#like the idea of him listening to some metal song about hating people while scribbling him killing his mother and jeremiah in his diary

[ozymoron]

i hc jerome was an edgy bitch while in the circus like not edgy as in emo but like edgy as in listens to a lot of nu-metal type of edgy

[troop-scoop]

Youth II

Chapter Two -  Common Interest

Word count: 2.9k

Series Summary: On a family trip to your dad’s home town of Hawkins, Indiana, you make a series of decisions that result in you ending up in the year 1983 with more questions than there are answers presently available.

Pairing: Steve Harrington x Female Reader ( slow burn )

Chapter Summary: With the disappearance of Will Byers, you lend a helping hand to try an find the missing 12 year old boy. 

A/n: forgive me for posting a second chapter on the same day as the first. I just need to get this one out before I lose my mind. 

⟛⟛

You’d spent plenty of time staring off into space with your thoughts racing, you’d done it plenty at school, but this wasn’t right, it didn’t feel right and you hated it. Sure, you had plenty of odd experiences growing up, things you used to think were normal for other people, but apparently, they weren’t. And when you’d realized that, you kept them to yourself. But this wasn’t just something you were seeing, this was real, and you knew it, and everything else paled in comparison to this level of oddness.

Why was it always small towns? When you hear about missing people or cold cases that seem to throw police and detectives for a loop it always took place in small towns, quiet ones that people described as great to raise your kids in, places people settled down in to get away from the big cities.

When you’d been getting things together to leave for the day, you’d briefly heard about a missing kid, but hadn’t heard the name before you were slamming the motel door behind you to get to school, hopping down the walkway to the stairs trying to get your shoes on.

It wasn’t right, you would have known about this. Wouldn’t you? Sure, your dad never really talked much about his home town unless it was fond memories with his childhood friends, your uncles, but this was huge, something that should have at least been mentioned.

You had zoned out of the conversation happening next to you, ignoring every detail about the party Steve was throwing that night. You’d already declined on going to, much to both Steve and Carol’s disappointment. Carol mentioned how she was desperate to have another girl in their friend group, while Steve didn’t have much to say, just saying to come with him to find Nancy Wheeler.

“Oh, God, that’s depressing.”

Steve’s tone wasn’t what you would consider empathetic, it was rather that of someone who didn’t want to see what was happening.

Tommy, Barbara, Nancy, Steve, and Carol all looked to the subject of your staring, their eyes all landing on Jonathan Byers using a thumbtack to put a missing person flyer on the bulletin board near the front office.

“Should we say something?” Nancy questioned.

“I don’t think he speaks.”

“How much you want to bet he killed him?” At that, you turned your head and glared at Tommy, as Steve hit his chest a friendly yet serious “Shut up.” being said before you turned back to look at Jonathan.

Nancy walked towards him, leaving the rest of you to stand and wait. The only real thing you could think about was how when you were 11, you had been with your parents, uncle, aunt and cousins, helping your uncle and aunt pack things to move to a new house, and when you’d been left alone, you’d found a box full of old things and you’d dug through it, curiosity getting the best of you. You’d gotten to an old yearbook, labeled ‘1984-1985.’ and before you could ever flip through half of it, your uncle had snatched it away from you, and without saying a word, he’d grabbed the box and left the room.

“You alright?” Barabara asked you, reaching out to hold your shoulder, it brought the other three’s attention to you as well. You didn’t really know Barbara, but you knew she had good grades, and sometimes tutored students in the library after school.

“Yeah, peachy.” was your response, turning your attention back to the conversation Nancy was having with Jonathan, everything being said completely unknown to all of you with the distance.

The bell rang, and students began to frantically move, like cockroaches when you turned a light on. Scattering as quick as they could, but Barabara kept a hand on your shoulder, and in your peripheral vision you could make out her concerned look. Watching as Nancy came back over to the group of students Barbara took her hand off of your shoulder, everyone turning to walk down the hall once Nancy was there. But you were stalling, taking slow uneasy steps, barely keeping your eyes off of Jonathan, but when you knew that the group of students wouldn’t notice you weren’t with them, you turned back around, to see Jonathan heading for the doors.

“Jonathan!” You called out, jogging after him, seeing him stop just as he reached the metal and glass door. Catching up you placed your hands on your hips, trying to think of what to say. “Where we going?”

“What?” Jonathan questioned, brows furrowed as he looked at you, both his hands on the push bar of the door.

“Where we going? Wanna hear it French? Ou Allons nous?”

“We are not going anywhere. You have to go to. . .” Jonathan looked at the small notebook you held between two fingers, reading the angry red scribble on the front that said ‘Math’ “Mr. Swann’s?”

You breathed out through your nose, dropping your notebook. “Not anymore. Where are we going? This is about your brother, right? I wanna help.”

Jonathan sighed a bit, looking down at the linoleum floor before back up at you. “Why?”

“Common interest.” You told him.

“Our English project doesn’t have anything to do with-”

“This isn’t about Romeo and Juliet, moron. This is about your brother. Listen I just. . . everything about this, makes my stomach churn, I need to see him come back home alive. See? Common interest.”

Jonathan gave an absent-minded nod, the look on his face telling you he knew that feeling. “Indianapolis.” He told you, opening the door and barely stepping out, with you hot on his heels. But he stopped suddenly, turning back to you, holding a finger up. “But you stay out of it, Lonnie isn’t too friendly, and I've seen him angry. If I tell you to go back to the car, you go, understand?”

“You’re not my dad, if I see things start going south, I’m getting both of us out of there.” You told him. “Teamwork makes the dream work, now go before I stomp on your shoes, and there’s no guarantee that I won’t give you a flat tire on the way to the car.”

⟛⟛

Sitting in the passenger seat, you looked to the radio, eyes on the station number as the familiar intro to a song began on the radio. The first time you remembered hearing the song, you were four and had woken up from a nap to the smell of macaroni and cheese, and the sound of your newborn baby brother sneezing in his sleep in the crib on the other side of the room. The music was being played from the living room stereo, loudly. But one thing about being raised by your dads was that you had to adapt to loud music being played. Even Daniel had adapted to it at a few weeks old. You’d gotten out of bed and gotten to the living room, where the stereo was on, and your dad in the kitchen, putting some of the macaroni in one of your bowls and one of his own.

The last time you remembered listening to that song was when your cousins had convinced you to go with them into town, Torrey being the one with the idea, and with her speaker, playing a random playlist. You remembered that she skipped the song halfway through.

Torrey never had a good track record, that was for sure, she was always in trouble, much to your uncle Mike’s dismay. But you and James were always the more reasonable ones out of all of you. But Torrey was the oldest, and as a result, like the older sister, and everyone wanted to be like their cool older sister. So whatever she suggested the lot of you do, you did it.

That always resulted in trouble. The only one who could ever reason with all of you was Uncle Dustin, of course, it had to be the uncle who didn’t have kids. It annoyed Mike, Lucas, and your dad to no end that when with Torrey, they couldn’t get through to any of you.

But, Torrey wasn’t technically your oldest cousin. No, that was Rob. Your uncle’s oldest son. But he was a bit over a decade older than you, so you didn’t really know him all too well. Torrey was almost a decade older, just short two years.

“This the place?” you asked, looking past Jonathan trying to see through the foggy window, rain pouring down onto the pavement outside, and tapping gently on the windows and roof of the car. The fogged-up window told you it was cold out there, and warmer inside.

“Yeah. . .”

“Lonnie’s. . . Who is Lonnie, exactly?” You questioned, unbuckling the seatbelt as Jonathan did the same.

“Our dad,” Jonathan answered, opening his car door and getting out. You reached into the backseat, grabbing your coat as a sudden and startling cool gust of wind hit you, sending goosebumps up your neck and arms. Jumping a bit you looked to the door, seeing that Jonathan had gotten it for you. “Come on.” he rushed you.

You didn’t know if you wanted to go up to the house that the teenage boy was eyeing, you knew that if you’d never heard about Lonnie before, it was for a reason. Likely a good one.

Stepping out of the car, you pulled your jacket on just as Jonathan closed the passenger door for you, heading to the run-down home across the street. You followed shortly after, feeling your ankles begin to get wet as drops of rain-soaked through the canvas material of your shoes.

Standing under the overhang of the front porch you watched as Jonathan looked through the glass of the front door, music from either a television or stereo being hear from outside, over the rain. Jonathan knocked on the door. “Hello?” He shouted.

“Maybe he’s not home?”

Jonathan gave a bitter scoff as he continued to bang on the door insistently before you heard a woman’s voice yell out something indistinct. And before you could process it, the front door was opened.

“Can I help you?” She demanded.

“Yeah, is Lonnie around?” Jonathan asked, his body language giving off just as much attitude as her but his voice remaining calm.

“Yeah, he’s out back. What do you want?”

“To look around.” and with that, Jonathan stepped past her into the house, with you following right behind.

The living area had warm lighting from the lamps, with the absence of an overhead light. And the tv that was small by your standards had M.TV on. It was a mess, with things seemingly tossed around, it felt like the beginning of a hoarder’s home before it got worse and it was filmed for a stupid television show.

“Hey, what do you think you’re doing? Hey!” The woman yelled after the two of you. You were hot on Jonathan’s heels, keeping in mind what he said about his father. You’d rather stick close.

“We’ll be fast, promise!” you told her.

“Hey, Will?” Jonathan questioned, going down the hallway, looking into doorways, calling out his younger brother’s name in a more urgent tone while you gave a longer look into each room.

Jonathan turned around from the last room, shaking his head and looking at you, going to walk back out of the hall. But just as he came to the end, a man slammed Jonathan against the wall, holding the collar of his sherpa jean jacket. You jumped back, just before Jonathan shoved who you were now assuming was Lonnie. “Get off!”

“Damn, you’ve gotten stronger.” The older man gave a shove to Jonathan’s shoulder, looking past the two males you saw the woman from the front door.

“Will someone please explain what the hell is going on?”

Lonnie looked at her, then back at Jonathan and then to you, before doing the opposite. “Jonathan, Cynthia. Cynthia this is Jonathan. My oldest. I don’t know who this little lady is.”

Lonnie shoved Jonathan’s shoulder again before pulling him into a hug. “Get off me, man.” Jonathan pushed him off.

The look on Lonnie’s face was that of pure cluelessness as if he didn’t understand why Jonathan would shove him away like that. But with how Jonathan had briefly spoken about him and how he had just acted, you knew the relationship wasn’t what you’d expect of a father and son.

Lonnie turned his gaze to you, “Who’s she?” He asked, looking to Jonathan again.

“A friend,” you responded. Sure, you and Jonathan weren’t all that close, but in this situation, you were sure he needed one, and even if you weren’t technically ‘friends’ he would know he had someone in his corner. “We’re looking for Will.”

“I already talked to the cops. He’s not here and he never has been.”

“Right, well, I think everyone gets a little nervous when they see and talk to cops, if Will’s here I doubt he would have come out when police were here.”

Lonnie looked as though he was trying to process what you had said. “If it makes you two feel better you can look around.”

“Hm, gladly,” you responded.

Jonathan and you spent a few moments in the rundown house, and once the rain had let up, Jonathan went outside, with you and Lonnie both trailing behind.

“Take a look at this beaut. Should’ve seen it when I got it. Took me a year, but it’s almost done.” Lonnie spoke about the car Jonathan was headed toward, opening the trunk once he reached the back. “Really? Do you want to check up my ass, too? I told you the same thing I told those cops, he’s not here and he never has been.”

“Then why didn’t you call Mom back?”

“I don’t know, I just. . . I assumed she forgot where he was. You know, he was lost or something. That boy was never very good at taking care of himself.”

“This isn’t some joke, all right? There are search parties, reporters. . .”

The way Lonnie was treating the situation made you uncomfortable. He didn’t care. It was clear he didn’t with the new information that Jonathan’s mother had called him, and he never answered or called back, how he lived a two-hour drive away and seemed to be talking about anything else but Will.

“Hopper’s not still chief, is he? Tell your mother she’s gotta get you out of that hellhole. Come out here to the city. People are more real here, you know? And then I could see you more.”

“If you wanted to see them more you wouldn’t have made the choice to live so far away.” You interrupted. You knew full well that had your parents ever split in an ugly way like it seemed Lonnie and Joyce had, neither of your fathers would move so far away that it felt like two different worlds. They’d stay close together so both you and your brother still had both of them. “Sounds like shitty parenting on your part, not her’s.”

Lonnie looked at you and tilted his head. “What? You think I don’t want to see my boys?”

“It’s kinda obvious that you don’t.” You responded, crossing your arms over your chest.

“Has Jonathan let you be around his mother? Because you sound just like her. Speaking of her, does she even know you’re here?” Lonnie turned back to Jonathan. You didn’t even know the answer to that, but Jonathan’s silence was an answer. “Great. So one kid goes missing, the other one runs wild? Some real fine parenting right there. Look, all I’m saying is, maybe I’m not the asshole, all right?”

Though Lonie couldn’t see it, you were glaring at him, but Jonathan could, and he gave you a look before reaching into his shoulder bag, pulling out a poster. A copy of the one he’d put up at school. “In case you forgot what he looks like,” Jonathan grumbled, shoving the poster into Lonnie’s chest as he walked away. Gesturing for you to follow.

The two of you walked around the house instead of through it, with small water droplets coming down once again as you crossed the street to the car.

“He’s a prick.” You mumbled as you passed Jonathan to get to the passenger side. Jonathan stared at you for a second.

“Y/n.”

You had grabbed onto the handle of the car door when he said your name, catching your attention. “Yeah?”

“Why do you care? You’re new in Hawkins, you’ve only been there for a few months, and you care about this more than people who have known me and Will since were kids. You’ve never even seen Will.”

You looked down at the pavement beneath you. The smell of rain invading your nose, calming you down just a bit. “Common interest.” You repeated what you had said before.

He didn’t look convinced with how his face seemed to harden and become far more serious. “Look,” You started, letting go of the handle resting your hands on the roof of the car. “Will’s alive, he has to be. I know he is. If I told you how I know, you’d call me crazy. I care about you, your brother and your mom. Lonnie? Not so much. . . Just. . . trust me, okay?”

Jonathan didn’t say anything or even do anything else in response. He opened the driver’s door and got in his seat, tossing his bag into the back as you did the same, buckling yourself in and looking out the window.

⟛⟛

Add yourself to the taglist!

@stonersteve​ @ilovebucketbarnes​

[ugh-supersoldiers]

Muses

MASTERLIST

Characters: Steve Rogers x reader

Summary: You were what you could easily call an insomniac, but lucky for you there’s a cute coffee shop in your neighborhood that stays open all night. On any other night, you’d be the only one in the place, sipping contently at a latte and writing in your journal, but what happens when a handsome super soldier with a sketchbook draws himself in the picture?

Warnings: Fluff, cuteness overload, bad editting (sorrrrryyy)

Words: 2681

A/N: This was an adoooorable request by @xxred-vengeancexx. I hope this was what you were looking for darling, enjoy xo

Also I’m a sucker for rainy atmospheres so I used a bunch of indie music for inspiration. Like Gregory Alan Isakov and David Gray. Totally recommend you guys listen them!

You hated sleep, mainly because sleep hated you. You’d always consider yourself lucky if you got a couple of hours during the night. Sometimes you’d wake up at an ungodly hour of the morning, unable to fall asleep again. You’d tried sleeping pills, going for walks, even a stint of meditation, but nothing worked. So, you discovered the all hours coffee shop that resided only about a block from your house and went there almost every night - or well, morning.

When you woke this time, you glanced over at your clock to see that it was 5 am, which in your eyes was a surprisingly late start. Instantly, your mind went to coffee. More specifically, your mind went to the caramel latte that was calling your name at the coffee house. 

You flung the covers off of yourself, stripping down from your pajamas and tossing on a pair of leggings and a yellow shirt that was a good four sizes to big. 

Whatever, you thought, not like I’m gonna see anyone I know.

You pulled a pair of boots on and grabbed your phone, shoving it in your purse with your journal and pen and plugged in your headphones so you could began listening to a new indie album you’d just downloaded, figuring you could at least drown out the rain with it. You unhooked the umbrella hanging by your coat and swung the door of your house open, opening up the umbrella and beginning your jaunt to the coffee house.

You hummed along with your music while you tried to keep dry as the subtle rain slowly turned into a downpour. You didn’t really mind all too much, rain had always been calming for you. 

When you reached the familiar coffee shop, your heart soared. You wrapped your fingers around the cold metal door handle and pulled it open with a broad smile on your face.

The sound of the little bell at the top of the door rang into the dimly lit shop as you pulled your headphones out, listening to the ambient musical selection of the shop instead.

“Fancy seeing you here.”

Your head snapped up as you closed your umbrella to see the face of the usual night worker at the place, whose name you hadn’t learned yet, but given your ever growing frequency in visits, you imagined you would soon.

“Nice to see you again.” You smiled warmly at her.

“Usual?” She asked you, turning back to get a cup to steam the milk with for your latte.

“Please.” You replied, delighted that she knew your order.

“Take a seat and I’ll bring it out to you.” 

“I can pay now if you’d like.”

“Don’t worry about it, sweetheart, this one’s on me.”

You were touched by her kindness and thanked her before taking a seat in one of the booths, taking out your journal and writing down more ideas for the new novel you so desperately dreamed of writing.

Within minutes, your latte arrived, with caramel drizzle just how you liked it.

“Thank you so much.” You said with a grin.

“Y’know, I see you in here almost every morning and I still don’t know your name.” She said before walking away.

“(Y/N).” You said, dropping the pen from your grasp to shake her hand.

“Mary.” She said, sharing your smile.

Mary walked back to behind the counter and left you to work feverishly between sips of latte. Your pen scratched against the paper of your notebook with a fury, jotting down every idea for every supporting character that you dreamed up in your head. 

You loved coming up with little narratives like this, but for some reason you were drawing a complete blank on the main plot. Writer’s block was unusual for you, highly unusual. 

You fiddled with the sugar packet that someone had left on the table from likely hours earlier, idly trying to conjure someone up in your head, but nothing came to you. You were so lost in thought that you barely even heard the door chime.

No one ever came in this early unless it was you, and you could see the surprise in Mary’s face when a man enters the shop, taking off his wet leather jacket and resting it over his arm.

“Hi there.” Mary said as a greeting.

“Morning.” He replied.

“What can I get ch’a?”

“Just some coffee would be great.”

“Gotta love a classic.” Mary laughed.

“Y’know, I get that a lot.” The man replied, his back facing you as Mary got him a mug and poured him his coffee. He quickly paid with a 5, telling her to keep the change, which she was very clearly impressed with.

You turned your focus back to your nonexistent plot, that was beginning to frustrate you more than anything else. You could’ve sworn steam was going to come out of your ears until you heard someone clear their throat from beside you.

You glanced upwards to the left to see the man that had just ordered coffee standing at the edge of the remaining booth seat. You, like almost every other human being, would recognize Captain America anywhere, and you were certain that this was him.

“May I?’ He asked quietly.

“‘Course.” You replied, gesturing for him to sit.

He set his cream colour coffee mug down on the table, placing a notebook similar to yours and a pen next to it. He rested his wet jacket over the banister behind his seat and sat down across from you.

You stared at your journal, pretending to flip through the pages to distract yourself from Steve Rogers who was directly in front of you at 5 am on a Saturday morning in your favourite coffee shop. 

“Y’know,” You broke the silence after a few moments, “People nowadays usually don’t choose to sit so close to the only other person in a coffee house.”

He glanced up at you with a picture perfect smile, “Call me old fashioned.”

“That much I gathered.”

You smirked back at him and dropped your eyes down to your journal again, rereading the same sentence over and over again, absorbing absolutely none of the information that you��d scribbled down in chicken scratch.

You aimlessly reached out and grabbed your mug, taking a larger sip than normal. You could feel your face flushing a shade a pink at the result of his presence.

The sound of his pencil scratching against his notebook in long strokes brought your attention to what he was doing. Unlike you and your dot jots, it appeared that he was drawing something.

You become fascinated by the way that he focused on his work, completely absorbed in what he was doing. You tried to peer over the edges of the notebook in an attempt to catch a glimpse of what he was drawing.

“You know, you could just ask to see.” 

You turned an even darker shade of red.

“Didn’t want to pry.” You shrugged, trying to play it off.

“So you thought snooping was less invasive?” You could hear him laugh a bit under his breath.

“It would’ve been less invasive had you not caught me.” You tried to suppress a giggle, once again diverting your eyes to your notebook.

He continued drawing, the dull sound of his pencil against paper filled your ears again. You found a strange comfort in his presence, you admired the way he sipped his coffee as you tried to sneak glances at him without him catching you again. 

You sort of felt like you were in the company of a celebrity, but at the same time, there was the air of calmness that Steve Rogers brought - very literally - to the table, and you enjoyed it immensely. 

“Do you have a name?” He asked as he sketched.

“Who’s prying now?” You laughed, beginning to doodle in the corner of your marked up page.

“Is asking for your name too personal?” He looked up at your from his work, reaching for his coffee and taking a sip.

“What, Captain America doesn’t like a little uncertainty? There’s magic in the mystery, you know.” 

He closed his notebook and rested his pen on top, you mirrored his actions.

“So you won’t give me a name?”

“Nope.”

You weren’t sure exactly why you were playing the game that you were, you just knew that the amused smile on his face made you want to keep at it.

“What if I guess it?”

“That’s against the rules.”

“What rules?” He laughed as he took another sip of his coffee.

“The rules that I made.” You stated.

He shook his head at you and laughed again, a quiet sound that made your heart flutter. Steve Rogers must’ve been the most handsome man you’d ever met in cafe at 5 am. Realistically, he was the only man you’d ever met like this, but even if you’d met others, they wouldn’t have stood a chance.

“You’re an artist?” You inquired, nodding at the black book next to his hand.

“An amateur at best.”

“They say you’re always your worst critic.” You replied, “Makes sense why I hate all of my works.”

“You draw?” He asked.

“I’m a writer,” You said, “One who can’t sleep and who sucks at coming up with plot arcs.”

“I’d say sorry that you can’t get some shut eye, but if you managed to have a normal sleep schedule that means I would’ve missed out on the mystery.” He said.

“Ah, we couldn’t have that.”

A slow song began to beat steadily in the background of the shop and you closed your eyes, enjoying the scent of fresh coffee grounds that filled your nose in combination with the beautiful melody.

“I love this song.” You remarked.

“Never heard it before.” Steve said, “It’s pretty though.”

“One of my friends had her first dance at her wedding to this song.” You told him.

He hummed in reply, “Seems like it would make a nice song for a dance.”

“Oh, it was.” 

“Was it your first dance song too?” 

You opened your eyes to see a glint of mischievousness in his eyes.

“Well,” You said, holding up your left hand to display your ringless fingers, “Typically a wedding takes two people. I am but one.”

“What a shame, I’m sure someone would really love to have someone like you.”

It struck you that Steve Rogers was flirting with you, and your face flushed yet again. You looked back down at your drink to try and camouflage your blush, but you knew he’d already noticed.

“Perhaps.” You said.

“Well, it would be a shame to waste the song.” He stood up from the seat and extended his hand for you to take, “May I have this dance?”

Your eyes went wide at his question. No one had really ever asked you to dance before, especially not in a deserted coffee house.

“I don’t bite.” He urged.

You nodded your head and took his hand, allowing him to lead you onto the empty floor as thunder and lightning rumbled outside.

You rested your arm around his neck, his around your waist, and your free hands joined together. You enjoyed the feeling of his warm body so close to yours, it relaxed you and helped to heat your cold frame from the cold outside.

He swayed you back and forth gently to the beat, humming along to the tune of the song when he picked up on it. You closed your eyes and took in the sound of his voice, that you were already enamored with. 

You could hear his heart beating and the sound of his breath and you let yourself fall victim of the reverie like state you were in. It felt like a dream, like you would wake up at any moment and discover that none of it ever happened. Too good to be true, how else would you describe slow dancing with someone like this?

He spun you outwards, and pulled you back in again, holding you just a little tighter than before, your faces inches a part. You couldn’t explain why he had this effect on you, all you could do was try to keep your knees from buckling.

“(Y/N).” You croaked out when the song came to a finish, “My name is (Y/N).”

Steve smiled down at you, “It’s nice to meet you, (Y/N).”

He lead you back to your booth by the hand, allowing you to sit back down on your side and begin drinking your latte again.

Without another word, he began sketching again in his notebook. You couldn’t look away from him, lost in watching the way his eyes darted along the page as he worked. He met your eyes and smiled at your embarrassment.

“I should get going.” He said with a sigh, wishing that he could sit there and talk to you more about absolutely anything.

You looked slightly disappointed, but nodded your head with a sad smile.

“I suppose, if the world needs saving, you’re the man to do it.” You said with a grin.

He finished up his drawing and placed it on the seat next to him, tearing the page out. 

“I enjoyed this.” He said.

“I did too.” You admitted.

“You know,” He began as he stood from his seat and shrugged his jacket back on, “I think I have an idea for that story of yours.”

“Oh, really?” You asked, crossing your arms over your chest.

“How about you write about a man who has one of the worst sleeps of his life and finds a place to get a cup of coffee where he meets the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen.”

You couldn’t help but beam at his words. You opened your journal again, flipping it to a new page to take notes.

“Continue.” You urged.

“He sits across from her, and she’s captivating but stubborn as hell, definitely a feisty one. So he asks her to dance, and she tells him her name and it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever heard.”

“Uh huh.” You said, scratching down absolute nonsense due to your shaking hand.

“What do you think he should do next?” He asked.

“Well, I think he should know that she’s sort of enamored with him,” As you said this, you watched his cheeks turn pink, “And that she comes in here around this time almost every morning, so if he ever wanted to see her again, he should come back tomorrow.”

Steve’s smile was the best thing you’d ever seen in your life, you couldn’t help but return it.

“Well, it was wonderful meeting you.” He said.

“I’m sure I’ll see you again soon.” You replied.

He bent down to press a kiss to your cheek, “Count on it.”

You heard his footsteps echo away from you, and the bell ring again when the door opened, the sound of the heavy rain rushing outside entered the cafe.

You laughed to yourself and shook your head, processing what had just happened. 

Deciding to get going yourself, you closed your notebook and threw it in your purse. Finishing the last sweet sip of your latte, you tried to slow the beating of your heart. No one had ever effected you quite like Steve Rogers had.

You stood up and grabbed your bag and umbrella, and walking towards the entrance, but something stopped you. Resting on the seat where Steve had been sitting was a piece of paper, face down. 

You furrowed your brow, reaching forward to grab it. You turned it over to see a drawing. Your heart nearly stopped, it was a detailed sketch of your face with a few words scribbled above it.

“(Y/N), my muse.” 

You folded the paper neatly and placed it gently in your purse as you exited the cafe and started your jaunt back home, unable to wipe the smile off of your face from the chance encounter you’d had with one very inspiring artist whom you’d see again the very next morning.