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a-splash-of-stucky · 7 years ago

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Starshine

Pairings: 40s!Steve x Reader

Summary: The stars feature in some important moments throughout your life.

Warnings: Unprotected sex (not a good idea irl), major character death, loss of virginity

Notes: My entry for @nataliarxmanxva season’s change writing challenge. My prompt was: Stargazing.

Idk guys, I tried out a different writing style with this one, not sure if it worked.

Starts off cute, but ultimately, it’s angst without a happy ending (fair warning yo). I had this planned to go one way, but then this story decided to march itself in the other direction and took me along for the ride. Hope you like it nonetheless.

“Steve,” you hiss.

Steve grumbles in his sleep, then turns his back to you as he rolls over. You huff indignantly. Unfazed, you poke his side insistently until he stirs awake, blinking the sleep out of his bleary eyes.

“Y/N?” Steve yawns, “What’re you doin’?”

“C’mon, ya big lug,” you whisper, grabbing his thin wrist and pulling him off the bed, “It’s a clear night,”. You pick up the small canvas bag you’d dropped on the floor, pulling it open to show him the contents. “See? I snuck some apples from home and packed some papers and a graphite for ya,”.

Steve shakes his head, trying his best to look more disgruntled than he really is. “You go on up,” he says, flapping his hand at you in a shooing motion, “I’ll join you in a bit,”.

You flash him a grin, then slip out of his window and climb up the fire escape, all the way to the top of the building. You make your way across the mottled roof, taking care to avoid the murky puddles and dodgy weak spots, heading towards a pair of overturned crates in the far corner. It’s a path that you know by heart, as familiar to you as the back of your hand; you’re positive that you could make this journey with your eyes blindfolded. The canvas bag gets dropped onto one of the crates and you collapse in front of the other, feet planted against the brick wall, face tilted towards the sky.

The view that greets you is one you could never tire of.

The stars are beautiful, twinkling like the lights you see strung up along the sides of the boardwalk — except, of course, so much more magnificent; ethereal in their own right.

Steve’s head pops up over the edge of the roof. He gives you a brief wave, then clambers over. One of his mother’s blankets is slung over his shoulder. He crosses the roof with quickness and ease, as familiar with the path as you are, if not more.

“Hey,” Steve murmurs, handing over the blanket as he sits down beside you, “Thought you might get cold,”.

“Nah,” you drawl, not bothering to tear your gaze away from the sky, “It’s the middle of summer. I’ll probably use it to wipe off my sweat,”.

“Don’t,” Steve warns, dragging the bag closer to pull out the graphite and a couple of sheets of paper, “Ma’ll have my head if she has to wash it again,”.

“Only jokin’, ya great mook,”.

Steve shakes his head, muttering darkly under his breath as he begins to draw. Dark lines bloom over the page in an entrancing show. Nothing could make this moment any more perfect, there’s nowhere you’d rather be; you’re always happiest when you’re by Steve’s side, despite how mundane and unexciting that may be.

You smile internally as you observe him, feeling your heart twinge with longing. In the stillness that falls, you drink in Steve’s profile, memorising the crooked slope of his nose, the angular lines of his jaw, the gentle curve of those lips you yearn to taste. When his fringe flops over his forehead, your fingers itch to comb it back into place.

Fearful that Steve might catch you staring, you force yourself to revert your gaze to the skies above. In all honesty, you’re terrified of these urges. They creep up on you when you least expect, and have been making their presence known more and more frequently in the past few weeks. You’re not sure what to make of them. They’re probably indicative of something more — feelings and thoughts you’re not quite ready to pull out and examine, let alone acknowledge.

Time passes.

You don’t know how long the two of you sit there, shoulders pressed together, you nibbling on an apple and Steve concentrating on his drawing. You’re so absorbed in your own thoughts that it takes you a while to realise that Steve’s hands have stopped moving altogether. When you turn to face him, Steve has a funny expression on his face — awe and reverence and guilt all rolled into one. A flush spreads across his cheeks and down his neck when he realises that he’s been caught.

Steve casts his eyes downwards and fiddles with his chunk of graphite, scratching it idly on the edge of the page. “There’s something I need ta tell you,” he says quietly.

Instead of replying, you rest your cheek against his shoulder, a silent invitation for him to continue.

Steve hesitates for a second. When he speaks, his voice is slow and hesitant, in a way you hardly ever hear it. “There’s…a girl,”.

“A girl?” you repeat, tone questioning and confused, even as dread swirls in the pit of your stomach.

“I like her,”.

“Oh,” you murmur, suddenly thankful that your face is hidden from Steve’s gaze, because you know that the expression you’re wearing is anything but neutral. You feel as if pieces of your heart are crumbling away, tumbling into a yawning chasm of despair. Of course he likes someone else. Why would Steve want a girl like you?

“And…I’m hoping, really, really hoping, that she likes me back,” Steve continues, hooking his finger under your chin and tipping your head up towards him. You catch something flickering across his eyes; apprehension mixed with…an emotion you can’t name.

“I’m sure she will, Stevie,” you reply, forcing a smile onto your features to mask the agony lancing through your chest, “You’re…the best kind of fella a girl could ever want. You’re kind, and thoughtful, and you…why’re you looking at me like that?”

Steve barks out a nervous laugh. “It’s you. I like…you,” he confesses, a tender little smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

The first kiss you ever had happened under the stars. Turns out, the night could become more perfect, after all.

———————————

When his mother dies a year later, you bring him up to the roof.

Steve has been strong the entire day, not shedding a single tear or even twitching a muscle as they lowered her casket into the grave. His face had been a stoic mask, seemingly unaffected by the day’s events.

What a lie.

After the funeral, Steve had wandered through the burnt orange and burgundy leaves of the cemetery with Bucky by his side, probably in search of a fight to take his mind off things. Bucky had invited him back to the Barnes’ for dinner, but Steve had said that he could get by on his own, thank you very much, in that stubborn way of his.

Steve put up no resistance when you drag him up the rickety fire escape and haul him over to the crates. You push him onto the floor and sink down beside him, encircling your fingers around his wrist. His body is as rigid as a board, like he’s fighting to keep himself in check.

“It’s gonna be okay,” you whisper.

They’re just four simple words, but they break him all the same. Steve collapses into your arms, burying his face into the crook of your neck as his shoulders heave and tremble with grief. Heart-wrenchingly broken sobs rip free of his throat. You hold him tight as silent tears trickle down your own cheeks and fall onto his fine blonde hair.

As much as you want Steve to let it all out, your instincts kick in when you register the nature of his breathing; far too ragged and strained for your liking. You do your best to calm him down, murmuring soothing words with your lips pressed to his forehead. They’re meaningless words, really, words that he doesn’t hear, too distraught to even process.

Eventually, Steve’s sobs quieten down as his breathing evens out. It takes you a moment to realise that he’s fallen asleep. Thankfully, Steve is light enough for you to be able to shift him into a more comfortable position, with your back against the crates and his body curled tight against your side. His cheek is pillowed on your collarbone, and one hand clutches the front of your dress. You tip your head back, in search of those sparkling diamonds that never fail to put you at ease.

It’s a cloudy night. They’re not there.

In a way, that is fitting. The stars — magnificent and pure as they are — should not be out on this night, when heartache and loss are thick in the air, suffocating you by the weight of their misery. On the night of Sarah Rogers’ funeral, the skies paid their respects and Steve Rogers took comfort in your embrace.

———————————

“The stars are beautiful tonight,” you sigh, as you lay your head in Steve’ s lap.

“Sure are,” Steve replies, twirling a strand of your hair around his fingers.

Your eyes flick up to glance at him. “You’re not even looking at them!” you protest, when you see that Steve’s gaze is trained on your face.

Steve shrugs one shoulder. “Don’t have to. I trust your judgement. ‘Sides,” he continues, stroking the back of his hand over your cheek, “I got a prettier view right here,”.

“Charmer,” you tease, even as a rush of uninhibited joys dances up your spine.

———————————

Bucky ships out the day after tomorrow.

It’s rare for him to join you and Steve on the roof, but understandably, he wants to spend as much time with the two of you as possible. The three of you have stayed up late, talking into the wee hours of the morning. Steve’s just dozed off, head pillowed on your shoulder, feet propped up by Bucky’s legs.

“You’ll look after him?” Bucky asks abruptly, pulling you out of your thoughts.

“Of course I will,” you reply, voice as sincere as you can make it, “I swear on my life,”.

“Good,” Bucky says curtly. There’s a tense set to his shoulders that wasn’t there when Steve was awake. You know how close the two of them are; Bucky has known Steve for longer than you have, loves him like Steve’s a part of his very soul. Getting his orders had been hard on them both, but Bucky’s been desperately trying to put on a brave face.

“Can’t stop him from gettin’ into trouble,” you tell him, “But I’ll patch him up as best as I can after,”.

Bucky’s lips twitch at that.

“I need you to promise me something,” he says quietly, reaching over to grasp your hand.

“Anything,” you reply, swallowing back the lump in your throat.

He hesitates, chewing on the inside of his cheek. When he speaks, his voice is thick with sorrow. “If I—don’t—come back…you’ll…you’ll make sure he moves on?”

“Bucky…” you breathe, placing your other hand on top of his, “You—,”

“I can’t promise that I will,” Bucky says, twisting his head away, but not before you catch the glimmer of unshed tears in his eyes. “I might, I might not. He can’t…he needs…”

“Okay,” you whisper, “Okay, Bucky, I promise,”.

The stars bear witness to your oath.

———————————

The two of you sit side-by-side in stony silence the day after Bucky leaves.

Steve does not cry. He has not spoken for the entire afternoon. He is, for all intents and purposes, a lifeless zombie.

Bucky had been a part of him, present in the blood that courses through his veins, formed the very fibres of his heart. To have something so crucial ripped out of your life so viciously — you can’t even begin to imagine what kind of horrendous agony Steve must be suffering through.

There are no stars that night.

( Neither are they there a few years later, when Steve comes back and says — in a choked, wretched voice that holds all the anguish in the world — two syllables: “He’s gone,”. )

———————————

Steve is overjoyed.

“I’m going, Starshine!” he cries, for perhaps the hundredth time in as many minutes, “I mean it’s only basic, but—,”

“—it’s still something,” you finish, lips curling up into a tired smile. A part of you is ecstatic for him; little Steve Rogers, the punk ass kid from the back streets of Brooklyn is finally getting a chance to live out his dream, laying down his life for the country.

A larger part of you is terrified. What if his lungs give out? What is his back aches too much? There’re no boys in that camp who’ll know how to rub away the pain, let alone want to.

“Hey,” Steve murmurs, cupping your face in his hands, noticing the concern pinching your features, “It’ll be okay. I’ll be okay,”.

“I’d just like you to be more that okay, Rogers,” you grumble, in an attempt to lighten the mood. Unexpectedly, Steve pulls you into a fierce hug, wrapping his bony arms around your shoulders. He verbalises nothing, but the silence says everything; a million unspoken words, more potent than anything you could have ever articulated.

When you look up, there are stars in the sky, but they are not dancing. They look dimmer than normal. But then again, maybe that’s just your outlook on life, now that Steve’s being taken away.

———————————

“Starshine?”

“Hmm?”

“Do you still love me?” Steve asks.

Do you? Is this still your Steve?

He looks different at first glance, bigger and broader and soldier-like now, a body to match the fighting spirit raging inside him. But, if you study him for long enough, you can still see the same bump in his nose from when it set wrong after he broke it in ninth grade (during an alleyway scrabble, of course). The curve of his smile is unchanged and his eyes haven’t lost their mischievous sparkle.

Yes. This is still your Steve.

“Yeah,” you reply, not a hint of hesitation in your voice, “Big or small, you’re still my punk ass sweetheart and I love you all the same,”.

Steve showed up out of the blue tonight, arriving on your doorstep looking like a whole new person on the outside, but still fumbling and gentle and tender at heart. He can’t — or, perhaps more accurately, won’t — tell you what’s been done to him, but you can see that he’s healthier, that he’s breathing properly and hasn’t even broken out in sweat after climbing up the fire escape to the top of your brownstone.

It’s strange having to tuck your body against his, rather than having Steve curl around yours. It takes some work, figuring out how to fit yourselves together, how to rest your cheek on his chest, where his arms should go. You manage in the end, both your faces tilted upwards, admiring the lights that sparkle prettily against the backdrop of night.

“I can see ‘em better, y’know?” Steve murmurs.

Of course. His astigmatism meant that to him, the stars were little more than bright, blurry dots in the far-off distance. You remember attempting to teach Steve the names of the constellations once, but it’d been too difficult for him to see the formations, so you’d given up partway. Now, with his enhanced vision, he can probably see them better than you can.

“Can I try again? Teach you?” you ask, twisting your neck to look at his face.

“Sure,” he replies, voice rumbling deep in his chest.

You cast your eyes upwards and point towards the left of your field of vision. “Orion,” you say, gesturing towards the cluster of stars that make up the fabled hunter. “That’s you,” you quip, poking his shoulder playfully, “He’s a fighter, just like someone else I know,”.

“Really, now?” Steve hums, lips curling up into a half-smirk, “So if ya miss me, all ya gotta do is look up and look for Orion, huh?”

“Or, I could just look down a couple’a alleyways,” you retort, “I’d find ya quick enough,”.

He snorts indignantly, shaking his head in amusement. “Probably not wrong,” he mutters.

———————————

Steve has to go to the other side of the world.

You have to let him go.

Though he’s stronger now, sometimes when you look at him, you still see the ghost of his past self, the boy with the frail, uneven shoulders, permanently stuffed-up nose and wheezing lungs. Steve has always been insistent on getting by on his own, but is now actually capable of doing just that, you know this.

But knowing and knowing are two different things.

“Don’t cry, Starshine,” Steve whispers, dragging you into his lap and wrapping his tree-trunk arms around you. “I—it’s gonna be okay,”.

“That’s what you’re supposed to say,” you mumble. Steve chuckles mirthlessly, rubs his thumb in soothing circles at the small of your back.

He tips his head back to look at the stars, goes quiet and pensive for a moment as he chews on his bottom lip. “If I don’t—,”

“Don’t say it,” you interrupt, smacking his shoulder hard, “Don’t you dare say it, Steve Rogers,”.

“Okay, but if—,”

“I said n—,”

“If,” Steve says, louder this time, to get your attention, “If I don’t—,”

“Listen here, you punk,” you growl, angrily brushing away your tears as you sit up straighter and look him dead in the eye, “You listen ta me, Steve Rogers, you will come home, alright? You’re gonna come home to me, because you’ve come out of every damn fight ya pick — bruised, battered or worse, I don’t care, but you will come back,”. Your voice breaks at the last word, a terrified sob clawing its way free of your throat.

Steve is silent.

He cups your face with both hands, uses his thumbs to wipe away the tear stains on your cheeks. “Starshine,” he murmurs, the familiar endearment rolling off his tongue and touching your heart in an intimate caress, “If I don’t, you’ll look up, yeah? Orion, remember? I’ll always be there for you,”.

“But I want you here, not there,” you sniffle, leaning forward to bury your face against Steve’s neck. You inhale deeply, in the hopes of memorising his smell; crisp and clean, like ripe apples on a summer’s afternoon, like the salty sea-spray on your face as you walk along the beach. Your fingers map out his shoulders, his collarbones, his chest — thick and muscular and strong, where it used to be nothing more than bones wrapped in fragile skin. You don’t know this new body well enough, though you ache to, need to—

“Kiss me,” you breathe, lifting your face to look at Steve as you wipe your snotty nose on your sleeve. He smiles at you — though it’s only a shadow of his real one — then tilts his head down, grazing his lips over yours. Steve wants to go slow, but you’re done with slow, there’s no time for it. You surge forward, tangling your fingers through his hair as you crush your lips against his, not bothering to be gentle because this body is built for war, built to battle the demons on the other side of the ocean.. Steve is no longer your delicate china plate.

He never was, really.

You kiss like it’s the last time you’ll ever kiss him — and who knows, maybe it is (but don’t think about that now, don’t think about that). It’s passionate and heated, all lips and tongue and nipping teeth. Steve moans into the kiss, lets his hands slide further down your back—

—and all of a sudden, you realise what you want. You convey your desires to him by not-so-subtly grinding into his crotch, relishing the way Steve involuntarily bucks his hips against you, gasping against your lips.

“Starshine,” he breathes, pulling back a fraction to look you in the eyes, “Are you—,”

“I want this, Steve,” you whisper heatedly, fisting your fingers in the front of his shirt, “Please—I—you—,”.

“Okay,” he soothes, peppering soft kisses down your cheek, “Okay, I want this too,”.

“I can tell,” you giggle, pointedly flicking your eyes down to the front of his pants, where an impressive bulge is starting to form.

Steve lays you down with your head pillowed on his jacket. The two of you had not dared to do this before, mostly because Steve was too sick most of the time. Even on a healthy day — by Steve standards — you didn’t want to take the risk, for fear of triggering an asthma attack or something.

This new body comes with its advantages, it seems.

He is tentative at first, careful to touch only above the waist, and even then, avoiding your breasts completely. His fingers tremble when they unbutton your shirt, but his palms are warm against your naked skin, his artist’s fingers worshipping every inch of your body they can get to. Steve’s touch is exhilarating. No one has ever seen you like this, but you are not ashamed, not when it’s Steve, not when it’s under the stars.

Steve closes his lips around your nipple and you gasp, arching your body skywards as the electric sensations radiate through your nerves, stoking the embers in your core. You whine and whimper with need, tugging frantically at his shirt, desperate to feel his bare skin against yours.

You bring Steve’s fingers to touch your wetness and his eyes widen in awe, expression curious and thoughtful as he traces his thumb over your slick folds. Steve watches how you squirm and writhe beneath him; you’re going crazy from the pleasure he is bestowing upon you.

When your bodies become one, the stretch is unlike anything you have ever felt before, too much, too full, too overwhelming, but at the same time not enough — you can never get enough of this man. Steve growls low in the back of his throat as your walls flutter around him. Heated gasps and impassioned moans spill from your lips as he slowly, carefully rocks into you.

You surrender everything you have to Steve, trusting him completely — if you cannot follow him into the jaws of death, then you can sure as hell give him something momentous to remember you by. You’re holding him as tightly as you can, legs hooked around his waist, one hand laced through his hair and the other digging into the meat of his shoulder.

Pleasure bubbles low in your gut like a swirling, sticky syrup that makes your body feel like it’s floating on a cloud of bliss; high on Steve’s scent, drunk on his taste, intoxicated by the feel of his body over yours. When you reach your climax, Steve kisses you passionately, swallowing your helpless mewls as your body trembles in his arms. He noses at the underside of your jaw, mouths wet kisses against your neck as his hips rut wildly into you—

—and then he’s spilling his release inside your body, filling you with his warmth. Steve slumps down, forehead resting on your shoulder, breathless and sated and overjoyed. Your heart feels full, holding inside it a love for Steve that is as big as the universe, as bright as the stars shining above.

You look up at them and smile, knowing that whenever your heart aches with longing, whenever the burden of his absence becomes too heavy to bear, you can always look up, look for Orion and find peace. Steve will never be too far away, regardless of where he goes, because the stars will always be here. They will forever remind you of Steve; of sweltering summer midnights on grimy Brooklyn roofs, of a boy with charcoal-dirtied fingers and a sharp mouth, of too-ripe pears and a threadbare blanket.

The stars will always be there to remind you.

———————————

The war may be over, but you’re not done fighting your battles.

It’s a struggle to have to wake up everyday, to look into your daughter’s gorgeous blue eyes, comb your fingers through her soft blond hair and be reminded of what you never had. She has Steve’s smile, and — unfortunately — his stubbornness, but you love her all the same. You treasure her fiercely, because she is all you have left to remind you of him.

Tonight, the battle is especially tough.

The plane crashed on this day, three years ago.

You’re lying on a picnic blanket in your garden, Sarah’s head pillowed on your stomach and your fingers idly braiding a few strands of her hair. It’s a muggy summer’s night, not a breeze about to stir the humid air, so your shirt sticks to your sweat-slick skin.

“Mama?” Sarah asks.

“Yeah, baby?” you reply, stroking the back of your hand over her forehead.

“Tell me ‘bout the stars again,”.

When you look upwards, you see that the sky is clear and the stars have come out to play. “Okay, well, there’s Leo, the lion,” you begin, gesturing skywards, “Ursa Major—,”.

“Big dipper!” Sarah cries.

“Uh-huh,” you laugh, “And then Ursa Minor’s the little one,”.

You continue teaching her the constellations as you spot them, chuckling whenever Sarah stumbles over the more complicated names, like Aquarius. When you get to Orion, your voice sticks in your throat, blocked by a sudden lump. Tears sting at the corners of your eyes.

“What’s wrong, mama?” Sarah asks, sitting up to look at you, concerned by your silence.

“It’s—nothing, baby,” you whisper, “It’s—Orion. That’s the last one up there,”.

Sarah nods, leaning her head back to look in the direction you’re pointing. “That’s daddy, right?”

“Yeah,” you whisper, fighting to hold back the sob that is tickling the back of your throat, “That’s your daddy, sweetheart. He’s watching over us. Watchin’ over you, baby,”.

“Will he ever come down to see us?”

A wet laugh wrenches free of your throat, giddy and sorrowful at the same time. “He’s not comin’ down, sugar,” you reply, taking her wrist and pulling her to your chest, “He’s up there forever,”. Sarah hums, turning her head to pillow her cheek on your shoulder. You press a kiss to the top of her head.

“I never got to see him,” Sarah says quietly.

A couple of tears escape. You take a shuddery breath. “You can see him any night you want, sugar,” you tell her, “All you gotta do is come out here, find Orion, over there, and say whatever you want. Daddy’s listening. He’s so proud of you, baby, he’d be so happy if he got to see ya. Why don’t ‘cha give daddy a wave?”

Sarah does, giggling a little at the silliness of it.

The realisation dawns upon you then, blinding in its truth and leaving you awe-struck by your ignorance.

Sarah is not the only piece of Steve you have to hold onto. There was something to make you think of him before she was even created, something ever-present and never-changing.

They remind you of ice packs and bandaged cuts, knobbly knees and bony shoulders.

They remind you of plump pink lips and joyous laughter, sneaking out way past curfew and sharing kisses when you realised what love was.

They remind you of a boy with a spirit bigger than his brain, fuelled by a fire that blazed brighter than the sun; a boy always raring and ready for a fight, fists perpetually up and nose nearly always bloody. A boy with a pure heart and kind soul, who loved you unconditionally.

They’ll be there to remind you of the best night you’ve ever lived through, when you gave yourself completely to the man you loved.

The stars will always be there to remind you.

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