A/N: It's timeeeeeee! Thank you all so so much for the love from the sneak preview. I hope you enjoy this story as much as I have loved working on it. I also pray that this story gives someone the courage to speak up and know that there is better on the other side. This chapter provides background before we meet Jack. You will also see the connection to Dana. Enjoy!
Word Count: 3,986
Warnings: Content Warnings (18+). This story is intended for mature audiences only. Reader discretion is advised. Includes themes of domestic abuse (past, non-graphic), emotional manipulation and controlling behavior, physical injury and recovery, trauma and healing, mentions of hospitalization and medical settings, adult romantic themes, slow-burn romance, & emotional vulnerability.
Abuse is never okay. If you or someone you know is being abused, dial the hotline at: 1-800-799-7233
Series Masterlist
6:51 A.M.
It wouldn’t be January in Pittsburgh without the freezing temps and snowfall. The snow that fell overnight made everything look like a dream. The cold, crisp air of winter pierced through the walls of your main bedroom. Wanting another five more minutes of sleep, your body betrayed you by waking up anyway to the sunrays beaming through the cracks of your curtains. It was Monday once again, and you were already dreading the idea of getting up to go to work.
Beep..Beep..BEEP..
Your heart rate increased at the sound of your phone alarm, startling you. Uncovering yourself from your perfect cocoon, you reach for the nightstand to silence the alarm. Feeling the air touch your skin made you shiver, but it couldn’t compare to the cold side of the bed that was meant for Charles, your husband. Who, not surprisingly, didn’t come home last night. You first met your husband while both of you were in residency at West Penn. From the outside looking in, everyone thought the two of you would make the perfect couple. Both early graduates, top of your classes, and easy to attend. What you didn’t have in common was the fact that he came from a whole family of doctors and lawyers. You didn’t grow up with a silver spoon in your mouth like him, but your hard work and dedication got you to where you are today.
Taking a deep breath, you stare at the ceiling before pulling the duvet off you. Slipping your houseshoes on, you make your way to your shared bathroom, where you discover the usual: clothes from the night before in a pile next to the toilet, followed by the towel crumpled up on the floor by the sink, droplets on the shower door, and skincare products scattered on the counter. He’s left already without telling you.
Disappointing? Yes. Surprising? No..
Nothing Charles does surprises you anymore, actually. Though he is nothing like the man he was when you first met in the emergency department at West Penn, the hope of him changing paralyzes you into staying. You noticed the shift when he opened the primary practice, a fact he had always told you when you were residents. Listening to his dreams always sounded like a dream and had you hooked; of course, he knew this.
7:30 A.M.
With your skincare routine complete, you brushed your teeth before heading downstairs. After spitting into the sink and running the water to clear it, you looked at your reflection in the mirror. The girl looking back at you was just a shell of the fiery woman you once were before you met Charles Campbell. You often wonder what life would be like on the other side of this marriage nightmare, waking up to an empty bed after he constantly tells you he’ll be home before leaving you at work. Yet, the memory of Memorial Day weekend replays in your mind, reminding you that maybe not having him to wake up to is what’s best.
Memorial Day 2024...
Out of all the days of the week, heavy rain decided to make itself at home in Pittsburgh. Driving home in the 5 o’clock traffic while sheets of rain blinded your pathway was hard, but arriving at the house that no longer felt like home was even harder. Charles thought it would be great for the office to be open for a few hours during the holiday because he “cared” about the patients,s but in reality, you knew it was for the money. Slowly but surely, he was becoming like his father. The man he swore he’d never become. What made things worse is that he didn’t stay the entire time to help you close as he'd promised. Instead, he came up with an excuse that his friend wanted to catch up and watch the game. Of course, you knew this was a weak excuse to leave, but you decided to spare the argument for your mental health’s sake. The promise he pitched to you about being a power couple by his side sounded good at first, but lately, you’ve been left holding the bag behind the scenes. Remembering that you jointly agreed to give your housekeeper, Carol, a break for the holiday, you had to pick up groceries and prepare dinner. Every muscle in your body radiated with pain from your shoulders to the soles of your feet. The rain didn’t make it any better, leaving you soaked,d causing your scrubs to cling to your skin as you held the heavy grocery bags in your hands. The extra strain on your joints had you rethinking life choices. However, after seeing Charles’ newly bought Porsche in the driveway, you had a glimmer of hope that he might be kind enough to help.
You were wrong.
Finally getting into the door after struggling to fit the key in the lock, you were met with the television blasting a sports game and the smell of beer permeating the house. All you could do was throw your head back and groan, knowing what was to come tonight. Either you were going to fight or play the babysitter to a man who can’t even hold his end of the marriage vows you read to each other. You placed the bags down after closing the front door with your foot. After locking it, you began your investigation.
“Charles?”
No answer.
“Charles!” you called out. You could hear your voice faintly echo, but it was no match for the television's volume. Walking down the hall, the scent of Coors Light filled your nose, and you were met with the sight of your husband with his hair in disarray, half-dressed, slumped over on your newly bought couch with a beer in his hand. “Babe, come on, get up,” you said, but it didn’t make a difference. You rolled your eyes and began the cleaning, frustrated anyway. To your surprise, grabbing the remote from his hand and turning down the volume was the straw that broke the camel's back as Charles rose from his sleep in a panic. You screamed, startled at the sight, and backed away.
“Damn..” Charles murmured to himself, clearly confused by his surroundings. He rubbed his already red eyes and was startled at the sight of you standing in front of him with your arms crossed, “I didn’t know you were home.” You watched him in disgust as he attempted to get up from where he was sleeping. You rolled your eyes before throwing the remote on the love seat.
“Yeah, well, these groceries aren’t going to put themselves up,” you said as you exited the living room, “since Carol’s off, what do you want for dinner?” Charles stretched, then grabbed the remote back.
“Don’t know, maybe the main course could be my wife having a better attitude when she greets me!” Charles then turned the volume back up on the television and took one last sip of his beer. Setting the bags down on the dining room table, you were furious to hear his words. They cut you like a knife, but knowing he was under the influence, you didn’t want to risk triggering him, more so for your safety. You sensed he had come into the kitchen where you were, heard his footsteps, and saw him appear in your peripheral vision. You continued to ignore him as you took the groceries out of the bags.
Charles quickly noticed that his presence had little effect on you, as you continued to ignore him. He watched your every move like a lion watching its prey. He let out a dry huff of dry humor and shook his head. Leaning over the counter, closer to you, he spoke again.
“So you’re just gonna ignore your husband, babe?”
You tried your best not to flinch at the scent of his beer coming from his mouth, so you held your breath and turned away. Letting the water rinse the produce in the sink, you began to place items in the pantry, but still felt uneasy, as Charles’ eyes burned the back of your mind. Then you heard it.
Pop!
The rush of blood through your body, spurred by your racing heart, froze you. Charles had pushed a can of food onto the floor childishly. The soup you just bought with your hard-earned money rolled across the tile floor, leaving a dent. Stubborn, you refused to let him get the satisfaction of getting on your nerves. Yet..it happened again.
Pop!
Oh…he was playing with fire at this point. The second can be dropped to the floor and rolled to the back of your right foot. Slowly, you looked down and picked it up, but when you rose, you were met with Charles's large hands gripping your waist and his breath on the back of your neck. “Still gonna ignore me, baby?” Pushing his full body weight onto you, he rested his head on your right shoulder. “You know I missed you.” Charles tried leaving kisses on your neck, but you managed to break free from the hold he had on you.
“Charles.. No. “ You are drunk,” you said, walking to the other side of the kitchen island. “Go freshen up.” I’ll let you know when dinner is ready.”
Charles scuffed at you. Even in his drunken state, he couldn’t believe you rejected him. “You're kidding me, right?” The seriousness in his tone caused you to shiver and stand still, wondering what he was going to do next. Before you knew it, his feet started moving toward you. Your survival instinct kicked in as you began moving in the opposite direction, away from him.
“Come on, babe,” Charles said as he picked up speed, “I can’t get love from my wife?” Though Charles stopped walking and looked you in the eyes with that question for a second, it felt like eternity.
“I-I umm left some bags at the door..”Your feet almost betrayed you, but you managed to run. There was no clear plan, only grab the keys and get in the car, but your mind went blank when you heard an extra set of footsteps run behind you. “LEAVE ME ALONE, CHARLES!” you cried out. Quickly, you ran into the downstairs laundry room and locked yourself in before your estranged husband could get to you.
“Let me in now!” Charles demanded. He then pounded on the door with his fist. At this point, you were praying that the door wouldn’t break because of it.
Present Day
No amount of counseling mended the wound that stayed within you after that night. You remember all those times Charles cried and begged for your forgiveness. At this time, your heart and mind were pulling you in different directions. You knew you had to leave him, but another part of you wondered if he would become the old Charles again. The Charles that made you feel like a princess during residency. Your godmother, Dana Evans, took you in to help you recover after the whole ordeal, but was crushed when you decided to make it work. Six months to stay strong and keep your promise that you wouldn’t forgive him, but then he started becoming the old Charles again that you fell in love with during residency, and that’s how he got you back in.
8:15 A.M.
Not wanting to deal with your husband’s drama by being late, you got ready for work as quickly as you could and walked out of the main bedroom with haste. Immediately, you were met with the smell of breakfast coming from downstairs, “Carol, you here?” you called out for your housekeeper, but didn’t get an answer. Confused, you entered the kitchen only to see a pile of dishes in the sink with stuck-on food and a note folded on the kitchen island in your husband’s illegible handwriting. You opened the note, and it read: Carol called out, family issue, I guess. I only had time to whip up something for myself. See you at work, babe.
You crumbled up the note and threw it in the trash without hesitation. Since grabbing something on the way to the office was the only option at this point, you grabbed your bag, threw on your coat, and headed out. The dishes were going to worry about themselves today. Climbing into the Mercedes-Benz GLC that Charles bought you when you first got married, you drove to Pamela’s Diner to get something to eat before your headache got any worse. If your lack of food didn’t do it, the radio did. Every station you turned on played sad love songs.
♪ If you think you’re lonely now ♪
♪ I remember when my heart broke. ♪
Before giving up and completely turning the radio off, dial number five played the sweet melody of Ex-Factor by Lauryn Hill. Anyone would say listening to a sad song while you’re already upset wouldn’t be recommended, but for some reason, it’s like someone close to you told Ms. Hill your business and spilled it in this entire song. If Lauryn singing about your love life wasn’t bad enough, seeing the couples walk hand in hand and enjoying each other’s company made your heart yearn for something you didn’t think was possible.
♪ It could all be so simple.
But you'd rather make it hard.
Loving you is like a battle.
And we both end up with scars. ♪
8:45 A.M.
Not wanting to let the lyrics tug at your heart any further, you quickly pull into Pamela’s Diner and shut the car off. The time that displayed on your car radio already confirmed that you’d be late, but in a way, you had accepted your fate. You took a deep breath, mentally preparing yourself to be around people, trying to hide the pain you’re feeling. The smell of freshly brewed coffee and homemade food served as a distraction, taking your mind off your life's struggles for a moment. It was easy to fake a smile for the other customers and servers who greeted you when you walked in, but you had already mapped out your exit plan in your head after ordering your French toast with bacon and eggs to go. Deep down, you knew hiding your feelings wasn’t healthy, but in a way, git ave you a sense of security that tricked your mind into thinking you were protecting yourself from being hurt by anyone else.
“Is that my sunshine?” The familiarity of that voice pulled you from your depressive thoughts and back to reality. Dana. Your beloved godmother, who was like a second mother to you. Looking up from the to-go menu, your heart leaped at the sight of her smiling at you. Without hesitation, you made your way to her and hugged her tightly. You needed this hug.
“It’s so good to see you, Auntie Dana! How’s the Pitt?” you asked. The mention of her workplace earned you a humorous eye roll. Dana loved what she did; however, a break wouldn’t hurt.
“Oh, Sunny, please, I’m not in the frame of mind to even think about work right now. Not until I get some food in my system.” Sunny. You haven’t heard that nickname since your days at West Penn. Whenever patients heard you be called that, they assumed it was because of your radiant personality, which you brought to the emergency room every time you walked in, but, truth be told, it was because you were obsessed with Diet Sun Drop soda. Your attending, Dr. Trice, who was a retired Navy airman, gave the staff their own call sign, and Sunny was the perfect fit for you.
As an indication that she was in no rush to head to work, Dana took off her coat and scouted for a seat, “Are you staying before heading to work?” she asked.
“Oh, Auntie, I wish I could, but I planned on getting it to go, and I don’t want Charles to get upset. You know how he is.”
That response didn’t sit well with Dana, who, along with her husband, was there to clean you up and pick up the pieces when Charles harmed you. Dana didn’t like Charles to begin with, but what happened on Memorial Day deepened the hate that was already there. “All those maids he just hired, and he’s worried about you being there on time? Nah, I'm spending time with my niece today.” Dana took your hand and walked you to the nearest booth. Knowing Dana and how stubborn she would be in this battle, you texted Charles to let him know something had come up and that you would be late. Seeing the bubbles form gave you a feeling of anxiety that you know too well. Quickly, you set your phone on do not disturb, creating a protective barrier between you and whatever harsh words Charles was going to send. Dana saw the look on your face after sending that text. She knew you well.
“Sweetheart,” Dana said, “has everything been okay?” Looking up from playing with your nails, you could see the concern in Dana’s eyes. You took a deep breath and rested your elbows on the old rustic table.
“Well…”
“What can I get started for you ladies today?” Your waitress, named Tina, who looked to be Dana’s age, was prepared to take your orders. Her interruption caught you off guard, leaving you no room to think. You didn’t know how to put into words how you’ve been feeling lately, let alone knowing what you wanted to eat for breakfast.
“We’ll both have coffee and your French toast special,” Dana ordered with a smile as she passed Tina your breakfast menus. Popping the bubble she made with her chewing gum, Tina wrote down the selection and collected the menus, “coming right up!”
After taking a deep breath, you turned your attention to Dana once again, who was waiting to hear what you had to say. “Umm, thanks for that, my mind went blank.”
“Sweetheart -”
“Ugh, okay, it’s been the same,” you managed to say, barely audible. Dana furrowed her eyebrows and leaned over the table, already thinking the worst.
“The same? Sunny, I swear if he’s hit you again-” Dana’s words made you flinch just thinking about what he’s done in the past, but you had to change the subject fast due to the few stares that it earned.
“Oh no...no no no.” You deflected, trying to calm her down, “It’s just now he doesn’t come home.” You looked out the window, trying to hold back tears. Deep down, you knew he wasn’t being faithful to you, yet a part of you didn’t want to face the truth. Disappointment was the only thing that showed in Dana’s facial expression after hearing your answer. If she had superpowers that would take all the pain away from you, she would. Nothing hurts more than trying to hold something you built together when you know it’s falling apart. It was killing you, and she knew it.
“You think it’s one of the chicks at the office?” Dana asked. Sadly, you knew it was. Sara Carter. New hire, PhD, comes from a wealthy family and has a Pilates-fit body. Charles hired her as a doctor, and you knew something was off when she started getting more patients than you and Charles, and you kept being put up front to help with the service desk… You make the call.
“Y-Yes…” you take a deep breath, this time letting the warm tears fall your face, “but every time I bring it up or ask, it ends up in an argument.”
“Oh, sweetheart,” Dana wiped the tears from your hands, then held your hands in hers, “look at me.” Hesitant, you looked into her eyes. Seeing you in this vulnerable state made you feel exposed, but at the same time, it allowed Dana to know the version of you you’ve been hiding behind your smile, which you use as a mask every day.
“You are way too beautiful, smart, and gifted to be with a man who doesn’t see your worth, honey.” Hearing that landed harder than you thought it would, and the tears came flowing like a flood this time. This time you didn’t hide and couldn't care less who saw while your godmother spoke life into you. Words you haven’t heard in a long time…but did you believe it?
“That’s so sweet of you,” you wiped your tears with the sleeve of your jacket and continued to speak, “but I don’t know what else to do. I-I mean, for crying out loud, he didn’t even cook me breakfast this morning and left the dishes in the sink!” You didn’t mean to pull your hands from Dana’s grasp, but you did, and covered your face with them instead. Just hearing those words come out of your mouth made you feel like a failure—a fool. Dana didn’t hesitate to move from her side of the booth to yours and held you in her arms while you cried. By this time, Tina had returned with your coffee and plates and looked sorrowful at your condition. She could sense you were stressed when you walked in,n but didn’t feel like it was her place to say anything. Even the people seated around you felt bad, not just for how you felt but for the fact that they couldn’t do anything about it.
Gently, Dana shook you and took your hands away from your face. With care, she wiped the tears away. Eyes red and wet, cheeks puffy, and nose running, but she didn’t care. She still thought you were her beautiful goddaughter who promised your mother that she would do everything in her power to take care of you. “You are stronger than you think, Sunny,” she said, “now why don’t we enjoy the rest of our girl time and eat breakfast before it gets too cold?”
You nodded and chuckled, “Yeah, I’d like that. I could use a break from my Young and Restless plotline.” Your joke made you both laugh. Having this nice, hot, cooked meal with someone who deeply cared about you filled your heart with comfort, even if it was just for a little while.
9:51 A.M.
Time had gotten away from you and Dana. Dana had already informed Robby that she had a family emergency, so she had nothing to worry about. You, on the other hand, knew Charles blew up your phone with text messages that you didn’t even want to think about looking at. After enjoying your meal together, Dana walked you to your car. All cranked up and ready to go, you rolled down your window to say goodbye one last time.
“You know I could get with Robby to see if that Attending position is still open,” Dana said. Dana’s been wanting to get you there since you finished your residency at West Penn. The thought of this made you feel flattered, yet another part of you felt like you didn’t belong.
“Come on, Auntie Dana…I don’t think I’d fit in,” you said, putting on your shades to hide the evidence of crying. You let out a breath before looking at her again.
“Won’t know until you try, kid, you know I’d love to see you every day instead of every few months.” Dana was right. You knew she was right. Always hiding, and for what? That’s a mystery for another day, but at this moment, only one thing mattered…getting to West Penn Internal Medicine before Charles calls the police to find you.
“I’ll think about it.” You say as you roll your window up. Waving to Dana one last time, you pull off and drive to the office in hopes that today would be different.
Summary: In order to find a piece of secret information that would change her life, Y/N goes back to the 40's to retrieve, where she meet Bucky Barnes before it all. How could she love someone she couldn't have ? How could she love someone who doesn't exist anymore? How could she love a version of someone she could never retrieve?
Word Count: 10,3k
--
The lab was too quiet for Y/N’s liking. Even with the low hum of machinery, the sterile brightness of Stark’s upgraded tech, and the faint tapping of Bruce Banner at his computer, it all felt suffocating. She sat on the edge of one of the metal worktables, fingers knotted together so tightly her knuckles ached. The briefing had ended barely half an hour ago, and the words still buzzed in her head like static, temporal displacement, retrieval protocol, no direct interference with the timeline. They’d all discussed the mission at length, weighing risks, debating options. And somehow, despite being the newest member of the team, despite her inexperience compared to veterans like Natasha or Sam, the choice had landed squarely on her shoulders.
“You’re quiet,” Bruce said at last, swiveling in his chair to face her. His voice was soft, measured, like he’d already calculated exactly how many words it might take to keep her from unraveling. He’d always had that kind of presence — calm in the middle of chaos, a quiet that wasn’t oppressive but reassuring. Still, when his eyes met hers, Y/N couldn’t stop herself from glancing away, down at her trembling hands.
“I don’t feel quiet,” she admitted, forcing a laugh that cracked before it could even settle in the air. “I feel like I’m about to walk into a storm I can’t handle.”
Bruce leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. “That’s...not unusual. I’d be worried if you weren’t nervous. This isn’t just another mission, Y/N. You’ll be—” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “You’ll be alone, and in a very different time. Even if it only feels like minutes to us, for you it could be..weeks. Months.”
The thought sent a fresh shiver crawling over her skin. Months stranded in the 1940s, forced to blend into a world that wasn’t hers. The very idea of navigating Brooklyn during wartime made her stomach twist. And worse, she’d have to interact with people she knew too well from history books —or from their older selves now— but who wouldn’t know her at all.
“Steve said he’d… help,” she murmured, more to herself than to Bruce. Steve had offered to walk her through the cultural details, the manners, the way to carry herself so she wouldn’t immediately stick out as some odd stranger. He’d been patient, gentle, almost protective. But Bucky… her chest tightened at the thought. The man who had haunted decades of history, who she’d seen fight with brutal precision and quiet rage, had barely acknowledged her. His sharp eyes seemed to look through her, like she was a shadow instead of a teammate. Maybe he thought she was weak, unfit for something this dangerous. Maybe he wasn’t wrong.
Bruce studied her closely, like he could see every thought crossing her mind. “You’re doubting yourself.” It wasn’t a question.
Y/N let out a shaky exhale. “Of course I am. Everyone in that room had more experience than me. Why not Natasha? Why not Clint? Why not—anyone else?” Her voice wavered on the last words, heat pricking behind her eyes. “But no, it’s me. The new recruit. The one still trying not to flinch when the alarms go off at three in the morning.”
“You know why,” Bruce said gently. He unfolded his arms and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Because your profile makes you the best candidate. The mission requires someone without a long paper trail. Someone who can disappear into the background. They’ll notice Natasha in a heartbeat, and Clint… well, let’s just say archers stand out more than they think.” He gave her a faint smile, like he was trying to lighten the mood, but Y/N couldn’t return it.
“Blending in doesn’t mean I won’t screw this up,” she whispered.
“True,” Bruce admitted. “But screwing it up doesn’t mean you won’t succeed. And that’s what counts.”
For a moment, the weight in her chest eased. Bruce always had a way of grounding things, of peeling away the noise and leaving only what mattered. Still, the fear gnawed at her. Interacting with Howard Stark, retrieving something so crucial from under the nose of a genius who wasn’t supposed to know her—it was too much. And worse, knowing that for every awkward word, every misstep in the 1940s, she’d carry the knowledge that two familiar faces would be there. Steve, kind but watchful. Bucky, cold and distant, maybe already judging her failures before she even began.
She rubbed her palms against her thighs, restless. “Steve thinks I’ll be fine. But Bucky…” The name caught in her throat. “He doesn’t even look at me. I don’t know if he thinks I’m useless, or if he just doesn’t care.”
Bruce’s expression softened, and for a flicker she thought he almost looked sad. “Bucky has his own way of dealing with people. It’s not you. Don’t let his silence get in your head.”
But it was already there, lodged deep like a splinter.
Bruce stood, smoothing down the front of his shirt. “Listen. Missions like this… they don’t get easier. But the nerves? They mean you care enough not to be reckless. That’s a good thing, Y/N. A necessary thing.”
She swallowed hard, nodding, though her throat felt tight. “And if I mess up?”
“Then we’ll deal with it together,” Bruce said firmly. He placed a steady hand on her shoulder, warm and grounding. “But you’re not going to. You’ve got this. You just need to believe it before you step through that portal.”
The portal. The word made her chest seize. The glowing, humming doorway that would fling her backward into a world not her own. A world where Howard Stark lived and worked, where Steve was barely finding his footing, and where Bucky Barnes was a stranger who could unravel her with a single glance.
Y/N nodded, but inside, the fear coiled tighter. Five minutes for them. Possibly months for her. Months of being unseen, unheard, and forgotten, except by herself.
And she wasn’t sure she was ready for that.
--
The memory burned in Y/N's head, she was still dreaming of the same anxiety she was feeling right now, wanting the confort of her bed, and hang out with Bruce all day.
The morning light in Brooklyn was different than what Y/N was used to. It spilled through the thin lace curtains of her rented room in a muted, golden haze, soft and unhurried, unlike the sharp LED glare of the 21st century. She lay there for a few moments, staring at the faded floral pattern of the wallpaper, listening to the quiet creak of the old house as it settled into the day. In those rare, still minutes, she could almost forget the mission, the ticking clock waiting for her return, and the weight of two lives. Hers and the one she was pretending to live.
The smell of something warm drifted up from the kitchen—eggs, she guessed, and coffee. Miss Stanford was awake, as always, long before Y/N. The older woman moved through her routines with a kind of practiced precision, every step in the morning carefully measured, though not without care. Y/N had learned quickly that Miss Stanford liked mornings to feel...deliberate. Not rushed, not frantic, but grounded, like the way a homemaker steadied her household in uncertain times.
Y/N rose from the small bed, tugging her borrowed robe tighter around herself before making her way downstairs. The stairs creaked beneath her feet, announcing her descent before she even reached the bottom.
“Morning, dear,” Miss Stanford called from the kitchen, her voice rich and warm in the way only women of a certain generation seemed to manage. “You’ll want to eat before you run off to that office. Can’t have you working on an empty stomach.”
The kitchen was modest but full of life — a wooden table set near the window, two chipped mugs already filled with steaming coffee, and a skillet sizzling on the stovetop. Miss Stanford stood there, her apron tied neatly around her waist, hair pinned back in a tidy bun streaked with silver. There was a comfort in her presence that Y/N hadn’t expected.
“You didn’t have to cook for me,” Y/N said softly, sliding into one of the chairs. She felt almost guilty for how quickly this house had begun to feel like a home.
“Nonsense,” Miss Stanford replied without turning, flipping the eggs with deft hands. “A girl your age, living on her own in a city like this? You’d waste away in a week on nothing but canned beans and sandwiches. Besides” she glanced over her shoulder with a knowing smile.“I enjoy the company. House has been too quiet for far too long.”
Y/N felt a tug in her chest at that. She knew the truth of it already. Miss Stanford’s late husband had passed nearly a decade ago, and the couple’s children had moved out of state, married off or chasing opportunities elsewhere. The rooms upstairs had been left to gather dust until Y/N arrived with her fabricated story, her stack of forged documents, and the fragile hope of blending into a world not her own. Renting her a room felt more like a coping mechanism for loneliness than a business idea.
“I don’t want to be a burden,” Y/N murmured, wrapping her hands around the mug of coffee. The warmth seeped into her palms, grounding her in the present.
Miss Stanford set the plate down in front of her with a gentle clatter, eggs, toast, and a few slices of apple arranged neatly. She sat opposite Y/N, folding her hands on the table, eyes kind but firm. “And you’re not. Let’s set that straight, hmm? You remind me of myself, when I was about your age. Fresh out of Chicago, trying to make something of myself in a city that didn’t quite know what to do with me. Except I didn’t have the kind of resume you do.”
Y/N blinked, startled by the sincerity in her tone. The forged credentials Bruce had provided her were nearly flawless, painting her as a highly educated young woman with skills and training far beyond what was expected of most women in the 1940s. She’d worried the papers would draw suspicion, but instead, they had opened doors, like the one Peggy Carter had graciously pushed wide when Y/N begged for a chance to prove herself.
Miss Stanford leaned forward, studying her with quiet curiosity. “You’ve got more potential than you realize, Y/N. A girl like you, with your mind? Don’t let this city eat that up. Use it. Make them see it.”
Her words stirred something inside Y/N ,a mixture of gratitude and guilt. Gratitude for the comfort and encouragement in a time when she was adrift, and guilt for the lies she’d told to secure it. She wasn’t really a girl from Chicago. She wasn’t really here to build a future. Every smile, every moment of belonging, was built on a foundation of deception.
Still, she forced herself to smile, picking at her toast. “I’ll try.”
“You’ll do more than try,” Miss Stanford said briskly, taking a sip of her coffee. “Now eat. You’ll need your strength if you’re keeping up with a woman like Peggy Carter. Sharp as a tack, that one, and tougher than most men I’ve met.”
Y/N’s lips curved into a genuine smile this time. Peggy had been intimidating at first, stern, composed, with a gaze that could cut right through her nervous stammering. But she’d also been fair, almost protective in her own way. Hiring Y/N wasn’t something most men in the office had understood, but Peggy had insisted, her eyes daring anyone to object.
As Y/N finished her breakfast, she felt a strange sense of duality. Here she was, sipping coffee in a cozy Brooklyn kitchen, with an older woman who’d already begun to feel like family. And yet, every moment brought her closer to the reality of the mission.Howard Stark, the object she had to retrieve, the fragile line between success and catastrophe.
When she rose to leave, Miss Stanford fussed over her coat, straightening the collar and smoothing her hair like a mother might. “There. Now you look the part,” she said with a satisfied nod. Then, softer, “You’ll do fine, dear. I believe in you.”
Y/N swallowed the lump in her throat, managing a quiet, “Thank you.”
The building that housed the Strategic Scientific Reserve carried an air of hushed importance. From the outside it looked like any other government office, brick and columns and a stern flag snapping in the morning wind. Inside, however, it was alive with purpose. The rhythmic clacking of typewriters echoed down the hallways, mingling with the metallic clatter of boots on tile floors and the clipped tones of men in pressed suits exchanging hurried words. The war had turned the place into a hive, and Y/N, still adjusting to the strangeness of it all, tried to move like she belonged.
Her heels clicked softly as she slipped past the main reception, clutching her bag close to her side. She had learned quickly not to draw attention to herself in this environment; too many of the men already gave her side-eyed glances, as if a woman her age had no business walking these halls. But Peggy had insisted she deserved her space, and with Peggy Carter’s word came protection.
Y/N reached her little office, a modest corner room with a desk, a filing cabinet, and a single window that let in just enough light to keep the space from feeling oppressive. She hung her coat carefully on the wooden rack, brushing down the sleeves like she was smoothing the nerves out of herself. Every morning felt like she was slipping into costume, not just the clothes Bruce had provided, but the role itself: the efficient young assistant, eager to serve, quiet enough not to be noticed but skilled enough to prove indispensable.
She had barely settled into her chair when the brisk sound of heels approached, steady and purposeful. Peggy appeared in the doorway, immaculate as always in her tailored skirt suit, dark curls pinned in perfect waves, lips painted a red that dared anyone to underestimate her. She didn’t waste time with pleasantries.
“Y/N, with me,” Peggy said firmly, her clipped English accent slicing through the hum of the office.
Y/N stood immediately, smoothing her skirt and tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Yes, Miss Carter.”
She followed Peggy through the corridor, weaving past secretaries and uniformed officers until they reached a door marked with Howard Stark’s name. Y/N’s chest tightened as Peggy pushed it open without knocking, the confidence of someone who refused to ask permission in a man’s world.
Howard Stark’s office was a contradiction, chaos wrapped in elegance. Papers and blueprints littered his desk, a half-empty glass of whiskey sat dangerously close to delicate schematics, and on the far shelf, trophies and inventions alike gleamed under the morning light. Howard himself stood near the desk, sleeves rolled to his elbows, suspenders loose, his dark hair slicked neatly back. He turned at their entrance, a grin already spreading across his face.
“Peggy! Always a pleasure,” he drawled, his voice smooth, practiced, laced with charm that carried just enough arrogance to remind you he expected people to admire him. His eyes flicked past Peggy, landing on Y/N. “And you’ve brought company.”
“She’s my assistant,” Peggy replied briskly, striding forward to the desk. “You’ll forgive her presence. She’s here to help organize what we’ll discuss, nothing more.”
Howard’s gaze lingered, sharp and assessing. Y/N forced her chin up, though her stomach fluttered with nerves. She had been trained — by Steve, by Peggy —to hold herself with poise, but Howard Stark’s presence was unsettling in a way she hadn’t anticipated. It wasn’t just his brilliance, it was the weight of knowing how important his work was to history—and how dangerous. Somewhere in this office, hidden beneath his bravado, was the very thing she was sent to retrieve.
The conversation between Peggy and Howard quickly shifted to business. Schematics were spread across the desk, formulas scribbled in the margins. Words like “enhancement,” “stability,” and “potential applications” filled the air. Y/N tried to listen, but her eyes betrayed her, scanning the room instead. The shelves near the window. The filing cabinet half-shut behind the desk. The stack of folders leaning precariously against a model of a prototype engine. Somewhere, perhaps tucked away in plain sight, could be the clue she needed.
Her fingers tightened around the notebook she carried, nails biting into the paper cover as she forced her breathing steady. She had to look casual, curious but not suspicious, a young assistant absorbing the details of her boss’s conversation. Still, when her gaze lingered too long on the neat stack of files labeled in Stark’s sharp handwriting, she felt it—his eyes on her.
Howard moved from the desk with an ease that sent a ripple of dread through her. He approached slowly, not predatory, but with that smooth confidence of a man who knew exactly how his presence affected a room. “So,” he said, his tone light, conversational, but laced with an edge that made her stomach twist, “what’s your name again? Chicago girl, isn’t it? You don’t look much like a secretary to me.”
Y/N straightened, willing her shoulders not to betray the tremor in her chest. She forced a small smile, measured but polite. “Yes, sir. Chicago. And I’m Miss Carter’s assistant. It’s my job to make sure her work isn’t wasted on paperwork.”
Howard chuckled, though his eyes narrowed slightly, the gleam of suspicion or curiosity she couldn’t quite place. “Paperwork, hm? A woman like you shouldn’t be stuck filing papers. You’ve got...sharper eyes than that, don’t you?”
The implication hung heavy, half-flirtation, half-accusation. Heat prickled across Y/N’s skin, but she held firm, grasping at the one angle that might divert his interest. “I think your work speaks louder than anything I could do, Mr. Stark. The formulas you’re developing, the potential behind them. That’s what matters. Not me.”
For a heartbeat, Howard seemed caught off guard. His grin faltered, replaced by something shrewder, sharper, as though he hadn’t expected her to speak of his work with such directness. He leaned in slightly, voice dropping lower. “You’ve been paying attention, haven’t you? That’s dangerous.”
“Enough,” Peggy’s voice cut through the air like a blade. She was at Y/N’s side in an instant, her hand steady at her hip, her eyes locked on Howard with steel. “She is my assistant, Stark, and she will be treated with respect. If you’ve something to say about the work, you say it to me.”
For a moment, the room froze, tension drawn taut like wire. Howard’s eyes lingered on Y/N, amusement curling back at the edges of his mouth. Then he chuckled, holding up his hands as if to concede. “All right, all right. No harm meant. You’re right, Peggy. As always.”
He turned back toward the desk, sliding effortlessly into business once more, his attention already drifting to the schematics. But Y/N felt the echo of his gaze on her, lingering in the pit of her stomach.
Peggy’s hand brushed her elbow lightly, just enough to steady her. No words were exchanged, but the message was clear: I’ve got you.
Y/N inhaled slowly, forcing the knot of fear in her chest to loosen.
Howard’s voice carried easily through the room, smooth yet weighted with the energy of someone convinced he was reshaping history. He tapped his finger against a chalkboard covered in scrawled equations, his handwriting sharp and precise, but rushed, as though genius never had time for neatness.
“The formula works, Carter. I’ve tested it, re-tested it, and I know what it can do. The problem isn’t the science anymore—it’s finding the right subject.” He turned, pacing as he spoke, one hand tugging at his suspenders. “We’re not talking about another failed experiment. We’re talking about the first successful super soldier. Stronger, faster, unbreakable. A weapon, yes, but also a symbol. Imagine what that would do for morale.”
Peggy, standing near the desk with her arms crossed, watched him with the cool skepticism of someone who’d heard this all before. “And if it fails, Howard? What then? Another broken body on a table? Another casualty you brush aside as ‘progress’?”
Howard’s grin dimmed, his eyes narrowing. “It won’t fail. Not this time.”
Y/N sat in silence, notebook perched on her lap, though her pencil hadn’t moved in several minutes. She felt like a shadow in the room, invisible to them both, and yet her heart raced as she absorbed every word. The serum. The subject. Her mind tumbled through the history she knew, or thought she knew.
Where am I in time? she wondered, her gaze drifting between them. Has Steve already enlisted? Has he met Howard yet? Peggy? Or is all of that still ahead? The uncertainty gnawed at her. History felt like shifting sand beneath her feet, slippery and unstable. She had always thought of the past as something fixed, written, safe. But now, sitting here in the thick of it, she realized how alive it was, how fragile.
Her chest tightened at the thought of Steve. She’d seen him in her own time, the man who had carried the weight of the world with unwavering loyalty, who had fought beside her like she belonged there. And Bucky—cold, distant, broken in ways Y/N hadn’t dared to imagine until she saw him fight with shadows in his eyes. But here, in this world, they were still just men. Young, unscarred by decades of war and loss. Maybe, just maybe, they would be different. Maybe they’d be...happier.
Her fingers tightened around her pencil, the longing almost painful. God, I hope I meet Steve soon. Even if they didn’t know her, even if they looked at her like a stranger, just seeing a familiar face would be enough. It would mean she wasn’t entirely adrift in this strange current of time.
Howard’s voice snapped her back. “This is the future, Carter. You can’t keep doubting me. The Army’s watching, and if we don’t deliver, someone else will. You think Schmidt won’t take every chance to crush us with whatever he’s cooking up? I’m offering the one solution that could tip the scales.”
Peggy’s jaw tightened, but her voice remained calm. “I don’t doubt your brilliance, Howard. But brilliance without caution is just recklessness. And I won’t stand by while you treat human lives as test subjects to satisfy your ego.”
Y/N’s gaze flicked toward Peggy, admiration swelling. There was such strength in her, such steadiness. In another time, in the stories Steve told, Peggy Carter was a legend. Sitting across from her now, Y/N could see why.
But the conversation pulled her back to Howard, and to the files stacked neatly on his desk. Somewhere among them, she was sure of it, was what she had been sent to retrieve. A formula, notes, some fragile piece of paper that would be priceless in her own time. And yet, as Howard and Peggy sparred in words, Y/N could only sit still, forcing herself to look like the dutiful assistant. She could not afford his suspicion again.
Still, her mind wandered. If Steve hasn’t entered the program yet, will I see him before it happens? Will he already be that fragile, earnest boy from Brooklyn, the one who would risk everything to fight a war that kept rejecting him? The thought softened her chest. And Bucky—God, she wondered if he’d be there too. Perhaps not the man hardened by Hydra, not the Winter Soldier with scars carved into his soul, but the young soldier who Steve told her about? Would he be kinder now?
Howard’s voice lowered, more serious now. “We’re on the edge of something that will change the world. Mark my words, Carter. One day, they’ll thank me.”
Peggy exhaled, steady but firm. “One day, perhaps. But until then, you’ll answer to me when you forget what’s at stake. Don’t mistake my silence for compliance, Stark.”
Howard chuckled, though the sound was softer, almost begrudging. “You always were impossible to charm.”
Y/N, sitting in the corner, let out a slow breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. She pressed the tip of her pencil into the paper, leaving behind a small dot, her mind racing faster than her hand could keep up, before getting out of the room with Peggy.
The corridor outside Howard’s office was quieter than the chaos within, though the echo of their conversation seemed to cling to Y/N’s skin. She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding as the door clicked shut behind them. Her steps slowed, trying to collect herself, but Peggy’s heels stopped abruptly.
“Miss L/N,” Peggy said, turning sharply to face her. The clipped professionalism in her tone softened only slightly as she studied Y/N with those steady, dark eyes. “I owe you an apology.”
Y/N blinked, startled. “An apology? You don’t have to—”
“I do.” Peggy’s jaw tightened, her posture as unyielding as a soldier at attention. “Howard’s behavior was out of line. He has a habit of thinking he can… blur lines that should never be crossed. I won’t tolerate him, or anyone, treating you as though you’re here for anything less than your work. You deserve better.”
The intensity of her words settled over Y/N like a weighted blanket, firm but protective. She shook her head quickly, brushing it off though her chest warmed at Peggy’s defense. “It’s all right, Miss Carter. I didn’t mind.”
Peggy’s gaze narrowed, sharp as steel. “Don’t say that. Don’t ever say it’s ‘all right.’ Women have been told to swallow their discomfort for too long. If no one else will make space for you here, then I will. That’s a promise.”
Y/N’s throat tightened. She had expected Peggy to be formidable, yes, but this fierce, unrelenting care? It was more than she’d anticipated, and it left her at a loss. “Thank you,” she whispered, meaning it more than she could say.
Peggy gave a small, satisfied nod, as though the matter were closed. They resumed walking down the corridor, the hum of typewriters faint in the distance. For a moment, silence stretched between them, not uncomfortable, but thoughtful.
Then Peggy glanced sideways at her, her tone softening again. “Tell me, Y/N, how are you finding the city? Settled in, I hope?”
Y/N hesitated, tugging lightly at the strap of her notebook. “It’s..fine. I’ve got my routine now. Home, work, back home again.” She tried for a small smile, but it wavered. “I don’t really...know anyone. Not outside of here.”
Peggy frowned gently, her sharp features softening in sympathy. “No friends yet?”
Y/N shook her head. “I wouldn’t even know where to start. I’m not sure what people here do for fun. It feels like the city has its own rhythm, and I’m just...out of step.”
The admission slipped out more easily than she expected, maybe because she trusted Peggy wouldn’t mock her for it. But it left her chest aching, the loneliness she’d buried all week pressing closer to the surface.
Peggy stopped again, one brow arched, lips quirking into a wry smile. “Well, that’s unacceptable. You’re far too young to be cooped up with nothing but papers and my sharp tongue for company.”
Y/N let out a soft laugh, the sound weak but genuine. “I don’t mind. Really.”
Peggy’s eyes gleamed with mischief now, a rare spark beneath her polished composure. “You’ll mind soon enough if I let you stay that way. Tell you what—there’s a dance hall a few blocks from here. Decent music, plenty of people from the SSR and nearby offices go there in the evenings. I’ll take you along. Introduce you to some of the others.”
Y/N froze, caught off guard. “A...dance?” The word felt foreign on her tongue, a relic from another era.
“Yes,” Peggy said firmly, as though there were no room for argument. “A dance. A bar. A chance to meet people and breathe a little. You’ll find most of us like to unwind with a drink and a good swing tune after drowning in files all day. You don’t need to be alone in that room of yours every night.”
Y/N’s heart fluttered with nerves at the thought. Crowds, strangers, music she didn’t know how to move to—it all sounded overwhelming. And yet, a spark of hope stirred beneath the anxiety. Meeting people. Seeing life in this time beyond the confines of work. Maybe even catching a glimpse of a familiar face among them.
Peggy placed a reassuring hand on her arm, her grip steady. “Trust me, you’ll thank me later. No one survives this city without friends.”
Y/N managed a small, tentative smile. “All right. If you think it’s a good idea.”
“I know it is,” Peggy replied briskly, her tone leaving no room for doubt. Then, with a wink that softened the authority in her voice, she added, “Besides, I’d enjoy the company myself. I’m tired of being the only woman holding her own on the dance floor.”
The warmth of Peggy’s words lingered as they walked on, and for the first time since arriving in this strange, fragile past, Y/N allowed herself to imagine belonging. Even if just for one night.
--
The dance hall was alive in a way Y/N hadn’t expected. The low-lit room hummed with music from the live band tucked into one corner, the steady rhythm of a swing tune rippling through the crowd. Laughter and chatter rose above the clink of glasses, boots scuffed against the floor as couples swung and twirled to the beat, and the air smelled faintly of tobacco and spilt whiskey.
Y/N sat at a small table near the back, her hands clasped tightly in her lap as she tried not to fidget. She’d arrived a little earlier than Peggy, and now the minutes stretched unbearably long. Everyone here seemed to belong, like they’d grown up knowing how to slip effortlessly into the rhythm of this place. Men in pressed uniforms joked with one another at the bar; women in bright dresses laughed as they danced in groups, their heels tapping like raindrops against the floor.
And then there was her. Alone at a table, a glass of water untouched in front of her. She tried to people-watch, to let her eyes wander from the couples spinning to the men nursing cigarettes, but all it did was remind her of how much of an outsider she was. This wasn’t her time, not her city, not her world.
What am I even doing here? she thought, pressing her palms against her knees to keep from wringing them. She could almost feel the eyes of strangers glancing her way, wondering about the solitary girl who sat so stiff and silent.
“Sorry I’m late,” a familiar voice said suddenly, and Y/N startled, turning just in time to see Peggy slide into the seat beside her instead of across. Peggy’s perfume, subtle and elegant, mingled with the scent of cigarette smoke around them. She placed her handbag on the table and offered a quick, reassuring smile.
“Traffic?” Y/N asked weakly, grateful for the company, for the anchor Peggy’s presence gave her.
“Work,” Peggy corrected with a sigh, smoothing a hand over her skirt. “Howard doesn’t know the meaning of the word pause. But never mind him. I’m here now, and we’re going to have a proper evening.”
Peggy didn’t wait for argument. She rose swiftly and gestured for Y/N to follow. “Come along. First things first, a drink.”
Y/N scrambled to her feet, trailing after Peggy through the bustling room, her nerves prickling under the weight of the crowd. She could feel herself shrinking inward, too quiet, too unsure, her voice caught in her throat as Peggy exchanged hellos with a gentleman at the bar—tall, broad-shouldered, with the easy posture of someone used to being admired. Peggy’s words flowed effortlessly, her laugh warm, her presence commanding.
And Y/N...she just hovered at her side, clutching the strap of her handbag like it was a lifeline. She wanted to join in, to add something, anything, but the words died before they reached her lips. All she could do was nod faintly, her smile too small, her movements stiff. She felt like a child clinging to the hem of her mother’s coat.
I don’t belong here, she thought again, the ache sharp this time. I don’t even know how to talk to people in this world.
Lost in her thoughts, she almost didn’t notice the voice at first, smooth, warm, threaded with curiosity.
“Hey there, sweetheart. You look like you’re waitin’ for someone.”
Her head snapped up, heart lurching. She blinked, disoriented, searching for the source of the words until she realized he was right in front of her.
Bucky Barnes.
He stood close, closer than she expected, his lips curved into a half-smile that seemed both casual and deliberate, as if he were used to drawing reactions from women. His hair was slicked neatly back, his uniform crisp, the confidence in his posture unmistakable. But what struck Y/N most was his face. Younger. Softer. Unmarked by scars, untouched by decades of war and torment. His eyes, bright, alive—held a spark that she had never seen in him before, not in her own time.
Charming. That was the word that came unbidden to her mind.
She stared, caught between awe and disorientation, her breath stalling in her chest. This was him, the man who would one day be shattered and rebuilt into something unrecognizable. And here he was now, smiling at her like she was the only one in the room.
“I..” Her voice caught, and she forced herself to clear her throat. “I—yes, I was waiting.”
Bucky tilted his head slightly, studying her with a mix of amusement and interest. “Lucky guy, whoever he is. But if he keeps you waitin’ too long, I’d say that’s his mistake.”
The words were light, teasing, but they carried the easy rhythm of someone who’d said lines like this before, and meant them, at least in the moment. Y/N’s heart hammered against her ribs, her mind racing.
What do I even say to him?
Bucky didn’t move away after his first line. If anything, he leaned in closer, bracing one hand lightly against the bar beside her as though to box her in without ever touching her. The room seemed to dim around him, the noise of chatter and music receding under the weight of her focus. His presence was magnetic in a way that unsettled her, not only because of who he was, but because of who he would become.
Y/N’s fingers clenched tightly around the strap of her handbag, knuckles paling. She could feel the heat creeping into her cheeks, the flutter in her stomach that made it hard to form words. She had spoken to Bucky Barnes before, in her own time, but that man had been different. Guarded. Scarred. Someone who carried his trauma like an armor. This version.. this was Bucky untouched, raw, radiant. It was almost too much to reconcile.
“You don’t seem the type to drink alone,” Bucky said, that teasing smile never faltering. His tone was playful, but his eyes studied her closely, searching for something in her expression. “How about I fix that? Let me buy you a drink. What’ll it be?”
Her lips parted, but nothing came out at first. She scrambled for composure, the anxiety and awkwardness tangling her tongue. A dozen answers rushed forward —No, thank you. I don’t drink. I’m waiting for someone. Please stop looking at me like that. Instead, what slipped out was a quiet, almost apologetic:
“Water’s fine.”
Bucky raised a brow, clearly amused. “Water? At a place like this?” His chuckle was warm, boyish. “Alright, doll, water it is. Can’t say I’ve ever bought a girl water at a bar before. You’ll make a story outta me yet.”
Y/N’s throat tightened. She forced a small smile, though it felt uneven, rehearsed. She wanted to shrink back, to retreat into the shadows where no one would look at her too closely, but Bucky’s gaze was steady, disarming in its brightness.
She was still trying to find something, anything to say when Peggy appeared at her side like a storm in heels. “Barnes,” she said, her voice clipped, firm, though not unkind. Her eyes flicked from him to Y/N, sharp enough to cut glass. “You’ve already got the attention of half the room. Must you monopolize the rest of it too?”
Bucky straightened slightly, his grin widening at the challenge in Peggy’s tone. “Carter. Just bein’ friendly. Didn’t know hospitality was a crime now.”
“It isn’t,” Peggy replied smoothly, sliding an arm around Y/N’s shoulders with a casual possessiveness that grounded her. “But I’d hate to think my assistant’s first outing would be spent as prey to a wolf in uniform.”
Y/N blinked, startled by Peggy’s sudden warmth at her side. The tension in her chest loosened, if only slightly, under the protective weight of Peggy’s arm. She realized then how stiff she’d been standing, how awkwardly she’d hovered in place, and she let herself lean subtly into Peggy’s steadiness.
Bucky chuckled again, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. No harm meant. Just thought she looked like she could use some company.” His eyes flicked back to Y/N, softer now, as if he sensed her discomfort beneath the surface. “Guess she’s already got it.”
Peggy didn’t miss a beat. “That she does.” She tilted her head toward the bar, her voice light but final. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, we’ve drinks to fetch.”
For a moment, Y/N thought Bucky might press, that he’d try another line, flash another smile. But instead, he gave her one last look, something halfway between intrigue and a promise to circle back, before he stepped away to rejoin a group of friends near the far end of the bar.
Only when he was gone did Y/N let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. Her pulse still raced, her thoughts a muddled knot. What was that? she wondered. Why did I feel so off? Why can’t I talk like a normal person?
Peggy squeezed her shoulder gently, guiding her back toward their little table. “Don’t let him rattle you. Barnes is harmless. A flirt, yes, but he means well... most of the time.”
Y/N nodded faintly, her heart still lodged somewhere in her throat. Harmless. That was a word Peggy could afford to use. But Y/N knew better. She’d seen what lay ahead for James Buchanan Barnes, and “harmless” would never be the word she chose.
The band struck up a livelier tune, trumpets blaring, the rhythm sharp enough to shake the floor beneath their heels. Couples swept past in arcs of color, skirts twirling, shoes tapping, laughter bubbling louder with every measure.
Peggy returned with two glasses in hand — one amber with whiskey, the other a pale soda fizzing at the rim. She set the soda firmly in front of Y/N and raised a brow. “I wasn’t about to let you get away with just water.”
Y/N wrapped her hands around the glass, the cool condensation dampening her palms. “Thank you,” she murmured, though her voice was barely audible over the noise. She sipped it quickly, partly out of thirst, partly to give her hands something to do.
Peggy studied her for a moment, eyes softening. “You’re doing marvelously, you know,” she said. “New city, new job, new faces — that’s a great deal to take in. Don’t be so hard on yourself.”
Y/N glanced down at her drink, the compliment warming and embarrassing all at once. She wanted to believe Peggy, wanted to trust that she wasn’t sticking out like a sore thumb. But the awkward knot in her stomach told her otherwise.
Peggy tapped her arm suddenly, leaning closer. “Careful,” she said, her tone lightly conspiratorial. “We’re being watched.”
Y/N blinked and followed her gaze across the crowded room. Sure enough, there he was again —Bucky, leaning lazily against the bar with a glass in hand, laughing with a few men in uniform. But even as he spoke to them, his eyes kept darting back to her. When their gazes met, he lifted his glass slightly in mock salute, a lopsided grin tugging at his mouth.
Heat rushed to her cheeks, and she quickly looked away, pretending to study the bubbles rising in her soda.
Peggy smirked knowingly. “I told you, harmless,” she teased. “Though he does seem determined.”
Determined was one word for it. Y/N felt the weight of his attention, even without looking, like a current tugging at her no matter how much she resisted. She peeked again despite herself, only to find Bucky now gesturing subtly in her direction, tapping two fingers against his temple in a playful salute. It was an invitation, a dare, a line cast across the room.
Her breath caught, and instead of returning the gesture, she took another quick sip of her drink and fixed her eyes firmly on Peggy. Her silence was deliberate, her avoidance part nerves, part defense. But somewhere deep down, a small, hidden part of her relished the tease of it, the knowledge that ignoring him only seemed to fuel his persistence.
Peggy noticed, of course. Peggy always noticed. “You don’t have to encourage him,” she said lightly, though amusement colored her voice. “But if you’d like to dance, there are better candidates than James Barnes.”
“Dance?” Y/N echoed, her voice squeaking slightly. The very idea sent panic fluttering through her chest.
Peggy chuckled. “Don’t worry, I won’t throw you to the wolves. But it might help you feel more at ease. Sometimes all it takes is moving with the music.” She tilted her head, eyes sparkling. “Besides, if you don’t, Barnes may very well march over here and ask himself. He’s not used to being ignored.”
Y/N’s stomach flipped. She risked another glance toward the bar — and sure enough, Bucky was watching, that grin still in place, his fingers now drumming a beat against the rim of his glass in time with the music. When she didn’t react, he raised his brows at her in mock challenge, as if daring her to come over or to keep testing his patience.
Y/N swallowed hard, her pulse quickening. She didn’t wave, didn’t smile, didn’t give him anything. But her eyes lingered a fraction longer than they should have before darting back to Peggy.
“I think I’ll just...sit this one out,” she muttered, clutching her soda like it was a shield.
Peggy squeezed her hand briefly, offering quiet reassurance. “As you wish. But don’t hide all evening. This is your night too.”
Y/N nodded faintly, though her thoughts were a jumble. She couldn’t tell if she was more afraid of Bucky actually approaching her… or of what might happen if she let herself answer that spark in his eyes.
The music shifted again, sliding into a slower number, the kind that pulled couples closer and dimmed the laughter into softer tones. The lights above the dance floor glowed warm, casting everything in shades of amber.
Y/N sat rigid in her chair, her soda glass nearly empty, her gaze fixed firmly on the tabletop. She thought she’d successfully avoided him, thought maybe if she stayed quiet enough, invisible enough, he’d lose interest and turn his charm elsewhere.
But James Buchanan Barnes wasn’t the type to lose interest so easily.
The sound of boots approaching made her glance up just as a shadow fell over the table. There he was, tall, sharp in his uniform, eyes alight with mischief as he held out a hand.
“Care to dance ?”
It wasn’t really a question. His grin was too confident, his tone too assured, as though he already knew her answer. The band played on, couples swaying close, the music coaxing her pulse to quicken.
“I—” She faltered, heat rushing to her cheeks. Her instinct was to refuse, to shake her head and retreat into safety. But Bucky only leaned down a fraction, his hand steady, his smile softening into something almost..patient.
“C’mon,” he coaxed. “One song. I promise I won’t step on your toes.”
Her heart fluttered wildly, every excuse catching in her throat. And before she could think better of it, her hand was in his, small and trembling, and he was pulling her gently to her feet.
The world tilted as he led her onto the dance floor, his hand settling at the small of her back with practiced ease. She felt every nerve ignite at the contact, her breath shallow as she tried to mirror his movements. He guided her effortlessly, his confidence filling every space where hers faltered.
“You’re not from around here,” he said after a beat, his voice low enough that it cut through the music. It wasn’t an accusation, more a curiosity. His eyes searched her face, lingering as though he could piece together her secrets if he just looked long enough.
“Chicago,” she blurted, clinging to the story Bruce had built for her. “I, um..I just moved here.”
“Chicago, huh?” His smile curved, playful but intrigued. “Explains why I haven’t seen you around. A girl like you, I’d remember.”
Her throat tightened. Compliments never came easily to her, not like this, not from men who wielded them so smoothly. She wanted to look away, to hide, but his hand at her back anchored her in place, and she could feel the sincerity in the way his gaze didn’t waver.
“You don’t talk much, do you?” he teased lightly, though not unkindly. “That’s alright. I can do enough for the both of us.”
Her lips twitched into the faintest smile despite herself, though she quickly looked down, embarrassed. She didn’t know how to flirt back, didn’t know how to respond to someone who seemed to radiate charm without even trying. All she could manage was to follow his lead, step by step, her heartbeat out of sync with the music but very much in sync with the man before her.
The song wound down, the final notes lingering like a sigh. Bucky didn’t let go immediately, holding her gaze as though reluctant to end the moment. But before either of them could speak, Y/N’s eyes drifted across the room—and froze.
At the edge of the dance floor, near the bar where Peggy had been chatting earlier, stood Steve Rogers.
Not the Steve she’d last seen, not the man who’d carried the weight of the world in his shoulders, who had aged into legend. This Steve was smaller, slighter, his frame lost in the ill-fitting suit he wore. His hair was neat but boyish, his posture straight but not yet hardened. He was speaking animatedly with Peggy, his expression earnest, hopeful in a way that made Y/N’s chest tighten painfully.
Steve.
Her breath caught, her steps faltering as she tried to reconcile the sight. This was before the serum, before the shield, before everything. He hadn’t met her yet, not in this time, not in this world. To him, she was no one. But to her, he was a lifeline, a reminder of the familiar in a place where nothing felt safe.
Bucky noticed the way her eyes had shifted, the sudden stillness in her body. He followed her gaze, recognition dawning instantly as his smile tilted, softer now. “Ah. So you’ve met my pal Steve.”
Y/N’s lips parted, but no sound came out. Her heart hammered, her mind spinning as she watched Peggy laugh softly at something Steve had said.
Bucky’s hand lingered at the small of her back as the song came to its end, his eyes sharp even as his grin curved lazy and easy. He’d noticed her slip — the way she froze when her gaze found Steve, how her whole body had stilled. He followed her line of sight, then back to her, something sparking in his expression.
“Well, well,” he drawled, tilting his head. “You’ve got quite the look on your face. Don’t tell me—you’re starin’ at my buddy Steve?”
Y/N startled, the denial bubbling before she could even think. “No no, it’s not like that.”
Bucky smirked, clearly enjoying himself. “Can’t say I blame you. He cleans up alright, when he remembers to comb his hair. So what’s the story ? He remind you of someone?”
Her throat tightened, panic sparking in her chest. She forced herself to nod faintly, words spilling clumsy and rushed. “Yes. That’s it. He just...he reminds me of someone I knew, back home.”
Bucky’s brows lifted, curiosity sharpening. “Ah. So you’ve got a fella waitin’ for you in Chicago, then?”
“No!” The word came out too fast, too sharp. She cleared her throat, tried to soften it. “No, nothing like that. Just.. a friend. And it’s—” she forced a weak smile, grasping for escape. “It’s funny, seeing Peggy with someone. I wouldn’t have expected that.”
Bucky chuckled, glancing toward the pair at the bar. Peggy leaned in slightly as Steve spoke, her smile faint but genuine, and Steve looked like he might burst with nervous energy.
“They’ve got it bad,” Bucky said with a shake of his head. “Always circlin’ each other, never actually sayin’ what they mean. It’s a wonder the two of ‘em don’t drive themselves crazy. Romantic, if you ask me. Pain in the neck, if you don’t.”
Y/N’s lips curved into a genuine smile this time, her chest loosening at the thought. “No...you’re right. It is romantic.”
Bucky glanced at her again, something softer in his eyes now, like he was testing her reaction. Then, before she could retreat, he slipped his hand into hers again and tugged. “C’mon. Enough standin’ around. Let’s sit.”
She followed, unsteady but caught in his pull, until they found a table tucked in the corner. The noise of the crowd dulled just enough to make conversation possible, though the music still throbbed faintly underfoot. Bucky leaned back in his chair, legs stretched out with easy confidence, his gaze fixed squarely on her.
“So,” he began, tone deceptively casual. “Chicago girl. New in town. Works for Peggy Carter. What’s the rest of the story?”
Y/N’s stomach clenched. She toyed with her glass, the condensation slick against her fingers, buying time. “There isn’t much to tell. I just...wanted a change. New city, new life.”
“That all?” His grin tugged wider, but his eyes stayed sharp, too perceptive for comfort. “Seems to me there’s more you’re not sayin’.”
Her pulse spiked, a flush crawling up her neck. She forced a shrug, careful to keep her tone light. “Or maybe I just like my privacy.”
Bucky chuckled low, clearly amused at her evasiveness. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, closing the distance between them. “You’re a tough one to read, doll. Most girls can’t stop talkin’ about themselves. You, you’re sittin’ here like a locked safe.”
She swallowed hard, her smile thin. She needed to steer this away, needed the spotlight off of her. Her mind scrambled, grasping at the first lifeline she could find.
“What about you?” she asked quickly, her tone sharper than she intended. “Tell me about yourself.”
That earned her another grin, this one edged with intrigue. He leaned back again, folding his arms as though he’d just won a small round. “Me? I’m not much of a mystery. Brooklyn born and raised. Been runnin’ around with Steve since we were kids. Figured I’d end up fightin’ sooner or later, so I signed up. That’s me in a nutshell.”
Her chest tightened at the simplicity of it—at the innocence in his words, the inevitability he didn’t yet understand. She knew too much, knew what that choice would cost him, and it made her throat ache.
Still, she forced a nod, her voice faint. “Sounds like you’ve lived more than enough for two people.”
“Maybe,” he said with a shrug. Then his grin returned, easy and shameless. “But I think you’ve got stories too. One day, I’ll hear ‘em.”
Y/N ducked her head, suddenly finding the fizz in her soda very interesting. She didn’t dare answer.
Y/N sat through a few more minutes of conversation, nodding at Bucky’s stories, but the weight pressing against her chest grew heavier with each passing second. The smoke, the noise, the crowd, it all blurred together until she could barely hear herself think. Add to that Bucky’s eyes on her, bright and unrelenting, like he was peeling back layers she couldn’t afford to expose, and she knew she had to pull away.
“I should…” She set her glass down, fingers trembling slightly. “I think I should call it a night.”
Bucky raised a brow, his smile tilting in challenge. “Already? You wound me, doll. Thought I was better company than that.”
Her laugh was faint, strained. “You are. I’m just...tired. It’s been a long week.”
Before he could answer, she slipped from her seat, weaving through the crowd until she found Peggy near the bar. Peggy’s laughter rang out over the music, warm and low, and at her side stood Steve.
Y/N’s breath caught as Peggy turned, smiling warmly at her. “Leaving so soon? Shame. But before you run off, come here. There’s someone you ought to meet.”
Steve straightened at Peggy’s words, his blue eyes earnest as he extended his hand. “Steve Rogers,” he said, his voice soft but steady.
Y/N’s fingers curled around his, and for a moment, the noise of the bar melted away. He was smaller than she remembered, slighter, but the spark was the same. The kindness, the sincerity, it radiated through his smile, through the way he looked at her as though she wasn’t just another stranger.
“It’s nice to meet you,” she managed, her lips tugging into a genuine smile for the first time that night.
Steve’s own smile widened, a flicker of joy lighting his face as though meeting her had been a gift. And in that moment, Y/N felt a pang of relief. Steve was still Steve. Different time, different body, but not changed.
She pulled back gently, turning to Peggy. “I’ll leave you two to your night. I should rest. But please, stay and enjoy yourself.”
Peggy touched her arm in a brief, reassuring squeeze. “Very well. But you’ll have to join us again soon. Promise me that.”
Y/N nodded faintly, her throat tight. “I promise.”
She had just stepped toward the door when a voice called after her.
“Wait up!”
Bucky appeared, weaving through the crowd with the same easy confidence he carried everywhere. He jogged the last few steps to her side, his grin playful but his eyes intent. “You’re not walkin’ home alone. Not in this city.”
Y/N shook her head quickly, her pulse spiking. “No, really, it’s fine. You don’t have to—”
“Not negotiable,” he cut in smoothly, already matching his stride to hers as they reached the door. “A pretty girl alone at night? I’d never forgive myself if somethin’ happened. Besides” his grin widened, teasing, “I like the company.”
The night air outside was cooler, softer than the smoky warmth inside, and Y/N breathed it in like relief. Part of her wanted to argue again, to insist she could handle herself. But the truth was, she didn’t know this city, not really. Not the streets, not the rhythms of its dangers. And though Bucky’s presence set her nerves sparking, there was also a comfort in it. A steadiness she hadn’t realized she craved.
“Alright,” she said at last, her voice quieter, almost resigned. “But just this once.”
Bucky chuckled, falling into step beside her as they disappeared into the Brooklyn night.
“Sure,” he said, his tone almost smug. “Just this once.”
And though Y/N told herself she’d keep him at arm’s length, a small part of her already knew that with James Barnes, nothing was ever just once.
The streets of Brooklyn at night were quieter than Y/N expected, but alive in their own way. Shop signs flickered, neon buzzing faintly, and the occasional car rolled past, headlights cutting across the darkness. The air smelled faintly of coal smoke and roasted chestnuts from a cart on the corner, blending into a uniquely 1940s hum that still felt foreign to her.
Beside her, Bucky strolled with easy confidence, hands tucked casually into his pockets, like the whole city bent to his pace. He was silent for a few moments, letting her adjust, but the sideways glances he threw her way made it clear he wasn’t going to stay quiet for long.
“So,” he finally drawled, breaking the rhythm of their footsteps. “You always look that nervous when a fella asks you to dance? Or was it just me?”
Y/N glanced at him quickly, then away again, tightening her grip on the strap of her bag. “I wasn’t nervous.”
“Sure,” he said, his grin audible in the single word. “You just had that wide-eyed look, like a deer about to bolt. I’ve seen it before. Usually right before someone runs from me.”
Y/N huffed a faint laugh, mostly to cover the nerves fluttering in her chest. “Maybe I just don’t dance much.”
“Ah,” he said, leaning slightly closer as though testing her reaction, “so you save it for special occasions. I’ll take that as a compliment.”
She kept her eyes forward, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing her smile. “You can take it however you want.”
For a moment, silence stretched between them again, filled only by the scrape of their shoes against the pavement. Y/N’s thoughts swirled—the weight of her mission, the impossible tightrope of blending into this world, and the strange comfort of his presence. She hadn’t expected him to notice her at all, much less press this insistently into her carefully built walls.
Bucky, of course, didn’t leave the silence alone. “So, Chicago, huh?” He glanced at her, his eyes gleaming under the glow of a streetlamp. “What’d you leave behind there? Got family waitin’ on you? Sweetheart pining away?”
Y/N stiffened, caught off guard. The lie was on her tongue, but her throat tightened around it. “No. Nothing like that. I just...needed a new start.”
Bucky slowed his steps, tilting his head as though trying to read the shadows in her expression. “Funny thing. You don’t strike me as the run-away type.”
She forced a small laugh, deflecting. “Maybe you don’t know me that well.”
“Not yet,” he agreed smoothly. “But I’m workin’ on it.”
There was no edge in his voice, only warmth and curiosity, but it was enough to make her pulse jump. He wanted to know her, really know her, and that was dangerous in ways he couldn’t possibly understand. He would never have her, her time would always be limited.
Desperate to steer the spotlight off herself, she asked quickly, “What about you? You live around here?”
He smirked, clearly aware of her attempt to deflect but willing to play along. “Born and raised. Brooklyn’s in my blood. I got my ma and my sister to look after, and then there’s Steve, he’s like a brother, y’know? Scrawny kid with a big heart. Always gettin’ into trouble he can’t handle.”
Y/N’s chest tightened at the mention, her mind flashing to the Steve she’d shaken hands with only an hour ago. Still small, still kind. Not yet the man he would become. Not yet the soldier who would carry the shield.
“That sounds… nice,” she murmured, her voice soft. “To have people who matter that much.”
Bucky shrugged, but the pride in his eyes betrayed him. “Keeps me grounded. And sometimes, they give me a reason to fight.” He cast her another sidelong glance. “But you already know that feeling, don’t you? Looks like you’re carryin’ the weight of the world on those shoulders.”
Her stomach lurched, his words cutting too close to the truth, and she quickly shook her head, forcing a faint smile. “You’ve got an imagination, Sergeant Barnes.”
He chuckled, amused by her use of his title. “Maybe. Or maybe I’m just good at readin’ people.”
They reached her street sooner than she expected, and Y/N felt both relieved and strangely disappointed. She pointed toward the small boarding house where Miss Stanford would be waiting. “That’s me.”
Bucky nodded, but made no move to leave her side. He walked her all the way up the steps, pausing at the door.
“Well,” he said, rocking back slightly on his heels, “guess this is goodnight.” His grin softened into something gentler, almost boyish. “Unless you’re plannin’ to invite me in?”
Y/N’s heart skipped, but she forced a laugh to cover it. “Go home, Barnes.”
He pressed a hand dramatically to his chest. “Rejected. Brutal. You’re gonna give me a complex.”
But his teasing softened with his next words. “Seriously, though. I’ll see you again, won’t I?”
Her throat tightened, the truth she could never tell pressing hard against her chest. She managed a small nod. “Yeah. I’m sure you will.”
Bucky’s grin returned, bright and unshaken. “Good. Then sweet dreams, Chicago.”
And with a small, two-fingered salute, he turned and strolled back into the night, leaving Y/N staring after him with her heart beating too fast and her secrets pressed heavier than ever.
It was almost funny, back home her and Bucky never exchanged words, they were so insignificant to each other, she thought he was so introverted and reserved he was impossible to speak to.
How can she be so charmed by a version of someone she could never retrieve...
Summary: It’s sophomore year Winter Formal, and things get a little messy with your secret friendship (and secret crush) with the Freak of Hawkins High.
Warnings: Language, Fluff & Angst, Secret Friendship, Unresolved Crushes, School Dances, Yearning, First Kiss, Eddie Munson in a Suit
A/N: Enjoy my self-indulgent, cavity-inducing story of Eddie Munson having a massive crush on you and not knowing how to be chill about it. I love writing this man. Prequel to Where Shadows Meet Shapes.
( Read on AO3 )
PREVIEW
“I wanted to ask you to the dance tonight,” you croak before you can chicken out.
Eddie sucks in a sharp breath, readjusting his all-too-aloof demeanor in order to protect the brief, crackled surprise underneath.
“Little ol’ me? I thought it was supposed to be the other way: guys ask girls, yada yada—”
“You were never going to ask me.”
His chin juts back, face scrunching in offense. “That isn’t true.”
This series will be updated every few days. If you’d like to be added to my Eddie taglist, let me know. I hope you enjoy it! - Love, Kiki ♡
𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 | Eddie Munson x female reader
𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | THEN. You’re the only survivor among the Mind Flayer’s victims, thanks to your friends - but after the Battle of Starcourt, you find yourself adrift in a sea of nightmares. Until an encounter in the woods with Eddie The Freak Munson offers an unexpected life line and turns your world upside down.
NOW. Four months have passed since the winter night you walked out of Eddie’s trailer and his life for good. But when the mysterious headaches and nightmares return full-force and something wicked stirs in sleepy Hawkins, starting a witch hunt against Eddie, you realize that there are two things in this world that might be more persistent than you’d thought: Evil…and love.
The story will be told in two timelines: the past (after the Battle of Starcourt) and the present (during the events of season 4).
𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐭 | angst with a happy ending, fluff, smut
𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | SMUT (in the later chapters, so you need to be 18+ to read this story!), angst with a happy ending, canon-typical violence
𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 5.5 k
𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | mentions of attempted assault, Jason Carver, canon-typical violence
“You look like shit,” Max stated as she climbed into the backseat of your car Monday morning, having already waited at the side of the road that led to the Forest Hills trailer park the Mayfields had moved to a month ago after Neil Hargrove had left in the wake of his son’s death.
“Why, good morning to you, too,” you quipped as you started the engine to get back on the road as Robin chimed up from the passenger seat, “That’s what I said, as well. How much sleep did you get?”
“Five hours,” you replied.
“That’s not bad.”
“Over the whole weekend,” you added. A glimpse at Max through the rear-view mirror told you the redhead probably hadn’t slept at all. The skin around her eyes was pale enough to see the blue pattern of veins underneath.
No matter how bad you’d been faring since Starcourt, since your friends had managed to burn the Mind Flayer out of your brains, Max had it worse. Your heart went out to her as she adjusted the headphones over her ears to drown out whatever thoughts and memories would haunt her as soon as she was alone with her mind.
It had been two months since Starcourt, and one month since the start of this odd carpool with talkative Robin and the new gloomy, silent version of Max. On the first day of the new school year, Robin and you had decided to pick the redhead up to spare her the bus ride and the additional moments of scrutiny and whispers that inadvertently followed her, now that she was the girl with the brother who’d died in the “mall fire”. Picking her up in the mornings had become an unspoken agreement, just as it had become with Robin.
It was weird how it had taken possession on your side and a fight against a monster made of molten people to befriend Robin Buckley, the girl who’d lived in the same street as you ever since you could remember. She was growing on you. And she was growing on Nancy, as well. Shared trauma, as it turned out, didn’t just make a great foundation for relationships, but friendships as well.
As you barrelled down the street with a roar of the old car’s engine, your gaze briefly flitted towards the trailer opposite the Mayfield’s, and your thoughts returned to the encounter in the woods Friday night.
To Eddie Munson, who wasn’t callous or scary or threatening at all, but…kind.
This series will be updated every weekend. If you’d like to be added to my Eddie taglist, let me know. I hope you enjoy the first chapter! - Love, Kiki ❤
𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 | Eddie Munson x female reader
𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | THEN. You’re the only survivor among the Mind Flayer’s victims, thanks to your friends - but after the Battle of Starcourt, you find yourself adrift in a sea of nightmares. Until an encounter in the woods with Eddie The Freak Munson offers an unexpected life line and turns your world upside down.
NOW. Four months have passed since the winter night you walked out of Eddie’s trailer and his life for good. But when the mysterious headaches and nightmares return full-force and something wicked stirs in sleepy Hawkins, starting a witch hunt against Eddie, you realize that there are two things in this world that might be more persistent than you’d thought: Evil…and love.
The story will be told in two timelines: the past (after the Battle of Starcourt) and the present (during the events of season 4).
𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐭 | angst with a happy ending, fluff, smut
𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | SMUT (in the later chapters, so you need to be 18+ to read this story!), angst with a happy ending, harassment, canon-typical violence
𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 5.4 k
𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | attempted sexual assault but Eddie saves the day, Jason Carver, canon-typical violence (Those are the chapter warnings. There will be lots of smut in the later chapters so please only read this if you’re 18+ years old!)
It had already been there when you’d woken that morning, that strange, nagging feeling in your gut, like a silent shadow in the corner of the room. Dread. A sense of something being…wrong.
The feeling in your guts had started to grow when Robin had climbed into the passenger seat, and by the time you’d reached Forest Hills to pick up Max, it had spawned into a dark, sinking premonition.
“Holy shit, what the Hell’s happening here?”, Robin gawked at the sight unfurling in front of you when you steered the car to the side of the road, yellow police tape fluttering in the spring-breeze.
“Do you think something happened to Max?”, your friend gasped.
The trailer park was abuzz with police.
In the flashing red-and-blue lights of the police cars painting eerie patterns on the walls of the nearby trailers in the blushing light of dawn, cops whirred around the place like a swarm of flies over a rotten carcass.
And the dark premonition morphed into panic.
“No,” you breathed. “Not to Max.”
You didn’t hesitate a single second, didn’t wait for the officer walking up the gravelly road to reach your car
With Robin’s surprised call piercing the early-morning-air behind you, you burst out the door and broke into a run, ignoring the warning shouts of the officer right on your heels as your feet carried you across the crunching gravel, the haze of panic buzzing like static in your mind, turning your surroundings into white noise and blinking lights.
The gravel beneath your feet turned to dry patches of grass, and you reached the trailer, the crackling static of RT units and shouts filling the morning air around you, all blurring beneath the thundering of your heart, the rush of blood in your ears.
premise: the relationship shared between you and bruce was anything but perfect. it was raw and caked with blood and pain, but it worked.
pairing: bruce wayne x (f)reader
word count: 5.4k
warnings: unprotected sex, pain kink (just a little taste, more or less emotions wise), toxic relationships, blood (wounds, cuts, and bruises mentioned), needles mentioned, tragic pasts (readers family life was crap and domestic violence is mentioned briefly), arguments, angst, scratching, probably slightly unrealistic when it comes to certain things lmao. 18+ ONLY MINORS DNI.
etc: i swear i’ll stop writing shitty angst after this lmao. obviously there’s no spoilers and this leans more towards au since we don’t know too much about the batman and his characterization just yet, i literally took what i’ve seen in trailers and ran with it. let’s hope this doesn’t flop and here’s to all of us becoming completely whipped by robert pattinson this month <3
i do not give anyone permission to translate or repost my work, please be respectful — if you enjoyed please comment or reblog!
You’re not sure if it’s the low hiss that shakes through him as you pat the disinfecting cloth to one of the many open wounds littering his back, his body's instinct to shake and move away from the sting—no matter if it's helpful or not—clearly being fought off by its host. As if proving, to no one, that a little antiseptic was not a big deal. Especially with gashes as deep as these. His ability to hide any sort of pain he may, or may not, be going through being one of his least rewarding qualities. In your opinion.
Or maybe it’s the gashes themselves that has your stomach flip flopping, jumbled with nerves, and in the trenches of an all too familiar feeling, from an all too familiar scenario—much like this one—playing through your head the minute you saw Bruce Wayne clad in his batsuit, cuts and tears distinguishable from a mile away. Coated in that dark crimson that looked tar black when it laid upon his suit—stood at your balcony door, having let himself in like he did most times he would find himself out of options or needing a quick stitch.
And sometimes for other reasons.
It had become an old song and dance you wished you could stop moving to. Wished that that year ago when you had let your journalist drive get the best of you, had peeked your head into a world you truly knew nothing about, but labeled as ‘your big break’—your promotion to the top. If you could have taken back that drive, that need for power in a dying industry: you would have.
Would have taken back being in the wrong place—or right one your boss would have said—at the wrong time. Would have stayed home that night and had a glass of wine, read a book, laid in bed daydreaming about an unobtainable future—any of that was better than getting in the mix of Gotham’s savior doing what he did best and you getting caught in the crosshairs. You know it would have saved both yours, and the infamous Batmans, time and energy. Would have saved you a deep purple spreading along your eye socket and a rusty knife to the ribs for him. But you were there and had made the wrong call.
You had all but disclosed that your mother was once a nurse and you knew how to tend to wounds thanks to her—not disclosing that the only reason she had taught you was because you had a meaner than a skunk father when he was drunk and had once beat your mother so badly she needed stitches. Those stitches coming in the form of her sitting shaking and bloody on the side of the tub while she taught you, at the mere age of ten, how to sew up a wound—Another recurring event in your life you wished you could have missed out on.
The two of you finding yourself in your dingy studio apartment, your thoughts more than hyper aware of the judgment that could possibly be flashing across The Batman's face. An assumption that was more than delirious as the pounding in your eye had made its way throughout your entire membrane, the pain shooting through your body as if it was more than just your eye that took the beating—and like most of Gothams population, and why you were tailing him—you knew next to nothing about the masked savior, so maybe he had lived in a bigger dump than you.
An incorrect fact you eventually learned by the many recurring visits that had him ending up on your doorstep, apparently your first encounter not going as botched as you yourself thought; the dead silence as you fixed the wound at his side, patched the material of his suit the best you could. The low and husky thanks, his gloved fingers flinching and flexing tightly as it looked as if he might, or wanted to, reach out and check your eye, but didn’t. And he quickly left without another word.
The journalist part of you wanted to grab your laptop and type away at what you were sure was going to be the juiciest story of The Batman to date, but instead found yourself having zero desire to share the time, and humiliation on your part, the two of you had spent together. Because in reality it was nothing. You stuck your nose where it didn't belong, got hit, got the Bat stabbed, and you dressed his wound. If anything people would, most definitely, call you a liar or add you to one of those crazed Batman fan sites. Neither things you wanted. So you kept your mouth shut and moved on to other projects.
And maybe it was that fact, that you had kept your mouth shut, that had him coming back to your apartment the second time, the third, the fourth, and then the fifth.
Blood had caked around his mouth and jaw, a visible trail of where it could be coming from—under his mask—apparent. The wheeze in his breath an indication that he could, and most likely, had broken ribs, falling on deaf ears as he barely made eye contact with you. Had barely said more than three words to you as you began to locate each wound and patch it.
It didn't take a genius to know that The Batman didn’t want to be known, was not meant to be known, his identity seeming more important than the actual ‘saving’ he did. You knew you couldn't have just asked him to take the mask off and that would be it, that the frigid man sitting upon your couch—most definitely staining it—in his bulky suit would just comply. But you figured you’d try. So you saved it for last. Put antiseptic here and there. Pressed cloths to deeper wounds to stop the blood. Stitched a knick on the side of his jaw. Until the elephant in the room became too big and the blood on his face too heirowing.
You didn't really even have to ask. One look, one stare, the shift of your eyes as you kept looking back at the blood on his face, at the mask that covered half of it. You were sure he knew already, had tensed so much because he could feel it coming, could feel the request, the dare, the speculation that he would actually take off his mask for you.
But you still asked, adding that you wouldn't tell—which was as cheesy to say as it sounded, so ameteur of you, it holding no solidification in the grand scheme of ‘everyone says that and you're a journalist so why should he believe you’. And that's exactly how it went. His ‘no’ coming out more of a grunt as he stood up and headed for the door.
And maybe it was your curiosity, or maybe it was because you felt actually needed by Gothams own little celebrity of vengeance. And it felt good to be needed, a feeling you didn't quite get writing boring columns and non-break through stories. “I wont look!” You declared as he reached the threshold, “I’ll keep my eyes closed, I even have a sleep mask I can cover them up with if that will make you more comfortable.” You felt stupid for even suggesting, he was clearly done with your help, probably for good now that you’d attempted to unmask him.
“You can just guide my hands where they need to go. I’ll feel if you need any stitches, or antiseptic. I won't peak.” You were surprised to see him stop in his tracks, his back turned to you for a beat longer, your heart in your throat from nerves, before he turned and gave you one quick nod. A small smile had spread across your lips, a feeling of triumph that–may have had no right being placed—lingering in your bloodstream.
And you kept your word, had let his gloved hand wrap around your wrist, your two fingertips brushing his skin; along his temple, his cheekbones, the bridge of his nose—his grip tightening so hard on your wrist as your fingers scraped against the culprit for all of the blood on his face. The wince you let out from the heavy strength of his palm squeezing your wrist dredging up a gravely “sorry” from his lips. It had all been oddly romantic now that you had looked back on it—fucked up none the less though, as you held a needle to his nose and tried to sew up a wound you could only feel with your fingertips. The heat from his leather gloves burning your skin. The hot puffs of air he would sometimes let out, or the twitch of his own wrist as he moved your hand in the right direction so you wouldn’t impale a piece of him you didn't need to.
You think that had been the turning point in the fucked up relationship the two of you had. What had completely solidified whatever the hell the two of you would grow on to have, to become. And the night he finally let you see him, had taken off his mask, had given you the darkest look of both trust and distrust all in own brooding glance; his eyes darker than his suit, the permanent scowl that you've come to know so well. It had started a fire inside of your belly that leaked into your veins to the point of succumption. And you knew then that no matter what time it was, how dangerous it was, or how stupid it was for you to do a real doctors job, half as good as them; you’d always let Bruce in.
Even if he didnt do the same.
Him proving that in tenfold along the way in more ways than you had fingers and toes to count. You had lost count of all of the ways Bruce Wayne—The Batman—had broken your heart, and had seemed to do so without any deep reflection of the fact in his zero attempts to fix said broken heart. Or acknowledge it. The turning point of your relationship slipping into something more than just you tending to his wounds, into the two of you also sharing a bed some nights—not the full night though, he had always refused to stay and you had grown tired of asking him to. Of offering him more than being his on call nurse and another warm cavern to sink into.
And maybe it was your own doing, your own foolishness for falling for such a man; mysterious, frigid, thinking he needs to prove something to himself, to put his mind at an ease you don't think you'd ever really understand because Bruce wouldn't let you. Wouldn't let you see into the dark crevices of his mind that you knew would explain all, tell all, bring you closer to this man you (unfortunately) loved.
The hopeful part of you wanted to believe that it was because you were a journalist, that that's why he was so closed off with you. He still had doubts that you wouldnt rat him out and get famous off a story you've swore time and time again you'd never tell. But the part that knew that that was just Bruce, that he had conditioned himself into this hard brute on both the inside and out, a loner billionaire without parents who no one really knew, and would never get to know; a man stuck on the hopes of vegences and violent acts being more of a warm blanket, a warm home, more than you could ever be. It was just Bruce. How he was. And maybe, sometimes you think, with the way he would look at you, the way he would try to open up, that he had wished he could be more for the both of you, but this was him.
And despite your broken heart you'd accepted that, accepted him. That didn’t mean it hurt any less though, that you didn’t have doubts and fears.
But it’s the reasons why it was not a surprise he showed up at your apartment tonight, and it wasn't a surprise he was stripped down to only a pair of pants, cloths stained with blood littering around your bed, winces of pain as you stitched up wounds, touched bruises, and tried not to be angry at the fact that another set of your sheets were now stained because of him.
“How many were there?”
“Less than you think.”
“Mmm,” you hum as you press the needle into his skin one last time, the ends poking through him easier than leather, the string pulled tight, the wound closed, and then wiped. Bruce barely flinching now that, you were sure, his back had become numb to the needle. But not your fingers it seemed as you ran the tip of your index along one of the deep purpling bruises in the middle of his back, his torso flinching slightly in contortion. It was hard for you to tell when Bruce was lying, even after all the time the two of you had spent together. And instances of you probing and it ending in a fight had stopped you from fully questioning when you get the suspicion of him lying. But you knew he was lying about this. You didn't get this many cuts, bruises, and chunks of flesh opened from there being ‘less than you think’.
“I understand why you do it,” and you did, to a certain extent. “I just wish that-”
“Don’t.” It’s authoritative, threatening and stings all the same. It's a tone you've grown to hate, but know it's like poking a bear if you go against it.
And maybe the two of you have been doing this dance for so long now that you didn’t care, because it does little to deter you. “Right.” You stand from the bed, your chuckle is anything but humours, joyus, having any good sentiment of what it's supposed to, without a trace. You grab the used rags and cloths from your sheets, ignoring Bruce’s eyes on you as he turns towards you. The wince from the stretch of doing so is heard before he can swiftly hide it.
“Thank you.” Is all he says and it makes your blood boil. Makes you stop your actions and scowl at him, because you’re so sick of hearing those words from him. Sick of them being the only true sentiment you can dredge up from his dark soul.
“For what, Bruce? For stitching you up for the millionth time? For dressing a wound that may get infected because I'm. Not. A. Doctor. That's who you really should be seeing, not me.” You laugh. You throw the bloody remiments in your hands in the trash beside your bed, turning back to see him no longer looking at you. His eyes cast across the room. “What if you show up here one night and I can't help you?” Your arms cross around your chest, your frustrations more than prominent in your tone, and of the heavy thud of your heart you can feel against your flesh. “What if your wounds are so bad that you bleed out on my floor? What then Bruce, you still going to tell me thank you for trying to save you. For staining my hands with the blood of someone else's that's mixed with yours to the point of it being caked on your body? To the point where I have to rub your skin red and raw to get it off, is that all worth a big thank you to you? Is that all its worth to you?” You chew on your lower lip, can feel your breath pick up from the octaves of your voice going up, and to a tone you hate using. To a point of boiling in your veins you hate reaching. “Is that all I'm worth to you…Is a thank you?” You hate yourself for even asking, knowing it’s just going to escalate into something more vicious between the two of you—or worse he’s going to ignore it. “More importantly, is that all your life is worth to you? Going after these men, getting hurt, being stitched up by some woman you sometimes fuck; is that worth it to die on my fucking rug?”
“That's not important to me.” His eyes burn into you as he turns, his pupils filled with fire and rage—a look you've grown to wonder if it's the last one his enemies see, if this is the only time you'll get another glimpse into the dark world of his alter ego. “My death has no meaning when the bloodshed from it is more important.”
Your heart would break if you weren't expecting such a response. But the one thing you did know about Bruce is his one track mind on the reasons he does what does. The reasons he doesn't care who he has to hurt or get back at to get his message across, to achieve what needs to be done. To itch a sad sadistic ache from the wound the death of his parents left.
“It's important to me. I don't want to watch you die on my floor, this apartment is shitty enough.”
“I wouldn't-” he growls, “I wouldnt come here if I knew that's how it was going to end, if there was a chance that you'd be a part of that I wouldn't-”
“You’d die in some cave? A back alley? Some psychopaths fucking lare? That's how you want your story to end? The legacy of the infamous Batman, the great Bruce Wayne unmasked and found bloody and beaten, his fortune and birthright torn through the mud because-”
“Because what? Because I chose to do something? Because I am doing something?”
“Just because you’re choosing to do something doesnt mean you’re choosing the right reasons to do it!” A thud comes at the other side of your wall, your neighbors voice muffled but understood enough to know that a noise complaint was a sure thing. You close your eyes, breathe through your nose, out through your mouth, give yourself five seconds, ten, fifteen, before you open them again and Bruce still has his eyes on you. His expression withdrawn, as always. “I would never ask you to stop being The Batman, I’m not your keeper, Bruce.” You laugh, “I'm not even your girlfriend.” This gets a reaction from him, for the ten seconds he lets it swim across his face before he's looking down into his lap. “I’m just saying you’re wrong about your death not being important. You're wrong about not caring about your own life as both of these…people, things.”
You swallow back the emotions that are begging you to let out, the tears you know you could shed but refuse to let be seen by him, be shared between the two of you. An intimacy you're not sure will ever be shared, as much as you would be okay for it to be. But it's hard to throw your emotions at someone who is never willing to catch them, to hold on to them, to grasp them with open and returned devotion, care, love. You never doubted that Bruce cared for you, he had to, even if it was a little bit. You knew he wouldn't have shown his face to anyone, keep showing up at anyone elses doorstep—unless he was there to take his so-called vengeance. So you knew he cared, just not as much as you for him, or the way you deserved, in reality. And if he did, if your assumptions were wrong and those of a toxic mindset; you knew you’d never know because he would never let you see it.
“No one can make you care about your own life. Only you can do that. I just wished you’d leave me out of it, because I cannot go another day wondering if you're going to show up worse than before, I” you swallow, take a deep breath “I can't deal with it anymore, Bruce. I’m sorry.”
He doesn't go to answer and you don't wait for him to. Distracting yourself from letting the tears that are burning your ducts fall in front of him, with picking up the rest of the medical contents on your bed and putting them away. Taking a moment to grip the sink in your bathroom, to let the few tears you actually do allow yourself to shed for him to fall, to help ease a part of your heart that’s screaming for you to have a breakdown right now. Before wiping them just ask quick as they had fallen, righting yourself, and walking back out into the main room. You expect to see him gone, he usually leaves promptly after arguments like this. A bad habit the both of you have; yelling, declaring avoidance, Bruce disappearing for a few days, your heart aching more than it does when he’s actually around, and then he’s back and you’re forgetting your past declarations and letting him.
The song and dance you need to give up. Are going to give up because you’re sure about it this time.
You were not lying when you said you were done with the caked on blood you have to scrub from your fingers every other night. Or the scent of metal that you can't get out of your couch cushions. And the many nights you've gone to bed and woken up with him sitting at the end of your bed barely breathing and cut all over.
But if you didn't do it, who would? Alfred? Perhaps. That had been the only part of Bruce’s life he had told you about, had shared with you the bare minimum of information. No thanks to your prompting. But if he had neither of you, trusted neither of you any longer than who did Bruce Wayne have? A lot less friends than Batman did. A lot less people who loved him.
Because yes, you loved Bruce on the same bitter vine of fruit that you hated him. The two forging together into something ugly and overlooked, something no one would want to even buy, touch, let alone sink their teeth into. It was a fruit you needed to give up. A dance you needed to stop moving along with. A love you needed to get over.
Bruce could darken someone else's door and heart because yours was closed off to him.
For good.
A notion set in the stone of your brain, carved with the broken pieces of your heart; sharp and cutting your chest open like shards of glass only meant to cause pain and bleed you dry until that satisfying, sickly, numb sets in and you forget even why you were hurt in the first place. Why you even cared. It being why you would never let someone into that now dark cavern of your chest cavity again because you didn't want to feel that numbing pain again.
But as you walk past him, his reflexes faster and stronger than yours, giving you little time to wrench yourself away; he grabs your wrist, the warmth of his skin burning that stone, that notion, into multan pieces that forge your heart back into something misshapen and even more fragile than before. Your brain singed by the very heat as your heart is the only thing that calls out to the warmth of him, pulls you into the warmth of him, begs you to take back every word and to just love this man. To ignore the bad and succumb to the good that is there, the good that does show itself. To the way Bruce’s eyes are soft as they look up at you. As he pulls you between his legs, as there's a sorry on the tip of his lips but he can't seem to get it out. Can't seem to get past anything other than the twitch of his bottom lip and the heavy swallow breaths of emotion that he's not used to feeling. Or showing.
It’s all such an overwhelming feeling of everything that you dont have the will power to fight it, because fuck this man, fuck Bruce Wayne and fuck the way he made you feel, fuck fuck fuck.
Bruce cups the back of your neck pulling you down to meet his mouth in one quick motion, before either of you can think differently, can pull away or scream, or remember why you shouldn't do this, again. Why he should walk out of the door and out of your life for good, and why you should let him. It's all washed away, torn and shred, by the penetrating tongue slipping into your mouth, an unspoken apology written in the way your mouths work together. As Bruce’s lips burn against yours, as his teeth nip at your seams of lust and love and forgiveness.
He pulls you onto his lap, your knees finding a home on either side of him. Both of his hands resting on your neck, holding you steady, close, in a grip that says he's not letting you move. That even if you kick him out after this, if the two of you actually follow through, that he’s taking this moment to have you. Close. And moaning into his mouth. It's almost primal the way Bruce can be sometimes, the way he kisses you with such fervor and hunger, the way he strips you bare as quickly as he can, as if if his palms didn’t touch your bare skin, cup your breasts, run along the seams of your body soon, that he might go mad.
Your hips stutter against him, the cotton of your underwear the only thing between you and his covered cock. The barrier that drags along your growing ache the more he pulls you close, the more you gyrate your lower half, rubbing against his growing cock. The sighs of pleasure falling from your mouth into his, Bruce swallowing them down with a low hum. Accepting them like a precious meal.
Once your shirt has been discarded to the floor and the two of you have switched positions; Bruce hovering his weight above you, your legs spread for him, his body just as naked and bare as yours, the heat from his cock warm and throbbing between your thighs. Only ever scraping lightly against your slick slit, enough to have your hips chasing after it, and needy whimpers vibrating against his tongue. Your lips already feeling swollen and bruised from his relenting mouth, his devours; the words you know he can't say swallowed down and settling into that hopeful part of your pathetic heart.
“Please, Bruce,” you whine as his mouth trails wet kisses and nips down your chin, to the junction of your neck, to your breasts where his tongue draws a slow circle around one of your nipples. Making your intake of breath burn your throat as your chest pushes up into him, your cunt throbbing even more as he takes the other one in his hand and squeezes. You had never understood how good it could feel to feel the warmth of someone’s mouth sucking on your skin, your breasts. The shot of desire and burning aching lust that shot through you when their teeth grazed your nipple. Not until Bruce. He toyed, sucked—and even fucked—your breasts with a type of worship that made God himself jealous. The times you would look down and his eyes would be staring up at you in awe. Like watching you wither in pleasure and the taste and feel of you in his palms and mouth was like drinking from the rivers of Eden.
He ate your pussy the same. Some nights it's all he would want to do. You’d finish patching him up and he would drop down to his knees and fuck you with his tongue until his hair wasnt just sticking to his forehead because it was wet with sweat. Like all things Bruce did he did it with vigor, with devotion to the cause, and like it was going to fucking kill him in the end and he was okay with that.
But tonight all you wanted was to feel him inside of you. To be fucked so good by him you forgot everything, all the bad gone, all the heartaching pains. You just wanted to feel Bruce’s breath against your neck and his cock against your walls, fucking you so delicously raw and hard that he was the only thing you could feel, could reach out to, could wrap around in excruciating ecstasy and pain.
You pull him up by his chin, pull his mouth from your body, your breaths mixing as you bring him inches from your lips. “Fuck me, Bruce,” you pant, whine, beg. Looking up into his eyes you can see the dark fire of lust and want burning in them. And it's all you need to ask of him because in his next motion he is grabbing his cock, rubbing it along your wet folds, the head of his cock rubbing against your needy throbbing clit, watching your mouth as it hangs open in a gasp. And he doesn't stop staring as he pushes into you, so slow, so gentle, dragging it out so he can watch the emotions of relief on your face contort in pleasure. Swallowing down your breathy moans when he presses his lips back to yours.
The pace of his thrusting hips against you slowly pick up, once you’ve gotten used to the girth of his cock stretching your walls. The pain from it always one of your favorite parts about Bruce fucking you, you think. As fucked up as it sounded. And maybe that's why you kept letting him, into your apartment, into your heart, into your cunt; because while his words, and lack thereof, had pained your heart, his cock had been the sting of the salve to put it back together. His mouth and his hands had been the words he couldn't speak. The look of pure devotion in his eyes as he told you how pretty you sounded as he fucked you, the bandage to hold it all together.
It was a fucked up relationship the two of you had. A fucked up tune for a fucked up dance. But deep down you knew there was no stopping in sight.
Not when it felt this good. When you loved Bruce like this. When the world got to see the gruesomeness of the Batman, and you got to see the aftermath, the tiredness in his eyes, the aching muscles, the torn skin and soul from his alter ego; and then help put it back together.
His breath is hot against your skin as he fucks you harder, one hand gripped above your head in the pillows, the other wrapped around the column of your neck. The slap of his hips against your thighs, your loud moans, his low heavy grunts deep and vibrating against your chest are the only sounds in your dingy apartment.
Your nails dig into his back and the gravel of the hiss of pain he lets out makes your stomach twist. Your mind too clouded with sex and lust, and him, that you forget that he is infact still hurt. You open your mouth to apologize to move your hands to cup his face, but he quickly stops you with the lift of his chin. With his lips devouring yours with that same heat and hunger and the low mumble of, “do it again.” He grunts, “hurt me the way I hurt you. Show me your pain.” If you had a sane mind, if his words didn't make something burn in your lower belly adding to your arousal, to your lust; you'd know his words would have cut you differently. Would have brought something new and aching to the pile of your already severed heart. But it doesn't. It makes you whimper, it makes you want to pull him closer and drag your nails down his back, reopen his wounds, show him that pain so you can both wallow in it, feel pleasure from it, bask in it, drown in it; because that was your love, that was your devotion to each other in the end; pain. Desirable, lust filled, pain.
𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨 || fluff, angst, implied smut, domestic goodness, more EMOTIONS!!!
six months ago...
Bucky wrung his hands a few times before knocking on your door, feeling his heart beat a little faster when he could hear the sounds of your footsteps on the other side. He'd been dreaming of a day like this for so long— the day he finally acted on this secret obsession he had, the day he stopped fantasizing and started realizing— but all this time, part of him had never really thought he'd go through with it. I mean, there's a pretty big difference between jerking off to videos of dominant women and actually getting spanked, slapped, and choked by a dominatrix after paying her an insane amount of money per hour.
But frankly, Bucky needed a big difference from what he'd been doing. He'd been alone for a little too long, he needed someone else's touch before he lost his mind. And he knew that he needed something more substantial than a hook-up, someone who wouldn't expect him to be dominant at all. Even in a kink-less, vanilla hook-up, there’s still an onus of dominance, that’s what Bucky had realised. He’s still supposed to initiate, to guide, to be fully in control… and he hates how it feels to be in control. He’s not used to it, and it doesn’t feel right, and it just makes him sure he’ll do something wrong. So here he was, standing at your door, hoping you’d take away his freedom to do something wrong.
The latch turned and you opened it.
Fuck.
You looked great. Too great, almost overwhelming. Even better than the pictures on your website.
You looked so much softer than the women he saw whenever he searched up femdom porn (yes, that was pretty much the first thing he did once he figured out google— thankfully he had also figured out incognito mode), but your presence was twice as commanding. Your eyes scanned over him quickly and your face stayed annoyingly stoic.
You invited him in; And since then, you’d had him wrapped around your finger.
Even knowing to a certain extent what he was getting into, he could’ve never prepared for how quickly he’d fall for you. Not that he was exactly new to the feeling, but he thought guilt might eat him alive: because of course he felt awful for developing real feelings for you. You were just doing your job and he was falling into the same trap that probably every dumbass client fell into.
Or maybe they actually knew what they were doing and understood how to separate fantasy from reality. He couldn’t decide which one was worse.
He spent a few hours trying to decide while staring up at his ceiling— certainly a better way to spend the time than being social or taking care of unfinished business, right?
But leave it to you to change everything with just three words. Make me yours.
He hadn’t stopped thinking about those words— or about the way you said them— since the moment you spoke them. He hadn’t stopped changing his mind on if he could really believe you were his or not. He wanted to, more than anything; and in those brief moments he did, he felt a joy that he had no idea what to do with.
He frowned as he turned his back towards the mirror, looking over his shoulder to watch his finger run over the fading scars on his back. They’d be gone for good in less than a week, but he knew you had left plenty of permanent marks on him— just unfortunately not those that anyone else could see. He liked the way these scars looked under your fingertips much more than his; he liked everything about being in your arms.
Since you’d texted him to ask if you could have a serious talk with him soon, he worried he wouldn’t get to feel that again. In fact, nothing worried him more.
He was typically antsy as he waited for you to answer the door— he had been since that very first time so long ago— but this felt entirely different: not as jittery, but a thousand times more anxious.
At first he’d been wishing you’d answer it right away, but then he heard your bolt turn and panic landed on him like a dangling anvil dropping on a cartoon character. Suddenly the last thing he wanted was for you to open that door, to be standing there looking all perfect and shit, to smile at him and greet him and invite him in. He didn’t want it; he couldn’t take it.
But you did it all anyway, though it was obviously and immediately a new situation entirely, compared to every other time you’d done it.
You were dressed differently, still formal but definitely toned down. Nothing sexual, at least not objectively. And your smile, though it still made his heart skip a beat just like always, was noticeably softer and maybe a bit sadder.
He stepped in past you, and you surprised him by sitting next to him on the couch rather than across from him on your chair. “Do you want, like, water or anything?” you asked, breaking the silence for a moment.
“No, I’m fine,” he nodded.
Bucky had gotten pretty good at silence these past few years; it didn’t bother him, in fact he barely even noticed it. But this silence made him remember why everyone else hated silence so much: it was heavy and thick and made him overcome with the need to blurt something out. “Everyone calls me Bucky,” he finally admitted. You smiled.
“Do you want me to call you that?” you asked.
He considered your question, trying to imagine you saying it. “I… I used to think it would be better, but now I like the way you say ‘James’ too much.”
“If you thought it would be better, why did you ask me to call you James?” you pressed.
“Because I didn’t want you to know who I was.”
“I know who you are,” you informed him. “I always knew.”
He swallowed as the pit formed in his gut, glancing away to hide from your gaze. “You did a good job of… of pretending you didn’t. You never seemed scared of me.”
“Because I wasn’t. And I’m not.”
He couldn’t imagine how; but then again, if there was any truly fearless woman, he figured it would be you. “I thought you’d beat me up better if you knew what I’d done,” he admitted, almost smiling but not exactly feeling very happy. “Thought you might want… revenge.”
“Surprised that didn’t make you want to tell me.”
He laughed a bit at that. “Yeah, fair enough.”
You asked him a very different question next, one that made his throat suddenly dry: "Have you ever had something that was all your own?" you spoke gently.
"Not for a long time…" he trailed off, letting his eyes unfocus as he stared down at your floor before finding the courage to look up at you again. “Is that what you wanna be?” he asked, already wishing he hadn’t said anything in case it was too presumptuous, but you just smiled back at him in a shy sort of way.
“Something like that,” you mitigated.
His eyes darted around your face— from your eyes glancing away, to your lips that you gnawed on for a moment, to the little crease between your brows— and he found himself leaning forward before he even realized it. “Can I kiss you?” he asked quietly.
You didn’t answer, you just kissed him first; he was so relieved that you did it, too, that you took control so easily and just let him melt into your kiss. As good as it felt to submit to you, he enjoyed the new freedom he had in this moment as well— the freedom to reach up and grab your waist, to brush his hand over your hair, to tilt his head and deepen the kiss further.
It was hard to define exactly where it went from innocent to sensual to sexual, but by the time you were straddling his lap and running your fingers through his hair, it was definitely sexual.
“I want you,” you breathed against his lips.
“Have me,” he offered immediately, “I’m yours. Always was.”
He breathed in sharply when you moved your hips just right to rub up against his swelling cock through his jeans, making him grip your waist a bit harder. “Good boy,” you whispered. “You’re so good, James.”
He believed you this time, finally.
For your first real date, he took you to Coney Island. Not the classiest affair, and he promised to take you somewhere really nice next, but you didn’t mind. It was jarring to see you in casual clothes for the first time, something summer-y and light which was everything opposite to how he was used to seeing you; but he liked it, and he liked knowing a secret about you as you walked through a crowd of carnival-goers that were none the wiser.
He walked you through the fair and explained how he remembered it, showed you the few things that hadn’t changed much. He bought you a hot dog and even won you a prize at one of the games; that one where you throw a baseball and it measures your pitch speed? Yeah, it’s rigged, but he pitched lefty and it seemed to even everything out. (It’s not cheating, okay? It’s beating them at their own game, literally.)
So with a massive teddy under one arm and his waist wrapped in your other, you two walked through the winding pier, under twinkling lights and over walkways towering over the ocean below. And then you fooled around a bit on the ferris wheel. It was the ideal Coney Island experience, for sure.
Bucky didn’t have a ton of friends, per se, but he was excited for you to meet them. Meeting friends was certainly a step, though; hopefully a step you were willing to take, but he didn’t want to ask you to do it without at least having a title to introduce you with.
“I want you to be my girlfriend,” he finally told you.
“I kinda thought I already was,” you laughed.
And so, with more pride than he might have ever had for anything before, Bucky finally got to take you to meet everyone (‘everyone’ being a mix of his friends and his coworkers, who may or may not be his friends because he couldn’t always tell) and say “I want you guys to meet my girlfriend.”
Of course you were amazing with all of them; you continued that tactful “I know who you are but I’m pretending I don’t to be nice” thing that you’d started with him, and everyone seemed to appreciate it. You cracked a couple jokes, everyone laughed.
You lied about how you and Bucky met, or at least answered very strategically. Everyone at least pretended to believe you.
Afterwards, they all said something about how great you were or about how lucky he was. The only thing he ever said back was “I know.”
Now that he could kiss you without breaking any rules, he never wanted to stop. He hardly ever did, actually. He kissed you basically whenever he could get the chance; you two didn’t even go out much anymore because he wasn’t very good at keeping his hands to himself, but you weren’t exactly complaining about staying in. You were too busy kissing him back, and teasing him mercilessly while you were at it, to do that.
You had already found the fastest way to get him needy and begging, not that any way took very long. If you kissed him while you straddled his lap, wrapping your arms around him and slowly grinding against him, he lost it in minutes. And you really seemed to get a kick out of watching him lose it, just as much as always.
It made him realize that the way you looked at him before, in sessions and scenes together, was a lot less of an act than he’d assumed at the time. He just thought you were a really good actress, or that he was really whipped; and maybe the first was true, and the second was absolutely true, but regardless it had become clear that you had it almost as bad as he did from the beginning. It gave him even more respect for how well you controlled yourself, he certainly hadn’t had much self-control at the time— after all the whole ordeal was about losing control, and occasionally about trying to gain it back.
He didn’t ask you to quit your job. He didn’t want or expect you to; but you did cut down your hours, which gave the two of you more time together.
To be totally honest, part of him got a bit titillated to imagine you with your other clients. He didn’t like the idea of other men touching you, but he smirked at the thought of them begging to touch you and being denied; he liked knowing that you didn’t do with them even half of the stuff you’d done with him when he was your client.
But he wasn’t your client anymore. He was your boyfriend, and he wanted the world to know it.
six months later...
He let you struggle to reach the top shelf for a moment, just because you looked cute on your tip-toes with the tip of your tongue sticking out of the corner of your mouth, before he finally relented and helped you grab the bottle of rice wine vinegar.
“Thanks,” you smiled as he set it in the cart.
After that you let him grab everything, content to stand on the end of the cart and push you around as you reminded him what else you needed.
“We’re out of Captain Crunch!” you remembered as he passed the cereal aisle, pointing to try to get him to turn.
“Yes, and we need to stay that way,” Bucky explained sternly, “that shit is addictive. Only way to avoid it is to not have it in the house.”
You frowned but accepted that he was absolutely right, though you groaned when he took you to the refrigerated section to stock up on chicken breasts. “I swear, you would eat these for breakfast if you didn’t think I’d judge you for it,” you joked.
“What’s wrong with chicken breasts?”
“They’re just so… bland!”
“Not if you season them right,” he corrected.
“Which you don’t,” you rolled your eyes. “Come on, at least splurge on some chicken thighs. They’re basically the same but so much more flavorful.”
“Fine, but no more making fun of my cooking,” Bucky decided, placing the breasts back on the shelf and grabbing two packs of thighs instead. “I’m still adapting to 21st century sensibilities.”
“Right,” you nodded, though he caught your smile in the corner of his eye— you knew he couldn’t exactly claim to still be as conservative as he was raised to be in every way.
Like any well-planned grocery run, it ended at the frozen section where you got some fruit bars and frozen vegetables (you had this theory that frozen vegetables tasted better in fried rice than fresh ones, and so far you’d proven him right) and he got a pizza to have for dinner in a pinch. When shopping alone before, he always did self-checkout to avoid being seen anymore than he had to… he still did it with you, but he didn’t even think about who might be looking at him, because all he saw was you.
You drove for this trip, and he always felt oddly soothed by riding passenger with you at the wheel. He liked to close his eyes and lean back a bit, or occasionally look over at you (but if he did it too much you complained that he was being creepy and distracting you). It shouldn’t be too much of a surprise that he enjoyed the feeling of you taking control, considering everything, but it was one of those little ways that he hadn’t expected. He just felt so comfortable, so safe with you, and never he felt like he was a burden for asking you to take the lead when he didn’t trust himself with it. And that applied to everything— driving, cooking, speaking up in crowds, all those little things that sometimes made him anxious.
There were some things he didn’t have any trouble being dominant about, though. He was very protective of you, for example, and tended to be uptight about how late you went out for walks or where you should be going alone. And he didn’t struggle to ask you for what he wanted— he was getting a lot better at asking for help, specifically.
He used to ask you to say that you loved him, instead of just saying ‘I love you’ himself, because for some reason it was easier to make you do it first. It started as something he’d beg for in the throes of passion, fingers digging into your skin as his eyes watered (as they often did in intimate moments): please, say you love me— jus’ need to hear you say it, please? And you were always sweet about it in return, of course I love you, James, my good boy, I love you so so much. But then he’d ask you to say it whenever he felt like it— he’d come up behind you while you were reading or cooking or something and kiss the top of your head or the shell of your ear and try to act nonchalant as he asked you love me, right?
You’d laugh and roll your eyes before you answered, but it was, thankfully, always a ‘yes.’ Eventually you figured out how often you needed to say it to make him stop asking all the time, which was probably a little too often.
“I love you,” you blurted out randomly as you turned on your signal and leaned a bit to make sure it was safe to make a left— case in point.
“I love you too,” he answered back with a smile.
“I don’t mind saying it so often,” you added, “but you know that I love you even when I’m not saying it, right? I love you all the time.”
It was a simple question, probably mostly rhetorical, but it hit him harder than he expected. “Yeah, I know,” he managed to get out evenly enough that you didn’t notice he was tearing up a bit.
He put the groceries away while you took the trash out; you liked to keep the fridge pretty organized, and it was an adjustment at first, but by now Bucky had it down pat. Before you, he hadn’t even considered that the contents of a refrigerator could be aesthetically pleasing.
Dinner was leftovers in front of the TV— you two were almost done with Frasier, but after that you had ten seasons of Friends to get through. You had tried to encourage him to watch more challenging stuff— you know, True Detective, Hannibal, dark cerebral stuff with arguably more artistic merit than classic sitcoms— but Bucky had had enough darkness in his life that he didn’t need it in his fiction. Maybe he’d find the time to catch up on the last 80 years of dramas and murder mysteries after he caught up on the last 80 years of comedy.
After dinner you were going to do yoga and Bucky, not in the mood to embarrass himself with that, retired to the bedroom a bit early to read his book— he’d heard a lot about this Harry Potter guy and now that he was on the fourth book and could hardly put it down, he understood the hype. He related a bit to the unwilling war hero in its protagonist; most of the time the series enthralled him, but occasionally something would hit too deep and he’d have to put it away for a couple days. At the moment, though, he was in one of the easy parts where it was just about schoolwork and childhood antics.
He instinctively glanced at the door when he heard you open it— he wasn’t sure how long it had been time-wise, but he’d gotten through quite a few pages— but he only quickly looked up at you as you shut the door behind you, before returning his attention to the book he was reading. “So, Bucky…” you began.
“Yeah?” he mumbled.
“James.”
It wasn’t any one thing that got his attention— not just the tone of your voice or the way it got a bit deeper, not just the look you gave him, not just the way the air of the room seemed to shift all at once. It was everything about you that made his body react instantly. He shut the book and set it aside, sitting up straight to look at you expectantly.
And you seemed to notice his instinctual obedience, considering you just barely smirked at him, raising an eyebrow as he spoke his reply: “Yes, Mistress?”
this was a perfect ending. jd, you did such an incredible job with this story and its characters. it was great seeing how these two grew throughout the series and how they fell in love— gosh i read this whole chapter with a smile on my face c: ty for sharing it with us!!
Description: By a twist of fate, a young girl is swept up in the chaos of the Hargreeves family. Ophelia Cortez was never supposed to become close to any of them. She was just a neglected girl who's family pawned her off the moment things started to get abnormal. With new abilities cultivating, Ophelia is forced to face old wounds and new flames.
Pairing: Diego Hargreeves/OC
Warnings: Death
Word Count: 2,842
Series Masterlist
Ophelia left behind all the hurt Reginald had instilled in her, after leaving The Umbrella Academy. The Hargreeves siblings were split up across the state and moon, leaving the woman to fend for herself. She did not have any real skills other than her extraordinary abilities. Ophelia had no choice but to use her ability to her advantage. Since her time at the academy, she had been hired for a large tech company that was researching a way to use her abilities for trauma recovery. It became an overnight hit, allowing users a safe way to cope with unforeseeable circumstances. The irony in her new job was hilarious.
"This will only take a moment. Please, relax and do not be alarmed when you start seeing images." Ophelia explained to an anxious patient.
The man sighed, "No matter how many times we do this, it still scares me."
"That's understandable, but am I really that scary?"
The man ignored the chuckling woman as he went through the treatment. He wasn't scared. After suffering from an accident overseas, She had helped him gain control over his life. He was grateful she was in business.
Ophelia on the other hand was always ridden with a sense of guilt. After being left with the Hargreeves family 13 years ago, she never amounted to Reginald's expectations. Every failure after Ben's death was blamed on her, stemming from Ophelia being there for the least amount of time. She eventually got tired of being the scapegoat and left before it could get any worse.
For the next thirteen years, Ophelia hadn't stopped trying to help people. The only thing Reginald assisted her with was control. Now she had the opportunity to support people in need, without the scrutinizing tone of Reginald. It's not like she didn't grow attached to the other members of The Umbrella Academy, but it was just different. They were all so closed off to the idea of a person replacing Ben that it made forming relationships difficult. She didn't take it personally. They were all screwed up by their childhoods, including Ophelia.
"okay, you're done for today so take it easy. I mean it. You need to stay for another 10 minutes after the treatment just to make sure you're alright." Ophelia explained as she broke the mental connection she had with her patient.
The man groaned, "Can you at least put the tv on?
"Sure. The only things we have is the news though."
She turned on the tv and was automatically hit with the breaking news.
Reginald Hargreeves, the Billionaire mostly known for the creation of The Umbrella Academy has died. He leaves behind six grown children.
What the hell just happened? How was that man dead?
Ophelia never would have thought that she would feel such dread at hearing the news about Reginald's death. A part of her seemed to believe he wasn't able to die. She thought that her running away from her problems would help avoid having to interact with them again. He was dead, but he still insisted on tormenting her.
This meant she had to return to the academy.
Lucky her.
—————
Ophelia sighed as she looked at the enormous doors that seemed to still be outlined with the red engravings of umbrellas. She had only spent a brief moment inside, but she couldn't forget the amount of neglect inflected on her.
What had happened to them. What he did to her.
There was no way a person could forget all the trauma that fell upon her. She didn't want to be here. Maybe she could turn back and pretend the old man was still alive. It wasn't like any of the original six members would care.
Ophelia was about to back out, but was interrupted by the sound of the heavy doors opening. It revealed the familiar face of Pogo. One of the few redeeming parts of this place.
"Hello Ms. Cortez, I am glad to see that you were able to make it."
The monkey hadn't changed from the last time she saw him. He still talked like he was some well polished gentleman. Other than the fact that he was a monkey, She had always considered him as one. For an animal, he did have more empathy and compassion compared to her actual caretaker. Pogo would always read her stories with Grace's help, ensuring the young girl every night she was wanted. Grace and the monkey were her soft spots.
"Hi pogo, I've missed you so much." She excitingly spat out, reaching out her hands in order to hug him.
"I've missed you too Ophelia. It's a shame this is how we meet again." Pogo expressed sadly.
"Well, this is probably the only way I would have came back. Have the others arrived yet? "Ophelia questioned pogo, taking note of his facial expressions for any sign of discomfort.
Pogo looked into Ophelia's eyes, "Miss. Vanya and Allison have arrived. Your brother Luther is also around here somewhere. We are still waiting on the other siblings I'm afraid."
"None of them are my siblings Pogo. That was made clear. I was only here for a year, and Reginald made sure to remind me of it. I don't know anything about them anymore."
The monkey stepped into the mansion, waiting for Ophelia to walk inside, "Maybe this is the chance for that to change Ms.Cortez. I believe you've been brought back together for a reason."
Ophelia thought about that for a moment. Was there a reason she was here? Maybe there had been some universal tampering to get them all in the same room. Whatever the reason was, it still didn't account for the awkwardness that was guaranteed to take place.
"Ophelia is that you? You look great and you've changed so much." Allison's voice interrupted her thoughts.
"Yeah, it's me. I'm kinda surprised you remember what I looked like." Ophelia joked.
"Oh come on, not that again. We were kids Ophelia. Also, I couldn't forget your horrible bob and the bad eyeliner"
It was true, she had changed since the last time they were all in the same room. She had filed out and was taller than the last time they were together. Now, she sported long hair and a athletic build. Ophelia wasn't a little girl anymore. She was a woman.
Ophelia offered a genuine smile, "Okay, yeah I get it. You weren't any better. It's nice to see you again Allison."
Ophelia seriously doubted that. After Ben's death, they wanted nothing to do with each other. There were obviously good times, but they were hard to remember. Being older probably faded a lot of the emotional baggage each of them carried. There was no use in being angry. Everyone was dealing with the torment of Reginald Hargreeves.
While exploring the old home, Ophelia stumbled across her room. Nothing had changed. It was still bleak and barely had any photos. The only things displayed were news articles about The Umbrella Academy. She really didn't have much decor style. As she was admiring her handiwork, Diego appeared in the hallway.
"Hey, long time no see." Ophelia called out catching the man off guard.
"H-Hey. Wow you actually showed up. I wasn't expecting it. Y-Y-You look good." Diego stuttered.
Ophelia knew his stutter would appear again when he was talking to her. For some reason, Diego had always had such a problem talking to Ophelia when she moved in. They had communicated normally before Reginald took her in, but after being integrated with The Umbrella Academy it changed. He barely talked, only stepping in when his siblings got too bold with her.
He had always treated her with such softness. Always making sure the siblings and Reginald didn't make life for her too hard. She had to tell him that she could take care of herself, which she could. But it was nice having at least one person stick up for her, even though they never stayed in touch after the academy.
Things had since changed. They were both grown, and he looked at her as an equal. They both had made a name for themselves since leaving. He had become a man now. It was far different than when they were in their teens. She still didn't get his whole Ninja get up but respected it. Other then the outfit, he looked good. She would even consider him handsome if it weren't for the fact he would probably kill her if he found out.
"Thanks. What's with the outfit?" Ophelia inquired.
Diego looked down at his outfit, "Needed some gear. I'm still helping out the police force."
Ophelia smiled lazily at him, "Helping? I guessed, since you're still with Patch."
"You keeping track of me? Who would of thought. Im surprised after how everyone left. " Diego said, scratching the back of his neck.
Ophelia shrugged, "Well, we were kids. I've seen a lot of family trauma, and you would be surprised by how ours wasn't the worst."
Diego chuckled, "So you weren't just keeping tabs on me Ophelia."
Blushing, Ophelia hastily snapped, "I kept tabs on all of you idiot. Don't get a bigger head than you already have."
His facial expressions softened, "too bad, was kinda hoping it was just me phelia."
His words carried a double meaning that Ophelia was confused by. What was that supposed to mean? What was going on with this family? Obviously, she was in a dream. Diego was probably just trying to get under her skin.
They had left on bad terms. There was a huge fight that had caused a drift. A mission hadn't gone well, with the suspects getting away and breaking Klaus's arm. Ophelia was the only one in the vicinity to stop them, but she decided to let them go in order to help Klaus. They came back stealing more money, and shooting her in the process. After finding this out, Reginald punished her and the team the next day.
Diego was mad that she let them get away, telling her she should've protected herself. He made it seem like she was weak. Could she have fought back? Yes, but not when it was at the expense of Klaus. He knew that, but he had chosen to pretend like he wouldn't have done the same. If Diego wanted to keep living like that he could, but she wasn't sacrificing her own beliefs for Reginald Hargreeves. She hoped he would come to his senses. Ophelia always had a hidden soft spot for the knife thrower.
Luther shouted at Diego and Ophelia, "Meeting down stairs now. We need to talk about things."
"Uhhh. He's still the same isn't he?" Ophelia complained.
Diego began walking downstairs. "Definitely, just a lot meatier than usual."
"Diego, What's that supposed to mean"
The two walked towards the living room, "You'll see." Diego warmed Ophelia.
—————
The seven members of the Umbrella academy were now all in the living room, pretending it was under normal circumstances. Ophelia hadn't seen everyone in thirteen years. So much had changed, but at the same time nothing had changed. Klaus was still pretending to be sober, secretly pouring himself a drink under the table. Luther was in the middle of the room. Allison and Diego were sitting by the bookshelf, listening to Luther.
"I guess we should get this started. So, I figured we could have a sort of memorial service in the courtyard at sundown. Say a few words, just at Dad's favorite spot."
Allison's face contorted in confusion, "Dad had a favorite spot?"
"You know, under the oak tree. We used to sit out there all the time. None of you ever did that?" Luther had asked.
"No Luther, not all of us were his favorite. Also, can everyone remember that he's your guys's dad and not mine." Ophelia huffed.
"Shush. Shhhh cranky pants. Will there be refreshments?" Klaus asked joining the group. "Tea? Scones? Cucumber sandwiches are always a winner."
Ophelia rolled her eyes, "Don't shush me Klaus. Shouldn't you not be smoking in here? Pogo could get sick"
"Is that my skirt?" Allison asked, eyeing Klaus' eccentric outfit.
"What? Oh, yeah, this. I found it in your room." He explained.
"It's a little dated, I know, but it's very uh, breathy on the bits."
" There's still some important things that we need to discuss."
"Like what?" Diego asked.
"Like the way he died."
"And here we go." Diego sighed, looking at Ophelia from across the room.
She couldn't believe this, "Wasn't it a heart attack?" Both Vanya and Ophelia answered at the same time.
"They checked and it all lined up Luther." Ophelia sighed in frustration.
In order to calm her down, Diego put a supportive hand on her back.
"I'm fine. Thanks." Ophelia said to Diego as he slid his hand up and down her back.
"No problem." He replied as they both held each others gaze.
Confused by the outward comfort being given, Luther continued, "Theoretically. He sounded strange, and told me not to trust anyone."
Diego had gotten up from beside Ophelia. "Luther, he was a paranoid, bitter old man who was starting to lose what was left of his marbles."
"No. He must have known something was going to happen." He relocated his attention towards Klaus. "Look, I know you don't like to do it, but I need you to talk to Dad."
"I can't just call Dad in the afterlife and be like, Dad could you just... stop playing tennis with Hitler for a moment and take a quick call?" Klaus snapped.
Ophelia couldn't contain her laughter, causing the siblings to stare at her.
"What that was funny."
"This is why she's my favorite." Klaus responded.
"Since when? That's your thing." Luther refocused on the topic at hand.
"I'm not in the right... frame of mind."
"You're high?" Allison asked.
"Obviously." Ophelia muttered.
Klaus drunkenly pointed at her, "Ophelia my dear, I will retract your title of my least despised number."
Starting to get annoyed, Ophelia alerted the group. "He's totally high."
"Yeah! Yeah!" He laughed. "I mean, how are you not with listening to this nonsense?"
Luther kept talking, "Then there's the issue of the missing monocle."
"Who gives a shit about a stupid monocle?" Diego sighed.
"Exactly. It's worthless. So, whoever took it, I think it was personal. Someone close to him. Someone with a grudge."
"Where are you going with this?" Klaus asked
"Oh, isn't it obvious, Klaus?" Diego started. "He thinks one of us killed Dad."
This was a serious allegation. Yes, most of them wouldn't have cared if he died. But killing him? None of them would be stupid enough to try. As soon as Luther had voiced his theory, he looked guilty.
"You do!" Klaus yelled in amusement.
"Come on, Luther. Who do you think it is? Who's going to do something that stupid? What a brother you are." Ophelia angrily said.
Luther getting more heated by the second, and aimed his words at Ophelia, "I'm not saying that. I'm just saying it could happen. I mean you hated him, and your track record with people isn't great."
Ophelia became red with anger, "Are you seriously accusing me? She raged, trying to calm herself down. "I know you've never liked me Luther, but don't you fucking dare accuse me of that. Have I done questionable things? Yes, but I'm not a monster."
"How could you think that?" Vanya asked in shock.
"I spent years helping people and that's not enough? I know I had slip ups, but I never killed someone ."
"Yeah, but..."
Unexpectedly, Diego bursted out in anger, "Don't blame her. We're not kids anymore. She didn't kill dad. You've just always had something against her Luther. "
"Look, Diego you can't protect her all the time. I don't know what's happening with you guys, but don't pretend she's above this. Ophelia has a short circuit, always has. " Luther instigated.
"WHEN?" Ophelia put her hands to her head. She couldn't believe this. She blows a goats head off one time, and suddenly she's a hot head.
"Come here, let me show you what a short circuit looks like. " Diego stepped forward to hit Luther.
"STOP. I can handle it myself Diego." Ophelia pressed down on his chest, trying to calm him down. "I didn't kill him. None of us did. If something actually happened, then we'll figure it out like adults. I'm not going to stand here and let you accuse me or anyone else. Get a grip Luther."
"Fine." He huffed.
"Great job Luther. Way to lead." Diego said, angrily walking out of the room.
"That's not what I meant to happen..." Luther tried to defend himself.
"You're crazy, man. You're crazy." Klaus interrupted him.
"I'm not finished!" Luther exclaimed as everyone stepped out of the room.
"Sorry, She's just gonna go murder Mom. Be right back, I'm going to go watch." Klaus said.
Description: By a twist of fate, a young girl is swept up in the chaos of the Hargreeves family. Ophelia Cortez was never supposed to become close to any of them. She was just a neglected girl who's family pawned her off the moment things started to get abnormal. With new abilities cultivating, Ophelia is forced to face old wounds and new flames.
Pairing: Diego Hargreeves/OC
Warnings: Mentions of abuse
Word Count: 1,116
Series Masterlist
It couldn't get worse than this.
.
The early training sessions had started when Ophelia arrived, making it nearly impossible for the girl to settle in. The practices became a regular occurrence after Reginald Hargreeves brought her back to the academy. The old man had made it his mission to "properly" train her himself, since he couldn't have the new recruit messing things up for The Umbrella Academy.
.
Ophelia consistently worked on growing her abilities. Reginald's favorite way to ensure improvement was to use her gifts on living animals. The man would hook goats up to brain scanning machines, and project their brain waves onto the lab reports.
.
On multiple occasions, Mr. Hargreeves asked Ophelia to practice her abilities on small goats. The animals were strapped onto metal tables, fighting to break loose. She didn't want to do it but was forced into it.
.
"I don't want to hurt it. This isn't going to work." The young girl cried out to her caretaker.
.
The man scoffed. "Girl, you must continue. I will not have an incompetent child running amuck. If you do not do this I will lock you up and kill it slowly. Do you want it to die in pain? The man asked. "I will make it far worse. I am not making you kill the animal, but I will if that is what you want."
.
"No, please don't... I-I'll do it." Ophelia cried out to the man.
.
A stinging sensation arose in her brain as she projected an image into the animal's head. The goat was safe in her illusion, and it had absolutely no reason to be afraid. But fear began to invade the young girl's brain, reflecting in her illusion.
.
Due to an overwhelming amount of stress in Ophelia's mind, the goat started to convulse on the table. Ophelia tried to reign in her emotions but was unable to do so. The girl's head was filled with an unexplainable sense of dread, causing her illusion to transform into a nightmare. The sounds from the machines were off the charts. She didn't mean for it to happen, but her mind seemed to twist her abilities into something dark.
.
The once peaceful animal was now lying in its own pool of blood, its head blown off.
.
Years after this incident, Reginald kept her isolated from the rest of the world. The girl wasn't able to conjure non-lethal illusions. He would need more time training her. Before introducing the girl to the other children, Ophelia needed to learn control. She was far too dangerous to have among other people.
.
He couldn't have the girl blowing peoples' heads off. It would create too much bad publicity.
.
It took years of training for Reginald Hargreeves to feel comfortable letting his pupil use her gifts. When she first arrived, Ophelia could barely create an illusion without an emotional trigger. In the last six years, she had grown the ability to manipulate reality at will.
.
After the death of Ben Hargreeves, Ophelia was forced to become an improved number eight. She had been trained rigorously for years. Her life wasn't hers anymore. She belonged to a man who cared for no one but himself. Ophelia was a ploy in a game only Reginald Hargreeves knew how to play.
.
————————-
When Ophelia was first introduced to The Umbrella Academy, it was quite underwhelming. She had been expecting a better reaction then what she received. The only person who seemed to notice her at first was Diego, the boy she met in the warehouse a year ago.
.
He had changed so much in three years. Diego had become taller and much more muscular since the last time she interacted with him, but this wasn't what drew her attention. It was the dark circles under his eyes and sunken face that Ophelia noticed first. She remembered their first encounter, recalling the exciting nature of the young boy's aura. This wasn't the same boy. It had to be the result of his brother's death.
.
There was no life behind his eyes, he had succumbed to new darkness she hadn't experienced before. Having no real-life experience with kids her age, she didn't know how to react. They were both 16, and so much trauma had transpired in their lives since the last time they met.
.
Lost in thought, Ophelia was luckily snapped out of her daydreaming when Reginald introduced her. Ophelia hadn't heard her name used in years. It was either eight or girl, never her actual name.
.
"Listen here Umbrella Academy. Number eight is to be your new member. You shall be responsible for her shortcomings. She will be a new and improved number eight. So I suggest you all make sure she does not fail, as it would be your faults." The billionaire told the seven children.
.
"Why do we need her now?" A girl with dark curly hair asked.
.
Sighing with discontent, Reginald snapped, "Have I ever owed you an explanation number three? I think not. Now get on with your day."
.
The older man walked away, leaving the young girls at the mercy of the seven children.
.
"So your family's dead, right? I'm guessing because there's no way he would have waited this long to get you. A boy with dark eyeliner interjected. "She's here to replace Ben. He must have had her since we met in your dads factory. I heard she went crazy." He aimed towards the young girl.
.
"KLAUS. You can't just say that." Number three punched his arm.
.
Rubbing where his sister hit, "What? We were all thinking about it."
.
"No, he's right. My parents died when I was born, and the adoption didn't really work out. Mr. Hargreeves took me in and said I was a new member. I heard what happened to Ben. Reginald is horrible, I'm sorry." Ophelia quietly murmured to the seven children.
.
The curly-haired girl frowned, "Well thanks for the apology... I'm Allison. This is Klaus, Luther, Diego, and Vanya must be somewhere."
.
Ophelia smiled at the girl and her siblings. This was her first time interacting with them, and she didn't want to mess anything up.
.
"Ophelia." She offered. "Nice to meet you all."
.
"It won't be for long. Do you think it was bad when he was training you? Now that you're a part of the team, it'll get worse for all of us. Dad will make sure of it like always. " Allison muttered.
.
Klaus held a pained expression.
.
"Bastard." The siblings all seemed to silently agree with his outburst, except for the more confident boy of the group.
.
Luther, the oldest of the siblings, snapped at Klaus, "Don't say that about dad. He loves us. She's just a test run." He added, trying to deflect the pain his father had caused onto the newest member. "Let me make it clear. You're not one of us. You're not Ben. We have been here since the start. Don't make it seem like he didn't do you a favor. Pull your weight or we won't help you."
.
Ophelia hadn't realized she had hit a sore subject for Luther. She was under the impression that they all knew what type of monster Reginald was. She couldn't fathom that anyone could possibly care for the abusive man. Especially, since Mr. Hargreeves contributed to Ben's death.
.
"Stop Luther. We don't need you yelling today. She didn't kill Ben. Dad did." Diego interjected, making sure to place a hand on his shoulder.
.
Aiming his words towards his brother Luther turned, "Diego, he didn't make it happen. You just can't get over the fact that you couldn't stop it. Don't blame dad."
.
The two boys began to exchange heated words with one another as the rest of the siblings tried their best to calm them down. Ophelia had always thought about what meeting The Umbrella Academy would be like. This wasn't how she had imagined it.
.
From this one small introduction, she could see how much Reginald Hargreeves didn't care about his children. They were all in competition with one another. None of them had dealt with the emotional trauma of losing their brother. Now she was expected to take his place, living with them was going to be interesting.
.
After a few minutes of the constant bickering between siblings, the commotion settled down. Each of the children had walked out of the room except for Diego, leaving Ophelia and him alone.
.
"Look all you have to do is lay low. We've been together since we were born and you haven't. You're not our sister. They'll ease up just give it time." Diego made sure to explain to Ophelia
.
"Okay, thanks." She nervously replied.
.
"Don't thank me. Just stay out the way and do what he says. You know how he is, so you need to adapt." Diego said turning to look at her face. "Training isn't the same as real life. You're not Ben so don't try to be.”
.
His face remained void of any emotion.
.
Ophelia could tell he was still mourning the loss of his brother. He couldn't meet her eyes, and his voice had become so cold. She had once thought they could become friends. Ophelia knew it was still possible, but it would take longer than she thought. It had become painfully obvious that the death of their brother had messed the Hargreeves children up badly.
.
Luther was in denial.
.
Allison was angry.
.
Klaus was barely coping.
.
Vanya was hiding
.
Diego was burying his emotions.
.
Ophelia was wishing she hadn't met them in these circumstances. Maybe they would have become closer sooner, but she wasn't a part of their family. It was a little too late for that.
Description: By a twist of fate, a young girl is swept up in the chaos of the Hargreeves family. Ophelia Cortez was never supposed to become close to any of them. She was just a neglected girl who’s family pawned her off the moment things started to get abnormal. With new abilities cultivating, Ophelia is forced to face old wounds and new flames.
Summary: Just because Bucky pushed her away doesn’t mean he knows how to let go.
Word Count: 2,100 - One Shot
She looked beautiful. Too beautiful. Bucky didn’t know why she put in such an effort for this schmuck. She didn’t need to put in any effort at all to be beautiful. And if some guy didn’t know that, then he didn’t deserve her.
The bar had giant windows with no curtains or treatments to hide its patrons from outside observation. They did it on purpose, to hypnotize the people walking by and pull them into the romantic and dark lighting…and overpriced cocktails.
But Bucky didn’t just notice how beautiful Y/N looked. He could also see how bored she was. Her smile was forced. He could almost hear exactly what her voice sounded like as she talked to him. Bucky would tease her about it, always knowing when she was being polite but wanted to find an out from a conversation as soon as possible. She called it her “customer service voice.”
By a twist of fate, a young girl is swept up in the chaos of the Hargreeves family. Ophelia Cortez was never supposed to become close to any of them. She was just a neglected girl who's family pawned her off the moment things started to get abnormal. With new abilities cultivating, Ophelia is forced to face old wounds and new flames.
Word Count: 2,300
October 1, 1984
43 women around the world suddenly gave birth at the exact same time. The weird part? Until the moment they gave birth, none of those women had been pregnant. These newborns are weird and inexplicable and special.
Sir. Reginald Hargreeves, billionaire, and adventurer, made it his mission to acquire as many of these children as he could, overall at the start he ended up with seven although as time grew on a new 'challenge' arose.
——— 11 Years Later ———
Life as an orphan had its challenges, one of which being the constant moving from home to home. By the age of 10, Ophelia had already been through five temporary home placements. The fosters she lived with were all the same. They always made false promises about keeping her around. It was never true. The promise of making a new family grew harder to believe in, as each passing home continued to give her up. Whether it be because of poor timing or her closed-off personality, Ophelia lost hope in ever making a lasting relationship.
Being tossed from most homes she had been placed in, the young girl began to form a discouraging outlook on the rest of her life. There was no point in trying to become a part of a family. Everyone would just leave her in the end. It also didn't help that the current couple she was adopted by hated her even more than she hated them.
Last year she had been given the "privilege" of being adopted by a young couple in their 20's. Amelia and James Cortez. Their public personas were perfect, but behind closed doors the two parents were horrendous. Often the two of them would make Ophelia clean and cook until she was physically unable to continue. This resulted in achingly red blisters formed from working on projects around the house. The little girl would frequently be taken to doctor's appointments with bumps and bruises, but no authority figure ever stepped in. She was told to suck it up because she was one of the lucky ones. The girl's caretakers were saints. Even though, they would continue to cause harm to the child in their possession. This treatment would be continued until it progressed into full-on verbal abuse.
Over time, Ophelia had just become used to a life full of solitude and hurt. The year-long tirade on her self esteem had slowly started to deteriorate any sort of social skills the young girl wished to attain. She had accepted the fact that she would have to age out in order to gain a semi-normal life. That was until the family had decided to get into business with an extremely wealthy man by the name of Reginald hargreeves.
Ophelia's "father" had acquired a small-scaled company, dealing with space travel from his deceased father. The man would often spend a large amount of time at his warehouse, near the Hargreeves estate. When the world had seen the birth of extraordinary children, Reginald had sprinted towards using the new technology Ophelia's father had access to.
This created the opportunity for James Cortez's family to be more involved in the family business. After being employed by Reginald, James moved his family into the warehouse near the Hargreeves estate. It was there that each member of the family had a purpose. Amelia went on to be head of the supply chain, while their 10-year-old was suddenly tasked with taking note of how many parts the billionaire was in need of. Every day, Ophelia would be expected to write a number of each item Reginald needed.
The man was usually harsh towards Ophelia. He would never use her name and only called her the rumpled little girl. After a year with Amelia and James, she didn't even raise an eyebrow at his insults. Ophelia just went about her business. This seemed to irk him, resulting in the older man continuing to antagonize her.
Reginald aimed his words towards the small child, "Why does your father insist on having you down here. Clearly, he has the means to not use you,"
straightening out his long coat.
"You, my girl are pointless. Do they make you do this so they don't have to see you?" The man chuckled.
"I mean you don't even talk. How Pathetic." Reginald stood back waiting for a reaction that never came. Unable to gain satisfaction, the man turned his back swiftly making an exit.
He did not get his reaction. It was true, Ophelia hadn't talked since she was adopted. This wasn't because she couldn't, but because she didn't want to. It was too frequently that a person's words could endanger someone. Ophelia was no stranger to this. Her silence was a weapon. No one, not even the people who surrounded her could take that away.
Over a couple of months, it became routine for Reginald to come in and make swift comments at Ophelia. She never responded. Why would she? He was just like her parents. In a way, the man was predictable. That was until he started to bring along children. He claimed they needed to start taking responsibility, and he wouldn't stand for anything less.
The first time Ophelia had an interaction with the children was when she had been cleaning up. The girl's father had sent her downstairs. Reginald had been on an emergency call for some sort of experiment.
This time he had people with him...
A shaggy long-haired boy, who had looked so sleep-deprived she could see the sunken black rings around his eyes. He seemed to be hissing at something in the corner.
Weird.
The other boy was about the same age. He looked just as tired, but his darker skin did a better job of hiding it. He seemed to curl into himself out of discomfort, making him appear two times smaller. It really was a shame. She had a feeling he would look better if he wasn't so scared.
Reginald was too busy with his project at hand to care that the kids were wandering around the area. The two children were looking around the warehouse as it was pretty enormous. While it didn't have much variety because of the white walls, it made up for in size. The shaggy-haired boy seemed to be enamored with the gadgets littering the area. He accidentally touched an exposed wire on a trinket, causing him to squeal in shock. This caused the girl to laugh full heartily. Ophelia had been too preoccupied with looking at the shaggy-haired boy that she didn't even notice the other one behind her, waiting for her to turn around.
"Hi. W-W-What's your n-n-name?" The boy struggled to spit out, startling Ophelia enough to cause her to tumble on the table next to her.
Like a deer caught in the headlights, she was unable to move from her spot. Ophelia hadn't talked to someone other than her parents in over a year, let alone a kid her age.
The young boy tried to help her up, "Sorry. I didn't mean to scare you." He looked down apologetically at the small girl.
Ophelia returned the sentiment with a tight-lipped smile. She didn't know how to react, and this small interaction was making her get major anxiety.
"My n-names Diego." He said waiting for her to give him a name back. It never came.
This confused him, "Can you talk?"
Ophelia shuffled awkwardly, suddenly embarrassed by the joking tone in his voice. She blushed and shook her head side to side.
"Oh... that's okay. I sometimes have trouble talking too." Diego tried to make the girl feel more comfortable.
Ophelia pointed to an area on her shirt. Diego's eyes landed on a nameplate.
"Ophelia. I like that name. My sister's name is Allison, and I think you have a better name than her. She thinks she's the best. She's not though." He huffed.
A chuckle came out of Ophelia's mouth, catching her off guard. Diego smiled at her with a chestier grin, spanning across his face. The two kids continued to stare at each other until they were interrupted.
"NUMBER 2 GET BACK HERE. I AM NOT ENTERTAINING A CIRCUS. GIRL I WILL NOT HAVE YOU DISTRACTING HIM. GO ON." Reginald yelled at both children.
Diego looked back and forth between them contemplating his next words, "Bye Ophelia. I have to go. See you later maybe."
Diego didn't leave until she nodded. Running towards Reginald, he bid her a wave goodbye and smiled on his way out.
Ophelia turned to finish up the days work much giddier than she had started it. For communicating with someone her age for the first time in years, interacting with him wasn't so bad. Not at all. It should have brought her a longer amount of joy, but it only left her with feelings of sorrow and loneliness.
James and Amelia had heard about this incident from Reginald the next day. They took it out on Ophelia, removing her from the warehouse duties. Instead, she was placed inside a room with no one to talk to. Her parents said it was for her own good. It wasn't. Ophelia knew for some reason her parents didn't want her out talking to people. With each passing day, the girl grew more resentful towards her parents, building until there would surely be a break down to follow.
She never knew why they hated her. Until the day abnormal abilities started to make an appearance inside her. Ophelia had been having pain in her head for as long she could remember. There seemed to be no sense of relief from it, and Amelia and James always seemed to make it worse.
On a Saturday evening, Ophelia's father decided to visit her. He had a particularly bad day at work, making it why he came to see her that day. He never went unless there was a need.
The man had stepped into the room where Ophelia was. He seemed moodier than normal. The tirade of verbal insults started almost instantly. His face growing red, the man began to move towards the 10-year-old. Ophelia tried to back up, but there was nowhere to hide in the small room. James grabbed her arm and threw her down on the floor and began hitting her consistently. She didn't know why this was transpiring. He never went this far, but there he was beating her to the point where she had begun to lose consciousness. Ophelia was sure she would die that day, but the universe had other plans for the youthful girl.
There was a sudden buildup in her mind that burned almost like a ray of sunlight. Suddenly, the scenery of the room began to change. No longer inside the room, Ophelia's father began to panic.
"DID YOU DO THIS? STOP. WHAT ARE YOU DOING? STOP OPHELIA. NOW YOU DECIDE YOU'RE GOING TO BE SPECIAL." The man cried out at his daughter.
"Did he know there was a possibility she had abilities?" Ophelia thought to herself.
This must have been the justification for why they kept her away from people. The reason why they disliked her from the beginning. She didn't show any special abilities when born. Ophelia was created on October 1, 1984. She assumed they knew that Ophelia didn't possess any inclination for extraordinary abilities until right at this moment. For some reason, the abilities didn't kick in until now. All these years, and this is what caused their tirade. How pathetic.
Ophelia had no idea how to control what was happening. It was some sort of reality manipulation ability, but she couldn't figure it out in time for her father not to take advantage of her confusion. Before she could even process what was being done, Ophelia had been knocked out.
——— 3 Months Later ———
Over the next three months, Ophelia began to grow more resentful of her parents. After the Hargreeves incident, her parents made it impossible to have outside contact with the world. Currently, she had no ability to go anywhere but her room. They were scared of her. Whenever they would try and talk to her, she would temporarily blind them or manifest a nightmare inside their heads. They kept her under medication to ensure she wouldn't be able to truly master her abilities. There was no telling what she could do if given the chance.
After the first month, Ophelia started going a little crazy. In order to keep her mind active, she began avoiding reality through illusions. It was her only escape. She was only able to create small illusions and mimic physical sensations. If it wasn't for being trapped in her own home, Ophelia would be pretty excited about it.
The small amount of joy was short-lived, as the couple had planned on selling her to Reginald Hargreeves. This had been their plan all along. Her for an exchange of money. They must have been planning on doing it since she was adopted, but the couple was unable to fulfill their intention when she didn't display any special abilities. Now they were finally getting a return on their investment.
Ophelia wasn't heartbroken at being given to the Hargreeves. When a person already lived with monsters, anything seemed better.
At least she would have kids her age to interact with. Yes, Reginald was an unkind man, but it wasn't anything she wasn't used to. There was no point in fighting. What was done was done. She would have to accept becoming a member of The Umbrella Academy if she still wanted a shot at a decent life. Ophelia could only hope it would be better than her current environment.
————-
This is my first time writing fanfiction in English. I learned to write in English three months ago so I’m not sure how well everything flows. It’s only for fun and practice. Hope you enjoyed reading. I might continue but it’s up to how I feel about it.
Pairing: Pre-Serum Steve Rogers/Steve Rogers x Reader
One night, Steve Rogers met a beautiful dame named Y/N. He hadn’t intended on letting her get away. But fate had other ideas. Y/N appeared and disappeared in his life so hauntingly that Steve started to wonder if she was an angel meant to watch over him.
Word Count: 3,200
Chapter 26
Y/N shot up in bed when her Kimoyo beads lit up and alerted her of an incoming call.
It was the middle of the night and she had been fast asleep.
When she tapped one of the beads, a hologram of Steve popped up.
“Steve?” She asked as she sat up and rubbed her eyes awake.
“I’m sorry to wake you,” he said softly.
“It’s fine. Is everything OK?” She asked.
Steve sighed. “Vision and Wakanda were attacked in Edinburgh.”
Y/N was fully awake now. “Attacked?”
“By…By aliens,” Steve added.
She froze. It sounded like a joke. But the look on Steve’s face was nothing but serious.
Pairing: Pre-Serum Steve Rogers/Steve Rogers x Reader
One night, Steve Rogers met a beautiful dame named Y/N. He hadn’t intended on letting her get away. But fate had other ideas. Y/N appeared and disappeared in his life so hauntingly that Steve started to wonder if she was an angel meant to watch over him.
Word Count: 3,100
Chapter 25
Steve immediately noticed Y/N’s silence as they walked to the platform where his quinjet awaited him. He took her hand in his and gave it a gentle squeeze as a small gesture of comfort. When he glanced down at her, she gave him a sad smile.
When they finally reached the platform, Bucky was already there waiting.
Y/N still seemed off.
“Hey, what’s wrong? We’ve done this before. We can do it again,” Steve told Y/N quietly. He thought she’d been use to watching him go after all this time.
“I know. I know,” Y/N sighed.
But before he could respond, she wrapped her arms around him and buried her face in his chest. He was wearing his tattered uniform. It smelled of smoke, sweat, and gunpowder. But she didn’t care.
“I’ll be fine, Y/N.” Steve whispered into her ear, trying anything to comfort her.
Pairing: Pre-Serum Steve Rogers/Steve Rogers x Reader
One night, Steve Rogers met a beautiful dame named Y/N. He hadn’t intended on letting her get away. But fate had other ideas. Y/N appeared and disappeared in his life so hauntingly that Steve started to wonder if she was an angel meant to watch over him.
Word Count: 2,100
Chapter 24
2 YEARS LATER - Wakanda
“Y/N, if you don’t stop fidgeting, we’re going to have to do another session.” Even though it was a warning, there was playfulness evident in his voice.
“Sorry…I–I’m just nervous,” Y/N admitted.
To prove the point even further, her chest was rising higher than usual, giving away her heavier and erratic breathing.
Steve did a double take and quickly put down his pencil.
He promptly walked over to the bed.
The bed where Y/N was completely naked and trying to hold the relaxed pose Steve had requested from her just 20 minutes ago.
Steve leaned over her, only looking into her eyes. “You know, you really don’t have to do this.”
Summary: Bucky thought his days of memory loss were done. But after a serious head injury, he can’t seem to remember anything past his time in Wakanda. But he’s starting feel like his life is missing more than just memories.
Word Count: 5,100
Part II
Bucky didn’t know how he got tricked into actually helping with the new recruits.
No, actually, he knew exactly how.
Steve asked him and Bucky realized Y/N would also be helping.
Things hadn’t changed between Y/N and Bucky since she told him everything.
She still avoided him.
For the most part, she still appeared to hate him. She ignored Bucky, barely even looked at him when they were in the same room. She was keeping her distance and it didn’t look like that was ever going to change.
Even now, when they were standing just feet apart, both watching the recruits.
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