackle her in kisses and icky wolf slobber.

She wonders why all your Legendaries do this to her..

Underneath the gruff, tough, and battle-hardened appearance, it turns out that it's really just a giant puppy longing to be spoiled like a Growlithe.

Nemona

Right from the get-go, she knew you were Galar's most recent champion and wanted to see how you fight.

Of course, that meant you had to adapt from the Dynamaxed battles you were so accustomed to and get used to Terastalized battles instead.

But you're a quick learner.

In fact your Inteleon, despite being at a disadvantage against her Pawmot, still managed to sweep half her team.

Sometimes you'll have your Paldea starter in your party in place of Zamazenta, but when you brought the shield wolf out for the first time during a picnic...Nemona was in awe.

"So THIS is one of the legendary heroes that Ms. Raifort taught us about????" She gawks, especially as you bring out the rusted shield and let it transform.

Penny made a good point: you may as well be a modern-day hero of Galar yourself!

She also wanted to hear all about your trials and tribulations with the gym challenge, having seen your battle on television and how Leon congratulated you for winning the championship.

Ngl it made her tear up the first time she rewatches it with you, proud of how you were still eager to finish it even though the Second Darkest Day interrupted the match and almost destroyed the whole region.

It lowkey made her feel bad when you, her, and the others had to go down to Area Zero and prevent another disaster that would've also unleashed dangerous Pokémon all across the region...

Yeah, you definitely needed a break and a chance to feel like a normal trainer.

And what better way to do that than to battle Nemona again and again?

Kieran

When you first met in Kitakami, you never struck him as the type to be Galar's Champion (as well as its savior from the second Darkest Day--the first one being an event he read about in books).

It's not something you liked to brag about anyways. So you downplayed your experiences while talking to him during the signboard project.

All he knew was that you lived in Galar and participated in the gym challenge. That's it.

Only when you show up to BB Academy does he overhear people talking about you like you're some celebrity, and he realizes you've been keeping even more secrets from him...

"Did you hear?? The Galar Champion is joining the league club!"

"I heard they reawakened Zacian and Zamazenta! They brought the heroes of Galar back to life!"

He refuses to believe it up until the moment you two battle, where Gardevoir and Salazzle worked incredibly well together, before you sent out Zamazenta near the very end.

Ofc Kieran is FURIOUS, screaming about how you lied to him yet again and "never changed".

"You told me you were just a normal kid from Galar...WHAT ELSE HAVE YOU BEEN KEEPING FROM ME?!!"

It's so unfair. You're hailed as a hero in a different region, you held two (and eventually three) champion titles, AND you have Zamazenta on your side...while he's a nobody from Kitakami who gave up so much and worked so hard--only to realize he'll never be even half as great as you.

How could he ever be like you with so many achievements under your belt?

But after you two become friends again (with you apologizing for not fully telling him the truth about yourself), Hop called you in hopes of visiting the academy's Terarium to research the Pokémon there.

You introduce him to Kieran, and they have a long chat about their rivalry with you.

Things get a little awkward when Hop rambles about his constant losses against you and his desires to become stronger (plus his struggle to step out of Leon's shadow), only to find his true calling as a professor in the end.....before asking Kieran how he coped.

"...oh um...I-I didn't really cope that well. I got jealous and bitter and..let's just say I wasn't very nice to [y/n]." He mutters, feeling ashamed.

"Awh really? But you seem like a nice chap now!" Your Galarian rival/friend tries cheering him up, although he understood his pain and felt that same humiliation several times before.

But Kieran did learn a thing or two from him, just like he did from Nemona. Battling was still his calling, but he forgot how to have fun with it, and he needed that reminder.

He mentions trading you an Applin, and Hop does a spit-take, asking if he knew what that meant (or if you told him).

If so, then he congratulates you both on your new relationship.

If not, then you let Kieran google it on your rotomphone...

Before he buries his face into Zamazenta's fur a few seconds later, trying to hide his worsening blush while you and Hop just laugh.