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You're My Angel

$ log - steve rogers thought being the captain meant being in control of his work, his team, and even his intimacy. you weren’t fond of that. so you displayed your reprise in hauntingly beautiful ways, turning the grand captain into a starving spector of his own desires! $ warn --nsfw --dark-angst --fem!reader --dom!reader --sub!steve --obsessive!steve --power-imbalance --emotional-cruelty --worship --voyeurism --sensory-deprivation --blindfold --bondage --begging --verbal-degradation --orgasm-control --riding --teasing --dirty-talk --thigh-riding --clothed-man --semi-naked-reader --no-aftercare --crying $ wc -w 5.5k $ cd masterlist $ echo “recently been thinking of using songs for fic inspo” > authors-note.txt

The breakup hadn't been a clean break; it had been a slow, agonising erosion of everything you had built together.

Steve, the man who used to hold you like you were the only steady thing in a chaotic world, had slowly retreated behind the shield of his own discipline. The "Captain" had moved in, replacing the lover with a tactician. Every conversation felt like a briefing; every moment of vulnerability was met with a rigid, stoic wall.

He was so focused on being the leader, on being "correct" and "stable," that he had forgotten how to simply be with you.

When he finally said it was over that the friction between your wild spirit and his structured soul was too much to manage his voice hadn't even trembled. He was firm and resolute. And he had left you feeling like a casualty of a war you never wanted to fight.

Weeks later, the sting of that rejection was still a raw wound, but it was being replaced by a feverish, desperate need to feel alive.

You were in a dimly lit office, the air thick with the scent of old paper and the heavy, rhythmic pulse of Massive Attack’s Angel drifting from a nearby speaker. The song was a low, hypnotic thrum, the vocals repeating like a mantra: “Love you, love you, love you...”

You weren't thinking about Steve. You weren't thinking about the rigid man who had prioritised his duty over your heart. You were focused entirely on the man beneath you, your hands tangled in his hair as you rode him with a ferocity that felt like a reclamation of your own body.

You were uninhibited, loud, and utterly unravelled, your hips grinding against his with a primal hunger that left no room for the "tactical" restraint Steve had always insisted upon.

And then, through the haze of pleasure, you felt it. A gaze.

It was a heavy, unmistakable weight pressing against your skin, a heat that didn't belong to the man beneath you. You didn't pull away; instead, you leaned into it, your eyes lashing open to find the sliver of space between the heavy metal filing cabinets.

There he was.

Steve was a shadow among shadows, his large frame partially obscured, but there was no mistaking that gaze. He wasn't walking away. He wasn't acting like the composed, disciplined Captain who had broken your heart with a steady hand. He was standing there, paralysed, his eyes glazed and dark with a hunger so profound it felt predatory.

He was watching you watching the way your skin flushed, the way your breasts heaved, the way you gripped the stranger's hair to pull him into your heat.

As the song swelled, the bass vibrating through the floor and up into your thighs, you did something deliberate. You didn't hide. You locked your eyes onto his, a silent, devastating challenge thrown through the darkness. You didn't break the rhythm, you just intensified it.

You ground your hips harder, a low, triumphant moan tearing from your throat as you watched the way his pupils blown wide, nearly swallowing the blue of his irises. You were showing him exactly what his "tactical" decisions had cost him.

You were showing him the fire he had tried to dampen with his discipline, and as the song's hypnotic loop of “love you, love you, love you” filled the room, you saw the exact moment the Captain died and the obsessed man was born.

He was witnessing the beautiful, terrifying wreckage of his own restraint, and the sight of you unbound, unashamed, and utterly indifferent to his presence was driving him into a madness he was only beginning to understand.

Steve’s breath was a jagged, silent thing in his lungs, trapped behind a jaw that was grinding so hard it ached. The Captain, the man of protocol, the man who would have turned on his heel at the first sign of a breach in decorum was nowhere to be found. In his place was a man being systematically dismantled by the sight of his own loss.

His eyes were frantic, tracing every inch of the stranger’s hands as they roamed over your skin. He watched the way those fingers dug into the soft swell of your hips, bruising the flesh he used to worship with such reverence.

He watched the way the man’s palms slid up your thighs, and a violent, possessive surge of adrenaline hit Steve so hard he felt lightheaded. He wanted to reach through the gap in the cabinets, to wrap his massive hands around that man’s wrists and tear him away from you, to reclaim the territory that was rightfully his.

But he was a prisoner of his own making, rooted to the floor by a cocktail of shame and a hunger so primal it felt like a physical ache in his marrow.

Every time your lips parted to let out a high, breathless moan, Steve felt a phantom sensation against his own mouth, as if the sound itself were a caress. He could almost feel the heat of your breath, the slick friction of your skin, the very essence of your pleasure vibrating through the air and settling deep in his gut.

He watched you lean back, your spine arching in a beautiful, desperate curve as you guided the man’s mouth to your chest. The sight was a goddamn execution. He had thought he was being strong, being the "right" thing by ending a relationship that felt too chaotic, too unmanageable.

But as he stood there in the dark, his trousers straining painfully against his thighs and his heart hammering a frantic, uneven rhythm, he realised he hadn't been strong; he had been starving. He had thought he was providing stability, but he had only succeeded in creating a void that was now being filled by someone else's touch.

The sheer, unadulterated filth of the moment the way you looked at him with that knowing, mocking glint while you took everything that man had to offer was a slow acting poison in his veins. Not just any sense of lust dreaded him, it was a terrifying, obsessive realisation that he didn't just want you back in his life; he wanted to be consumed by you.

He wanted to lose the Captain, lose the discipline, and drown in the very chaos he had once tried to tame. As the song reached its crescendo, the repetitive, haunting “love you, love you, love you” seemed to echo the frantic, desperate pulse in his own throat. He stood there, a silent, aching witness to his own undoing, knowing that from this moment on, the very foundation of his self control was crumbling.

He was a man built on order, yet here he was, finding a perverse, agonising divinity in the disorder of your pleasure.

Every time the stranger’s hands gripped your waist, Steve’s jaw tightened until his teeth ached, his eyes burning with a silent, possessive fury. He was watching a goddamn heist, witnessing the theft of his own soul by a man who didn't even know the value of what he was holding.

The breakup hadn't brought him the peace or the clarity he had so arrogantly promised himself — it had only stripped away his armor, leaving him raw, exposed, and utterly, hopelessly obsessed with the woman who was currently making a stranger scream her name.

The Avengers' penthouse was a blur of expensive champagne, loud laughter, and the artificial hum of high society celebration, but for you, the room felt strangely quiet. You leaned against the marble countertop of the bar, the condensation from your cocktail chilling your palm, while your eyes remained fixed on the man looming over you.

Steve Rogers was a man of legendary composure, but tonight, the Captain was nowhere to be found.

He was dishevelled, his tie loosened, his eyes bloodshot and heavy with a desperate, uncharacteristic haze. He had been drinking too much, by his usual standards and the scent of mead and something primal, something purely Steve, rolled off him in waves.

He was hovering over you, barely standing strong, his massive frame crowding your personal space until you could feel the radiating heat of his body. His hands were trembling slightly, hovering just inches from your waist, as if he were terrified that if he actually touched you, he would lose the last shred of his goddamn dignity.

"Steve," you said, your voice smooth and cool, a sharp contrast to the frantic energy rolling off him. You took a slow, deliberate sip of your drink, your eyes tracing the desperate line of his jaw. "You're making a scene. Or at least, you're making a very loud silence."

"To hell with the scene," he rasped, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly register that used to make your knees weak. He leaned in closer, his forehead almost touching yours, his breath warm and smelling of expensive alcohol. "To hell with all of it. I can't... I can't do this anymore, sweetheart. Watching you from the edges of rooms, catching glimpses of you through cracks in doors... it's killing me. It's fucking destroying me."

His hands finally made contact, his fingers twitching against the silk of your outfit at your waist as if he were afraid you might vanish if he gripped too hard.

"Just one night," he whispered, the words a broken plea against the shell of your ear. "Give me just one fucking night. Let me have you again. Let me taste you, let me savor you... please. Just let me feel you properly, without the shadows, without the distance. I'll do anything. I'll be whatever you need me to be, just don't make me watch you from the dark anymore."

The desperation in his voice was a physical thing, a raw, unpolished ache that stripped away every layer of the legendary Captain. He looked undone, his blue eyes searching yours with a terrifying intensity, begging for a mercy he hadn't earned.

You set your glass down on the marble with a soft clink, the sound cutting through the heavy tension between you.

You didn't smile, and you didn't soften; instead, you tilted your head, meeting his frantic, searching gaze with a dark, unreadable expression. You let the silence stretch between you, a heavy, suffocating thing that made him swallow hard, his throat working visibly. He looked like a man on the brink of a total collapse, a soldier who had survived a hundred wars only to be brought to his knees by a single look from you.

"One night, Steve?" you mused, the words tasting like honey and iron. You reached out, your fingers tracing the sharp, stubbled line of his jaw, watching his eyes flutter shut at the mere ghost of your touch. "You think you can just walk back in here and ask for a reprieve after everything? After you decided we were too much of a tactical error to sustain?"

"I was a fool," he choked out, his hands finally tightening on your waist, pulling you a fraction of an inch closer, though he still didn't dare press his full weight against you. "I thought I could control it. I thought if we were disciplined, if we were careful, we wouldn't break. But all we did was starve. I'm starving, sweetheart. Please."

You let out a slow, amused breath, your fingers still tracing the line of his jaw. "You really are desperate, aren't you?"

"I'm dying," he admitted, his forehead dropping to rest against yours. "I'm fucking dying for you. I don't care what it takes. Just tell me what you want."

You let a small, dangerous smile play on your lips, one that didn't reach your eyes. You could feel the heat of his desperation, the way his pulse thrummed in the fingertips that gripped your hips. He was a man of iron, yet he was melting in your hands, begging for the very thing he had once thought was too much to handle.

"One night," you repeated, your voice a low, silky command that made him shiver. You leaned in, your lips brushing the shell of his ear, a teasing, ghost-like contact that made him groan low in his throat. "But it won't be the way you remember it, Steve. There will be no more 'Captain' in the bedroom. No more leading, no more structure, no more tactical restraint. If you want me, you have to accept that you aren't the one in control. You'll have to follow my lead, and you'll have to endure exactly what I decide you deserve."

You pulled back just enough to see the flicker of apprehension in his eyes, a momentary shadow of the man who loved order, before it was swallowed whole by a ravenous, desperate hunger. He didn't even hesitate.

e didn't ask for the terms; he didn't ask for the price. He simply nodded, his forehead dropping to rest against yours, his breath hitching in a ragged, broken rhythm.

"Anything you want," he breathed, the words a ragged, desperate prayer against your skin. He was so close you could feel the heat radiating from his chest, the frantic thrum of a heart that had been beating only for the memory of you for far too long. "Just don't make me wait another second. Don't make me go back to watching from the dark."

You let your gaze linger on his mouth, watching the way his lips trembled with the sheer effort of not lunging at you. The power was intoxicating the Captain, the man who could command armies, was reduced to a trembling mess by a few whispered promises. You reached up, your thumb grazing his lower lip, pulling it down just enough to reveal the white of his teeth.

"But remember, Steve... the conditions are non negotiable. You will be mine to command. I will be the one who decides when you can taste me, and when you can finally touch me. You will be a spectator to your own hunger, Steve. You will watch, you will listen, and you will wait until I decide you've suffered enough."

His eyes widened, a flicker of pure, unadulterated terror dancing in the blue depths, but it was instantly eclipsed by a surge of ravenous, desperate compliance.

He didn't care about the cruelty in your voice; he didn't care that you were essentially promising to torture him. He only cared that you were finally, finally looking at him with that dark, possessive intent.

"Then let me suffer," he rasped, his voice a low, gravelly wreck of its former self. He leaned in, his nose brushing yours, his breath hot and smelling of whiskey and longing. "God, sweetheart, just let me suffer for you. Just don't leave me in the dark. Just let me be yours. Completely."

He was practically vibrating, his large hands trembling where they gripped your hips, as if he were trying to anchor himself to the earth before he spiraled away into the sheer intensity of your presence. The Captain was gone; there was only a man, stripped of his shield and his dignity, offering up his very soul in exchange for a single night of your mercy.

You leaned in, your lips brushing against his ear, letting your breath hitch just enough to make him shudder. "Then come home, Steve," you whispered, the command of a velvet trap.

You pulled away before he could catch his breath, leaving him reeling in the wake of your command. With a final, enigmatic smirk, you turned on your heel, slinking effortlessly back into the sea of Avengers and high society guests. You didn't look back, moving with a predatory grace that left a trail of heat in your wake.

As if the universe itself were mocking his desperation, Natasha leaned over the DJ booth, a mischievous glint in her eyes as she transitioned the music. The heavy, hypnotic bass of Massive Attack’s Angel began to thrum through the floorboards, the haunting vocals drifting through the crowded room like a ghost.

“Love you, love you, love you...”

Steve stood frozen, a man caught in the gravitational pull of a star he had foolishly tried to ignore. He watched the sway of your hips as you disappeared into the crowd, the rhythmic pulse of the bass vibrating in his very marrow.

The song was a cruel, beautiful echo of the filing cabinet, a haunting reminder of the voyeur he had become.

He reached for his glass, his hand trembling slightly as he swigged the amber liquid, the burn of the mead doing nothing to soothe the fire you had left smoldering in his gut. He didn't care about the party, the heroes, or the mission. His mind was already miles away, in the quiet, suffocating tension of his own apartment, waiting for the moment you would arrive to claim your prize.

As the chorus swelled again “Love you, love you, love you” Steve closed his eyes, a grim, desperate smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

He was already counting the minutes until the darkness of his living room could finally swallow him whole, leaving him alone with the ghost of your scent and the beautiful promise of your vengeance.

The silence of Steve’s apartment was heavy, thick with the scent of sandalwood, expensive bourbon, and the intoxicating, muskier aroma of your skin. The only light came from the dim, amber glow of a single lamp, casting long, dancing shadows.

Steve was a prisoner of your design.

He sat in the heavy leather armchair, fully clothed in his dark jeans and a soft henley, but his dignity had been stripped away long ago. His wrists were bound tightly behind the small of his back, the cord biting into his skin every time he strained forward, and his own tie as a blindfold, pressed against his eyes, plunging him into a world of pure, excruciating sensation.

He couldn't see you, but he could feel you. He could feel the heat of your body, the weight of you, and the devastating friction of your clit grinding rhythmically against his thick, denim clad thigh.

You were a phantom of pleasure, a teasing, beautiful torment. You were semi naked, the cool air of the apartment biting at your skin, but you were burning from the inside out. Every time you arched your back, letting out a low, melodic moan that sounded exactly like the woman he had loved before he let his discipline turn him into a stranger, you felt him shudder beneath you.

"You're so quiet, Steve," you whispered, your voice a sultry, mocking caress near his ear. You leaned down, your breasts brushing against his shoulder, and for a heartbeat, he lunged forward, his blindfolded head tilting desperately toward your mouth. "Do you want to taste me? Do you want to see how much you've missed?"

But just as his lips were inches from yours, you leaned back, pulling your heat away from him, leaving him grasping at nothing but the scent of your sweat and the nothing but the scent of your sweat and the hollow ache in his chest.

"You're such a voyeur, aren't you, Steve?" you teased, your voice dropping to a dark, velvety purr as you ground your hips down harder, a sharp gasp escaping you. "Even now, tied up and blind, you're just consuming me with your senses. You're watching with your ears, aren't you? Listening to how much you've missed this."

A low, broken sound tore from Steve’s throat a desperate, gravelly rasp that made your skin prickle. "Please," he choked out, his chest heaving, the fabric of his henley straining against his muscles. "God, sweetheart, please... just a touch. Let me feel your hands. Let me feel you."

He strained against his bindings, his knuckles white, his entire body vibrating with a need so intense it was almost violent. He knew not to tear past them, those were your rules. If he applied his super strength tonight, you’d just leave his promised night. "I'm losing my mind... please. Just one kiss. Let me taste how much you're aching for me."

You let out a soft, triumphant laugh, the sound vibrating against his skin as you increased the tempo of your hips. You were close, so agonisingly close to the edge, and the friction of your wetness against his heavy denim was driving him to the brink of madness.

You could feel the dampness spreading on his jeans, the heat of his arousal pressing back against you, but you denied him the satisfaction of a real connection.

"You'll get your kiss when you've learned your lesson," you breathed, your voice breaking as your own pleasure began to peak. "You'll get everything you want when you realise that you don't get to command the tide. You just have to endure the tide. You just have to endure the swell."

You were losing yourself now, the world narrowing down to the friction of his thigh and the desperate, ragged sound of his breathing. Your head fell back, your eyes fluttering shut as the first wave of your orgasm crashed over you.

You didn't call out his name; you didn't give him the satisfaction of a verbal surrender. Instead, you let out a long, shuddering moan that seemed to vibrate through the very air of the room, a sound so raw and uninhibited that Steve let out a strangled, broken cry of his own, his body arching violently against the chair in a futile attempt to reach you.

As you peaked, your hips stuttering in a frantic, beautiful rhythm, the music seemed to swell in sympathy, the bass thumping like a heavy, wounded heart. The haunting, repetitive loop of the chorus filled the void you left behind, wrapping around the tension in the room like a shroud

From the street far below, the muffled, rhythmic thrum of a passing car’s stereo drifted up through the open window, a ghostly echo of the song that had haunted your every encounter. The bass was low, a distant heartbeat, but the vocals were unmistakable, drifting into the apartment like a haunting prayer.

“Love you, love you, love you...”

Steve let out a sound that was less a human noise and more a wounded animal’s cry. He lunged forward, his blindfolded face straining toward you, his head tilting desperately as if he could find your lips through sheer, agonizing will. He began to muzzle toward you, his breath hot and frantic against your lips, his voice a wrecked, gravelly whisper that barely transcended the sound of the distant music.

"Love you... god, I love you so fucking much it's killing me," he rasped, the words stumbling out of him, raw and unpolished. He was a man stripped of his shield, his dignity, and his very soul, reduced to a creature of pure, unadulterated need. "Please... just one touch. Let me feel you. Let me be yours again."

You let out a low, dark chuckle, a sound that was more a predator's purr than a lover's response. You leaned down, your lips hovering just a fraction of an inch from his, close enough that he could feel the heat of your breath, but far enough to keep him in a state of exquisite torture.

"Is that so, Captain?" you teased, the title sliding off your tongue like a silken blade. "Is that the man who broke us? The man who thought he could discipline his way into a perfect life and leave the beautiful, messy parts of us behind?"

"Don't call me that," he groaned, a desperate, pained sound that vibrated through his entire frame. He strained against the ties at his wrists, his muscles bunching and corded under his skin, his head thrashing slightly as he tried to find the source of your voice. "Don't call me that... please. Not the Captain. Just Steve. Just your Steve. Please... just let me hold you."

But you only leaned back further, the cool air of the room hitting your heated skin, leaving him to chase the ghost of your warmth. You watched him, a beautiful, broken monument to his own pride, as he continued to mumble those three words love you, love you, love you over and over, a broken mantra that matched the distant, ghostly echo of the song drifting up from the street. He was a man drowning in the very ocean he had tried to tame, his voice a wrecked, gravelly whisper that barely transcended the sound of the music.

The air in the apartment was thick, heavy with the scent of musk, sweat, and the salt of your skin. Your breathing was a series of jagged, shallow hitches, the sound of a woman who had just been hollowed out by her own pleasure. Beneath you, Steve was a wreck of a man. His breath was a continuous, broken rasp, a desperate litany of your name that sounded more like a prayer than a plea.

"Please... sweetheart... just once," he choked out, his voice a gravelly ruin. He was so hard it felt like his very bones were aching, the friction of his denim against your wetness providing a torture that was almost more than he could bear. He was on the precipice, teetering on the edge of a devastating release; he knew, with a terrifying certainty, that if you had so much as brushed your lips against his, he would have come so hard he might have lost consciousness.

He needed the contact.

He was on the tip of his tongue to beg again, to scream your name until his throat bled, but the words died in his mouth as he felt the sudden, devastating shift in weight.

You lifted off his thigh, the absence of your heat feeling like a physical blow to his chest. There was no lingering caress, no soft whispered "goodnight," no "I love you" to anchor him to the moment. There was only the wet, cooling mess of your orgasm soaking into the denim of his jeans and the heavy, intoxicating scent of your sex hanging in the air like a taunt.

Then came the sound of you moving the casual, indifferent rustle of your clothes, the soft padding of your feet across the floor. He sat there, blind and bound, listening to the terrifyingly calm rhythm of your departure. He heard you rummage for your things, the clink of his keys, and then, the final, soul crushing sound: the click of the door latching shut.

The silence that followed was absolute, a deafening void that seemed to swallow the very air in the room. For a moment, Steve simply sat there, paralysed, his lungs burning as he tried to process the sudden, freezing emptiness where your heat had been.

The scent of you — that intoxicating, primal mix of skin and arousal was still everywhere, mocking him, a ghost of the pleasure he had been denied.

Driven by a sudden, violent surge of desperation, he began to fight. He strained against the bindings at his wrists with a ferocity that made the tendons in his forearms pop, his breath coming in panicked, ragged bursts. He wasn't a soldier anymore; he was a man drowning in the dark. With a guttural, animalistic grunt, he finally felt the cord snap, the sudden release of tension sending a jolt through his entire body.

He scrambled, his hands shaking so violently he could barely coordinate his fingers to claw at the blindfold, ripping the silk from his eyes with a frantic, uncoordinated jerk. The sudden influx of dim, moonlight filtered air felt cold and abrasive against his stinging skin.

He reached out, his large hands grasping at the empty air, sweeping across the seat of the chair where you had just been, searching for a phantom warmth, a lingering trace of your skin, but he found only the cold, indifferent stillness of the room.

He slumped forward, his strength deserting him all at once, and buried his face in his trembling hands. The silence of the apartment was a physical weight, pressing down on his shoulders, crushing the breath from his lungs.

He was the Captain. He was a man who had faced gods and monsters without flinching, a man of unbreakable will and iron discipline. But as he sat there in the wreckage of his own desire, the sheer, agonizing loneliness of the moment finally broke him.

Small, quiet tears began to roll down his cheeks, disappearing into the rough stubble of his jaw. He wasn't a man who wept; he was a man who endured, a man who stood as a bulwark against the chaos of the world. But this was a different kind of warfare. This was a siege on his very soul, and he had been left completely undefended.

He sat there in the wreckage of his own longing, the dampness of his jeans a cold, mocking reminder of how close he had been to the edge, and how far you had let him fall. The apartment, once a sanctuary of order and quiet strength, now felt like a tomb, haunted by the scent of your skin and the echo of your moans.

He had wanted to be the one in control, to be the one who dictated the terms of their reunion, but as he sat in the dark, broken and undone, he realized the truth. You hadn't just taken his dignity; you had taken his very soul and left him to wander the ruins of what they used to be.

He was a man who had survived the frozen wasteland of the Atlantic and the chaos of cosmic wars, yet he was utterly defeated by the silence of a closed door. He sat there, broken in the dim light, the salt of his tears stinging the cracks in his lips as he realised that the "one night" you had promised wasn't a gift, it was a sentence.

You had given him exactly what he asked for, and in doing so, you had proven that he was no longer the man who could hold you; he was merely the man who was allowed to ache for you.

Steve sat there in the wreckage of his own longing, the dampness of his jeans a cold, mocking reminder of how close he had been to the edge, and how far you had let him fall. His gaze, blurred by the salt of his tears, drifted aimlessly across the dimly lit room until it snagged on something glinting on the floor near the edge of the coffee table.

His breath hitched, a broken, jagged sound in the hollow silence. There, amidst the shadows, lay the shards of a delicate crystal angel. It was a beautiful, fragile thing, a gift he had bought for you in a moment of uncharacteristic, soft vulnerability, intended to represent the grace he saw in you.

But it had been shattered, a casualty of the night you had stormed out of this very apartment, the day he had arrogantly decided that "order" was more important than "us." The crystal had splintered into a thousand jagged pieces, much like the man sitting before him.

"Oh, sweetheart..." he whispered, a broken lament that seemed to dissolve into the heavy air. He reached out a trembling hand toward the shards, his fingers hovering just above the sharp, crystalline edges, as if he could somehow piece the broken angel back together with the sheer force of his regret.

But the light caught the jagged fragments, a cruel reminder that some things, once shattered by pride, could never truly be made whole again.

The silence of the apartment was too much to bear, a vacuum that sucked the very life from his lungs. The only thing keeping him tethered to reality was the distant, ghostly melody drifting in through the open window from the street below. It was the same song, the same haunting rhythm that had followed him from the party to this hollow room.

“Love you, love you, love you...”

As the night deepened, the music from the street began to fade, the distant car driving further into the dark, the night. The haunting chorus drifted away, the volume sinking lower and lower as the car disappeared into the city's shadows, leaving Steve alone with the crushing weight of the silence.

He sat there, staring at the broken crystal angel, the last notes of the song dissolving into the wind, leaving him with nothing but the echo of his own grief and the cold, empty room.

# fic inspo

$ tag @twentytomidnight @froggibus

$ cd masterlist

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I am shit at titles.