Summary: You prayed for peace but never expected for God to send down Alfie Solomons instead, who finally made you realise to be careful about what you pray for.
Monster!Alfie Solomons x Reader
A/n: This fic was heavily inspired by the movie Nosferatu. This may be slightly self indulgent but I really wanted to do something for Halloween. Do let me know what you think!
Reblogs and comments are appreciated.
Word count: 5.5k
Content Warning: Psychological abuse, Gore and Violence, Religious or spiritual themes, Emotional trauma, Body horror, cannibalism, Distorted imagery, Dubcon, Dead Dove do not eat.
“Lord,” you prayed.
“Send me company. I’ve been alone for far too long. Send me anyone…anyone…just to ease this pain of mine. My heart aches for it” your poor hands were shaking and your tears streamed helplessly before you could even say amen.
“Let me be desirable. Let me be the one to satiate someone’s hunger. Let me worth someone time”
The tightness in your chest never left no matter how much you prayed or believed. But you needed something, someone, to believe in.
Your knees began to ache from how long you’ve been on it. Both your elbows that were resting on your bed had become sore. Though you had already come to understand that perhaps, a companion was not meant for you—You still hoped. Helplessly at that.
“Give me something to believe. Please…” your voice cracked softly.
The words barely left your lips before the room seemed to grow colder. There was an uneasy feeling of something creeping slowly through the cracks of your old wooden walls. You laid down and pulled the blanket over for warmth. It was probably just about to rain, you thought. You shut your eyes tightly, releasing the last tear drop down your cheeks.
“Lonely are we?”
Your eyes shot open. The voice had come from nowhere and everywhere at once. You couldn’t see him at first, only the shadows that were twisting unnaturally at the far corner of the room. A figure emerged slowly, tall, impossibly pale—so pale that the candlelight made him look like a wraith. His eyes, blinded on one side, glimmered darkly, alive with a hunger you could feel crawling under your skin.
“I heard you praying” he trailed.
“Quite a sad one if I may add. And me being a believer, I believe I can be the one to aid you”
You wanted to scream and run. But your legs refused to obey. Something about him rooted you in place. He leaned in slightly, tilting his head to look at you closely and you could smell him—iron, flesh, and the faint sweetness of decay. He was rotting.
“Yes…yes, I’m dead,” he said softly.
“I’m sure you can see that, on account of my hideous body. Yeah love, shot in the face by a blue eyed cunt”
Those words should’ve horrified you. And it did. But even in terror, a strange warmth, a perverse comfort, threaded through your fear.
“Don’t be afraid,” he murmured, brushing a finger against your cheek with such gentleness. His hands carefully pulled your thighs apart. His body pressing against yours.
“You wanted company didn’t you?”
The candle guttered, and for a heartbeat, you thought the room might collapse into darkness. But there he was, whispering to you, smoothing the edges of your mind. And in that moment, the world outside, the fog, London, the pressing solitude—slipped away just for a moment.
When you opened your eyes again, he was still there. Sitting at the edge of your bed as if he’d been there all along. Your lips parted to speak, but nothing came out. He studied you the way a starving man studies a meal.
“Funny thing, prayer,” he said, the corner of his mouth twitching in something that might’ve been a smile. “You ask for something innocent, and you never stop to think what it’ll cost you when you get it.”
“What are you?” You asked.
He chuckled softly, “A consequence, sweetheart.”
“But you can call me Alfie”
His gloved hand brushed your knee. It shouldn’t have felt this warm, but it did. Unnaturally so.
“You don’t have to be alone anymore,” he murmured. “Not ever again.”
And though every inch of you screamed to run, to hide, to pray harder—you stayed. Because when he said those words, something in your chest uncoiled for the first time in years. The candle flickered once more. You reached out to it to pull him closer. He smiled faintly, knowing you’d already chosen.
When morning came, the room was cold, yet the sheets still held a faint warmth as if someone had only just left them. You sat up slowly, searching the corners, half expecting Alfie to be watching still. But there was no trace of him. No scent of iron, no whisper, no shadow crawling along the floorboards.
Maybe it was a dream all along.
You touched your lips, remembering the ghost of his touch, his voice that told you “you don’t have to be alone anymore”
And maybe, for the first time, you believed it.
The ache in your chest wasn’t gone. But it had softened, as though he’d taken a piece of it with him when he vanished. So you rose, washed your face, and for the first time in a very long time, you stepped outside.
The streets of London were drenched from last night’s rain, slick with mud and smoke. Horses clattered by, tram bells chimed in the distance, and the smell of bread mixed with coal dust in the air. Everything felt foreign. You walked without knowing where you meant to go. Just walking, letting the city swallow you whole.
“Excuse me, miss—”
A man stood a few steps behind you, wiping his hands on a bar towel. He looked to be around his mid-thirties. Rough around the edges. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, his hair was ruffled, sweat fell from the side of his head.
“You look a bit lost,” he said.
“Are you headed anywhere?”
You blinked, unsure how to answer. “I…don’t really know,” you admitted.
“I just wanted to leave the house for a moment. It’s been a while.”
He nodded, “Name’s Henry Walsh. I run a pub just down the street. Nothing fancy, but the fire’s warm and the gin’s strong. You look like you could use both.”
You hesitated long enough for him to notice your unease..
“Just a drink,” he added, half-smiling.
You found yourself returning the smile. “Alright then. Just one.”
The pub was small, tucked into the corner of a narrow street that smelled faintly of rain and tobacco. A bell chimed as Henry pushed the door open, holding it for you with a quiet, old-fashioned courtesy that almost made you shy.
Inside, the light was dim and soft, spilling over the wooden counter and empty tables. There was no crowd, only the steady hum of the fire and the crackle of the radio in the corner.
“Take a seat anywhere you like,” Henry said, ducking behind the bar. “What’ll you have?”
You opened your mouth, then closed it again immediately after. “I… don’t know, haven’t drank in a while”. His brows lifted, but there was no judgement behind it, just curiosity.
“That bad, eh?” He smirked a little.
“Alright then, we’ll start you off with something that won’t knock you flat. Can’t have you collapsing on my floor, love, it’s bad for business”
He busied himself behind the counter, the sound of glass and metal filling the silence. You watched his hands. Steady and practiced as he mixed something pale and pink. A twist of lemon, a dash of something that smelled of flowers.
He slid the glass toward you, “Here. A French 75. Champagne, gin, bit of sugar. Pretty as it tastes.”
You stared at the drink for a moment before picking it up. “Thank you,” you said quietly.
“Don’t thank me yet,” Henry chuckled.
“You might hate it.”
You took a sip and your body shuddered almost instantly. The bubbles, the sharp sweetness of citrus, the unfamiliar burn of gin. It made your eyes water, and for the first time in what felt like years, you laughed. Really laughed.
“Told you,” Henry said, grinning sheepishly.
“It’s good,” you managed to say between gasps, wiping your lips. “Stronger than I thought.”
He leaned against the bar, his gaze didn’t linger or wander. It searched, patient and steady. “So,” he said finally. “What’d you mean earlier about not leaving the house for a while?”
You hesitated, turning the glass slowly in your hands. “I suppose I just…forgot to,” you said. “Forgot to go out and see people. How to talk without feeling like you’re not normal.”
Henry nodded, his eyes softening. “Can’t say I haven’t felt that way myself. People think loneliness is quiet. It’s not, is it? It’s loud. Deafening.”
You looked at him, really looked. And for a moment, something in his eyes caught the light. The faintest gleam of gold behind the brown, as though there was still something bright in him that refused to die. And when he smiled, you found yourself smiling back. It was small, but it was human. The kind of smile that could almost make you believe you’d been forgiven for something you didn’t know you’d done.
3 months later
Henry helped you find what you thought you’d lost. Slowly but surely, you believed you were getting better. Henry reminded you to not bottle your emotions. That if you needed a cup to pour your heart out, then he would be that cup. You felt understood.
But even with all this trust and understanding, you couldn’t help but hide the things that never stopped haunting you. The ones you tried to pretend weren’t there even though it was right in front of you. The random appearances of Alfie, staring right at you with those eyes that looked as if they were warning you through the pub window as you spoke with Henry that day.
Afterwards, you understood that Alfie was never going to leave you.
You weren’t sure what it was he wanted from you. But whatever it was you wanted it to stop. It wasn’t easy trying to live your life knowing every move you make, every choice you made, were being watched constantly by someone who could not have had the slightest bit of good intentions. There was selfishness and greed behind those eyes that watched you. Ones only a monster could have.
So stop it, Alfie.
sToP WaTcHiNg.
Stop it.
“My love, are you alright?” Henry asked.
You snapped your head back to him. Not even realising that your chest was heaving. Henry placed a warm hand on your shoulder, “Are you tired? Let’s get you to bed, yeah?” He suggested gently. You forced a smile that didn’t reach your eyes. “I’m fine,” you whispered even though you wanted to spill all your troubles. Unfortunately, your fear of burdening him with your problems got the best of you Henry assisted you to the bedroom that you both shared, lifting you up to lay on the soft mattress.
“I’m going to get you some water, you look pale”
You smiled weakly and nodded, watching him as he left the room. The moment he was out, you slowly began to feel much more calm, allowing yourself to pull up the sheets to bring you warmth. Letting your eyes fall shut.
Deep breaths, you reminded yourself.
Deep breaths.
You’re okay.
He’s not there.
“Quite a rude thing to say when he’s right here”
He can’t bother you.
But you could smell his rotten flesh coming closer to you. Rotting every step he took. His fingers brushed your cheeks with that same gentleness as when you first met him. You could still remember the texture of his deceased palms that pried your soft thighs open.
“I’ve missed you darling”
Your body recoiled at how much hypocrisy laid behind those words.
“Are you still mad at me for leaving without saying a word? Awh come on treacle…you know I never left you. I know you saw me watching you all those times”
Your lips twitched as his fingers played with the locks of your hair.
“Yeah, even all those times where your little friend Henry was pounding himself into you. Mhm…yeah I watched. He was shite at it too”
His hands slowly grazed down to your chest.
“Bet you wish I was there, am I right treacle? I’m sure you remember how I did it. I never left your mind after all”
That’s when you have heard enough. Your eyes shot open, facing the corpse that was standing right there.
“Leave me alone Alfie!” You growled through gritted teeth.
“Oh so you do remember me after all!” He laughs.
“Stop it already”
He tuts, wagging his finger at you. “Nah I can’t do that, love. I haven’t fully answered your prayers yet!”
Alfie leans closer to your face. His hands were now down to your naval, making small circles with such taunting gentleness.
“You prayed for this” he whispered in your ears.
“NO. NO I DID NOT”
You let out a blood curling scream, which caused Henry to immediately run towards the room. The door swung open aggressively as he rushed to your side. “Y/n, my love! Are you alright?” He asks, panicked, as he attempted to feed the water to you,
You swiped the glass away, causing it to fly across the room, the shards splattering across the tile. “WHAT TOOK YOU SO BLOODY FUCKING LONG TO GET A GLASS OF WATER?”
Henry’s face contorted confusion. “My love, I was only out for a minute!?” He tried to convince you. His arms wrapped tightly around your smaller frame, your back flush against his chest, the same way he would when you had random panic attacks like this. You thrashed around like a rabid dog, kicking and elbowing him with every amount of force you could, but his arms only tightened. Henry lowered his forehead to your neck, grounding you with his touch.
“There you are, my love. You’re alright. Nothing can hurt you here. Deep breaths. Just like I told you”
And you wanted to believe him.
You really did.
But behind him, in the mirror’s reflection, Alfie was still there—smiling.
Henry’s warmth anchored you. His breath was steady, his lips brushing the crown of your head as your shaking began to ease.
“It’s alright,” he murmured against your skin.
“You’re safe now.”
He lifts your chin up to place a kiss on your lips, softly caressing the back of your neck. His lips were soft and careful as if he was afraid that you might just shatter. You kissed him back desperately, wrapping your arms around his neck. You pushed him back against the bed and climbed on top of him. A flash of confusion washed across his face but Henry did not stop you. His palms steadied your hips as you slowly grinded against him.
Alfie was definitely still there.
You wanted him to see.
Wanted him to know that he was no longer welcomed.
Henry’s hands slid gently along your waist, his voice barely above a whisper. “Hey… hey, it’s alright.” He said tenderly and patiently. He cupped your face, eyes searching yours. “Let’s leave this for another time, yeah? When you’ve caught your breath,” he said softly.
You froze above him, your heart pounding, tears stinging the back of your eyes. For a moment, you saw it. That faint light behind his eyes that you’d grown to trust. That human warmth Alfie could never mimic. You nodded weakly, letting yourself collapse against his chest. Henry’s arms enveloped you, his lips pressing against your hair. Outside, the wind howled through the cracks of the old house. But inside his embrace, for just a fleeting moment, you pretended you couldn’t hear Alfie’s laughter echoing through the walls.
You slept against Henry’s chest that night. His breathing was soft and rhythmic, and lulled you into a peaceful slumber. Sleep found you quietly. You were back in your childhood home. The air was thick, with the faint smell of mildew and copper. The wallpaper peeled like shedding skin, curling at the edges. You heard slow dripping from the corner of the house. When you followed the sound, you found the hallway stretching endlessly, the lights flickering above you.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
Blood pooled from the cracks of the floorboards, trailing towards your bare feet. You tried to turn back, but your feet refused.
“Treacle…”
“Didn’t I tell you I’d always be here?”
It was Alfie. Though his face was worse than you remembered. The side of his jaw was gone, bones exposed and glistening wet. His lips moved slowly and unnaturally, like he was struggling to mimic speech.
“Look what you prayed for,” he rasped.
“You asked for company, didn’t you?”
You wanted to scream but the sound caught in your throat. You stumbled back, your hands brushing the walls only to feel them breathe. The wallpaper pulsed beneath your palms like living flesh. Eyes opened in the floral pattern, hundreds of them, all blinking at once. He took another step toward you, his boots leaving dark, bloody prints on the floor.
“Don’t you see? You don’t need him,” he said.
“You never did. You just needed me”
The blood began to rise, soaking the hem of your nightgown. When you looked down again, the blood wasn’t blood anymore. It was hands, dozens of them, clawing up your legs, gripping, dragging you to the deep end. Alfie reached out, his rotted fingers brushing your chin.
“Let go, love,” he whispered.
“Stop fighting me. You won’t your heart beating the same way like when you met me”
Alfie smiled. That ruined mouth. You begged your legs to listen to you. You begged your eyes to open from this sick dream. You’d finally manage to yank away all those hands that pulled your legs. Somehow, you pulled yourself free, crawling through the dark until you found your footing. You stood up quickly but Alfie wasn’t there anymore. You turned in circles, your breaths ragged, your throat was sore. The silence pressed against your ears. It was the kind of defeating quietness that felt like something or someone was listening.
A scream tore through the darkness, a voice, guttural and furious.
“YOu CaN’t RuN fRoM mE, SuGar!”
He sprinted towards you with a wicked grin. his mouth unhinging wider than any human’s could. Rows of jagged, blackened teeth gleamed as his hands stretched toward you. You ran for your life but the floor beneath you felt like it was melting, swallowing you whole. His laughter filled the air, echoing in your skull, shaking the world apart. And just as his breath hit the back of your neck, you woke up.
You woke up screaming and jolted upright, with heart hammering. And in your panic you tumbled off the bed, crashing onto the cold floorboards. Henry was there in seconds, hands reaching for you, “My love, it’s alright, it’s alright—”
“Don’t touch me!” you cried, scrambling backward until your spine hit the wall. His face was pale with shock, worry flooding in his eyes.
“Please, I just want to help you—”
“Help?” you spat, looking at him with bloodshot eyes.
“You can’t help me! You don’t even know me! I’m rotten, Henry. I’m filthy. I’m tainted with sin and evil! You should hate me!”
The words cut him deep like knives. Just as you had intended it to. You couldn’t afford to hurt him. If anyone deserved peace and love, it was Henry. For all he had done just to make you feel human again. Despite the painful truth that you were nowhere near human to begin with.
“Never,” he whispered, his voice trembling.
“I could never hate you, my love…I simply don’t know how to”
But you couldn’t stop. The rage, the fear, the shame—all of it poured out of you in sobs and screams until you couldn’t breathe. You pushed past him, stumbling for the door.
“Y/N! Please wait—”
You ran barefoot into the cold night, the gravel biting at your feet, the air slicing through your nightgown. You kept running until you saw the church—Your safe place. Its doors open just a crack. The sermon was still going on. Rows of faces turned toward the pulpit, bathed in candlelight. You stood at the back, trembling, trying to blend into the shadows. The priest’s voice echoed through the stone hall.
“The Lord tests the hearts of those who wander in darkness,” he said. “He listens not to the perfect, but to the broken—the ones whose souls tremble in the quiet hours. For even the devil once wept for Heaven, and even the faithful sometimes mistake the serpent’s whisper for love.”
The congregation bowed their heads in silence.
“But beware,” he continued. “For the devil never comes in the shape of your fear. No, he may come in the shape of your comfort. He comes wearing tenderness, he speaks forgiveness. He feeds the lonely heart with warmth only to drain it hollow once it believes itself loved”
“And when he is finished with you…he leaves you not dead but half-alive. He leaves your soul gasping, aching for what it can never have again. The hand that once felt divine now burns with rot. The embrace that once gave peace now breeds despair. And even when the devil wears the face of love, the soul knows when it’s been touched by something unholy. Yet even then, even when the devil himself has marked you, God still listens. But you must speak. You must confess”
You sank into a pew, burying your face in your hands, the tears coming in thick, heaving sobs. When you looked up again, the room was empty. The candles burned low, dripping wax down to their brass holders. One of the sisters approached softly, “My child,” she whispered, placing a gentle hand on your shoulder.
“Do you need more time?”
You nodded weakly, unable to speak. She smiled softly, she had the kind of smile that held years of quiet faith. “Then I’ll leave you with Him.”
Before she left, she bowed her head and prayed for you with soft words you barely heard through your sobs. When she was gone, you sat in silence, staring up at the crucifix. The cold stone floor pressed against your knees as you whispered a single plea.
“Lord…” your voice cracked.
You pressed your palms together and shut your eyes, and behind your eyelids, the memories began to move. You saw yourself as a little girl, sitting on the staircase with your small knees bruised and your lips trembling. Your parents were shouting in the next room. You counted the seconds between each crash, waiting for the silence that meant it was over.
“I was a good child once, I really was. You watched over me.”
You were running barefoot through the rain, holding a broken doll by the arm. You remember how the mud clung to your legs.
“I used to pray to you when I was scared. When the house was too loud. When I couldn’t tell if they loved me or just wanted me to
You were standing by a window, much older now. Your makeup smudged, tracing the condensation with your finger. Someone’s hand on your shoulder, whispering that you were beautiful. Though you knew well enough when someone was lying just to get something from you.
“I kept trying to be good enough,” you said. “For them. For him. For You. I thought if I could just be soft, quiet, perfect enough, maybe someone would want me”
You opened your eyes. The crucifix above the altar blurred through your tears.
“But they didn’t want me, did they? They wanted what I gave them. My silence. My body. My forgiveness. I kept letting them take it because I thought that was love”
“Even when it hurt. Even when I could feel myself disappearing. I told myself that being loved meant letting it happen”
A memory flashed through your mind again. The same man, years later, shouting, slamming the door. You cried quietly in the bathroom while scrubbing your skin until it stung.
“I tried to wash it off. The dirt, the guilt, the parts of me they touched. But it never left. It’s inside me now. It’s all I know how to be”
Another memory surfaced but with someone else this time. The way he looked at you like you were something precious. The way his hand lingered too long. The way you wanted to believe it was different from the last. It never was.
“I prayed again for someone to fill what was missing. Someone to make me feel wanted. And he came. I thought he was an angel. I thought he was mercy. But he was cold, Lord. He was death. And I’ve realised it much too late”
Tears blurred your vision, streaking down your cheeks and dripping onto the stone floor.
“I can’t sleep, I can’t breathe, I can’t stop seeing him. And every time I try to move on, he finds me again. He wants to ruin me. He is ruining me. And I don’t know if I want to live like this anymore” you gasped.
“So if You’re still there…if You’ve ever heard me…I don’t want to be loved anymore. I just want to be forgiven. I won’t ask for anything anymore”
Your words hung heavy in your chest. Not too sure how to feel anymore. A hand rests gently on the crown of your head. You don’t lift your eyes. You don’t need to. You’d know that touch anywhere. That cold and commanding touch that was impossible to mistake.
“That’s enough now,” he murmurs.
He kneels in front of you, his presence filling the silence. You can’t see him clearly, only the edge of his coat.
“Alfie…”
“Henry doesn’t love you”
“He loves the idea of fixing broken things. That’s what men like him do. But you—” he lets out a small, humorless laugh, “You’re not something that can be fixed, are you, sugar?”
Your fingers clutch the fabric of your skirt. You wanted to deny it. You want to say Henry does love you, that you’re not too much, that you’ve been trying so hard to be better. But you’re too tired. The words stick like dust in your mouth.
“There’s no grace in begging. You should’ve known that by now”
He moves closer, crouching in front of you. You can feel the cool air shift as his face nears yours. He slips a finger beneath your chin and tilts your head upward. You’re forced to look at him. At that face that looked more human in the candlelight.
“You’re too much for him, too much for any of them. But not for me, sugar. As a dead man I feel entitled to say I know what too much and what’s not”
He leaned forward and pressed his mouth to yours before you could utter another word. You found yourself returning the kiss that was cold on your lips, tasting his decayed skin. The kiss steals what little is left of your strength. When he finally pulls away, you don’t protest. You don’t scream. You don’t choose to run away anymore. Accepting your defeat. He stands and offers you his hand. You took his hand and allowed him to help you up on your feet. His hand found yours, fingers threading through yours like shackles. The church was empty when he lead you out.
The grass was wet beneath your feet. You didn’t ask where he was taking you. When you reached the riverbank, the mist clung to everything. The water moved lazily, your reflection moving along with it. Alfie stopped there and turned toward you. His eyes searched your face. He was sure he now had you in his care.
“Look at that, sugar. It’s finally you and me. All alone. Just as god intended”
He stepped closer, close enough for the scent of decay and salt to cling to your lungs. His hand brushed your jaw. “I’ll make it all go away” he coos before he pulls you in for a deep kiss. You returned the kiss with desperation, your body reacting all purely on its own. Alfie slowly lowers you down onto the grass as his hands reach for your chest, lightly squeezing it. You clung onto his broad shoulders, wrapping your legs around his waist as you attempted to catch your breath that he was stealing.
“Alfie…” you cried out.
He groans against your sweet mouth. His hands reached for your soft thighs. “Tell me,” he murmured.
“Did he ever make you feel alive like this?”
You shook your head and mewled, “N-no…”
A faint, cruel smile tugged at his lips. You couldn’t even hate it anymore. All you wanted was to experience this kind of bliss before it all comes to an end. All around, the world grew still. The owls stopped and looked away. The crickets fell silent. Even the horses that tethered near the path lowered their heads and turned away, uneasy in the presence of something unholy. He touched your face with that same reverence he had the night you first prayed for company as though you were the answer to his own long damnation.
It wasn’t the first time you’d run out after one of your episodes. Henry had learned over time not to chase too soon and to give you space to breathe, to let the panic dissolve on its own. You always came back eventually. Always with the same tearful apologies, trembling in his arms. But this time, the hours dragged on. The bed was cold on your side. Henry tried to convince himself you’d walk through that door any moment now, shivering and barefoot.
But you didn’t. And that’s when worry began to grow sharp inside him. He put on his coat and stepped out into the fog. The streets of London were bustling as usual. He went first to the church which was your usual place. The sisters hadn’t seen you since you left. One of them said softly that you’d looked pale the last time, like something had been drained out of you. Then he went to the bakery, your other safe place. The old baker wiped his hands on his apron and frowned. “She didn’t come by today, Henry, but I did see her walking with another man. Looked like they were walking towards the riverbank” he said.
The riverbank? No one went there except fishermen. So why would you be there with another man?
He ran for his life. The fog thickened as he got closer, clinging to his coat. His breath came out ragged. His boots slapped against the damp earth.
“Y/n!” he shouted, his voice breaking.
“My love, please! Answer me!”
The only sound was the wind brushing through the reeds and the distant murmur of the current. Then he saw it. Your shoes. Neatly placed by the edge of the river, the way someone might take them off before stepping into water. His stomach dropped. He fell to his knees beside them, his hands trembling as he touched the fabric. “Please, God…” His voice cracked. “Not her. Not her.” He looked up, scanning the mist for any sign of movement, for the pale shimmer of your dress, for anything. But to no avail.
When Alfie’s mouth left yours, you saw him properly for what he was in the light. The trail of saliva at the corner of mouth. His features twisted between man and monster. His hunger, written across every bone of his face. It was grotesque. But oh, how beautiful did he look in a moment like this.
There was beauty in it. It ruined you. You were far from being saved. And that only brought you peace. His face was something holy and horrifying all at once, like a fallen angel who got tired of its never ending blessings. His eyes held yours. You let yourself fall into them deeply. You swore you could see every prayer you had ever whispered reflected back at you. Every lonely wish that had summoned him here.
“Look at me”
And in that moment, you finally understood. This was what your loneliness had created. Something unearthly, something starved, something that loved you only to satiate his hunger. You didn’t run. You couldn’t.
“You’re beautiful, Alfie…”
A wide smile stretched across his face. “I know, sugar. And I promise after this, I’ll prove to you just how much you’re worth to be appreciated. I won’t leave any part of you wasted.”
Alfie’s eyes rolled to the back of his head, pupils turning white as he unhinged his jaw, revealing all the teeth that couldn’t wait to feed on your soft flesh. He didn’t wait any second longer to sink into your shoulder, diving in deeper and deeper as he possibly could before he pulled away and ripped off your flesh leaving only your bones open in the fresh air. It didn’t hurt as much as you feared. It was peaceful—being devoured after everything. All your anger, all your sadness, your frustration had been erased. Forgiving yourself for everything that you couldn’t stop from happening. The feeling of letting go.
“Fuck me, sugar. You’re sweeter than I thought. I’m already full” He said as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He stood up, backing up slightly to witness the piece of art in front of him. Dismembered and devoured. Beautiful. He left you there to rot. Taking a good look at you one more time to see if he was satisfied. And he was.
“Well would you look at that. Told ya I wouldn’t leave you wasted. Now you’ll forever be with me. Ain’t that romance right there” he snickered.
No pressure tags: @followsfrankiep @zablife @lovelyalabasterdoll
⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ synopsis: it’s been three years since you and Bucky called it quits. you learned to live without him, to stop waiting for a knock that would never come. until tonight, when he shows up at your front door with his team and tired eyes, asking for a place to crash. his presence, bathed in the soft light of your doorstep, stirs feelings long buried—ones you thought had vanished the night he did.
-> pairing: post-thunderbolts!bucky x fem!reader
-> disclaimers: so much angst that it’s sickening, yearning, cursing, minor use of y/n, reader and bucky are exes, the thunderbolts are a found family and i make sure of it, bucky has relationship insecurity, unresolved tension, i got carried away with angst (peep word count), bucky and his beautiful dyson airwrap blowout, happy ending.
-> word count: 10k+ (BYEEEE)
-> song rec: cardigan by taylor swift
-> a/n: first ever fic on this blog and it’s angst. i thrive off of tense silence and painful longing. it’s long but worth it (this deserved length)
The knocks come close to midnight. You’re still awake, folding all of your laundry you’d tackled on your day off. You aren’t tired by any means, however, you definitely weren’t expecting the company behind those three even raps on the wooden door of your apartment.
You approach the door with rightful caution—something your years of fighting crime, aliens and evil villains had taught you—but nothing you’d faced before could have ever prepared you for what was on the other side of that peephole.
You almost didn’t open it, backing away with a heartbeat that pumped too quickly for you to keep up. Your breathing grew heavy, like the weight you’ve spent so long trying to lift off your shoulders came crashing down on you again. Yet, there’s a part of you inside that desperately wants to swing the door open, which only makes you angrier—that after all this time, your heart still fails you in the presence of him.
Despite the voices in your head screaming at you from every angle, your body betrays you. Fingers switch the locks and you’re pulling the door open, a small gust of wind following in its path.
Bucky Barnes looks different from the last time you saw him—in person, at least. You’ve seen the new prince charming hair and scruffy beard plenty of times on your television but after a while, his face grew harder to look at so you stopped paying attention. Something once familiar became foreign and you convinced yourself you accepted that.
But there he stands at your front door. Only he isn’t alone, because behind him are the rest of his team of bandits turned heroes; bruised, bloodied and battered.
For a second, you don’t think you’d be able to speak but then your mouth moves faster than your brain. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
It’s silent, and you’re pissed. The goddam Thunderbolts are at your front door in the middle of the night and none of them have the decency to speak. Not even the man who brought them there.
“Is this a joke?” You say, blinking.
Bucky, as if your words snap him out of some sort of daze, raises his chin. “Hi Y/N.”
His voice was as gruff and deep as you remember and the sound of his name rolling off your tongue triggers something you thought you’d long gotten rid of.
When you don’t respond, out of equal parts shock and anger, Bucky continues, “We’re on a mission and it hasn’t been going well. We need,” He pauses. “We need some place to stay. Just for the night.”
There was no way, you think. Maybe you passed out and hit your head, hard enough for your brain to conjure up this sadistic nightmare.
“Seriously?” You breathe, fingers clutching the door with an effort that makes your knuckles turn white.
Bucky opens his mouth but is unable to come up with any words—shame and guilt flickering in every corner of his eyes.
You use the silence to glance around at the other five strangers standing at your front door. They look like they’ve all gone through the ringer; dirty and exhausted. When your eyes land on hers—Yelena’s—your breath falters.
She looks exactly like Natasha under the harsh fluorescent light of your hallway, with a deep gash on her lip and those same rich blue eyes. She stares back at you, tired in a way that makes your heart hurt.
Suddenly, you felt like shit for contemplating slamming the door right in their faces.
When your eyes meet Bucky’s again, that thumping in your heart is undeniable—the one that reminds you of just how much he’d once meant to you, of how you would’ve pulled him inside without question had he knocked on your door years earlier. It was yelling at you to let him inside. Them.
Because that part of you, the one that once loved him and everything that came with him, wasn’t entirely gone. No matter how much you tried to get rid of her.
With a sharp inhale, you step to the side for them to walk through.
Bucky hadn’t expected you to. Of course, he knew the kind of person you once were but he didn’t know the kind of person you are now—you had every right to turn him away and yet, your apartment door was wide open.
His feet feel frozen in place. After a moment of waiting for him to move, and sharing confused glances when he didn’t, the rest of The Thunderbolts begin walking through your door giving you murmurs of appreciation.
Bucky was the last one to step inside.
He feels the energy shift the second he walks through the threshold of your apartment. He hasn’t been inside since the breakup—since the day he practically ripped your heart out with his hand and tried to move on like nothing had happened.
You hate the way he doesn’t bother to look around like the rest of his teammates because he already knows the apartment like the back of his hand. More so, you hate locking the door behind him because that makes the situation all the more real.
Clearing your throat, you spin around despite the fact that your brain still feels as if it’s melting. “I’m Y/N.” You don’t know why you bother telling them your name when surely he beat you to it.
“Oh, we know who you are.” The big man—Red Guardian, you think—laughs, a smile stretching across his face in admiration. “You are Avenger. I see you fight on television. Big fan.”
You blink. “Well, I’ve seen you all fight on TV too,” Your words are laced with bitterness and you resist the urge to side-eye Bucky in the process. “The New Avengers. That’s taken some getting used to.”
Everyone in the room can feel the tension between you and the man who stands near the archway of the hallway, attempting to remain out of the way.
They know you and Bucky used to be a thing, the whole world does. The details of said separation are unknown to most but people have their theories and the creation of The New Avengers is rumored to be one of them.
“For us too, believe it or not.” The woman with a short brown bob and thick accent steps forward. “Thank you for opening your home to us. I’m Ava.”
You give her a simple nod of acknowledgement before the room falls back into quiet.
Then, John Walker who leans against your wall cockily, clears his throat. Your head shoots towards him and you resist the urge you have to drop kick him out the window of your apartment.
You knew him, of course. You’d been there when Sam and Bucky took down the Flag Smashers, and when the same shield that once belonged to Captain America was dripping with blood on live television at the hands of the very man standing in your living room.
“Ma’am.” He nods, offering a mock salute.
“Right.” Your voice is clipped when you look everywhere but at him, disregarding him sassily.
“Is this,” an unsure voice interrupts. It belongs to the brunette man with the shy face whom you hadn’t heard speak until now. He stands near the side table, his hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket like he’s afraid of intruding by just asking. “Is this you?”
He’s looking at one of the various picture frames on the table, stopped in front of one in particular—a slightly worn photo in a gold frame. It’s of you, sitting cross legged on a rooftop during golden hour. You were laughing, with your head thrown back happily and wearing his sweatshirt that was slightly too big for you. The city behind you was blurry but glowing, making your smile look radiant.
You swallow. The laugh in the picture still echoes in your head and you remember every second up to that photo being taken.
Years ago, Bucky and you sat on the rooftop of a building in Prague. The two of you had been on a mission, a long and exhausting one where you’d figured you both needed a moment of peace among the chaos. On the roof, you watched the sunset together and you practically begged him to take a photo with you to commemorate the night. He refused nonchalantly, and you teased him that he’s never in any photos. He joked that he can never sit still long enough to take them.
“Gives me cramps.” He smiled.
You’d thought that was the funniest thing you’d heard all day. Your laugh was genuine, pure and sweet sounding in his ears as it bounced off the rooftop of the building. At the sight of your easy smile, Bucky lifted up his phone and snapped the photo. You’d scolded him for taking the candid without giving you a warning, but he absolutely loved it.
“‘M gonna frame this,” He stared at it in admiration between your laughter. “You’re so beautiful.”
“Bucky.” You’d whined, a flush gracing your face.
“Seriously.” He turned to you, eyes softening. “Always so damn beautiful.”
The next time he’d come into your apartment, the first thing he had done was place the framed photo on your table, insisting you keep this version because he’d already printed out one of his own.
Now, the picture sat still and quiet, collecting dust because it hadn’t been appreciated since he left.
“That’s me,” You confirm to the man. “A few years back on a mission. Someone told a joke and I guess I laughed hard enough to be worth remembering.”
He nods, a gentle smile on his face. “It’s a good picture. You look happy.”
You blink, the photo staring back at you almost mockingly. “I was.”
Bucky shifts on his feet where he stands the farthest away in the living room. He knows exactly what photo it is without even having to see it because it’s still the lockscreen on his phone, only he never lets people get close enough to question it.
The younger man’s gaze flickers up to you like he can sense the sadness you feel by looking at the photo. He steps towards you, offering you his hand meekly. “I’m Bob.”
Maybe it’s something about his face, or the attentiveness with which he holds himself, but you smile back—small and sweet. “Nice to meet you, Bob.”
You’re still holding Bob’s hand when another voice speaks from behind you. “You’re a lot quieter than I imagined.”
You twist around and there she is, staring at you with sharp but exhausted eyes.
“Yelena,” She says, stepping forward and offering her hand too. “Belova.”
You take it, her grip steady, and fight the urge to say that you already know who she is. It appears she caught onto the fact that you recognize something in her.
“Y/N.” You nod your head back, taking the moment to analyze her face because it looked so much like the one you’d grown to miss.
She swallows, eyes flickering between your own, like maybe she wishes she knew you like her older sister had. “I like your place. It smells like coffee and books.”
The comment makes you huff, a quiet and gentle laugh. “Thank you.”
When you pull your hand away, you take a moment to scan the room full of standing guests, waiting to be told what was appropriate of them by you, who was now their host. You rarely have people over anymore so you aren’t entirely sure how to do this. Your eyes linger in the direction where Bucky stands for only a second, before you clear your throat and shake him off of you.
“Can I get you guys anything?” You ask no one in particular.
“Change of clothes.” Yelena.
“Water.” John.
“A first aid kit.” Ava.
“Snacks, please.” Bob.
“Tequila.” Alexei.
A small “oh” leaves your mouth as The Thunderbolts speak over each other, staring at you with hesitant grins and eager eyes.
“Yeah,” You nod your head. “Uh, the bathroom's down the hall and the kitchen’s through those doors. I don’t have any tequila but I do have snacks, water, and vodka in the top left cupboard.
Alexei practically threw his fist in the air with a joyous, “Yes!”
Bob almost did too at the mention of free snacks.
“There’s also blankets in that basket right there and the remote for the TV is on the coffee table,” You explain, motioning around with your hands and entirely unaware of the way Bucky’s softened eyes fixate on you and your natural hospitality. “I’ll go get the first aid and clothes, but uhm, help yourself to anything. Except if you’re Walker, which in that case, you can sit on the couch and not speak.”
It was a sarcastic joke—one that earns a snort from Yelena and a soft chuckle from Ava. Even Bucky, who remains behind you at a far enough distance, feels his lips curl up in a grin.
“I deserve that.” John nods, plopping down on the couch with an exhausted huff, ultimately just happy to have somewhere safe and comfortable to rest for a little.
Bob and Alexei remain still, neither man wishing to overstep boundaries, especially yours, though they so desperately want to get into that kitchen. Sensing their eagerness, you nod towards the kitchen once more in reassurance. Both of them immediately set off for it, seemingly racing each other to see who can get to the goodies first.
You blink, shaking your head in what was still disbelief before twisting around on your feet to head towards the hallway. Unlucky for you, Bucky still leaned against the doorway to the hall and when your eyes meet his, you nearly freeze in your spot.
You almost forgot he was there.
After so long of him being gone, you eventually got used to not having his physical being pressed to the couch or sleeping in your bed. However, his presence straggled in every corner of your apartment, haunting you in a way that kept you up at night because of how strongly you felt it—felt him. The fact that he’s back inside feels extremely surreal, but something you’d secretly imagined for years whenever you looked at a photo of him for too long or smelled the lingering scent of his cologne on one of your pillows.
You open your mouth, as if you instinctively want to speak, but shut it equally as quickly. You have nothing to say to him. Not right now.
You can’t pinpoint when it starts to feel normal. Not entirely, but just enough so that the silence in your apartment isn’t uncomfortable anymore. Just enough that their boots by the front door and empty water glasses on the table don’t feel like clutter but rather, signs of life.
Maybe it’s when you toss back a shot with Red Guardian, because he insists it’s his way of saying thank you, and his laugh almost physically shakes the apartment with how happy he is to be “drinking with an actual Avenger!” Or when Ava and John sit on the couch, fighting over the remote and arguing about what movie they should watch for the night.
Maybe it’s when you catch Bob carefully folding up one of your throw blankets into a comfy square, before plopping on the ground to eat a granola bar like it was a five star meal. Or when Yelena clamors all over your kitchen in search of microwave popcorn and shortly gets distracted in a conversation with you about your makeup routines, so the first batch burns. You both laugh about it extensively and even more so when Alexei insists you let him eat it instead of throwing it out.
Or maybe, just maybe, it’s when Bob—sweet, innocent Bob—asks where your glasses are so he can get some water, and before you can even get up from your seat on the couch, Bucky’s already on his feet.
“Bottom cabinet, to the left of the sink.” He says over his shoulder, though he’s already halfway there.
You hesitate, lips parting like maybe you mean to say something but no words are capable of coming out. You merely watch him as he moves with ease–like he still belonged, like nothing has changed.
He doesn’t look at you either, not when he opens the cabinet and pulls out the glass without question. Not when he passes it off to Bob like it’s completely normal. Not when he walks right back to his seat on your arm chair in the corner of the room without so much as glancing in your direction.
Suddenly, you’re angry again–that same heat bubbling up in the middle of your chest and threatening to spew out with every second you spend staring at him.
How dare he? Your brain screams. How dare he float around your apartment after everything that happened? How dare he bring his team to the place where you live and just expect you to let them in? And how dare you be so completely and utterly helpless as to fall for it.
You curse yourself and your stupid heart; the one that still reserved a spot for him despite all that you’d done these past years to try and relinquish him. It was impossible to forget Bucky Barnes and you learned that the hard way. Even more so, it was impossible to unlove him. You realize this the more you look at him sitting, with his idiotically beautiful prince hair and uniform that he hasn’t bothered to change out of yet.
As if he could feel your eyes on him, he glances up from where he fiddles with a ring on his finger and your eyes meet for what feels like one too many times that night.
This time, though, you really can’t find it in yourself to look away. Not yet.
His breath hitches in his throat and you notice the way his body goes still under your gaze. He leans back in his seat, slowly but softly, like he’s tired and no longer wants to hide it from you. His tough, soldier demeanor falters for a second, his eyebrows softening at the distant expression in your face.
It was killing him inside, that he was this close to you physically, but so, so far away from you emotionally.
Bucky had been the one to call off your relationship around three years ago. After the whole ordeal with the Flagsmashers was over and Sam had finally gotten the shield back, you and Bucky had decided to move on together. He’d completed his book of amends, having made peace with all of the people he’d harmed and finally feeling like he’d made peace with himself.
The two of you were good–perfect, even—for months after that. You were settling down, taking things slowly, but beginning to live a life that didn’t always require missions every other day and constantly fighting off evil villains.
He’d practically moved in, falling asleep and waking up beside you in your bed, limbs tangled in the sheets like you could stay forever that way. He’d make you coffee in the morning after you’d smothered his face in kisses to wake him, then you’d spend all day together because you couldn’t bear to be a minute apart. You’d walk around town going to restaurants, or shops, or little book stores where he watched you scan the shelves with such admiration, you thought he might’ve jumped out of a romance novel himself.
He took you on dates and never once forgot flowers, no matter how many times you insisted you didn’t need that many bouquets of lilies. He’d stay up late with you while you binge watched one of your ridiculous reality shows, sitting behind you on the couch and pretending he wasn’t engaged though you knew he secretly loved it. He’d smile whenever you danced around the living room of your apartment while you were cleaning, and complained, but ultimately gave in when you’d tug him by the arm and insisted he slow danced with you too.
That was the life you’d dreamed of and just when the both of you started to get it, things began falling out of reach.
Bucky still struggled, hell, you did too, but adjusting to the simple life was a lot more difficult for him than it was for you. He’d still wake up with frequent nightmares where you’d then hold him until he felt safe enough to fall back to sleep in your arms. Sometimes he’d go silent, leave to get some fresh air and not come back for hours. When he did though, you’d always be waiting with a gentle hug and a warm cup of tea—ears open if he wished to speak about it, which he never really did.
Each time he felt like maybe he was getting better, he always fell back into old habits. You helped, of course. In fact, you were the only thing making him happy in his own life and the knowledge of that made Bucky overwhelmed with guilt.
He knew you wanted to settle down, wanted to slowly begin living a life of peace and quiet, with the occasional ‘saving the world mission’ here and there. Yet, he was worried you would never be able to achieve that tranquil lifestyle with him attached at your side. He was used to the chaos, to the noise and restlessness, so it was only a matter of time before he began feeling like one giant burden to you.
Your kindness, your hope, your ability to love without condition were all things that Bucky felt completely undeserving of—wonderful things that you were wasting on him. He’d felt selfish asking you to wait beside him while he tried to fix himself over and over again, so he convinced himself that letting you go was the most selfless thing he could do.
“Bucky,” You had stepped forward, with a frown and tears that threatened to spill over your waterline. “I just, I want to be here for you.”
“I know,” He nodded, trying his best to make you understand though he didn’t quite understand it himself. “But you shouldn’t have to. I don’t want to hold you back anymore. I don’t want you to keep bending yourself backwards for me, it’s not fair to you.”
“This isn’t fair to me,” You shook your head in disbelief. “I want to be with you. None of it bothers me, not if it means I get to have you, you know that right?”
“And what about the life you want to live?” He hummed, water brimming his own eyes. “I’m not going to be able to give you that–none of the peace or the quiet–not when I can barely go to sleep on my own without waking up from these fucked nightmares. There’s, just, so much more out there for you than this.”
Every word that slipped from his mouth was equivalent to someone taking a knife that was freshly sharpened and lodging it in your chest repeatedly. “So what,” You blinked up at him. “You’re gonna leave? After all of this, you want to leave because you think you’re too difficult?”
“Y/N, you don’t get sleep anymore because of me. You say it yourself, you’re so exhausted and it’s because of me. You stay up, waiting for me to come home and I feel like shit the moment I step through that door and see you still awake on the couch. It kills me that you feel like you have to do that, because you don’t and you shouldn’t. You shouldn’t have to wait for me anymore.” He continued.
“That doesn’t matter to me. I’ll do it, I’ll wait for you no matter what.” Your words come from your gut—genuine and determined. “When we started dating, I told you that I’d be here to take care of you regardless of the circumstances. I meant that because I love you too much to let you do this alone.”
“And I love you too much to drag you down with me.” He blurted, just as a stray tear rained down his cheek.
Your body faltered and you paused at the feeling of your heart crack away in your chest. The reality of the situation had weighed on you, and you needed a moment to catch up—to understand that Bucky was being serious.
Sure you’d argued before, over little things that you resolved with a second of alone time, some communication and a shared kiss. However, this didn’t feel like the sort of conversation that could be fixed with a kiss. The expression on Bucky’s face started to make you think that he had already made up his mind.
“So,” Your voice cracked. “So what, this is it? You’re just gonna leave after everything we've been through, after all the time we’ve spent here? This is your home.”
“And it was your home first.” He breathed. “You opened your door to me and so I came in, with all of my bullshit and problems. I intruded.”
“You did not intrude–”
“I did.” He pressed, sternly. “I don’t want to ruin this for you, I can’t. Not when you’re so bright, and full of life, and good. God, you’re so good, that I don’t want to be the one responsible for taking that away from you. You deserve better than me, better than this.”
Had your knees not locked, you thought you might’ve collapsed right there on the floor of your living room. It was a horrible dream, a sick one even. Except, the more you stared into the depths of his, once, vibrant ocean eyes to find them darkened to a storm blue, you realized just how real this was.
Bucky approached you slowly, his gentle hands finding their places on the sides of your hips, holding you up and simultaneously closer to him. “I’m sorry,” He whispered, it sounded more like a whimper past his devastated lips. “I’m so sorry.”
You sobbed almost immediately, dropping your head and letting it fall against his chest. He didn’t push you away, only wrapped his arms around you and held you like it was the last time he was going to—which in this case, it was.
It didn’t feel the same though. His grip was tight around you but his hold was loose, like he had already checked out by the time he’d placed his chin on top of your head and ran his hand down your back in comfort. Regardless, you savoured the moment, melted into it for as long it took to commit his touch to memory. Unfortunately for you, the feeling of his skin on yours would linger like a tattoo for all the years that he’d be away.
Your sadness was shortly accompanied by anger, a feeling completely foreign to you, especially around the man you loved. You were wiggling out of his grasp, and pushing him by the chest to increase the distance between the two of you.
He watched with knitted eyebrows as you wiped the tears off of your face on the sleeves of the hoodie you wore—one that belonged to him. You tried to regulate your breathing, make it as leveled as you could so you could spit out the words, “Fine. Go.”
This time, it was Bucky who felt like he’d just gotten stabbed in the chest.
“If giving up on our relationship is easier for you than sticking around, there’s no reason for you to be here anymore.” You hiss, sudden resentment dripping off of your tongue.
You had every reason in the world to be upset about this, he knew this. He also knew that it was hypocritical of him to be hurt by your words because this was his doing, after all. He deserved this, he reminded himself, your anger and your hatred as opposed to your patience and love. Because Bucky’s days as The Winter Soldier had trained him to be unloveable–to be cruel, and sad, and lonely. That was all he knew and sometimes, he felt it was all he was made for.
“Go.” You snapped when he couldn't find the dignity to move his legs. “Please. Just, please get the hell out, and don’t come back.”
With an empty void where his heart should be, Bucky left that night, for good this time. He didn’t quietly enter again at two in the morning to be greeted by the love of his life carrying a warm cup of freshly brewed tea. He didn’t climb into your bed with you so you could comb your fingers through his hair and lull him to sleep. As much as he wanted to, he didn’t because he knew the distance was the only thing good for you. It was the only thing that would keep you free from him.
That distance held true for three years. No matter how many times you’d see him on your television, whether it was under the guise of Congressman Barnes or now, New Avenger Bucky, you never once ran back to him. It was something you’d thought about many times because god, you missed him more than you’d missed anything in your life, but you weren’t going to fall victim to your own heart.
Instead, he eventually ran back to you–standing at your front door with his new team, his new friends, his new priorities. None of which involved you. Up until the moment he needed a place to stay for the night.
Your attention finally flickers away as you turn back to the rest of The Thunderbolts that gathered in your living room despite the fact that it was well past midnight. Yelena, who sits beside you on the armrest of the couch, immediately jumps into storytime about what went wrong on their mission that resulted in them camping out at your place.
Alexei however, sprawls out on the floor with a small bowl of trail mix in his lap, tossing back peanuts into his mouth like a sport. His focus seems to be on Bucky. With a curious head tilt, he asks during a pause in Yelena’s story, “What’s up with this guy?”
The room falls into a beat of silence and all eyes flicker over to the super soldier, including yours, but you look away faster than any of them can notice.
“What?” Yelena hums.
“He has not said anything at all for the past hour.” Alexei continues.
“He doesn’t talk much, you know this.” Ava shrugs simply.
“Yeah, but he is talking a lot less than usual.”
Bucky inhales, leaning back in his seat and offering the room a small but sarcastic smile. “Just tired. Long day.”
The Thunderbolts nod in agreement, all except for Alexei who tilts his head between you and Bucky curiously. “Well, there is an elephant in this room and I think it is very big.”
“Dad.” Yelena hisses, nudging him in his foot with her own.
Your body tenses on the spot and you swallow the lump in your throat harshly.
“What? I am just curious,” He says genuinely. “They were a thing, no? Her and Barnes?”
As badly as you want to chuck one of your throw pillows directly at the Red Guardian’s head, it’s clear to tell that he was sincerely asking. He’s horrible at reading the room though, you’d give him that.
“There is a time and place,” Yelena mumbles under her breath. “We talked about this, remember?”
“I think this is the place,” he argues. “It feels so heavy in here, like I am crushed.”
You don’t want to look up to catch Bucky’s reaction to his teammate’s words, though you were sure it mimicked your own. Desperately needing to put an end to whatever this was, you straighten your shoulders in an attempt to be casual.
“It wasn’t really a thing,” You say lightly, like it’s not a carefully crafted lie. “We worked together for a long time, that’s all.”
A beat.
“So it was not anything more?” Alexei continues, in between crunches of trail mix. “Because I watched the news and the news said you were dating. But it can be wrong, the news can be wrong.”
Your stomach was churning quickly, like your ribs were bruising from the inside out. You hated talking about it because the wound was still fresh, like a cut that never scabbed over properly.
“We were partners who got close, but that's it. It was work, ” You respond simply, reaching for your glass of water like it would save you from this confrontation. “That’s all it ever was.”
And it hurts to say it like that—to minimize everything that once was between you, but it was the one thing you learned how to do since he left. It made the loss of him easier to manage.
Alexei, finally seeming to have caught on, frowns into his snack bowl and mutters something under his breath about Americans being too vague. Bob clears his throat, totally uncomfortable by the silence and tension, just like Ava and John who focus their attention on the television screen though it was obvious they were thinking about something else. Yelena gives you a small glance–not pitying, but knowing.
Bucky doesn’t say a word, but his hand is curled tight around the glass he sips from, so much so that his knuckles have gone completely white.
It pains him, so much more than he’d like to show on his face, to hear you diminish your relationship to simply business. Because he remembers it all; the early mornings and late nights, the dates and bouquets of unnecessary flowers, the slow dances in the very same living room you were gathered in. Despite having been the one to walk out, he thought about those moments every day of his life and it killed him to know that it was all just passing to you.
In your peripheral vision, you catch it; the way he gazes at the floor like if he stares at it long enough, he might just be able to sink right into it—the look on his face as if he’s watching the life he could’ve had disappear all over again.
The damage had been done and while it should’ve felt like a weight lifting off of your shoulders to say, it only makes your lungs close up even more. Your breathing begins to feel dense and the longer you sit in the living room, the more it feels like its walls are closing in on you.
You push yourself off of the couch to turn towards Bob on the ground and hold your hand out for his empty glass. “You want a refill, Bob?”
Truthfully, he doesn’t but he notices the desperation in your expression for a way out so he nods his head quickly.
You take his glass and set off towards the kitchen. The second you step inside, you immediately put the cup down to grip the edge of the counter. Dropping your head, you close your eyes and try to regulate your breathing but your chest is so heavy, it almost feels impossible.
You feel ridiculous for letting this bother you as much as it was, but how could it not? You’re trying so hard to fight the collapse of the walls around your heart but, god, they’re shaking. Buckling. Breaking. It’s only a matter of time before they crumble completely under the weight of every memory you’ve tried to keep buried.
Why does it hurt so much? Why does it still hurt so much?
You want to cry, your throat burning with the pressure of holding it all back. You inhale a deep breath, one that rattles on the way down. You keep your palms flat against the countertop, like maybe if you hold onto it hard enough, it might keep you from crashing to the ground.
A creak sounds from the floor behind you, soft and careful, indicating that someone has stepped into the kitchen.
“Are you okay?” Yelena’s raspy voice asks.
You don’t turn around right away, but open your eyes with a heavy breath. “Yeah.”
The lie was weak and perfectly unoriginal. Yelena doesn’t call you out for it. She just waits, unmoving.
Finally glancing over your shoulder, you see her—arms crossed over her chest as she leans against the doorframe, watching you with equal parts sympathy and intrigue.
“I feel like an idiot.” You admit, wearing your feelings right on your sleeve. “When I saw him at that door, it was like everything came rushing back and, and I couldn’t do anything but let him in. God, I’m so pathetic.”
“You are not pathetic.” Yelena tilts her head.
“Yes I am.”
“No,” She steps forward with knitted eyebrows. “You are not.”
The two of you stare at each other for a moment. When you can’t find the words to speak, she exhales a soft breath.
“We were in deep shit on this mission,” She explains. “Bucky told us he knew a friend who might be able to help but I had no idea that it’d be you. I don’t think he was even sure you would be willing, but you were the first person he thought of anyways. You didn’t have to open the door but you did because you’re good. Doesn’t sound pathetic to me.”
The admission makes your head pound and you nearly wince at the ache you feel around your temples.
Yelena watches you lean against the counter, your eyes darting around as if searching for an answer that wasn’t there. She swallows and asks cautiously, “What happened with you two?”
You bite the inside of your cheek, the sensation of lingering tears itching the back of your throat. You hate talking about it, but it’s been so long since anyone bothered to ask, that you think you might be able to get through it this time.
“It was his idea,” You say with a shaky breath. “To end things.”
Yelena doesn’t respond right away, doesn’t push—she just gives you room as your gaze fixates on the tiled floor, like it might offer you some clarity.
“He told me I deserved better,” You continue, the bitterness in your soft voice laced with sadness rather than spite. “That I was too good. Didn’t want to hold me back, or burden me. He said he wanted me to live a life where I wasn’t constantly trying to pull him out of the dark.”
Yelena’s gaze is quiet, unflinching as you move to sit across from her at the table with a sigh.
“The worst part about it is, I don’t even think I fought hard enough. I mean, yeah, I begged and I cried but, then I just got mad,” Your brows furrow as you recall the memory, like it physically pains you to do so. “I let him leave—I made him, and he did it like it was the easiest thing he’s ever done.”
You finally look up to meet her eyes.
“So yeah,” you say. “I’m still so angry. Angry that he left and found a new group of people to rely on, angry that I let him and didn’t fight harder for us, angry that I still—”
You stop yourself short, the words halting in your throat because saying them out loud terrified you.
Yelena blinks, softly nodding her head in understanding. “You still love him.”
Hearing her say the exact thing you were thinking makes the back of your eyes sting with tears that have been hiding themselves all night. You pause for a second, because she’s right, and you can’t stand it.
“I remember everything, Yelena. Every single fucking thing and I hate that I do.”
Yelena leans closer on the table, catching your eyes with sincerity. “He remembers too.”
You pause, breath tight in your throat.
“He never talks about it, but I can tell, we all can.” She continues gently. “There’s this bracelet—gold and braided with a star charm—you made that for him, didn’t you?”
Swallowing, you nod, remembering the one night where Bucky couldn’t sleep and you’d insisted on staying up with him, claiming you could do crafts to pass the time. He taught you how to make little animals out of origami and you taught him how to make friendship bracelets.
“He still wears it. Everyday, on every mission.” She explains. “The other day he forgot his phone on the kitchen counter. I tapped it to check the time and that photo of you, the one Bob saw in your living room, it’s still his wallpaper.”
You think your heart might give out right then and there. A single tear drops from your eyes and you dig your nails so far into the skin on your palm, it’s enough to make you bleed.
“Y/N,” Yelena speaks softly, reaching out to carefully place her hand on top of yours. “I do not think he has ever stopped thinking about you—loving you.”
This time, more tears fall before you have the chance to hold them back. Softly, you let Yelena unclench your fists so she can slip her hand into yours to hold.
“Then why did he leave?” You whisper between a small sob.
Yelena frowns, shaking her head. She didn’t have the answer.
You did though, so it was silly you even had to ask.
The night Bucky left replays in your head like a film reel, and his words echo in every corner of your brain.
“I love you too much to drag you down with me.”
It was ironic, you thought, because you’d only started drowning when you were without him. He was not your anchor but rather your life jacket—pulling you out of the deep end when you got too tired to swim. These last three years without him were the longest moments you’ve ever spent with your head submerged underwater.
When he left, you sank all over again.
The quiet chatter has slowly dissipated to a still, and the only noise comes from the gentle hum of the television.
From where you sit in the corner of the couch, you glance around the room at the silence. On the couch, Yelena lays with her head on your lap and her feet tangled with Ava’s, whose sleeping figure matches Yelena’s on the opposite end. Near your feet on the floor was Bob, resting comfortably on top of one of your throw pillows. The rest of the floor is occupied by Alexei and John, who sprawl out with outstretched limbs—Alexei face down as if he’d just passed out from a three day bender, and John using his backpack to rest his head because he refused when you’d offered him a pillow.
You let yourself glance briefly in Bucky’s direction, where he still sits on the armchair in the dark corner of the room. You can make out the silhouette of his fully clothed figure. His head leans back towards the ceiling, a tell he had to be sleeping.
While you don’t want to risk waking any of them up, you’re beginning to grow uncomfortable squished on the couch.
Gently, you lift up Yelena’s head just enough to tuck a throw pillow beneath it so she doesn't recognize your absence. Slipping off of the couch, you adjust her head atop it, brushing a stray strand of hair out of her face to as she hums in delight before sinking further into the pillow.
Reaching into the wicker basket beside the couch, you unfold a fleece blanket and delicately drape it over Bob who’s curled up like a ball. He, too, makes a soft noise of satisfaction, and you swear he mumbles something under his breath that you can’t make you.
Of course he talks in his sleep. You can’t help but smile to yourself at the observation.
Twisting around, you step over John’s feet and over towards Alexei, whose snores are so deep, he seems to grumble with each step you take. With a hushed chuckle, you pick up the bowl of trial mix beside his body so he doesn’t knock it over in his sleep.
Backing away slightly, you falter in admiration at the scene before you. Your apartment has never been this full and you can’t remember the last time you had people over besides that time you hosted dinner for Joaquin Torres and Sam Wilson. Other than that, you’re always by yourself.
Except for tonight.
The team of heroes occupy so much space in your living room, it makes the walls feel less empty—less sad. Regardless of how you felt about them before they entered the threshold of your apartment, you knew how you feel about them now. They’re chaotic, and messy, and unbelievably new to this whole “working as a team” thing, but in the few hours that they’ve kept you company in your place, they’ve offered you more joy and comfort than you’ve experienced in a while.
Beside you, Bucky shifts in his seat. He’s been wide awake the entire time—enough to see you give Yelena the pillow and Bob the blanket, enough to watch you observe his team with a soft, longing expression. The same one he carried whenever he looked at you for too long.
It was endearing, to say the least. To watch you care for his team like they were your own, despite not knowing any of them at all. You’ve always been that way—sweet, nurturing, and just plain kind. It makes Bucky’s heart swell, knowing that at least you didn’t lose that part of yourself when he left.
At the sound of movement, you glance in his direction and, once again, your body tenses at the sight.
“I didn’t know you were awake.” You say quietly, before your brain really registers you’re speaking to him.
He replies, “I couldn’t sleep.”
Blinking, you nod quickly before moving to carefully pick up the empty water glasses from the table. “Me either.”
You struggle to gather all of the cups so Bucky pushes himself out of the seat and moves to help you—against his inner monologue that tells him you’d likely be much happier if he sat down and didn’t move at all.
“It’s okay,” You stutter. “I’ve got it.”
“No, it’s alright, I’ll help.” He answers, picking up the remaining cups that you can’t.
You try to swallow the lump forming in your throat but it’s nearly impossible as you spin around to walk towards the kitchen, and Bucky follows hot on your trail. It’s silent when you place the glasses in the sink and you hate how natural it feels to watch Bucky do the same.
“I can clean these when I get up tomorrow,” Bucky nods. “Before we leave.”
“No, it’s fine.” You shake your head.
“I’ll just do it real quick so you don’t—”
“Seriously,” You interrupt more sternly this time as you finally look at him. “It’s fine, don’t worry about it.”
He visibly swallows at your harshness, but nods nonetheless.
Then the two of you fall back into an odd quiet, where neither of you know what to say to each other but both understand that a conversation was inevitable from the moment he walked inside.
Blinking, you motion towards the sleeping bunch in your living room. “They’re, uhm,” You say. “They’re really great.”
Bucky purses his lips at the casualness with which you speak. “Yeah, they try.”
“Even Walker,” You continue, grabbing a towel to wipe down the counter because you so desperately need something to do with your hands. “He seems different.”
“He is.” Bucky nods, watching you intently. “I think we all are.”
His words have double meaning, this you know, and you hate the way you want to press him for details. Instead, you bite the inside of your cheek and focus on the counter you were cleaning.
Bucky knows he has to talk to you—keep the conversation going—because he knows this is the only opportunity he might get. It really is now or never.
“I’m sorry for asking you that favor.” Bucky says suddenly, sincerity laced in his soft but gruffly voice. “For showing up unannounced.”
You nearly pause, your knuckles squeezing the towel in your hand like it was the only force keeping you on earth. “Would you have shown up announced?” You ask, your words holding a hint of hostility.
Bucky stills. “Y/N,” He breathes, his voice just above a whisper, like he can read all of the sarcasm you speak with.
He watches you intently with a burning desire to fix all of the wrong he’d caused that day he left—to mend what was broken between the two of you because he’s not sure he can live anymore knowing you’re angry with him.
You shake your head quickly because not only was it stupid to have this conversation in the kitchen where a few feet away, his entire team slept, but also, you were petrified of the words that were going to leave his mouth once the two of you finally worked up the courage to talk it out.
“Bucky,” You breathe.
He pauses, waiting for you to go on.
Only you don’t. Instead, your eyes flicker down to the uniform he still has on. With a sudden blink and a change of demeanor, you tilt your head. “Do you want to change clothes?”
He pauses. “I didn’t bring any.”
You don’t know why you suddenly cared whether or not he was comfortable in his clothes. A lot of things, you notice, got confusing when you were around him.
“I,” You pause, hating yourself for thinking of what you were. Deciding it would simply be way easier to do instead of say, you twist around on the balls of your feet and begin walking down the hallway towards your room.
Bucky blinks, until you glance over your shoulder at him.
“C’mere.” You say quietly, your suggestion soft in his ears, whether you intend it to be or not.
His feet move faster than his brain can even process. His head gets foggy as he maneuvers through the hallway. He knew exactly where he’s going because he’d been to your room so many times before in the past. It almost made him sick to his stomach when he realizes that’s where you’re taking him.
When you turn that corner into your bedroom, Bucky stops just outside the doorframe. He glances inside, immediately overwhelmed by the familiarity of it all. It’s practically exactly as it was when he’d walked out that day, reminding him of just how much he’d left behind—a happiness he’d pulled out from right under your feet.
He watches you rummage through your closet, reaching high onto a shelf in search of something. You mindlessly glance in his direction, chest clenching at the way he stands frozen outside of the threshold. He's too afraid to step foot inside which is so weird, because the Bucky you knew once took up space in this room like it was his own.
Tugging down two articles of clothing from the shelf, you twist back to him and hold them out. “Here.” You say. “You left these here.”
The navy blue hoodie and black sweats are folded neatly in your outstretched hands in such a way that almost makes them look brand new. Only they aren’t. You wore them for months after he left because it felt better to sleep in his clothes than it did your own.
Bucky looks from your face and back down to the clothes. He doesn’t want to step forward to grab them—feeling entirely undeserving of walking back into your room after all this time. But you aren’t going to him. So you stand frozen in the middle of your room, waiting for the moment he musters up the courage to come inside and retrieve them himself.
Eventually, his feet make their way slowly over to you, taking the clothes with a gentle ease. He can’t figure out what to say so he gives you a small nod of appreciation before turning back around, heading down the rest of the hall towards the bathroom.
Without him in the room, you’re finally able to take a deep breath. It’s shaky and long as it leaves your chest like you've been holding it all night.
You can’t stand it but somewhere deep down, this entire ordeal feels normal. You’re beginning to realize just how much you’ve missed it—missed him, and that thought alone keeps you wide awake because if being awake means more time with him before he leaves all over again, you’d have to take it.
Minutes pass of you bouncing your leg up and down where you sit on the edge of your bed, when the bathroom door clicks open and a newly changed Bucky emerges. It makes your stomach twist into a pretzel, to see him in the same hoodie you wore that day he left.
You press your hands into your knees, hesitating even more at how ridiculously good he looks in it. “Are you,” You hum. “Are you alright?”
Don’t ask that, I don’t deserve it, was what he wanted to say but he merely nods as he lingers in your door’s threshold again. “Why’d you keep them?”
Swallowing, you shrug. “I was gonna set them on fire, but the hoodie was too comfortable.”
For the first time that night, the corners of Bucky’s lips almost twist up into a smile. “Really?”
“Really.” You nod, glancing at him when he leans against the doorframe with his arms crossed. “That and, I guess I always hoped you’d just come back to get them.”
Bucky falters with an expression that you can’t quite read. A silence washes over the two of you before he exhales, “I wanted to.”
“Did you?”
“I did.”
“Okay.” You hum sarcastically.
Bucky purses his mouth shut with a tilt of his head. “Y/N,”
“You know what,” You say with squinted eyes. “I don’t actually believe that, like at all, but it’s fine. Doesn’t matter to me anymore.”
“Why?” Bucky breathes. “Why don’t you believe it?”
“Because you left, Bucky!” You snap, your anger finally cutting through the surface after brewing all night. “You left and we never spoke again. I waited for you for months—to call or to text but you never did, so yeah, maybe I did believe you’d come back at some point but then I just got tired of waiting.”
“You moved on.” Bucky points out. “That’s good, that’s what you were supposed to do.”
“Yeah, except I didn’t.” You huff, pushing yourself off of the bed to glare at him. “You left because you wanted me to be happy but I wasn’t happy, I’m still not. The life you wanted me to live for myself was only possible if I lived it with you.”
Bucky’s face tightens in guilt as you let your words slip from your tongue.
“Then, I have to watch you on my television screen with your new team, the new people you have to take care of, and it kills me inside.” You don’t bother wiping away the stray tear that slides down your cheek. You look up at him, dead in the eyes and ask, “Are you happy?”
The question catches him off guard. He steps into your room with hesitancy, maintaining his distance but needing to be close to you to shake his head.
You nearly wince as you watch his face contort into a sadness much similar to your own.
“Not happy in the way I was when I was with you.”
The words are genuine, making your ears ring in disbelief. You swallow, but the lump in your throat feels like it might be permanently stuck.
“I have never been the same since the moment I walked out that day. I thought I was doing the right thing, I swore I was,” He admits. “I threw myself into work because I believed that somehow it would make up for what I was missing, but I learned right away that none of this could ever fill the gap that you left.”
You don’t seem to notice when you instinctively take a step closer, your body drawn to his as if your hearts were magnetized.
“You followed me everywhere, Y/N,” He exhales a defeated breath. “There were so many times when I just wanted to run back here, back to you, but I couldn’t because I figured you’d be doing better without me—without my burden.”
“You were never a burden.” You add, shaking your head with a furor you hope makes him understand. “Neither were any of your problems or trauma, and I hate that you think you were. I took care of you because that’s what you do when you love someone.”
Bucky takes a step closer too, though neither of you seem to notice with the way your eyes are trained on the other pair.
“Love someone?” He asks, his voice the most quiet and careful you’ve heard it all night.
It took years, and Bucky Barnes standing in front of you again, to finally admit it: you did still love him. What you felt for Bucky had never been surface level affection. You loved him desperately, like he was the air you needed to breathe and the light against all of the darkness that you’d hid from your whole life.
Loving him had never been easy. It came with deeply shared fears and anxiety of vulnerability and closeness. Though, you never desired an easy love anyways. You wanted a love that was complex and passionate, where obstacles were something you could leap over together if your relationship was built on a foundation of sincere care and respect.
Your love for him was so rooted in your veins, you always believed that your souls were destined to merge—surpassing time and change. You knew for a fact that you’d love him no matter how far apart the two of you were; your heart was his across states, countries, planets, timelines.
There was a vast multiverse out there, much bigger than your brain could even comprehend, and you were positive you loved Bucky Barnes in every single one of them.
“Love.” You nod, the most confident you’ve been about anything in years. “I’ve always loved you, James. I’ve never been able to stop.”
The sound of his name on your lips makes his heart swell, desperately wanting to jump out of his chest and towards you—where it knew it’d finally be at home.
Bucky can no longer deny the way he feels either, only he’s never really been able to. He loved you like you were the only thing on this planet of any importance. Sam saw it, Yelena saw it, hell, so did the rest of the goddamn world. He’d never been the same since he left and nothing ever felt right, not until he stepped back into your apartment where the walls remembered him and whispered stories of memories he’d never forgotten.
He lets out a shaky exhale. “I messed up so badly.”
“I did too.” You nod. “I shouldn’t have let you leave, I should’ve tried harder to-”
“No, hey, no,” Bucky shakes his head immediately, stepping forward so you two are the closest you’ve been in years. His fingers brush against yours, and when you don’t flinch away, he links his pinky with your own. “None of this was your fault, don’t blame yourself. I fucked up, I’m the one who left. This is not on you.”
You remain quiet, the small act of physical contact rendering you speechless.
“You were on my mind everyday. Whenever I got up to speak at congress, whenever I did press for the team, on every mission, every late night and early morning,” He whispers, eyes scanning your face like it was the first time he was getting the privilege of looking at you. “I hate myself for making that decision for you, for thinking we’d be better off. You were my world, still are.”
Everything comes flooding back, the walls around your heart breaking like a dam that was doomed to fall from the beginning. You want to cry, want to break down right there in his arms and hope the Bucky you still knew would be there to hold you.
“I can’t change what I did, but I can tell you what I want to do,” He goes on, hand coming up cautiously to cup the side of your face. “I want to love you all over again, the right way this time. I will spend the rest of our lives trying to rebuild what I tore down, if you’ll let me, and I promise to do better this time and give you whatever it is you want—”
“I want you.” You interrupt. “All of you. I want to know how you’re feeling or the things that keep you up at night because I want to be the one to help you through them. Don’t hide yourself from me.”
Bucky swallows at the desperation in your tone. How lucky was he to have your unconditional care once, and then all over again now, even if he still feels like he doesn’t deserve it. You’re still too good—far too good for him—but this time, he’s determined to be just the same for you.
“I promise.” He nods, his thumb rubbing your cheek like you’re a porcelain doll he’s afraid of breaking.
You place your own hand on his hand cupping your face, before running your other hand through his beautifully blown out hair. He grunts out a soft noise of delight, one that makes your stomach twist.
“God, I’ve missed you so much.” He says.
This almost doesn’t feel real; his touch or the words that leave his mouth, but it is—he is. He’s unbelievably real beneath your fingertips and it suddenly feels like you’re falling in love all over again as you stare at him.
“You came to me first.” You hum, your voice just above a whisper. “Yelena told me.”
Bucky lets out a small chuckle but his eyes still hold traces of disbelief, like he can’t fathom you’re running your hands through his hair the way you are. “She did?”
“Mhm.” A smile begins to curl its way onto your lips, one you can’t deny.
“She’s a rat.” He grumbles, his hands dropping to your waist to gently run his palms over your sides.
“She’s sweet,” You correct, reaching down to grab his non-metal arm and gently pull his sleeve up, revealing the bracelet on his wrist. “And she also told me you still wear this.”
Bucky watches your fingers run over the braided material before his eyes flicker back up to you. “I’ve never taken it off.”
Your gaze meets his soft blue eyes where you can read the longing all over them. It’s been so long since you've seen it and yet, it’s still capable of sending a cacophony of butterflies through your stomach like something out of a dream sequence.
“I love you.” He says out of the blue.
The three words have your breath hindering in your throat.
“I’ve loved you every moment I was here and every moment I wasn’t.”
You don’t know what to say, how to express how much you reciprocate that love, so before you have the opportunity to think about it, you stand up on your toes and press your lips against his.
Bucky wastes no time. He wraps his arms further around your waist and tugs you closer to his chest. With your hands placed on the sides of his neck, you sink deeper into the kiss.
Kissing him feels just like it had all those years ago. It’s warm just like you remember it to be but more passionate, if that’s even possible. For Bucky, kissing you is still sweet but delicate in a way that reminds him of just how lucky he was to be able to press his lips against yours.
You kiss each other with a burning desire to make up for all the lost time, to fill the gap of what was once missing between the two of you—not lost but something simply misplaced. The two of you wished to stay forever that way, and maybe now you would.
“I fucking knew it.” A voice whisper shouts from the frame of your open door.
Pulling apart, you and Bucky both turn your heads in the direction of the hallway. Yelena stands with her hands in the pockets of your sweatpants, a knowing smirk stretching across her face.
You look down like you just got caught doing something you shouldn’t have, all while biting back your smile. Bucky’s face turns red and he purses his lips with a small nod. He side-eyes you as you cover your mouth with your hand, suppressing your small hysterical giggles. Your laughter made him grin helplessly, and he squeezed your hand, gently moving closer to your side where he intended to stay for good.
Sadie tries to adjust to her life after a war that took everything. Alfie isn’t doing much better. But finding her again after a decade is not a simple twist of fate; he’s determined to convince her. Even with a husband standing in the way and the shared fears of the future, Alfie wants nothing but bring her back to life. Whatever it takes.
France, 1917.
Sadie can’t think of anything but survival. Saving soldiers in a tent wasn’t in her dreams, but where else could she go? Captain Solomons is in bad shape too. Until he meets her. In some sad way, Alfie Solomons already knows they’ll never love each other like real people do. Her sweetheart is on the front, and nurses don’t chat up the broken. She has just saved his life, after all.
AN: I’d forgotten how much I love this story. I wrote the first half months ago and stopped thinking about it, too busy writing about Johnny. I also thought writing short chapters would make me post more regularly, but it's somehow even worse. Anyway, I'm back at it, and I love it so much. It’s everything I love.]
masterlist | previous part
— five
May 1928, London
“Struggle or starve! Struggle or starve!”
With a gentle freshness and the smell of rain in the breeze, the crowd emerged from the high building into the afternoon sun and marched towards the park. Here you stood among them, shouting the words as loud as you could. Passionately. You’d never thought of yourself as political. How could you have been? Your father would’ve silenced you before you’d finished a sentence, and Andrew had reminded you more than once exactly where your place was when it came to your own rights.
But now, walking freely with your friends who were holding up a long banner with meaningful words, you were confident about it.
They’d used you up during the war, drove you half-mad twice a day, and now being a midwife barely earned you enough to eat. You’d imagined life without your husband more times than you could count, always arriving at the same conclusion—you wouldn’t make it.
There was this raging fire in your stomach every time you thought about how much you were going out of your way for women. No doubt you’d have a better situation if men were the ones giving birth.
“Women’s rights!” Someone yelled, suddenly pushing you forward.
You collided with a man’s back, holding on to Ellen before face-planting on the ground. And just like that, everyone was screaming and thrusting, the sounds of glass breaking adding to the riots. Because in front of you, not so far away, cops were swinging at people. Unable to move, you watched in horror as a cop smashed a man’s head against a car window. Women beside you called out for their friends in pure panic, deafening you with their screams. An elbow rammed your back.
For a brief moment, you were back in the tent, lost between the grown-ups. Paralysed with fear at the invading smell of metal in your nostrils, and the vague sense that you were closer to death than home. A man in uniform was trying to hold a woman back despite the protests while she yelled at the top of his lungs. Another one spotted you and charged in your direction, a nasty moustache covering his mouth. With your heart thumping in your chest and a loud ringing in your ears, you scrambled to try and sneak your way out to escape him, hoping to be washed away in the current of bodies.
You barely had time to look at the women on the ground and the ones running off. None of them looked like Ellen. She wasn’t around, nor on the floor. She’d vanished, just like Alfie once had.
“ELLEN!”
A shoulder shoved you roughly aside, but something else you couldn’t even register pulled you down. Your body thudded against the pavement, your left knee taking the hit.
You cried out—half from pain, half from the panic that someone might trample you, that you might suffocate right there on the concrete.
Then, suddenly, a pair of hands seized you under the arms, hauling you up from behind. They slid to your waist, firm and steady, keeping you upright.
Andrew would kill you if he knew. He’d be so ashamed.
“Get off me!” you hollered, gripping the fingers you came to recognise, yours softening over the warm skin.
Just as you spotted the scars you’d tried to heal years ago, the voice reached your ear.
“You’ll get yourself killed, you daft woman!”
You could have smiled at the sight greeting you. Like you were dead, and he was the angel coming for you only. Alfie spun you around like a dancer and cradled you against him, the scent of him so strong you swore he was real. He probably wasn’t.
Yet, his deep, yelling voice in your ear was enough to shock you out of your nerves. You came back to reality in a second, aware of the noises again and the chaos around you. After all, he’d said he’d see you in four days.
Unsurprisingly, you'd forgotten.
Unable to move your feet, you whipped your head around as someone pushed your back forward, making you stumble against his chest, though his hands were there to protect your head. You wanted to tell him to get you out of here so badly, but no words came out of your mouth either, stuck with the dust in your throat and the gasps for air.
There was no need to tell him, though. Alfie already had you against him, one hand slipped beneath your knees, and the other behind your back. As if you’d already experienced such closeness thousands of times, you wrapped your arms around his neck and laid your head against his shoulder.
With a sort of lightness you hadn’t felt in years, you put your life in the hands of that giant man and shut your eyes so tight you saw stars, mumbling some prayers you hadn’t said in years. He smelled like the stuff Andrew drank at night.
Shadowed by the blur of bodies, Alfie barrelled through the crowd, tearing through the men in his way. He shouted inaudible curses, sweat dripping down his chest. You could feel it. Like you could feel his frantic heartbeat, matching yours. Even with his countless injuries, he strode out of the crowd, pushing the limp from his walk.
“Fuckin’ stay with me, Sadie.”
The roaring slightly faded out, just a background noise for wherever you were going to. You could barely see anyway, as your vision had turned strange and distant, as though you weren’t fully there.
So you waited and waited and Alfie eventually put you down on the pavement. Instantly, you wrapped your arms around yourself, hugging yourself tight. Not so interested in the black car in front of you, you blinked the tears away while searching for Ellen in the distance, obviously not finding her. A hand flew to your mouth as you thought of all the terrible things that could have happened. Had that copper found her first?
“My friend—”
“C’mon. Get in the car,” Alfie ordered, resting one hand on your lower back as the other opened its door.
Shaking your head slowly, you made to turn around and run back to find Ellen when he grabbed you again, forcing your gaze on his.
"You go back in there and you’re done, d’you hear me?”
Huffing in despair, you brought your shaky hand back up to your chest, feeling yourself sway again. Maybe it was the wind.
“My friend’s still there.“
That look in his eyes… you knew he wanted to turn right back and go with you. Yet, he only straightened up, nodding to himself. “I’ll send Ollie, right? He’ll make sure she’s fine. Now, get in the car.”
The air felt thick, the world was blurred. You should have expected it. Reaching out to him, you grasped the lapels of his coat to balance yourself as your ankles turned to jelly.
“I haven’t eaten,” you blurted, because what was the use of lying to him?
Alfie’s hands closed firmly around your elbows, steadying you. “Since when?”
“Monday?” you questioned yourself, frustrated about his stupid question when you could feel yourself slowly dying. “How would I know?”
“Don’t fuckin’ tell me you’re doin’ that hunger strike, Sadie, or I swear I’ll take you to the coppers myself.”
Although you wanted to laugh at that, all you could muster was a low, “You wouldn’t even dare to go there.”
“What the fuck does that mean, eh?”
There was not much room for movement. His nose was nearly touching yours, and you swore you saw your reflection in his eyes when you looked up, which was probably what caused you to stumble against the car, a cold apology slipping past your lips.
The last thing you needed was to have him against you. You knew his business was more obscure than what you’d seen at first glance on the day he’d dragged you to his office. You didn’t want to know the extent of it, though.
Resting all your weight against the car, you blew out a long exhale. You felt so weak. So ridiculous.
“Ollie! Come on!” Alfie shouted at no one in particular.
“Who’s Ollie?”
“The fella who does what I tell him to do,” he barely glanced at you, focused on finding him between the people who’d started gathering there, far away from the beaten crowd.
Which only confirmed your thoughts—there was something wicked in him. He spoke, the others acted.
“Ollie!” he yelled so suddenly you felt yourself jump against the car, sending him a befuddled look. “C’mere. I ain’t got all day.”
Clearing your throat, your eyes met with a young and nervous face. Ollie looked breathless, clearly having run to find you.
“That’s Sadie. You’re gonna find her friend, yeah? And then you’re gonna take her home and safe.”
He told him about you?
“What does she look like?” Ollie addressed Alfie, who turned to you.
What did your friend look like? The one who’d saved your life countless times. The one friend you swore you’d never leave. What did she look like?
What did Ellen look like, for God’s sake?
“I…” you cleared your throat, shutting your eyes close for a second or two, blaming yourself for forgetting absolutely everything. So ashamed, you wanted to cry at the thought. “I can’t—”
Alfie stared at you, expecting you to complete that sentence. You thought he’d shout at you for it, but it only seemed to soften him.
“I’m sorry,” you apologised again, shooting Ollie a look.
“Nah, none of that. None of that with me.”
Not quite sure what Alfie meant, and if your apologies were refused by kindness or annoyance, you nodded. He then told Ollie she was named Ellen, just that, and told him to figure it out.
"She’s—she’s got red hair. Had it tied back this morning."
Although your contribution was close to nothing, Ollie gave a confused nod and took slow backwards steps, telling Alfie he’d find her.
You watched him leave with a hand in his hair, aware of the mess he was in.
“Get in,” Alfie spoke before you could apologise again, and he made sure you were settled alright.
With that, he drove you in silence. Your knee throbbed where it had hit the pavement, but you didn’t dare shift or make a sound. Your hands were folded tight in your lap, and the adrenaline was only just beginning to drain, leaving behind a heavy ache and deep, deep shame.
When Alfie took a left, you realised he probably didn’t drive much himself, not since he had a chauffeur. So you prayed to make it home safe. But he didn’t stop outside your door. Through the window, you spotted Andrew’s friend knocking and waiting there, scanning the street.
“Uh… I’d rather you take me home.”
Alfie’s face gave no inclination that he’d heard you—nor cared about what you wanted. He looked straight ahead, his face still flushed with whatever was left of the panic.
“I think I need to eat.”
“You think so, yeah?”
His sudden change of tone had you look forward through the windshield, your heart doing a weird somersault. You should have fucking thought before speaking. This time, it had nothing to do with his oddly cold undertone and more to do with the regrets creeping up. Yet, it was different from the embarrassment you felt thinking about Andrew.
He’d hate you for going out in public and expressing political thoughts. At worst, Alfie hated you for not eating. You supposed one of them cared more about your well-being, although that wasn’t very obvious at that moment. Still, knowing Alfie was upset at you—even if he had no right to be—made your chest feel weirdly tight. Like you’d spent years trying to prove something to him without knowing it, only to run headfirst into a wall.
"You're hurt?" he asked.
"I'm alright. Just bruised my knee."
Glancing down at your lap, your hands and your shaky legs, Alfie nodded.
“How did you find me then?”
This time, he threw you a sideways look, like he couldn’t believe you were still talking. While he pulled the car neatly into a parking space, you could tell he was buying time, choosing his words carefully.
“Told you I’d see you today, didn’t I? Sent someone to your place. He clocked you headed toward the bridge and thought it looked off.”
“He followed me?”
“You’d be fuckin’ dead by now if he hadn’t, wouldn’t you?”
You sighed and looked out the window, then back at him. “You think this was just me rebelling on a whim against some… system that I don’t agree with.”
“Wasn’t it?”
“What kind of person just stands by and watches? It’s the first time that I stand up for real beliefs. I wanted to be there, you know.”
Alfie narrowed his eyes at you, assessing you. “I don’t mind the beliefs. Yeah? I just don’t get why you’d throw yourself into danger like some daft fuckin’ martyr.”
“I wasn’t going to get myself killed.”
Alfie nodded exaggeratedly, mocking. “If you say so, yeah. Now come on in.”
“What for?”
“Eat while we wait for your friend.”
He was already out, rounding the car. The door on your side swung open a little too briskly, like he hadn’t fully calmed down after all.
“Alright then, Saint Sadie.”
For the first time, you saw his dream as a building materialised in front of your eyes. It looked quite… alright from the outside, but something was off. Still, you followed him in, watching the way his limp had turned into a drag because of you. And he shoved past any man on his way, not one look thrown in your direction.
It didn’t take long for you to think of bread and get that sweet smell in your nose—though that might have just been a delirious work of your imagination. You’d gotten a lot of them lately, starting with a reciprocated affection from him.
“Get us some food!” he barked at a lanky blond man, who also seemed to be limping.
The smell of yeast and flour hit your nostrils, overtaken by traces of alcohol and maybe even tobacco. A counter sat near the entrance, just enough to fool a passing copper. You could have laughed at the grand scheme of it all. That great, twisted mind of his. It looked nothing like the first time you’d accidentally landed here, on the other side of the building.
Opening your mouth to tell him you’d eat later, you caught the look he shot over his shoulder and shut it again, pretending you didn’t notice the way the men made space for you without ever saying a word.
The floor creaked beneath your shoes as you stepped further in. Somewhere below, something metal clanked. Too tired and hungry to ask, you squinted as the dim hallway you’d taken the last time appeared, its chillness contrasting with the warm atmosphere of Alfie’s office.
“Take a seat.”
Without a word, you did.
The mess of bottles that had once littered his desk and side tables had vanished, now out of sight. He’d tried to make it look nicer, less like a war zone.
“Aren’t you hot in that?”
By the time you asked, just to fill the silence, he’d removed his coat and uncuffed his shirt, rolling his sleeves to the elbow. The simple act had your heart fastening, as though he was undressing completely in front of you. But looking down meant weakness, so you kept staring, knowing he felt your eyes on him. You, sitting while he stood tall. The coat hit the back of the chair with a dull slap, and your breath caught somewhere behind your ribs.
Looking like that, he was closer to Captain Solomons than the famous Alfie Solomons.
Half surprised by your question, Alfie frowned at you and let out a low breath through his nose.
“’Course I’m hot. I’m built like a fuckin’ furnace.”
“Where’s your cane?” you asked without thinking, your voice as steady as possible.
You didn’t want the conversation to drift to his body’s temperature, actually.
Alfie sat down heavily across from you. “My cane? Lost in the crowd, I reckon.”
He rubbed his beard thoughtfully, staring at you like you were a problem to be solved.
“You lost it, or it ran from you?”
Alfie snorted, rubbing the ache in his knee like he could knead the truth out of it. “Yeah, well. Wouldn’t be the first thing I’ve failed to keep hold of, would it?”
The silence was as heavy as the air between you. You shifted uncomfortably, knowing deep in your soul what he felt now. That moment of realisation came like a slap, a painful awakening. It was useless trying to convince yourself he didn’t love you in some way.
“How much does it hurt?” you asked softly, suddenly startled by the door opening behind you.
“Can’t fuckin’ knock, can you?” Alfie glared at the blond man from earlier, who came in with a tray full of steaming tea, bread, and something that smelled like stew but didn’t look like it.
The boy froze halfway through, the cups rattling on the tray as he came closer and avoided your eyes.
“Sorry, yeah,” he muttered, setting the tray down on the edge of the desk.
He left with the same careful silence he’d brought in. When you looked back, Alfie was already watching you.
Everything that happened in this building was surreal.
“It hurts at night, yeah,” he eventually answered. “When I walk too much. When I stand too long.”
“I’m sorry about that. And I’m sorry I forgot about today.”
Rioting like a madwoman while he’d been out there looking for you, just like he said he would. You couldn’t have hated your own mind more.
“Quit apologisin’, yeah? Nothin’ you do to me is ever really your fault. ’Less you keep starvin’ yourself like that.”
“It wasn’t for fun.”
“No, you were starvin’ for a bloody cause.” He pointed a finger at you. “Which is noble—right? Until you end up dead.”
You didn’t answer. Just picked up the tea and sipped slowly. It was stronger than you expected, bitter at first, then warm and almost sweet.
Alfie made a sound from the back of his throat, his hand still working over his leg. You could tell it hurt from the lines etched on his forehead. And for a moment, you almost apologised. Maybe if you'd done your job better eleven years ago, focused more on his pain than the man himself, he might not still be suffering now.
“Yours?” He nodded toward your knee, but you’d stopped thinking about it long ago.
“Oh, it’s alright.” Automatically, you laid a hand above it, where you figured a bruise would bloom in a day or two. “You could ask that boy outside to fetch me some comfrey. Knitbone, that is. Might help with that ache of yours.”
Alfie scoffed, eyes steady on yours. “So you’re back to savin’ me, then?”
You shrugged and teared into the bread, the dough still hot between your fingertips.
“Maybe this time I could do it better.”
“You did fine, love. You always did. It weren’t you who put a bullet in it.”
“I’ll help. Consider it my redemption for today’s trouble.”
Facing your quiet determination and compassion–which, you realised, he might come to hate–Alfie called the boy back and asked him to get that herb you spoke about. While you ate quietly your first meal in days, indecisive about whether the stew really was one, Alfie watched you like a man unsure of where to rest his hands. Eventually, they returned to his leg, rubbing circles into the fabric of his trousers.
The herb was brought in faster than you’d expected in a small tin box. You set down your bowl fast and rose to your feet to accept it, thanking the blond boy with a squeeze of his arm. You thanked him with a gentle squeeze of his arm, and swore he relaxed there for a second before heading off.
“How’s your brother doing?”
“My brother?” you echoed dumbly, turning back to him. Alfie nodded, and for a moment it felt surreal that he’d remembered. “He… um. He’s always got some new obsession. Last year it was postcards. Now he’s into gardening. Still with my mother.”
With a fond smile, your voice trailed off and your eyes dipped. First to the tin in your hands, then to his knee. He was still rubbing it, slow and steady, his palm dragging over the fabric in firm circles. You looked away before he could notice, but the warmth it sparked in your gut and your neck stayed.
“Good for him.”
“Yeah,” you nodded slowly, thinking of how far he’d come. “I’m happy for him.” A pause, during which you looked at the herb between your hands. “You mind taking your trousers off?”
Once again, you were startled by the door opening. Ellen was standing behind Ollie, hidden by his tall body, but she was all you could see.
“Sadie?”
A flood of relief surged through you. Suddenly, the tin was back on the desk and you were against her, arms around her neck, your eyes squeezed tightly shut. It wasn’t until you’d almost lost her again that you realised how unbearable it would’ve been never to hug her once more.
“Are you hurt?” You released another sigh of relief, then backed away and looked eagerly into her face.
“I’m all right, really. I was worried you’d been trampled or God knows what.”
“I’m fine too.”
Ellen nodded, then glanced at Alfie with an unreadable expression. She offered him only a grateful nod. Coming from her, it meant more than most words ever could.
“Ollie said he can drive us home whenever we’re ready,” she added, stepping back as she adjusted her shawl. “If that’s still relevant.”
“Still is,” he said.
Ignoring the look Ollie sent you, you glanced over at his boss instead. Still sitting behind his desk, he stared absently for several seconds before his voice came, straight and almost serious.
“I'll wait for you.” He agitated the tin. “Didn’t really grasp how you’re supposed to work with that.”
You answered without thinking, caught up in the warmth that had flickered in his eyes just moments before and forgetting how close you’d been to rubbing that comfrey into his leg yourself.
“’Course, yeah.”
Alfie’s smirk brought a smile to your lips, one that shouldn’t have come so easily after only two days of seeing him again. It felt like flirting. Complete, shameless flirting. Had Ellen not walked in, you were almost certain you would’ve soothed his aches with your own hands, sacrificing your near-nonexistent reputation for the sake of his well-being. On your knees. Anything.
In the backseat of the car, with Ollie pretending not to listen, Ellen glanced over and asked if you were alright. What she really meant was: Are you sure about this? About him? About letting yourself hope again, like before?
You would come back no matter what. Duties or not. You'd already wasted today.
This time, not knowing when you’d see him again didn’t gnaw at your chest. You knew he’d come to find you. One way or another, fate would see to it.
[warnings: war trauma, slight violence, OC is getting followed by a creep, cursing, angst, mentions of death.
AN: I wrote this first chapter weeks ago when I still had no idea where this would lead, and it's surely the most cliché of all. I really, really love it though. I hope you do too.]
— one
May 1928, London
The contact of your palm against the man’s jaw echoed through the silent street, louder than the pigeon's fluttering wings as it startled into flight. You froze for a second, not quite believing you had really slapped a stranger—though he deserved it—and suddenly took off, running like you had never done before across the slippy cobblestones. Your heart threatened to burst out of your chest, but you didn’t stop. With one glance behind, you cursed when you saw his short frame getting closer, racing behind you.
He’d get you and do more than call you a whore, wouldn’t he? The mere thought made you stumble over your feet when you took a sharp turn, nearly falling face down into a puddle.
“You fuckin’ bitch!”
A whimper escaped your throat. It felt like you were merely running anymore, just taking large steps that would be enough to get you killed, one hand holding your hat on top of your head. There was only one solution left if you wanted to escape the man: burst through the first door you found and try to hide. The sun was setting already; now wasn’t the right moment to get lost.
And burst through a random door you did. You slammed it behind you with trembling hands, the back of your head thudding against the wood as you leaned against it.
It was only when you opened your eyelids that you saw the men standing across the room, visibly interrupted. You couldn’t discern their faces due to the lack of light, but you knew you had cut into something important anyway.
A faint smell of alcohol lingered in the air, but you didn’t focus on that. You stared at the shadows crammed between barrels, gasping breaths as you tried to think of what to do. Open the door again and head out, where the other one was waiting? Pretend you were lost?
“You are…?”
Flinching at the voice addressing you, you licked your lips nervously and cleared your throat.
“Lost,” you said, which made the shorter man scoff.
“Clearly.”
“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” you added, your left hand growing closer to the doorknob where freedom might await you if you were lucky enough.
Though you knew you were trapped in here too, and luck was a foreign concept. It made no doubt when the tallest one limped over to you, his burly frame causing you to swallow down any other stupid word that might come out.
Your heartbeat quickened as he stopped in front of you, staring down at your face like you were nothing but a lost deer. He was a large man, and in all honesty, his white shirt did nothing to conceal the musculature of his chest.
You’d never been so troubled by another human being before, and yet here you were. Or perhaps once, long ago. Love at first sight didn’t exist in this world, but you were close to it. Yet, there was something so… familiar to him, though you couldn’t put your finger on it. Some… feeling at second sight, that was. His eyes reminded you of something long forgotten.
“Fuckin’ hell," he turned around to his friend, snapping you out of your thoughts. "Is she any of yours, Tommy?”
God, that voice. It would command an entire squadron.
“What use would she be to me?” the other, Tommy, replied from his spot.
His sharp features had you staring a second too long. He looked almost bored, though, not half as interested as the one leaning closer to your face.
“Who are you?” the tall one demanded, his sweaty warmth coasting over you.
“I–” you started, trailing off when you thought about the shitty position you were in. “Look, I’ll just go home and we’ll forget about this, alright? I’ve made a mistake coming here. It's on me."
A boisterous knock on the door had you sauntering further away. Fuck. It could only be that arsehole you had managed to leave behind.
Your gaze slowly traveled back to the tall man, whose bearded chin gave a persuasive jerk toward the door.
“Right then. Go home, love.”
After a long hesitation, your feet led you back to the front of the door. No matter how much you willed yourself to open it, you were terrified at the idea of meeting the creep again. It was easy for them, doing whatever business they had in a safe and slightly scary storage building, while women like you had to physically reject men’s advances. You bet they even found it funny. Could they not guess you'd sacrificed yourself for men all those years ago, only to get this as a payback? You’d open the door and run until your lungs threatened to explode. And then? Where even were you?
“Fuckin’ knew it,” the marked accent spoke behind you, as if detecting your inner turmoil. “That was in your plans, wasn’t it?”
Spinning on your heels, you opened your mouth to repeat it was just a mistake, but the other man cut you off. Better to keep your mouth shut, then.
“I don’t know the girl, Alfie,” the second one shot a glance at you, clearly unwilling to help if needed.
“You don’t?” that Alfie said, his tone warm as honey as your hand tightened against the doorknob.
Did he really think you’d come all this way to spy on him? How stupid was that?
Think, damn it! His name was not so foreign.
Maybe this was your way out. Alfie. You’d met three during the war, but they had probably left this world by now, carried off by grief or their mental and physical wounds.
“Maybe our new friend is going give us a fuckin’ clue at some point, yeah?” he nearly spat in your face, seizing your arm.
Rough but warm. That’s when it clicked.
“Captain Solomons,” you breathed out, allowing yourself to slightly relax.
He wouldn't hurt you.
Yet, you felt slightly wounded by his lack of response, watching his breath get heavier like the two words had shot him once again. This time, no piercing cry filled the hospital tent. You bet it was as painful, though.
“Sadie Murray, sir," you removed the hat from your head, hoping the face reveal would have some sort of softening effect on the situation. "I reckon I’ve stitched you up a couple of years ago.”
Holding out your hand, you tried desperately to reach for a white flag, only met with Solomons’ blank stare. So you lowered your arm, taking a step backward instead–as much as you could, as you were now leaning against the door. Something flashed in Solomon’s eyes as he visibly realized something, too. He scrutinized you longer, examining every controlled breath, the flutter of your lashes, and the details of your cheeks.
Your heart drummed erratically with each passing second. Not all memories were good to be reminded of.
“Leave us now, Shelby,” Alfie’s voice suddenly filled the room, making you flinch.
Tommy released a strained sigh. “Not until we agree on my terms.”
The staring contest between the two men was ridiculous. It was only when a door opened in the back of the building, sunlight flooding the room, that you recognized the second man as well. The name Shelby now rang a bell. You remembered all the stories you’d heard about him–and judging by the meeting that had occurred just a few minutes prior, you could only suppose Mr Solomons was not someone you'd want to associate with either. It was too late to think of the consequences now anyway.
You had no time to slip through the doorway, as swift as you were. Despite being focused on Shelby, Solomon’s hand had grasped you even tighter, not one look shot in your direction. Instinct and panic overtook you instantly as you tried to wiggle out of his grip. The fucker was strong.
“Let me go!” you hissed, ignoring Shelby’s sardonic snort a few feet away.
“No,” Alfie Solomons’s eyes met yours again, and you hated that amused spark in his eyes. “You, Mrs Murray, are stayin’ with me. We’re gonna have a short conversation, yeah?”
You couldn’t believe a conversation with him would ever be ‘short’ anyway. You’d experienced it once. The hours spent talking about everything that came to your mind. He’d been a different man then. Not the frightening… hot as hell kind of man. You barely recognised him, and the contrast hurt. Who had you loved?
“Don’t touch me,” you pushed against his chest in one last effort, but it was like trying to move a brick wall. "We can talk without you locking me up, can't we?"
A few heads popped out from nowhere, curiously gazing at the reason you were shouting. Clearly, no one else was going to get you out of here.
Andrew wouldn’t come. Whether he was at the theatre or the pub–if you believed what he told you–he would tell you to stop being paranoid. He was quite right, deep down. You really were.
“Bye, Tommy. Fuck off, Tommy,” Solomons almost chanted, walking away, and you had no choice but to follow.
And that hallway was fucking endless. Where was the end of it? Why did the men stop moving every time Solomons walked past them? He was like a hurricane. Not even his slowed movements made him any less intimidating.
You remembered him telling you about a bakery one day, but the memory was as hazy as the rest, and it had sounded less… important, coming from his mouth. You'd imagined a small family-owned shop, not an entire dark building where men stored bottles.
After what felt like forever, still clutching your arm like his life depended on it, Solomons walked up a narrow flight of stairs. He hollered something about flour to a young lad and finally pushed open a door. A new wave of panic flooded you as you studied the room that featured a single window, a disorderly desk, and dark wooden furniture. You wished you knew how to compliment one's office, but you lingered on the threshold, already picturing him hitting you, or… shooting you, or anything you could think of.
“Take a seat.”
His tone could have been mistaken for welcoming, but you were on watch. Raising your gaze to his, you slightly narrowed your eyes in wariness and checked that no one was standing behind you.
“Have you become deaf by any chance, Miss Murray?” Solomons’ voice, though sweet once, became harsher.
An odd thumping began in your chest as he stepped in your direction, as though he wouldn’t be afraid to throw you on the armchair himself.
“Don’t touch me,” you repeated before you could even think, feeling his inquisitive gaze on your back as you went to sit down shakily. "I'm sitting down."
The leather of the armchair reeked of alcohol.
Solomons headed to a small wooden cabinet behind his desk, pouring himself a drink while taking all his time. You stared at his back and every move he made, knowing where it hurt and when the random shootings of pain likely occurred. Others would never know about it; you knew he was too full of himself to admit he was weakened. But you did know, in a deeper way, and it felt like a secret only the both of you shared.
Checking the golden liquid in the light, Solomons turned around to have a look at you. Like he was weighing the pros and cons of having you here against your will.
But once again, what could you threaten him with? Reveal to everyone he had killed that Italian man eleven years ago with that nail up his nose? What was scary about that? They’d probably seen worse, all of them.
“I hadn’t recognized you at first,” Solomons broke your frantic train of thought, settling comfortably across the desk. “Must be the hair.”
“What can I say?" you mumbled, the phrase painfully shy. "War changes people, doesn't it?”
He made a sound in his throat. “War, huh? Hope you were a bit bolder there.”
The irony of it all.
“You’ve seen it with your own eyes, haven’t you? I didn’t really have a choice.”
The corner of his lips tugged, taking his beard along with it. “I do remember, yeah. Fierce little thing you were.”
You scoffed softly at that, looking down at your hands resting on your lap. Red and orange streetlights blurred beyond the windows, adding to the warm light coming off his lamp desk. It felt like a completely different world here.
“You didn’t seem so cruel back there, M. Solomons.”
“War changes people, right,” he slouched in his seat, so damn intimidating. Definitely a different man. “I’d be dead if I weren’t cruel, as you say.”
It sounded silly. You couldn’t believe a baker had to be cruel to survive. If he had ever been, that was.
Talking about death.
“Well, most of them did leave this world after you left,” you muttered, willing yourself to speak a bit louder. You weren’t sure why you were coaxing him into feeling the weight of the aftermath, but it was the only thing you could think of. The only thing you’d wish to confess about after he was gone, when no one was willing to listen. “Thought you’d… I didn’t think you’d made it back to England, actually.”
“Didn’t think I’d make it either.”
Glancing up, you met Alfie’s gaze and it was suddenly clearer. As if the bombs were still exploding near you, and the ground was still shaking. You saw his face then. The fear had wrinkled his face, and that brown vest made him look older. Just like you, you supposed. Beneath that beard, he probably thought he’d been reduced to nothing more than a veteran.
You knew he was so much more, even remembered all his layers, but what good would it be finding all about it again? Eleven years had passed. He had moved on, just like you had.
Shutting your eyes close for a second, you tried to get a hold of yourself, rubbing your eyes. If Alfie wasn’t willing to speak, then maybe you could fill the silence and gently ask him to let you go home.
“I–I have trouble. Remembering faces. Um… They call that dissociative amnesia. Whatever that means. I’m not… I’m not so bold anymore, you see.”
“But you remember me, yeah? You do.”
At that, your heart beat a little faster. All his focus was directed at you. The centre of his world for a minute, like he had been yours during the fights.
“There are things I find rather memorable. Some faces.”
“Memorable, eh?” Alfie leaned forward on his seat, resting his elbows on his legs. “I could say the same about you. I’ve dreamt of you stitching me up more than I can count, you know. Almost shot myself to see you again."
Your soft chuckle pulled another smile to your lips. Now filled with deep feelings of sorrow and sheepishness, you could only think of crying in bed. God, that day couldn’t get stranger.
"I'm done stitching people up," you admitted, holding his gaze. "Now I deliver babies."
Alfie nodded slowly. "A midwife, right?"
A gentle smile curved your mouth. "Yes, sir."
"Yeah, I always knew you'd end up doing something like this."
Alfie's lips twitched with something you thought was pride, filling the void in your stomach with so much warmth.
You hadn’t meant to get so defensive and hysterical so fast, but he’d been scary as hell, hadn’t he? It was hard to find the balance between the two personalities now. In the mayhem of it all, you didn’t know what to believe, and whose face to talk to. One thing was sure, Alfie had not forgotten about you.
Summary:Scenes of how your relationship with Steve began, how he won your heart and how he broke it.
What good is love when it only hurts you?
12.6 k words
Content Warning: Angst, heartbreak, Friends with benefits? (Steve gives mixed signs), mature themes, +18 SMUT, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT (Oral f receiver, penetrative sex, slight mentions of oral sex m receiver, slight mentions of rough sex, Steve has a big dick.) Steve is also a dick, fluff but in the deceptive way.
A/N:There will be a second part to this, more info on it here.
Part 2 is already out.
Post dividers by @firefly-graphics
Steve Rogers isn’t like any other man you’ve met before.
The friendly, charismatic, innocent persona the public eye knows was your first impression of him. It would be hard to think of him otherwise when the media couldn’t stop talking about how brave and kind he is.
Maybe that's what brought you towards him in the first place. The good, nice, and kind Steve Rogers that wouldn’t hurt a fly.
Steve Rogers is good.
Just not in the way everyone thinks.
He is good at making you scream his name. He is good at wrecking you, destroying every sense of reality you have when you’re below him. He is good at making you crave him, ruining you, making sure no one else can ever compare to him. He is good at fucking you.
Not just good. Great, excellent, magnificent, or any other exaggerated positive adjective you could think of. He is all that and more.
Unfortunately, he is also good at breaking your heart.
Great, excellent, magnificent.
You still remember the first time you saw him. It was really embarrassing.
You were a new intern for an advertising company. It was your first week on the job, and you were already helping with big accounts, even if it just meant bringing coffee and delivering documents. You were more than grateful for it. Well, if anything, you had to be grateful to your coworker Jenna and her severe case of flu that had infected almost every publicist available on your floor. With everyone else out, you were thrown off of the bench. You were excited. This was your moment, and no one could take it away from you.
How naïve had you been.
One of the big accounts you ended up working on turned out to be none other than Tony Stark himself, and therefore, The Avengers were part of the deal as well. You can still remember how nervous you were when you first read the names on the paperwork you were supposed to deliver in an hour. Heart racing, sweaty palms and even a slight trembling of the hands were invading you.
Who could blame you? You were about to meet Earth's mightiest heroes.
Well, you weren’t exactly expecting to meet them. With you being the "errand girl" you thought you would be lucky if you even caught a glance of any of them, let alone actually get to talk to them. You might not get to meet them, but being in the same building as them was enough to make your stomach tight with nervousness.
With your foot tapping on the floor, papers on one hand and an iced-coffee tray on the other, you were waiting patiently for the elevator to reach the twenty-first floor. You had memorized the instructions your seniors had given you. Reach the office in the back, leave the documents and coffee, and get out of there. They didn’t need the newbie to freak out around celebrities, they didn’t trust you were able to control yourself even if you had assured them a thousand times you could handle it.
As the elevator doors opened, your heart rate significantly increased. You could’ve sworn you were about to have a heart attack. You silently cursed at the fact that you had to cross the whole floor to get to your destination while trying to remind yourself that you had to be professional, not only for the sake of your career but for the sake of your dignity.
Ironic. Maybe if you hadn't been so nervous, you would’ve noticed how quickly everyone was moving in the office. Perhaps you would’ve also noticed how someone was walking out of the same room you were trying to get into, the door swinging open so quickly you didn't have time to stop the inevitable clash.
The coffee that landed on the ground made the floor slippery. In an almost cartoonish way, you fought to maintain balance, failing miserably as you landed on your ass. You opened your eyes, not realizing you'd even closed them, and saw the folder you were holding mere seconds ago was now resting on top of the brown liquid. The stain was growing around the edges so rapidly that it felt almost taunting. Your hands launched forward, trying to save what's left of the important documentation you were supposed to deliver. Your effort, while admirable, was futile.
"God, I’m so sorry. Are you okay?" A deep voice said. Your head snapped so quickly it wouldn’t have surprised you if you pulled out a muscle. You recognized that voice.
Captain America, in all his glory, was standing in front of you. For some reason, you thought the first time you would meet Steve Rogers, he would look like the pictures you’ve seen in the press. A tactical suit, a shield in one hand, and a serious expression were the mental images you had of him. But, sitting on the floor in a puddle of coffee and ice, the man you saw was completely different. His white T-shirt and black sweatpants made a huge contrast with what you expected, also making you realize how ridiculous it was for you to be surprised by his outfit. He was a hero, but he was still just a guy.
A guy that looked incredibly hot just wearing a white T-shirt and black sweatpants.
You’ve seen this scenario played out a thousand times in movies and shows. The first meeting of a couple of strangers occurs when they are carrying something and, by pure chance, they crash together. Food, papers, and belongings fly across the room. Eyes connect, hearts beat, and a new romance is born.
What they failed to mention is how fucking embarrassing it was in real life.
"Yeah. I-I’m okay." Of course, you would stutter the first time talking to Captain America. God, everyone was right. You definitely couldn’t keep your cool.
"You sure? I didn’t even see you. I’m so sorry," he apologized again.
With his help, you managed to get up from the floor, trying to ignore how his touch made your heart flutter. You were glad he was holding you when your heels slipped on the floor again, but a strong hand grabbed you before you embarrassed yourself any further. That same hand traveled down to your waist, his grip guided you to a surface that was not a danger to your stability.
Once you were sure you wouldn't fall on your ass again at the slightest movement, you took out your heels. His hand still helped you, lingering there until you were done with your task. The warmth that came with his touch disappeared, a slight disappointment settled in you, and your cheeks heated up at your own reaction. Could someone cringe at themselves so hard it could make you combust?
You looked at him, trying to make a funny comeback, a sarcastic comment about the situation. Anything that would make you look less pathetic than you were, but you couldn’t. The bluest eyes you’ve ever seen were looking at you. No, they were burning you. You couldn’t move. You couldn't talk. Hell, you weren’t even sure you were breathing.
"What the hell happened here?"
Your boss's voice cut through the environment, grounding you back to reality. This was when you took a chance by looking around you. Everyone's eyes were on you. Your eyes began to sting, tears fighting to stream down your face. But you endured. You breathed in, you counted, and you apologized.
"I’m so sorry. I was trying to get into the room, but I didn’t see him, and I crashed into him." If your boss was upset before, now she was furious at you. A plethora of passive-aggressive insults were thrown in your direction, maybe even the words incompetent and useless too. You could also hear his deep voice trying to explain the situation, but you didn’t really care now. You thanked your ability to tune out situations like this, a skill you had learned to love once you entered the work field.
"She should’ve been paying more attention. And look at your clothes. I’ll make sure someone takes care of that." You were able to hear. Your cheeks warmed at the sight of his now coffee-stained clothes.
You were definitely getting fired.
"She’ll pay for the dry cleaning."
Great, fired and in debt already.
"Look, you don’t have to do that," he said, tired of arguing with the stubborn woman. "It was an accident. An accident I caused. It wasn’t her fault, so stop trying to pin it down on her." You didn’t miss the authoritative tone in his voice, making you wonder if this is what he sounded like in missions.
Or in bed.
"Let me show you somewhere you can get changed." he offered. The sweet tone of his voice had a direct impact on your heart. You gave him a shy nod, letting him guide you towards the elevator.
Unfortunately, the ride was long. So long that you thought time had somehow screwed you over and decided to slow down. You needed a moment alone, a moment to cry and scream into your fist, curse at your boss, at life, even at the gorgeous man that was standing next to you. And maybe get drunk. That usually helps.
The blue-eyed soldier cleared his throat, making you look at him. "Sorry about that whole thing with your boss."
You gave him a simple shrug. "She’s a dick."
The bluntness of your words makes him laugh. As if your crush on him couldn’t get any more evident, a big smile plastered on your face, butterflies invaded your stomach. The first time you made him laugh, and it had only taken some public embarrassment and ruining your professional career.
"I’m Steve Rogers, by the way." He extended a greeting hand to you.
Without any hesitation, you grabbed it. The urgency was slightly mortifying, but with all things considered, you didn’t really have much to lose. You told him your name, making sure this time you didn’t stutter.
"Nice meeting you," he said, a charming smile in his lips. "You think you’ll be in trouble?"
The innocence in his question was amusing. He clearly has never seen the end of a corporate job.
"She’ll probably fire me."
A week in and you would already have to go job hunting again. And now you had the biggest stain on your resume, you had basically ruined some of your clients’ belongings. Your coworkers were never going to let you live this one down.
While you wallowed in your own self-pity, Steve’s hand brought you back to reality. A comforting touch on your shoulder and a friendly expression met your eyes.
"Not if I have anything to do with it." He winked.
Steve Rogers is a good man. You thought to yourself.
You had severely underestimated how helpful Steve would be. You thought he was just going to help you keep your job and give you enough time to look for another one, as your boss seemed to be bothered by every little thing you did.
What you didn’t expect was for him to request to work directly with you.
When you asked for an explanation, your coworker only gave you an uninterested shrug.
"He told Madelyn he wouldn’t work with anyone else other than you."
Of course, your boss wouldn’t let you enjoy this bit of sunshine you had. She had planned to give you the hardest tasks to complete, adding more and more pressure to see you bend until you snapped. And you had to tend to every request she had, not because you wanted to, but because you had to show her you weren’t going to quit. The only silver lining to this unspoken war between you two was how often you got to see Steve.
Steve Rogers.
The man who had made himself a place in your heart in just a few months.
You could’ve gotten over it if he was just attractive, a pretty face to look at while you were working. Something superficial you lusted after. Yes, it was wrong to want to fuck one of your clients, but again, who could blame you? Worse things have happened in the world. Once the initial star-struck phase passed by, moving on would be as easy as breathing.
The problem was, he wasn’t just a pretty face.
Meeting after meeting, a handshake, a smile, a laugh that burst through his chest, crinkles in the corners of his eyes, small things that built a foundation in you one by one.
Work meetings turned into texting, that turned into phone calls, that turned into visiting each other in your free time.
You could talk to Steve for hours. There was no space for silence when you two were in the same room. You knew his favorite ice cream, how he ordered coffee, his favorite place around the corner that served the best pancakes he had ever tasted, and how he liked to run in the mornings just before the sun starts rising, so when he’s finishing his first lap, he could see it. A beautiful motivation to keep going, he said. At this point, you were sure you could fact check his Wikipedia page without having to ask him a single question.
However, one particular secret lingered in your mind.
When Steve revealed to you that he had an ex-girlfriend, you couldn’t help but be surprised. You were sure no one knew about it, or else you would’ve heard about it. It was a mystery to you how he had kept it hidden from the public for so long.
"So, you’re telling me you had a relationship for years and no one noticed?" You asked incredulously. You were leaned back on the couch of your apartment, your legs spaced across his lap, his hands ever so slightly brushing your skin.
"I’m good at keeping secrets," he says with a smirk.
He took a sip of the beer you had so kindly offered him. You had bought them specially for him. You didn’t even like beer.
"It appears so," you said, with a chuckle. "So, why you guys break up?"
He froze for a moment, and you saw it. A range of emotions ran through his eyes. Sadness, heartbreak, longing, love.
He was still in love with her.
It should’ve been the first sign to stay away from him.
"She didn’t love me anymore."
To your surprise, you weren’t the one that made the first move.
It was a Saturday evening. The sunset was getting closer by the minute. A ding diverted your attention from the rom-com you were watching. It was him. Your heart almost beat out of your chest when you saw the notification light up your screen.
Hey, I’m finally back.
A wide grin plastered on your face, your teeth grabbing your lower lip. You were glad you live alone, or else they could’ve seen how this man, with just four words, had made you giggle like a schoolgirl.
You waited a couple of minutes before you texted back.
Hey there stranger. I’ve missed you so much. How was the trip?
His lack of response didn’t surprise you, he was probably tired from his trip to who knows where. A little over a month had passed since you last talked, with him telling you he wouldn’t be available for a while as he had to go on a mission. To say you were unhappy with the news would be an understatement. But you understand his line of work. His world won’t stop spinning just because a silly publicist has an unrequited crush on him.
Days turned to weeks, and without notice, it had been a month since he was gone. He left a void in your life that you were filling with work, friends, and copious amounts of food and alcohol. Not the best way to distract yourself, but effective, nonetheless.
Standing up to get another can of soda you heard your phone ringing. His ringtone.
You weren’t expecting a phone call so soon after his return, not after him texting you just twenty minutes ago. With a quick pace you crossed your kitchen, answering your phone at the third ring.
"Hello?"
"Hi." His voice was shaky, hesitant. "I, um. Are you free right now?"
Your breath hitches in your throat. You weren’t even dressed. What is this?
"Yeah. Why?"
"You wanna go out?"
What the fuck?
“Right now?” you managed to spit the words.
“Yeah”
"Didn’t you just got back today?" you asked, walking towards your closet to look for something decent to wear. Again, a big relief that you lived by yourself. Dealing with someone else looking at you making a fool of yourself would be exhausting.
"Yeah, I don’t know. I just want to hang out with you."
The first place he took you was an old dingy dinner in Brooklyn, close to where he had grown up in the 40’s. The food was mediocre, the service could be better, but the company was the best. After both of you had eaten your soggy fries and your melted milkshakes, he took you on a walk. The longest one in your life. He gave you a whole tour, comparing what used to be and what there is now, the alleys he had gotten beaten up, where he had gotten his first kiss. He shared his past with you, and you absorbed every little word he said, every piece of himself he gave you.
Following that, you walked aimlessly through the streets of New York until you reached a familiar nightclub you were working for. With a mischievous grin, you grabbed Steve's hand, pulling him towards the entrance. When he asked for an explanation, you told him your intentions, to which he started to fight back on your pull.
"Come on, Steve, when was the last time you danced?" You said with a pout, as if that could help your case.
His eyes fell for a second, a painful memory invaded him.
"A long time ago," he whispered.
He was thinking about her.
After a few more minutes of begging and pouting, he finally gave in. Your little jump of happiness made him chuckle, and your grip on his hand got tighter. When you got through to the bouncer, you told him you worked for your PR firm, and after a few minutes on the phone, he let you in with a friendly smile.
The place was packed, the music was deafening, people dancing surrounded you. It smelled like alcohol, sweat, and trouble.
Steves' hands wrapped you, the shots you had ordered a few moments ago were invading your system. Your hips swayed side to side as his hands traveled down your body, gripping you tightly. His chest was pressed against your back, his breath hit the back of your neck. No one else around you mattered. In this crowded, tight place, it was just you and him.
It was a perfect first date.
Except it wasn’t a date at all.
And that made you so angry.
You had noticed how his gaze lingered on you longer than it should, the way his hugs were tighter and he seemed to not want to let you go, how his hand had brushed yours when walking through the dark streets of Brooklyn, the way his hands would travel down your body.
At the same time, you had also noticed how he would step away from you when any sort of romantic ambiance would fall over you, the way his eyes would drift away from yours when you looked him in the eyes, the way he changed subjects when you asked him if he had any interest in going on dates.
Yet, no matter how many mixed signals he gave you, you would never make the first move. Not only would it be awkward at work (which should have been enough to discourage you), but the thought of losing him because you misinterpreted him was too painful to bear.
Six months was enough for him to become a vital part of your life, and if it were ripped from you in such an unexpected way, you wouldn’t know how you could move on. How could you forget what it felt like to have Steve Rogers in your kitchen, cooking whatever recipe he had found online, so you could have something to eat while watching a movie? How could you forget the way his eyes would shut, his head would roll back, and a hand would make its way to his chest when he found something hilarious?
You could do just being "friends" with the guy. "Friends" was good. "Friends" was bearable.
Except friends didn’t spin you around, their hands lowering down your lower back. Or raise your face, their thumb brushing over your lips. Or gave you a look that could make you combust right there on the spot, making you forget how to breathe.
Friends definitely didn’t come close to your face, their lips brushing yours and your hands grabbing on to their shirt.
Friends didn’t kiss.
You were in the club one minute, and the next you were in your house. On your bed. With a shirtless Steve on top of you.
Your clothes disappeared. Your lace panties and your flimsy bralette were the only things covering your body. His hands were touching you, all of you. Exploring every inch of your skin while his lips were devouring yours. He knew what he was doing. He was making you crave him. Beg him to fuck you.
His hand finally reached your underwear, a finger trailing up and down your covered slit. A very large wet spot, visible even through the lace, made Steve smirk smugly.
"So wet for me," he whispered in your ear. You tried to reply, but his fingers started trailing circles around your little bundle of nerves. All you could muster was a loud moan. "You like that, baby?"
Your lack of an answer made him accelerate his pace. Your head jerked back at the overwhelming sensation. He’s not even really touching you; the sensation of the dripping lace added to your pleasure, but you could tell he could make you cum just like this.
"Answer me. Use your words, sweetheart." His voice was deep, raspy, and commanding. You were right, he did use the same tone.
"Y-yes" you mustered. His lips clashed against yours, his tongue finding its way to yours. Even in your pleasure haziness, you could see how much he liked how difficult it was for you to answer. He enjoyed how good he was making you feel.
Lowering his kisses again, he trailed down to your breasts, taking his time to lightly bite one of your nipples. The sensation should have hurt, but instead it brought added pleasure, making you arch your back.
He brought himself fully down, his head between your legs. You felt his hands helping you get rid of your underwear, the piece of fabric completely soaked. Looking down, you felt like you could faint. The sight of him between your legs could only be described as beautiful.
Steve’s face got close to your soaked pussy, inhaling your scent. He looked at you. The burning gaze he had always given you was different, more intense, darker, lustful. Your most inappropriate fantasies were turning into reality. All those nights you had spent with your fingers between your legs, imagining it was him was no longer a sensuous fiction you created in your mind. He was here, right now, about to eat you out.
"God, you’re perfect," he whispered.
His tongue drew a line coursing between your folds. He was such a tease. Lick after lick, your impatience was growing; you needed him to stop playing games. Your hands traveled to his hair, giving him a slight pull so he would look at you.
"Please," you begged him.
His eyes darkened.
"Please what, beautiful?" His voice was low and seductive. The lust behind it was making your core clench on nothing. "You want me to taste you?" You desperately nodded. You needed him to give you more. "Say it."
His fingers spread your lips apart. The tips of his fingers teased your entrance as he kept pushing you for an answer. His thumb found your clit again, slowly drawing light circles against it. Your hips bucked against his hand, begging for him to add more pressure, but his other hand steadied you in your place.
"Say it, baby," he whispered.
"Please Steve, taste me," you moaned.
You knew Steve Rogers was a great fighter, great at strategizing, and a sharpshooter. He was also a great artist, according to the documentary you once watched on his time in WW2. He was smart, brave, and strong, both mentally and physically.
Now, you also know how great he was between your legs.
The sensation of him sucking on your bundle of nerves was sending you over the edge. Your slick trailed down your lips all the way down to your puckered hole. His fingers teased your entrance, slowly covering themselves in your juices until he finally slid one of them inside.
His fingers were big, bigger than yours, and they reached places yours had never been able to. The way he moved them inside you, with such ease, they found that spongy part that tightened your stomach. It was breathtaking. He added a second finger, and you could’ve sworn you were about to come undone. The pace he set was relentless. His fingers pumped in and out of you while his tongue toyed with your nub, making you feel better than you’ve ever felt with anyone else.
But you needed him, all of him.
"Fuck me," you begged. Your voice was hoarse as, apparently, the only thing you could do was whimper and moan every time his lips would close around your clit.
He lifted his face away from you, but his fingers kept moving inside. Half his face shone under the dim lighting of your bedroom. A mixture of his own saliva and your arousal was prominent on his pink, puffy lips. That and the cocky grin on his face made your walls clench.
"You wanna cum on my cock, don’t you?"
Fuck.
You never thought you would have America's favorite hero saying those things to you. Whiplash was caused by someone whose persona was built around this moralistic, innocent, almost puritan idea.
His digits added pressure to your core. The knot in your stomach tightened.
"Please" was the only word you were able to say.
His fingers stopped filling you; the emptiness made you whine. The cloudiness your brain was in didn’t let you register when he had taken his pants off. He placed himself on top of you. Both his hands rested on top of the bed on the sides of your face. The feeling of his cock resting on top of your stomach made you look down.
He was big.
No, big wasn’t enough to describe him.
He was huge. Not only in length but in thickness.
How the fuck was that supposed to fit inside you?
The red bulbous tip almost reached your bellybutton; a droplet of pre-cum rested on top of it. Without a second thought, you reached down to touch it. Steves' breath hitched as your palm closed on his member, and his hands clenched into fists. Your thumb smeared the white pearl, smudging it in circles on his tip and making his cock twitch in your hand.
"Fuck," he groaned.
Your hand dragged up and down, pumping him as you grew wetter. Your fingers found a thick, prominent vein that trailed down over his length. It was the softest of touches, yet it was driving him crazy.
After a few more pumps, he couldn’t take it anymore. He spread your legs as wide as he was able to, his hand leading his cock between your slits. You jumped a little when it first touched you, but his hands held your hips still. With swift movements, his head rubbed on your knob. The sensation of it made your eyes roll. Electricity ran through your body, each one of your nerve endings aware of what his cock was doing.
Without any warnings, you felt a slap, jolts of pleasure emerging from that nub he had been toying with since the start. You looked down to see him holding himself, ready to slap you with his tip again. This time, both of your eyes were locked together, and neither of you dared break eye contact.
His face came close to you. His hand grabbed the back of your head as he kissed you. Hungrily, desperately, seductive.
You felt his head nudging at your entrance, your eyes closing with anticipation and a little worry about his length. You weren’t a virgin, of course, but you also never had anyone as big as he. as thick as him. You had only seen dicks as big on porn sites, and even then they looked intimidating. What if it didn’t fit? Would it hurt? What if he ruined—
A soft hand brought you back from spiraling, his thumb caressing your cheek.
"Open your eyes, sweetheart."
His voice was soft and tender. A warmth spread through your chest the more you felt his touch on your face. You opened your eyes to find him staring back at you, an adoring expression filling his. Your heart jumped to your throat, no longer in lust but in affection. This encounter was lustful, seductive, and raw, but the moment you looked into his eyes, it changed everything. It was vulnerable, caring, even loving.
Blue eyes looked at you, asking for permission to keep going. You gave him the smallest of nods as you leaned into his touch. He waited a few seconds before you finally felt him moving inside.
Oh, you definitely felt him.
The stretch burned. You could feel how you were struggling to fit him in. He was thoughtful, though, taking it slow and calm so you could get used to him. Yes, the intrusion hurt a bit, but you desired it with all your soul. His eyes kept you grounded, guiding you through everything you were feeling.
"It’s okay, sweetheart. Breath," he whispered.
After a few seconds, the pain was slowly replaced with pleasure, your legs instinctively spread wider for him. You felt him everywhere. The deeper he went, the heavier your breathing got. Your hands traveled to his hair, pulling it slightly in your fists when it became too much.
Finally, he bottomed out. You’ve never felt fuller in your life.
That night, he fucked you like there was no tomorrow.
And maybe, just maybe, that night he also opened his heart to you for the first time.
Things were great for a while.
Steve came to your apartment almost every day, most of which ended up with you under him, begging him to not stop. You had memorized every freckle, every scar, every imperfection on his skin.
You have also memorized the things he loves during sex. The way he groans when you’re on your knees in front at him, jerking him off while your mouth plays with his balls. Or the way his eyebrows furrow when you’re on top of him, grinding your hips on top of him, his hands leaving bruises on your hips caused by his strong, almost unmovable, grip. You had even noticed the way his breath hitched when you spread your ass cheeks for him, the view almost enough to make him cum.
So yeah, things were great.
Well, maybe not great, but just good.
After that first night, you woke up to find he was already long gone. The side of your bed he had occupied had lost its warmth a long time ago. The only traces of him being around were the smell of sex and his cologne filling the room.
And the soreness in between your legs.
Maybe he had something important to do.
He would explain later, feeling sorry for leaving without letting you know. He was your friend, after all.
Except he didn’t.
He came by the next day, knocking on your door desperately. You opened the door, not before making sure you looked decent enough, pulling down your sweatshirt and fixing your hair. You saw his eyes, burning again with the same desire.
He kissed you, hungry for more.
You should’ve stopped him, told him you wanted to talk about what happened yesterday, asked for an explanation as to why he left so quickly, and made him tell you what you guys are now. Friends? More than friends? Were you together now?
But you didn’t.
You let him fuck you until you couldn’t say your own name. Kiss you until you can't breath. Let him go when he thinks you’re deep asleep.
You let him have everything he wanted and more.
You weren't stupid. You know what this unspoken arrangement was. You weren’t together.
You were just fucking.
There were implied rules in your relationship with Steve. Rule number one: you didn’t show any affection in public; rule number two: you didn’t go out in any sort of romantic date; rule number three: Steve never stayed the night.
He broke the first rule three months after that night.
Winter was closing in on New York, the air was getting colder and the streets began to be covered in a white veil of snow. Steve and you were walking side by side on the sidewalk after your shift was over. On days like these, when you got out of the office at ten in the night, Steve would pick you up and walk home with you. He said it would be safer for you.
Your hand brushed against his by accident, making yours recoil. Foolishly, you tried to grab his hand in a similar situation days after your date/not date. You still remember the bitter taste in your mouth when he gently dropped your hand a couple of seconds later.
That was the first hit your heart took.
Bringing your hands together, you cursed at the fact you that you forgot to bring your gloves with you, like you hadn’t lived in this city for half your life and didn’t know how close to freezing your fingers could get. You tried to blow some hot air into them, with the result just being a temporary fix.
Steve looked at you from the corner of his eye, a hesitant expression showing in his gaze before reaching out to your hand. You controlled your surprised expression the best you could, but you were sure he noticed. His fingers were warm, welcoming, and comforting. Not only were your fingers heating up, but your heart was pounding strongly in your chest, ready to burst through it at any given second.
He brought your hand to his lips, a small kiss touching the skin on your fingers. You felt the heat in your cheeks flush you completely, causing an amused look in his eyes.
"Your hands are cold."
To your surprise, he didn't let go of it. He interlaced your fingers.
A couple of weeks after that, Steve broke the second rule.
Celebrating a new campaign you finished wrapping up, he took you out to eat. From the luxurious decor of the place and the discreet atmosphere, you assume it was suggested by Tony. Your suspicions were confirmed when the menu that was placed in front of you didn’t show any prices.
You had jokingly told Steve you would probably have to sell both your kidneys to pay for a single plate here, and his only response was a soft hand caressing your cheek and his lips close to your ear.
"Don’t worry about it, order anything you want."
You had to keep reminding yourself that this wasn’t a date. But the romantic environment, the way his fingers would caress your thighs, his hand pushing you closer to him in the small, private booth you had been placed in, and the little kisses he would deposit on your neck, made it really hard to keep focus.
You were waiting for dessert, but his hands were busy exploring your body. To any other onlooker, you would look like an affectionate couple. The way his eyes would ever so slightly sparkle when he looked at you, his protective demeanor once you had walked inside and the fondness of his touch.
But you weren't a couple. This wasn’t even a date.
Except his hands made you look at him, with soft, pillowy lips meeting yours. They parted slightly, allowing his tongue to explore your mouth. Your hand traveled to his face, your thumb brushing against his growing beard. This kiss was different from the others. It was still passionate as always, but it had care, tenderness, and an intimacy there wasn’t before.
He broke the kiss apart.
There was a shine in his eyes you hadn’t seen before.
"This is the best date I’ve had in a while."
The last rule was broken three weeks after your first "official" date.
Steve had been away for almost a week. He couldn’t tell you much, but all you know is that he had gone to a foreign country and something about a terrorist organization. Worry had been your companion these past few days, as it had always been whenever Steve left.
Looking at the paperwork splattered on your coffee table you groaned, deciding to stop for the night. There was no point in melting your brain with numbers and statements when you had to use it tomorrow morning too.
You stood up, your arms and back stretching after sitting in the same position for a few hours now, with a few cracks sounding through your body. Ready to finally go to bed, a knock interrupted you. It was shy, almost hesitant. You looked at the clock and it said 11:30 PM, making your brow furrow with confusion. He wasn’t supposed to come today, at least not when he just arrived from a mission.
When you opened your door, you didn’t expect his arms to surround you. You also didn’t expect him to be still wearing his tactical gear. His face was buried in your neck. His arms grabbed you as if you were the most precious thing in the world to him. He’s not okay.
"What’s wrong, Stevie?" you asked softly.
You tried to look at his face, but his arms locked you in place. His breathing is heavy, almost a panting like sound coming from him. Your hands tremble once you’re able to touch his face. You’ve never seen him like this before.
His face was covered in ash, tiny scratches sitting on top of his left eyebrow. He smelled like himself but with an added layer of sweat and smoke. There were signs he might’ve had a purple eye, but the color was fading away.
You were finally able to tear apart from him and found that instead of those blue, vibrant eyes that would greet you every night, they were replaced by something broken inside him.
It clicked in your head. He needed you. He needed your comfort.
So, you gave it to him without a second thought.
His arms encircled you once more, but this time he locked you in your own bed. After a more than needed shower, you guided him to your mattress, the covers pulled over your heads, shielding you from the outside world.
"There were children," he said, breaking the silence with a trembling deep tone you'd never heard before. You felt how hard his heart was beating, the tiredness that clouded his eyes. "I couldn't—there wasn't any—I tried."
You pulled him to you again.
"It’s not your fault, Steve," you whispered in his ear. Tears were stinging your eyes, but you breathed in. This wasn’t about you. "It's not your fault."
He held you tighter.
And you both fell asleep.
The first time Steve Rogers chipped your heart, you didn’t see it coming.
One of the perks of knowing Steve and being close to him was being invited to those wild and amazing parties Tony Stark was known for. Loud music, expensive alcohol and a big crowd greeted your sight once the penthouse elevator doors opened.
Tony really did live up to his reputation.
Bucky’s laugh next to you filled your ears. His head was thrown back, his hand grabbed his stomach, and there was a noticeable red tinge on his cheeks. This was the first time he had tried that Asgardian alcohol that was strong enough to get him drunk. To say Bucky had been excited would’ve been an understatement.
He and Sam were under your contract too, both of them being a logical addition as to how they wanted to market them. The golden trio The people could trust. So, when Steve went to see some of his coworkers, you stayed behind with them.
They were nice company, and working with them for almost six months had also made you develop a friendship with them. Breakfasts and hangouts were part of your dynamic now. The constant bickering but complicity between the men was an amusing dynamic. You felt comfortable enough around them to joke and get drunk.
"Okay, I’m taking this away from you," you laughed.
Taking a drink away from a super soldier was harder than you thought. The obvious height difference was an advantage to him as he lifted his hand.
He smirked. "You've got to reach it to take it away from me, shortcake."
You tried jumping but it was useless, the results of which only made you look ridiculous. With a huff, you looked around you, examining your surroundings. When you couldn't find anything, you devised a plan to bring Bucky down to your level. A devilish smile formed on your lips. The alcohol in your system made you more carefree than usual.
Your fingers poked Bucky’s sides, his metal arm instantly bending to protect the area. A playful fight ensued between both of you. Bucky's arm stretched to its limit while you tickled his sides. You poked both sides of his ribs mercilessly until you saw his glass close to your reach. Your little jumps finally lifted you enough to graze it.
Your victory was short-lived, as Steve's hand slid to the small of your back while removing the contentious cup. Bucky and you whined in disagreement, your lips forming a pout.
"What are you guys doing?" he questioned with a laugh, his hand now settled on your waist. A waiter walked by, and he asked him to take the cup back to the kitchen, and also to make sure to put away the rest of the Asgardian mead.
"She was being a party pooper," Bucky grumbled. You gasped in indignation and your hand dramatically went to your chest.
"I was not."
"Yeah, you were," Sam joins in the conversation.
Your eyebrows furrow in annoyance. "I’m not a party pooper. I was just making sure he doesn’t get too fucked up because if he does something stupid, who do you think has to fix it? Besides, you weren’t even here before."
Sam and Bucky looked at each other for a second before turning their eyes at you.
"Party pooper"
"Fuck you, guys!" you cursed at them, your response making them laugh. You rolled your eyes, lifting your middle finger. You opened your mouth to say something else, but Steve’s hand pushed you towards his chest.
"Don’t listen to them. I think you’re really fun to be around, "he whispered close to your ear. Your face heated up, making you turn around to bury it in Steve's chest.
This man was going to kill you.
He embraced you and a kiss was deposited on top of your head. You turned around after a few seconds to see Bucky and Sam looking at you with a knowing smirk on their faces.
"So," Bucky started, clearing his throat. "Are you guys finally together?"
You turned to Steve, not knowing how to answer. Things hadn't been properly discussed, but the change between how things started and how they were going was abysmal. This past eleven months were not for nothing, you had grown attached to him. Every kiss, every hug, every promise he had made, every sleepless night of comforting, every late-night shift he had picked you up from. The lines he had previously drawn were no longer there, and instead, they were replaced with a bond formed on tenderness, care, and, if you dared to say, love.
You loved him.
Deeply. Passionately. Wholeheartedly.
If there was ever anyone you could love, it would definitely be Steve Rogers.
You would do anything for him.
"No, were just friends."
Unrequited love was painful.
Sometimes it felt like a pressing knife slowly cutting through your chest.
Other days, it would feel like you were drowning in a sea, the struggle to stay afloat consuming every ounce of energy you had.
But most days, it felt like a weight on your chest. The words that wouldn’t leave your mouth were stuck in your heart. Everything about him made you love him, and you couldn’t stop it.
Maybe that’s why you decided to talk to him about your relationship; to get rid of the pain. Or maybe a part of you still held hope. I hope for a future with him.
Once you had told him you wanted more, Steve’s face had been in shock, like a deer caught in the headlights. His silence had lasted long enough for you to doubt if he would ever answer you or if, somehow, he had passed out with open eyes.
But you still kept hoping, right until the end.
"I can’t give you more than this right now."
"If you want to, we can stop this. But if you want to keep going, this is all we can be for the moment. "
"I’m not ready for a relationship, not after her. I need time. "
His words ran through your mind over and over again. A cycle of heartbreak and lost hope draws you in. This was it. He couldn’t do it. He didn’t want to do it. He said he needed time, but all he was doing was telling you what you wanted to hear. He was keeping you at arm's length. He was giving you an out, a safeguard for your heart, or what was left of it.
All those nights you had spent embraced in each other's arms, with the moonlight kissing your skin, had been a construct of your imagination. The significance behind them was your own heart playing you.He didn’t love you, not in the way you had hoped he did.
The same type of love he was aware of, even if you hadn’t explicitly told him the full extent of your feelings. You could see it, even if he was so adamant that this type of bond couldn’t be possible between you two for a while, because no matter how much he would deny it, he still wanted it.
He didn’t want to love you, but he still wanted to be loved.
And as you stared into his eyes, you realized that after almost two and a half years since she left, he might still love her.
So you breathe in, close your eyes and endure. You let him keep taking it.
A jump scare on the screen caught you by surprise, your arms tightening around the pillow you were holding. You turned to your side, wanting to watch Bucky's reaction, but all you saw is his pensive expression. His mind seemed to be elsewhere. The frown on his face and the anxious up and down of his right leg made you think he was stressed about something. Probably something work related.
You turned back to the movie, the scary plot no longer able to hold your attention. Bucky had been acting weird ever since he got to your apartment, this night being only the two of you as Sam and Steve were away on a mission.
"She’s coming back." Bucky's voice broke the silence.
You turned back to him, "What?"
"Steve’s ex"
Your heart stopped.
"He told us a couple of days before him and Sam left. She texted him to let him know she was returning to S.H.I.E.L.D. It’s not going to happen for a while, but I don’t know when she’s coming back."
He visited you the day before he left, and he didn’t tell you. He didn’t want to tell you.
Bucky sighed. "I know that you are..." he hesitated for a second, flashbacks of the ‘just friends’ night coming back to you. "-whatever the hell you guys are. I also know that you have feelings for him. I just thought you should know. "
You didn’t answer. Your eyes glued themselves to the TV, but you couldn't hear anything. Your eyes prickled with tears, and a pain in your chest bloomed so deeply in you that it felt like it would break you apart.
He misses her. He didn’t tell you about it. He doesn’t love you. He still loves her.
You close your eyes, mentally repeating the mantra that has helped you for so long to not crumble down.
Close your eyes, breath in and endure.
Close your eyes, breath in and endure.
Breath in and endure.
Breath in and endure.
Endure
Bucky’s movements brought you back. His shoulder was touching yours, a simple act you can read through. You laid your head on his shoulder. As soon as your skin made contact with his shoulder, you broke. The tears you so strongly fought to chase away were hitting you all at once.
As he wrapped his arm around you and squeezed you tightly, you thought it was okay to cry, just this once.
The beginning of the end followed that day closely behind.
You weren’t sure when things started to change. After he came back, he didn’t mention anything to you about his ex coming back or how this might change what was going on between you two. Bucky wasn’t sure when she would get back to the city, so you decided that worrying about something you didn’t know when was going to happen would be counterproductive. You left the thought of her return on the back burner, just for a little while.
Steves' affection was the same. He laughed the same. He held you the same. He kissed you the same.
Until he didn’t. And you didn’t notice it until it was too late.
One day, he forgot to pick you up. You called, you texted but there was no answer. You waited almost an hour until you decided to walk back on your own. For the first time, you noticed how scary it was to walk so late at night. The next day, he apologized with a bouquet of flowers from your favorite shop.
Another day he forgot you had made plans to watch a movie. A few hours later, the beer you had opened for him slid down the drain. He called you the next day, saying work had kept him busy, but he would make it up to you.
On a different day, he forgot you were going out to eat. The waitress had given you a sympathy look while you ordered the check. The next day, he texted you, saying he was sorry. You didn’t see him for the rest of the week.
Things were different, even when you had sex.
Before, he used to love looking deeply into your eyes. Kissing your lips as he kept thrusting into you. To see your expression as he slid inside for the first time that night. He loved seeing your eyes rolling back when he hit that special spot that made you tremble. He made you look at him when you were about to come undone. He loved looking at you.
Now he turned you around, your ass up in the air and your head pinned down to the mattress. His pace was relentless, animalistic almost. There wasn’t any care or affection anymore. He used you, physically this time. It still felt good. No one could ever say Steve Rogers was a selfish lover. One time you turned around your head, in hopes to catch those blue eyes you missed so much.
His eyes were closed.
You walked through the office, making your way to the conference room. A little smile grew on your face as you compared how different things were two years ago. The first time you had walked this route, you were just a naïve intern, with so many hopes and dreams in your head that had ended up with you covered in coffee all over you.
You reached the door and made sure no one was coming out as you walked in. You saw Steve sitting alone, which surprised you. This meeting was supposed to be between you and the three of them. You were especially hoping to talk to Bucky about his upcoming solo tour as a way to mend his public image, which started a week from now. And as his representative in all public matters, you had to agree with him who would go on the trip as his companion. This conversation would probably take a long time with Bucky not really liking any of your other coworkers, and it would take even longer now with this delay.
You sat in front of him, leaving your purse and your folder on the large table between you two.
"Where are Sam and Bucky?" you inquired.
For some unknown reason, you felt nervous, your heartbeat increasing the longer you were alone with him.
"I told them to give us a couple of minutes alone."
Oh.
He was finally going to do it. He was about to break your heart right before a work meeting with him and your friends. He was leaving you to be with her.
"Okay. What’s up?" You managed to answer. Your trembling hands laid on your lap in an effort to hide them.
"I, um—" he paused for a moment. His lack of words confirmed your worst nightmares. He really was going to do it. You tried to swallow down the knot in your throat, only making it more painful. "Would you like to go to Stark’s charity gala with me?" he blurted out.
What?
"Uh." It takes you a second to compose yourself. He wasn’t leaving. He wasn’t kicking you out of his life. He was asking you to go with him to the gala this weekend. You shook your head, clearing out any intrusive thoughts that were left behind. "Yeah, of course. I would love to." you replied with the biggest smile you’ve had in weeks.
He smiled at you. "Ok, good. I’ll pick you up at 7:30"
"Ok."
Hope.
Maybe this was the little ray of hope you were looking for.
You should’ve never said yes.
If Starks parties had made an impression on you, the gala was certainly something to behold. Elegant, radiant, stylish, and graceful were the adjectives that came to your mind. The event was held at the Manhattan Center. The space was open, wide and decorated to perfection. Every single detail of it was planned and executed with precision, surely something made by his wife.
You were grateful for Steve’s insistence on helping you pay for your outfit. Your beautiful, floor-length, golden embroidered dress, with which you had fallen in love as soon as you laid eyes on it, would probably have cost you a kidney. You felt beautiful in it. Your hair and makeup were done by professionals, and the heels that squeezed your toes made the perfect combination of grace and beauty. It could almost be compared to a fairytale.
"You look beautiful." was the first thing Steve managed to say. The way he smiled and his eyes went wide as soon as they landed on you is an image you will keep in your brain forever. A few seconds after he composed himself, he pulled you into a kiss, a long, passionate kiss.
You don’t think you’ve ever smiled brighter in your life.
Steves' hand held the back of your waist, guiding you through the sea of dresses and tuxedos. The dance floor was open; people were already dancing to the melodic tune. As you reached the front of the room, you noticed all eyes were on you. You suppose it wasn’t a surprise that the girl that Captain America had brought to such a serious event was a spectacle on its own. Finally reaching your table, you noticed Bucky and Sam were already at your table next to some of their friends/coworkers. A shower of compliments rained on Steve and you, making heat reach both your faces.
"Wow. You look great, shortcake. "
"You look amazing, baby."
"You guys look really good together."
The rest of the night went by in a blur. Smiles, laughter, and alcohol fill your memories. You’ll never forget how happy you were at that time. Hanging out with people you’ve only seen on the news and magazine covers who were surprisingly welcoming was an odd situation. They laughed, they made mistakes, and they were funny. They were just people, after all.
You turned around to see Steve’s face, but, for a quick moment, all that greeted you was a frown. His hand was holding yours, but his mind was elsewhere. An internal turmoil was happening inside his head that he wouldn’t let you see as his eyes were stuck looking at the crowd across the room.
And as quickly as it came, that frown disappeared. His eyes connected with yours, and he placed a kiss on your temple.
He dragged you away to the dance floor, his hand still linked to yours as you found a spot in the middle. The way he had stood up so quickly had scared you, his eyes no longer covered by the complex storm of thoughts he was having. One of his hands found its way to your waist, his hold pressing you against his chest. The other one grabbed your hand as he led you through the music. A soft romantic melody was playing, the couples around you melted into each other, and, to your surprise, you did the same.
Blue eyes stared at you, and for the first time in a while, they didn’t feel cold. They were warm, the type of warmth that makes your heart skip a beat. The type of warmth that raises butterflies in your stomach and heats your face. It's the type of warmth that makes you want to stay there forever, because no matter where you are or what you do, nothing will ever compare to that.
And just like that, it was like the past few months didn’t exist. The unsavory taste that distance and rejection had left in your mouth was washed away with a simple look. A true testimony of how love can make us so naïve and a horrible reminder of how weak this man could make you.
Once again, he kisses you, but this time it feels different. It’s intense and deep, his hands gripping you as they travel all over your body. The kiss had so much behind it, your brain was going haywire trying to read it all while your heart was about to burst out of your chest. It wasn’t lustful or aggressive as the other ones had been the past week. It meant something different to him.
It meant love.
You had been waiting for this so long that now that it was happening, you couldn’t believe it. If it wasn’t for his touch, you could’ve sworn you were floating. The endless music and murmuring from the crowd disappeared under the spell of him.
The kiss was perfect until it wasn’t.
His lips broke apart from yours too soon. His hands fell from your body. He put as much distance as he could with a step back.
You opened your eyes, and he looked like he had seen a ghost. His chest was heaving up and down while he looked past you. The same love you had felt was still reflected in his eyes, but this time they were also hurt. There was so much pain in them that he looked on the verge of breaking. Heartbreak
With a trembling heart, you turned around to find a woman standing in the middle of the crowd with a lonely tear streaming down her face. A beautiful woman with long blonde silky hair wrapped around a perfect black satin dress stood there with the same look in her eyes as Steve’s. You’d recognize that look anywhere; the same broken eyes of someone that was still in love with the past.
She truly was breathtaking. This was the first time you had ever seen her, and you could understand why Steve was smitten by her. She was perfect in every way. Attractive, beautiful, confident, and, based on what he had told you, smart. How could he not still love her?
This wasn’t your love story. It was theirs.
Steve didn’t notice when you left the dance floor. Neither when you went straight to the bar and started drinking your sorrows away. What was the point of loving a man who would never look at you like he looks at her?
You should’ve taken this as a sign to go home. The crushing reality of how you love someone that will never love you was already a good enough reason to leave. But as the stubborn, heartbroken woman that you were, you stayed. Not to save your dignity, but to use Stark's vast collection of whiskeys, vodkas, and tequilas.
Maybe if you would’ve left, your heart could’ve still been saved.
The bitter taste of the whiskey wasn’t a problem for you anymore. The way you were drinking it, anyone could’ve thought it was water. After your sixth shot, you were still, in some ways, self-aware enough to know you were about to cause a spectacle of yourself if you kept drinking in public. You grabbed the bottle you were pouring yourself from, stumbling away from the bartender as he yelled at you for leaving without paying.
"Put it on Captain America’s tab."
Bucky had yelled your name as you kept walking away. Your eyes connected for a few seconds, and his worried stare intensified. He knew. Of course he had seen the whole ordeal going down, it didn’t really surprise you. After all, Bucky was the one that warned you about her after returning. The one that still wanted to spare your feelings from all this pain.
Somehow you ended up going through a door. Behind it was a room filled with chairs, tables, and other furniture. Props that they probably used for other types of events. Before you got the chance to turn around, moans and whines reach your ears. The nature of the noises was obvious, and by the sounds of it, they were both having a good time. But something about them sent chills down your spine. Something was wrong.
"Fuck, baby."
You froze in your place.
That voice. The moans. The panting.
You’ve heard them before.
No, no, no, no, no.
"God, I missed you so much"
You wanted to leave, go as far away from them as you could. But as you stood there, holding the pieces of your heart together, you realized you couldn’t move. It felt as if the only thing holding you together was your steadiness. Even the sightless movement felt as if it could open the door of hurt you were fighting so hard to stop.
"You didn’t seem to miss me that much twenty minutes ago," she said between pants
"She’s not you. She’ll never be you."
Every word that left his mouth was meant to hurt you, whether it was intentionally or not. Your efforts to keep yourself whole were useless; bits and pieces of your heart slipped away from you. How could he say all those things? How could he have so little regard for you? You knew you could never fill the void she left, but you had hoped that maybe he would see you for who you were and love you for who you were.
A hand grabbed your shoulder, making you jump. It was Bucky, and by the way he was looking at you, he had heard what his best friend had said. Your dignity was added to the list of things Steve Rogers took from you. His arm was wrapped around you to guide you out of the room. You didn’t move, and you didn’t want to leave yet. Something inside you needed to see him. Bucky's eyes pleaded with you to walk out with him, let him take you away and leave them behind. But you had to face the truth at its fullest, no matter how ugly and hurtful it was.
You got close enough to see them. It hurt more than you thought it would. She was spread open on top of a sort of desk they'd found. Her dress was now bunched up around her waist; his hands held the side of her legs as he pounded again and again inside her.
That wasn’t what made your heart slip away from your chest, though. It was the words he said next.
"You have no idea how many times I’ve imagined it was you under me. How many times I almost call her your name? I almost asked her if I could."
"I’ve never wanted her, not really."
"Even when I kissed her tonight, I could only look at you."
Steve Rogers was cruel.
Steve Rogers never cared about you.
He had played with your heart for his own benefit. He had given you false hope in his efforts to not be alone. He didn’t see you as a friend, a lover, or a human being either. He just saw you as a temporary replacement.
The piercing pain in your chest was all that was left, your heart no longer in its place. The other times where you felt your heart cracking were nothing compared to this. The more his words sat on your mind, the stronger the pain got. Waves of pain and grief hit you as you tried to process what was going on.
You backed down, your trembling legs failing you as you tried to move. You thought you were about to crash on the floor, but Bucky's hands had been there to catch you. He held you tightly against him, your hand covering your mouth so you would not make a sound. You wanted to scream. You wanted to cry. But all you could do was stay there and feel.
This time, Bucky's hands held you tightly, more persistent than before, and they guided you outside. In your haziness, you didn’t realize you accidentally stumbled with a bunch of brooms on the side of the path. The loud crash echoed through the room. You heard Steve’s surprised gasp, and unfortunately for you, you weren’t out of sight just yet. With all the remaining strength you had, you turned back to see him.
"Shit," you somehow heard him whisper.
Both your eyes connected, he knew you'd heard what he said. His expression mirrored the one you had when you had seen them. Surprise, shock, and sadness. He saw the pain all over your face, the way Bucky held you so you wouldn’t crumble apart as your heart did. A flash of regret ran through his eyes when he saw the way you were holding your chest.
Regret.
He felt bad for being a fucking asshole.
That made you fucking livid.
How dare he feel regret for stomping all over your heart? How dare he feel sad for using you, over and over and over again, until there was nothing left for you to give him? How fucking dare he feel bad about all this mess when he was the one that created it?
He had no right to feel bad. He never cared about you or anyone else other than her.
You heard him yell your name, pleading with you to wait as he fumbled with his clothes. Bucky's grip on you grew tighter. Perhaps he thought you would be stupid enough to wait for him to explain whatever he wanted to explain. Fortunately for you, you weren’t as masochistic as everyone thought.
"Wait! Please, let me explain." You heard him beg before you went through the door.
You didn’t cry when you saw them together or when you heard him say those vile words. Neither did you cry when Bucky took you to your apartment or when he helped you settle into your bed. Or when he slipped under the covers after you grabbed his hand because you didn’t want to be alone, not anymore. You didn’t cry, not even when he held you closer all night, hoping this could help your broken heart.
You didn’t cry for Steve Rogers anymore.
He could go fuck himself for all you cared.
Toothbrush, skin care routine, passport, makeup bag, laptop, tablet. Everything was in place in your last bag. With a satisfied huff, you closed your suitcase and left it at the front door. A quick glance at the clock you had on your coffee table let you know you still had 5 minutes to spare.
You dropped on the couch, your back thanking you for the necessary rest it needed after a hectic morning of re-organizing your suitcases. Your month-long trip was turning out to be a two-month-long one. With Bucky's press tour taking two weeks longer than planned and you cashing out your two weeks of vacation savings, the clothes you packed weren't enough.
The vacation destination of your trip was still undecided. Maybe somewhere sunny and tropical, ideal to get the perfect tan you couldn’t get in New York. Or maybe you'd go to a secluded cabin in the mountains, knowing how much you needed some alone time. Your fantasies were interrupted by your phone's ringtone. You didn’t even have to look at the screen to know who it was.
Steve had called you every day since the gala. The first call you got from him was the hardest to ignore. The picture you had taken of both of you covered your screen as it kept ringing. In all honesty, you would’ve probably picked up the call if it weren’t for Bucky's intense glare. The way Bucky's eyes could speak to you always amazed you and, in this case, you knew what they were saying Don't be stupid, don’t give in.
After that first call, you got another three that day, much to your annoyance. Then the next day there were six calls, then eight. It seemed the more you ignored him, the more persistent he became. Fortunately for you, for the past few days you didn’t see him, your schedule clearing up since you took the position as Bucky's companion, instead leaving your coworkers all the heavy work of dealing with superheroes.
But after the first ignored calls came the texts. Then the messages passed through coworkers. Then there were the flowers. If only he had done this before he broke your heart.
The incessant ringing came back. You thought after the last six days went by without an answer, the message would be pretty clear, but apparently another strong characteristic of Steve Rogers was his persistence. A persistence that wouldn’t stop, not even if it would spare you from all the pain he caused you. Nothing mattered as long as he could take whatever he wanted.
Steve Rogers was selfish. You were done with selfish.
So you answered the phone.
"Stop calling me!" you screamed into the device.
"Please, just let me—"
"Whatever you want to say to me, I don’t want to hear it. Stop calling me, stop texting me, stop asking about me, stop sending flowers or whatever the fuck you buy for me. Stop. Trying. To. Contact. Me."
Your own words surprised you. The strength that came from within them freed the tightness in your chest that you’ve had for so long. Your harsh words were met with silence, neither of you daring to hang up. You didn’t notice when your eyes started to well up, when your hands were shaking or when your muscles were so tense, they begged you to relax.
What seemed like minutes went by with the same quietness, both your heavy breathings were the only things letting you know you were still in the call. After a few more moments, Steve finally gave in and broke the silence.
"I’m sorry." he whispers.
You huffed. "That doesn’t change anything"
"I know."
Maybe the best option would've been to hang up and cut things now before you were exposed again. That would’ve been the smart thing to do. Unfortunately, love and grief are rarely driven by reason.
"You knew, didn’t you?" Your voice trembled.
"Knew what?"
"That I..."
That I love you, is what you wanted to say. However, your chest constricted within itself every time you were reminded of your own feelings. You couldn't do it, not saying it out loud was the only spec of dignity you had left and your death grip on it was lifesaving.
You cleared your throat, your hand clutched at the edge of the couch as a way to embrace yourself. "That I have feelings for you"
"Yes," he answered reluctantly.
"Yet you still used me."
A few seconds passed before he was able to muster a weak response. "Yes"
Silence really was deafening. Never in a million years did you think the most menacing sound of a relationship crumbling apart would be silence. There are so many meanings that can only be expressed through the lack of words. Silence meant pain and heartbreak, but it also meant acceptance.
And bitterness came with acceptance.
"I’ll see you in a couple of months." you scoffed.
"No, please!" he pleaded before you could hang up. "Please don’t leave. Your coworkers told me you’re going with Bucky to his press tour today, but I want to see you. I need to see you." His voice was shaky, an undecipherable tone spilling from his rushed words that almost made you change your mind. Almost.
"Stay, please."
Love was a strange force. It was supposed to be selfless, giving, and forgiving. But once you didn’t have anything else to give, it was easy to not feel it. Even if it was there, lingering in the back of your head.
A couple of weeks ago, you would’ve given everything to stay if he asked you, without a single doubt. But now, the connection and devotion you had to the super soldier are buried. You had built walls so high up that not even the warmest of words could make them crumble.
You had to save your heart, whatever was left of it.
"No"
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A/N:There will be a second part to this, more info on it here.
Blurb: After 60 blissful years of marriage with the love of his life, time hit Bucky with a hard slap. His wife took her last breath peacefully on their shared bed, while he’s stuck still slowly aging. That is, until an old friend from Wakanda offers him an opportunity to visit her from different timelines of their relationship.
——
“And if I die?” Bucky huffs, as he waits for Shuri to finish setting up the time device.
It’s been three days since Shuri asked him to do the tests with her time traveling serum, with the upside of seeing his deceased wife again.
“Quit being a drama queen, White Wolf. You don’t want to spook younger Y/N with your defined wrinkles,” she replied nonchalantly, double-checking that everything is set up and walking over to the safe to get the syringe.
Bucky rolls his eyes from her reply. Even when she looks a lot older than him now, she never lost her wit. A small smile formed on his face, remembering how you and Shuri got along pretty well and would gang up on him. He wonders if she misses you too. He was so busy wallowing in his own grief, that he failed to ask how other people close to you were holding up.
“Do you ever miss her too?” He clears his throat, asking.
“You mean if I ever miss the only woman, I had closest to a sister?” she raises a brow at his question, and finally injects him by his inner arm
“I know, stupid question. Just making small talk,” he grumbles, making Shuri laugh.
“I know you’re nervous about this little experiment. But you have nothing to worry about.” she guides him to the platform. “How do you feel?”
He gives his arm a little flex. “My arm’s a little tingly but it’s nothing bad.” His eyes go a little wide at the appearance of green blanks, resembling a date format on his inner arm.
“That’s good.” Shuri’s own eyes were glued to his forearm. “Choose a date. Preferably one where you haven’t met yet and a day where something significant happens that will make it to the news.”
Bucky thinks hard of a good year. “We met the summer of 2026 and she was 23.” He starts adjusting the numbers on his forearm. “Let’s do two years before that.”
“Good call. You’ll feel different in a bit, and for safety’s sake, come back within an hour, please? So, I can make sure that your vitals are normal.”
“An hour. Got it.” He was bracing himself for any sort of impact, already coughing a little, when he heard Shuri mutter a curse. “What’s wrong?!” he slightly panicked.
Shuri beamed. “I’m not sure if clothes travel too.”
And then his vision went black.
—-
Landing on concrete with a thud, Bucky groans from the dizziness. It’s been years since he’s felt this physically vulnerable thanks to the super-soldier serum. A gust of wind suddenly made him more alert.
“Oh fuck.” he mutters, standing up. No clothes, but luckily his metal arm is still attached to him. Looking at his real arm where the serum was injected, he was relieved that the date in green was still there. Thank god he was on some rooftop.
“Mr. Lee? There’s a naked man here in the rooftop. I’ve never seen him before.” A voice whispering in panic was coming from the shed where the door back to the inside of the building was. “No, he doesn’t seem drunk, but he’s butt naked and has a prosthetic arm. About late forties, I think.”
“I can hear you, you know.” He finally stands up and snatches the nearest blanket on the clothesline to cover himself.
“Oh my god. He heard me, Mr. Lee. All I have near here is a flat basketball and some takeout containers.” the voice was still whispering but now in a greater state of panic. But even then, it sounded feminine.
Blurb: After 60 blissful marriage years with the love of his life, time hit Bucky with a hard slap. His wife breathed her last breath peacefully on their shared bed, while he’s stuck still slowly aging. That is, until an old friend from Wakanda offers him an opportunity to visit her from different timelines of their relationship.
——
“And if I die?” Bucky huffs, as he waits for Shuri to finish setting up the time device.
It’s been three days since Shuri asked him to do the tests with her time traveling serum, with the upside of seeing his deceased wife again.
“Quit being a drama queen, White Wolf. You don’t want to spook younger Y/N with your defined wrinkles,” she replied nonchalantly, double-checking that everything is set up and walking over to the safe to get the syringe.
Bucky rolls his eyes from her reply. Even when she looks a lot older than him now, she never lost her wit. A small smile formed on his face, remembering how you and Shuri got along pretty well and would gang up on him. He wonders if she misses you too. He was so busy wallowing in his own grief, that he failed to ask how other people close to you were holding up.
“Do you ever miss her too?” He clears his throat, asking.
“You mean if I ever miss the only woman, I had closest to a sister?” she raises a brow at his question, and finally injects him by his inner arm
“I know, stupid question. Just making small talk,” he grumbles, making Shuri laugh.
“I know you’re nervous about this little experiment. But you have nothing to worry about.” she guides him to the platform. “How do you feel?”
He gives his arm a little flex. “My arm’s a little tingly but it’s nothing bad.” His eyes go a little wide at the appearance of green blanks, resembling a date format on his inner arm.
“That’s good.” Shuri’s own eyes were glued to his forearm. “Choose a date. Preferably one where you haven’t met yet and a day where something significant happens that will make it to the news.”
Bucky thinks hard of a good year. “We met the summer of 2026 and she was 23.” He starts adjusting the numbers on his forearm. “Let’s do two years before that.”
“Good call. You’ll feel different in a bit, and for safety’s sake, come back within an hour, please? So, I can make sure that your vitals are normal.”
“An hour. Got it.” He was bracing himself for any sort of impact, already coughing a little, when he heard Shuri mutter a curse. “What’s wrong?!” he slightly panicked.
Shuri beamed. “I’m not sure if clothes travel too.”
And then his vision went black.
—-
Landing on concrete with a thud, Bucky groans from the dizziness. It’s been years since he’s felt this physically vulnerable thanks to the super-soldier serum. A gust of wind suddenly made him more alert.
“Oh fuck.” he mutters, standing up. No clothes, but luckily his metal arm is still attached to him. Looking at his real arm where the serum was injected, he was relieved that the date in green was still there. Thank god he was on some rooftop.
“Mr. Lee? There’s a naked man here in the rooftop. I’ve never seen him before.” A voice whispering in panic was coming from the shed where the door back to the inside of the building was. “No, he doesn’t seem drunk, but he’s butt naked and has a prosthetic arm. About late forties, I think.”
“I can hear you, you know.” He finally stands up and snatches the nearest blanket on the clothesline to cover himself.
“Oh my god. He heard me, Mr. Lee. All I have near here is a flat basketball and some takeout containers.” the voice was still whispering but now in a greater state of panic. But even then, it sounded feminine.
This Love (Complete) - A multi-chapter fic between the reader and Bucky in different settings of the MCU, starting with them meeting during Civil War, up to TFAWTS.
Parts:
-Prologue
-Gorgeous
-Tolerate It
-Epiphany
-Breathe
-Last Kiss
-Happiness
-Untouchable
-How You Get the Girl
Winter’s Time (on going) - After 60 blissful marriage years with the love of his life, time hit Bucky with a hard slap. His wife breathed her last breath peacefully on their shared bed, while he’s stuck still slowly aging. That is, until an old friend from Wakanda offers him an opportunity to visit her from different timelines of their relationship.
Parts:
-Prologue
-Part 1
ONE-SHOTS/1-2 PARTS STORIES:
Boyfriend Material - some good ol mutual pinning, featuring Sam and his antics.
A Half-naked Nurse and Wrong ideas - sick reader being nursed by Bucky + teammates getting wrong ideas. Dare Coupons and Wrong Ideas (pt 2)
The Wrong Bait - Nat was supposed to be the one to get close to the target, but the initial plan goes down the drain when the target starts hitting on you instead.
Blurb: After 60 blissful marriage years with the love of his life, time hit Bucky with a hard slap. His wife breathed her last breath peacefully on their shared bed, while he’s stuck still slowly aging. That is, until an old friend from Wakanda offers him an opportunity to visit her from different timelines of their relationship.
——
“And if I die?” Bucky huffs, as he waits for Shuri to finish setting up the time device.
It’s been three days since Shuri asked him to do the tests with her time traveling serum, with the upside of seeing his deceased wife again.
“Quit being a drama queen, White Wolf. You don’t want to spook younger Y/N with your defined wrinkles,” she replied nonchalantly, double-checking that everything is set up and walking over to the safe to get the syringe.
Bucky rolls his eyes from her reply. Even when she looks a lot older than him now, she never lost her wit. A small smile formed on his face, remembering how you and Shuri got along pretty well and would gang up on him. He wonders if she misses you too. He was so busy wallowing in his own grief, that he failed to ask how other people close to you were holding up.
“Do you ever miss her too?” He clears his throat, asking. Shuri was already
“You mean if I ever miss the only woman, I had closest to a sister?” she raises a brow at his question, and finally injects him by his inner arm
“I know, stupid question. Just making small talk,” he grumbles, making Shuri laugh.
“I know you’re nervous about this little experiment. But you have nothing to worry about.” she guides him to the platform. “How do you feel?”
He gives his arm a little flex. “My arm’s a little tingly but it’s nothing bad.” His eyes go a little wide at the appearance of green blanks, resembling a date format on his inner arm.
“That’s good.” Shuri’s own eyes were glued to his forearm. “Choose a date. Preferably one where you haven’t met yet and a day where something significant happens that will make it to the news.”
Bucky thinks hard of a good year. “We met the summer of 2026 and she was 23.” He starts adjusting the numbers on his forearm. “Let’s do two years before that.”
“Good call. You’ll feel different in a bit, and for safety’s sake, come back within an hour, please? So, I can make sure that your vitals are normal.”
“An hour. Got it.” He was bracing himself for any sort of impact, already coughing a little, when he heard Shuri mutter a curse. “What’s wrong?!” he slightly panicked.
Shuri beamed. “I’m not sure if clothes travel too.”
And then his vision went black.
—-
Landing on concrete with a thud, Bucky groans from the dizziness. It’s been years since he’s felt this physically vulnerable thanks to the super-soldier serum A gust of wind suddenly made him more alert.
“Oh fuck.” he mutters, standing up. No clothes, but luckily his metal arm is still attached to him. Looking at his real arm where the serum was injected, he was relieved that the date in green was still there. Thank god he was on some rooftop.
“Mr. Lee? There’s a naked man here in the rooftop. I’ve never seen him before.” A voice whispering in panic was coming from the near entrance to the building. “No, he doesn’t seem drunk, but he’s butt naked and has a prosthetic arm. About late forties, I think.”
“I can hear you, you know.” He finally stands up and snatches the nearest blanket on the clothesline to cover himself.
“Oh my god. He heard me, Mr. Lee. All I have near here is a flat basketball and some takeout containers.” the voice was still whispering but now in a greater state of panic. But even then, it sounded feminine.
And all too familiar.
“Y/N?”
And she started screaming like a mad woman.
Before he could even try to explain himself, something hit the side of his forehead. What the hell? He thought, bringing his hand up to it. Looking at the ground, it was a black heeled shoe. She threw her shoe at him.
“How do you know my name?! I still have another shoe here with me and worse weapons!” she threatens, trying to sound tougher while still hiding.
“A deflated basketball and takeout containers?” He hadn’t even seen you yet, but this mere interaction already had his mood up.
He listens to your stammer for a few seconds before finally speaking up again.
“I’m really sorry for frightening you. But I swear I’m not here to hurt you.”
“That’s exactly what a naked murderer would say.”
“What?” he shakes his head, thinking of a way to convince you. “I know you. And I swear I’m not a stalker. We- I. I’m from the future.” He was well aware of how crazy he sounds but what else could he say?
“Okay…” her response caught him off guard.
“W- what do you mean ‘ok’? Are you nuts?! What if I was a crazy man?” He asks, forgetting that she has no idea who he is yet. His protectiveness of just kicking in.
“So, you admit that you’re crazy.” Ha! She felt smug.
God, I’ve missed you. He couldn’t help thinking.
“Look, let me start over. I’m Bucky. We know each other… well, WILL know each other in about two years.” He started speaking slower. Met with silence, he listened intently to hear any movement from you. When the sound of light footsteps could finally be heard, his breathing hitched as you finally came out of your hiding spot and faced him.
There you were, 21 years old, as beautiful as he remembers you, but you were looking wary. No matter, he thought. He’ll try to talk to you.
“Prove it before my landlord gets here.” you said, the absurdity of the situation is still sinking in.
“You mean old man Stan? Yeah, we’ll have till morning till he gets up here ‘cause I’m guessing your elevator’s broken again.” He scoffed.
“Knowledge about my landlord’s weak knees doesn’t prove anything.”
“Right. Sorry.” He’s thinking of where to start. “It’s October 22nd, right?”
You nodded at him.
“Later at around 10 pm, your favorite sitcom will announce its cancellation.” Out of all the significant events he could think of for the year, this is the one he remembers the most. Why? Cause even years down the line, you’d still get all riled up when you remember it. Saying how you almost threw your phone the moment that “tragic night” happened.
“You’re not funny.” you replied with a stoic face. “How I Met Your Step Mom’s ratings are not that well but it has a large fanbase.”
He tried not to laugh at your defensives for that god-awful show.
“Well, it’s 5 minutes till 10, so you have till then to run away before my landlord gets here and the cops take you to a psych ward.”
“Okay, but if my prediction is correct, will you make old man Stan go away and hear me out?”
You thought about it for a few seconds, maybe even a minute, who knows. Here was this man, only wearing a plaid blanket, and claiming he’s from the future. He knows your name, your landlord, your favorite sitcom – which nobody else knows about- and he appeared out of thin air. You know, because you were really 100% sure you were the only one in the rooftop before hearing a thud.
“I’ve seen aliens from the sky, people turn to dust and go back years later. At this point, I’ll believe anything but I’m still being cautious.” you explained.
“I understand. If you still don’t believe me in 2 minutes, I’d gladly leave. I give you my word.”
“Ok. Two minutes till 10.”
You looked at him from head to toe. He isn’t bad looking, you’d even so much as say he was handsome if he were younger. His hair had a bit of grey, but it won’t be as obvious if it weren’t for the bright light post above him.
And suddenly your phone pinged. And then it pinged again, and again. Heck, you were being flooded with notifications.
“I’m guessing that’s you fanbase group chat blowing up.” He says, looking directly at you.
Without breaking eye contact, your shaky hand slowly brought your phone right in front of you. In those mere seconds, articles upon articles and reactions of anger and despair were, sure enough, flooding your fans-club group chat.
Trying to compose yourself, you finally spoke again. “How do I know you’re actually not from the press or just have some Hollywood connection?”
He raised his eyebrow at you. “Does it look like I am, doll?”
“No.” You answered quietly. Okay, this was fucking crazy. You thought. But you did say you’d hear him out.
“Where is he?! I’ll box him! The streets didn’t fear me back in the day for nothing!” Your old landlord’s voice rang as he got closer upstairs. Damn that unreliable elevator.
“I feel bad making him go all the way up here.” You said quietly, still looking at the stranger in front of you.
He gave you a small smile like he knew you won’t let the old man face the stairs on his own again.
“We’ll talk next time. I promise it won’t be as spooky.”
You gave him a courteous smile. “When?’
“Possibly 3 nights from now. If I don’t make it then, I’ll find you.” he says, and you nod in response, noticing how he seems to be doing something on his forearm.
“I’m James.”
“I’m Y/N.”
“I know.” He flashes you a smile, and you swear his eyes looked like they had unshed tears in them but then he vanished right before your eyes.
And before you could fully comprehend what just happened, the door finally opened.
“Where is the man?! Did you hurt ya?! Your good ol’ landlord, Mr. Stan Lee finally appeared.
Shaking your head to get your mind straight, you started sputtering out excuses about how it was actually a friend playing a prank on you, before offering to help him down the stairs.
____
Thank you for reading! I’m quite excited on how this would turn out. Have a nice day!
Blurb: After 60 blissful years of marriage with the love of his life, time hit Bucky with a hard slap. His wife took her last breath peacefully on their shared bed, while he’s stuck still slowly aging. That is, until an old friend from Wakanda offers him an opportunity to visit her from different timelines of their relationship.
------
“And if I die?” Bucky huffs, as he waits for Shuri to finish setting up the time device.
It’s been three days since Shuri asked him to do the tests with her time traveling serum, with the upside of seeing his deceased wife again.
“Quit being a drama queen, White Wolf. You don’t want to spook younger Y/N with your defined wrinkles,” she replied nonchalantly, double-checking that everything is set up and walking over to the safe to get the syringe.
Bucky rolls his eyes from her reply. Even when she looks a lot older than him now, she never lost her wit. A small smile formed on his face, remembering how you and Shuri got along pretty well and would gang up on him. He wonders if she misses you too. He was so busy wallowing in his own grief, that he failed to ask how other people close to you were holding up.
“Do you ever miss her too?” He clears his throat, asking.
“You mean if I ever miss the only woman, I had closest to a sister?” she raises a brow at his question, and finally injects him by his inner arm
“I know, stupid question. Just making small talk,” he grumbles, making Shuri laugh.
“I know you’re nervous about this little experiment. But you have nothing to worry about.” she guides him to the platform. “How do you feel?”
He gives his arm a little flex. “My arm’s a little tingly but it's nothing bad.” His eyes go a little wide at the appearance of green blanks, resembling a date format on his inner arm.
“That’s good.” Shuri’s own eyes were glued to his forearm. “Choose a date. Preferably one where you haven’t met yet and a day where something significant happens that will make it to the news.”
Bucky thinks hard of a good year. “We met the summer of 2026 and she was 23.” He starts adjusting the numbers on his forearm. “Let’s do two years before that.”
“Good call. You'll feel different in a bit, and for safety's sake, come back within an hour, please? So, I can make sure that your vitals are normal.”
“An hour. Got it.” He was bracing himself for any sort of impact, already coughing a little, when he heard Shuri mutter a curse. “What’s wrong?!” he slightly panicked.
Shuri beamed. “I'm not sure if clothes travel too.”
And then his vision went black.
----
Landing on concrete with a thud, Bucky groans from the dizziness. It’s been years since he’s felt this physically vulnerable thanks to the super-soldier serum. A gust of wind suddenly made him more alert.
“Oh fuck.” he mutters, standing up. No clothes, but luckily his metal arm is still attached to him. Looking at his real arm where the serum was injected, he was relieved that the date in green was still there. Thank god he was on some rooftop.
“Mr. Lee? There’s a naked man here in the rooftop. I’ve never seen him before.” A voice whispering in panic was coming from the shed where the door back to the inside of the building was. “No, he doesn’t seem drunk, but he’s butt naked and has a prosthetic arm. About late forties, I think.”
“I can hear you, you know.” He finally stands up and snatches the nearest blanket on the clothesline to cover himself.
“Oh my god. He heard me, Mr. Lee. All I have near here is a flat basketball and some takeout containers.” the voice was still whispering but now in a greater state of panic. But even then, it sounded feminine.
And all too familiar.
“Y/N?”
And she started screaming like a mad woman.
Before he could even try to explain himself, something hit the side of his forehead. What the hell? He thought, bringing his hand up to it. Looking at the ground, it was a black heeled shoe. She threw her shoe at him.
“How do you know my name?! I still have another shoe here with me and worse weapons!” she threatens, trying to sound tougher while still hiding.
“A deflated basketball and takeout containers?” He hadn't even seen you yet, but this mere interaction already had his mood up.
He listens to your stammer for a few seconds before finally speaking up again.
“I’m really sorry for frightening you. But I swear I’m not here to hurt you.”
“That’s exactly what a naked murderer would say.”
“What?” he shakes his head, thinking of a way to convince you. “I know you. And I swear I’m not a stalker. We- I. I’m from the future.” He was well aware of how crazy he sounds but what else could he say?
“Okay...” her response caught him off guard.
“W- what do you mean ‘ok’? Are you nuts?! What if I was a crazy man?” He asks, forgetting that she has no idea who he is yet. His protectiveness of her just kicking in.
“So, you admit that you’re crazy.” Ha! She felt smug.
God, I’ve missed you. He couldn’t help thinking.
“Look, let me start over. I’m Bucky. We know each other... well, WILL know each other in about two years.” He started speaking slower. Met with silence, he listened intently to hear any movement from you. When the sound of light footsteps could finally be heard, his breathing hitched as you finally came out of your hiding spot and faced him.
There you were, 21 years old, as beautiful as he remembers you, but you were looking wary. No matter, he thought. He’ll try to talk to you.
“Prove it before my landlord gets here.” you said, the absurdity of the situation is still sinking in.
“You mean old man Stan? Yeah, we’ll have till morning till he gets up here 'cause I’m guessing your elevator’s broken again.” He scoffed.
“Knowledge about my landlord’s weak knees doesn’t prove anything.”
“Right. Sorry.” He’s thinking of where to start. “It’s October 22nd, right?”
You nodded at him.
“Later at around 10 pm, your favorite sitcom will announce its cancellation.” Out of all the significant events he could think of for the year, this is the one he remembers the most. Why? Cause even years down the line, you’d still get all riled up when you remember it. Saying how you almost threw your phone the moment that “tragic night” happened.
“You’re not funny.” you replied with a stoic face. “How I Met Your Step Mom’s ratings are not that well but it has a large fanbase.”
He tried not to laugh at your defensives for that god-awful show.
“Well, it’s 5 minutes till 10, so you have till then to run away before my landlord gets here and the cops take you to a psych ward.”
“Okay, but if my prediction is correct, will you make old man Stan go away and hear me out?”
You thought about it for a few seconds, maybe even a minute, who knows. Here was this man, only wearing a plaid blanket, and claiming he’s from the future. He knows your name, your landlord, your favorite sitcom – which nobody else knows about- and he appeared out of thin air. You know, because you were really 100% sure you were the only one in the rooftop before hearing a thud.
“I’ve seen aliens from the sky, people turn to dust and go back years later. At this point, I’ll believe anything but I’m still being cautious.” you explained.
“I understand. If you still don’t believe me in 2 minutes, I’d gladly leave. I give you my word.”
“Ok. Two minutes till 10.”
You looked at him from head to toe. He isn’t bad looking, you’d even so much as say he was handsome if he were younger. His hair had a bit of grey, but it won’t be as obvious if it weren’t for the bright light post above him.
And suddenly your phone pinged. And then it pinged again, and again. Heck, you were being flooded with notifications.
“I’m guessing that’s you fanbase group chat blowing up.” He says, looking directly at you.
Without breaking eye contact, your shaky hand slowly brought your phone right in front of you. In those mere seconds, articles upon articles and reactions of anger and despair were, sure enough, flooding your fans-club group chat.
Trying to compose yourself, you finally spoke again. “How do I know you’re actually not from the press or just have some Hollywood connection?”
He raised his eyebrow at you. “Does it look like I am, doll?”
“No.” You answered quietly. Okay, this was fucking crazy. You thought. But you did say you’d hear him out.
“Where is he?! I’ll box him! The streets didn’t fear me back in the day for nothing!” Your old landlord’s voice rang as he got closer upstairs. Damn that unreliable elevator.
“I feel bad making him go all the way up here.” You said quietly, still looking at the stranger in front of you.
He gave you a small smile like he knew you won’t let the old man face the stairs on his own again.
“We’ll talk next time. I promise it won’t be as spooky.”
You gave him a courteous smile. “When?’
“Possibly 3 nights from now. If I don’t make it then, I’ll find you.” he says, and you nod in response, noticing how he seems to be doing something on his forearm.
“I’m James.”
“I’m Y/N.”
“I know.” He flashes you a smile, and you swear his eyes looked like they had unshed tears in them but then he vanished right before your eyes.
And before you could fully comprehend what just happened, the door finally opened.
“Where is the man?! Did you hurt ya?! Your good ol’ landlord, Mr. Stan Lee finally appeared.
Shaking your head to get your mind straight, you started sputtering out excuses about how it was actually a friend playing a prank on you, before offering to help him down the stairs.
____
Thank you for reading! I’m quite excited on how this would turn out. Have a nice day!
This Love (Complete) - A multi-chapter fic between the reader and Bucky in different settings of the MCU, starting with them meeting during Civil War, up to TFAWTS.
Parts:
-Prologue
-Gorgeous
-Tolerate It
-Epiphany
-Breathe
-Last Kiss
-Happiness
-Untouchable
-How You Get the Girl
Winter’s Time (on going) - After 60 years of a blissful marriage with the love of his life, time hit Bucky with a hard slap. His wife breathed her last breath peacefully on their shared bed, while he’s stuck still slowly aging. That is, until an old friend from Wakanda offers him an opportunity to visit her from different timelines of their relationship.
Parts:
-Prologue
ONE-SHOTS/1-2 PARTS STORIES:
Boyfriend Material - some good ol mutual pinning, featuring Sam and his antics.
A Half-naked Nurse and Wrong ideas - sick reader being nursed by Bucky + teammates getting wrong ideas. Dare Coupons and Wrong Ideas (pt 2)
The Wrong Bait - Nat was supposed to be the one to get close to the target, but the initial plan goes down the drain when the target starts hitting on you instead.
Author’s Note: Hi! It’s been almost a year since I posted a new fic. A lot has happened in my life and I honestly lost inspiration to write for months until recently. Lately I have been watching HBO’s The Time Traveler’s Wife, and despite the mix reviews about, I genuinely like it and am hooked. This fic will be inspired by it (not entirely a copycat, just that it involves time travel and meeting your soulmate), and will be multi-chaptered.
Blurb: After 60 years of a blissful marriage with the love of his life, time hit Bucky with a hard slap. His wife breathed her last breath peacefully on their shared bed, while he’s stuck still slowly aging. That is, until an old friend from Wakanda offers him an opportunity to visit her from different timelines of their relationship.
——–
It’s been six months since he had to wake up every morning to an empty bed. Six months since he could only hear your voice in his head and through recordings, and feel like your presence is real in his dreams. Willing himself to get up, he begrudgingly went to the bathroom for a shower.
James Buchanan Barnes did not have an easy life. Ever since he fell from that train, he hasn’t stopped fighting. Fighting under the command of others, fighting to be free, and fighting for what’s moral in his books. But perhaps the most worthwhile one he’s been in was when he was fighting for you.
He got a taste of the closest thing to normal the world could offer someone like him when he met you. And while those sixty years were when he was the happiest, what now? Where does a man in his 160s but looks to be in his 50s go from here?
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