𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭'𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐧𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫

"Two Sides of The Same Coin" Chapter List

The Grumpy x Sunshine Series story! AO3⏐Wattpad⏐Two Sides Of The Same Coin Playlist

Pairing: Sunshine!Reader x Grumpy!Bucky Barnes

Chapter 1 - Welcome To New York Chapter 2 - State of Grace Chapter 3 - Ready for It? Chapter 4 - Holy Ground Chapter 5 - Wonderland Chapter 6 - It’s Nice To Have A Friend Chapter 7 - The Archer Chapter 8 - Mad Woman Chapter 9 - I Did Something Bad Chapter 10 - Hoax Chapter 11 - So It Goes… Chapter 12 - Delicate Chapter 13 - Mirrorball Chapter 14 - We Were Happy Chapter 15 - A Place In This World Chapter 16 - Everything Has Changed Chapter 17 - The Joker and The Queen Chapter 18 - I’m Only Me When I’m With You Chapter 19 - The Outside Chapter 20 - Bad Blood Chapter 21 - Nothing New Chapter 22 - Safe and Sound Chapter 23 - Dancing With Our Hands Tied Chapter 24 - You Are In Love Chapter 25 - Peace Chapter 26 - Invisible String Chapter 27 - False God Chapter 28 - Exile Chapter 29 - Renegade Chapter 30 - Out Of The Woods Chapter 31 - Long Live Chapter 32 - Last Kiss Chapter 33 - Come Back…Be Here Chapter 34 - Breathe Chapter 35 - All Too Well Chapter 36 - Don’t Blame Me Chapter 37 - Evermore Chapter 38 - Long Story Short (Epilogue) Chapter 39 - Daylight (Epilogue) Chapter 40 - Begin Again (Prologue) Chapter 41 - Welcome To New York (Outtake) Chapter 42 - Treacherous (Outtake) Chapter 43 - Enchanted (Outtake) Chapter 44 - This Is Why We Can’t Have Nice Things (Outtake) Bonus Chapter (Wedding Fluff) - Going To The Chapel And They’re Gonna Get Married The Interrogation Even More Outtakes AnonymityIsFun Masterlist Grumpy Sunshine Series

Disjointed Masterlist

Summary: Nurse!Reader is reunited with her high school crush in the emergency room. Faced with a lifetime worth of debt, she helps Eddie Munson in the only way she can.

What to expect: Fake marriage. Friends to lovers. Medical trauma. Lemon/Smut. Angst. No Vecna/canon divergent bc I’m in denial.

A/N: Fusing my obsession with Eddie and the need to process the absurdity of working in American Medicine. I’m quite proud of this one. Hope you enjoy! ❤️

Series playlist ✤ Fan Art

* contains smut

(# of parts and smut in future chapters subject to change until completion.)

1 ✤ 2 ✤ 3 ✤ 4 ✤ 5 ✤ 6 ✤ *7 ✤ *8 ✤ *9

10 ✤ 11 ✤ *12 ✤ 13 ✤ 14 ✤ *15 ✤ *16 ✤ 17

*18 ✤ *19 ✤ *20 ✤ *21 ✤ *22 ✤ 23 ✤ *24

*25 ✤ *26 ✤ 27 ✤ *28 ✤ 29 ✤ *30 ✤ *31

*32 ✤ *33 ✤ 34 ✤ *35 ✤ 36 *Epilogue

Disjointed: The Later Years: 1 ✤ 2 ✤ 3

Extras:

✤ Curse of the Munsons: Origin Story

✤ Blurb: Seeing Eddie for the First Time

Velma

eddie munson x fem!reader

You attend a Halloween party with Eddie, things don't go quite as planned when Jason Carver acts like a jerk.

cw: allusions to curvy reader, drinking, drugs, blood, violence, eddie fights off screen, body insecurities, kissing, not proofread, working on writing fluff

Word Count: 5.5k

masterlist

—

“Are you gonna go to Chelsea Hanover’s Halloween party?” Eddie asked, long legs hanging out the back of his van. His stained Reeboks were planted firmly on the concrete, knees pushing out of the rips in his black jeans. You sat in the parking lot of the movie theater, eating the remainder of the snacks you hadn’t finished earlier. The night was quiet, most Hawkins residents already tucked safely into their beds.

You paused midway through trying to shove a handful of popcorn into your mouth, is Eddie going insane? “Are you going to Chelsea Hanover’s Halloween party?” You were practically gawking as you swung your sock-covered feet in the crisp night air. The sneakers you wore had been abandoned in a pile on the shag carpet. 

You thought Eddie was over all the stupid high school activities at this point, with it being his third go at senior-year and all. He’d never talked about going to a party in the past six months of your budding friendship, and, in Hawkins, there were plenty of parties to attend. 

He was quiet as he took another drink from his slushie, red-stained lips turning up into a smirk. “I was thinking about going to sell. Make some money off the rich kids.” 

“What, do you want me to come entertain you?” There was an edge to your voice that you didn’t expect. Your chest felt tight as soon as he brought up the party, anxiety knitting your lungs together. You traced the cracks in the asphalt with your eyes. 

Your frustration wasn’t meant for Eddie, it rarely ever was.

You had to stop pretending that all your so-called friends from your junior year of high school weren’t because of Billy. None of them had even bothered to speak to you since he dumped you like trash last summer. And especially not since the day of his funeral. They were fake and plastic people.

Eddie chuckled, fishing his carton of cigarettes out of his jacket pocket. He didn’t seem to notice how stiff you’d become, your legs rigid in the night air. “Well, yeah. If you want. It could be a night of making fun of Hawkins’ finest.” 

You smiled weakly, trying to hide the sour mood that had come over you. Eddie just wanted a friend to be there–you knew Gareth and Jeff would say no immediately. You didn’t want to throw him to the wolves alone. Chelsea Hanover’s parties were awful if you didn’t know anyone or didn’t want to dance. Eddie didn’t seem like much of a dancer to you. “You know what, sure. Count me in, Munson.”

His pearly white teeth lit up in the glow of his lighter as he brought the cigarette to his lips, a smile radiating across his masculine features. A tendril of anxiety wrapped around your throat as you filed through worst-case-scenarios, each growing more and more catastrophic. 

Your stomach did a flip as you pushed the bucket of popcorn aside, trying to be subtle as your thoughts raced. You suddenly obsessed about how your thighs pressed together and your bra cut into the layer of excess fat in your back, all new discoveries in the past couple of months. Your mother had reminded you that being thin at eighteen would be harder than being thin at seventeen—you’d locked yourself in your bathroom to cry for the better part of your birthday after stepping on the scale.

Eddie didn’t seem to notice your turmoil, methodically chewing as though everything was fine. Of course he wouldn’t notice, he didn’t understand the intricacies of girlhood that made your skin feel too tight. You fluffed your sweater out, suddenly self-conscious about what areas of your body it was snug against. 

Robin would help you find a costume. 

—

The high socks squeezed just above your knees as you made your way up to the front door, red skirt swishing around the middles of your plush thighs with each step. You took a deep breath, a wave of heat and sound rolling over you as you opened the door. There were people in a variety of costumes everywhere inside. A few classmates nodded at you in acknowledgment as you shut the door and stepped into the humid living room, quickly turning their attention back to their friends. 

Where was Eddie? You did a once over of the room, scanning the edges of the dance floor for the shaggy-haired boy. The couches had all been pushed out of the way to make space for a makeshift dance floor, the stereo in the corner booming Cyndi Lauper. It was a miracle that it couldn’t be heard outside. 

The clusters of people spilled into the kitchen. There was limited space to weave through the crowd, you kept whispering apologies as you made your way to the other room. Upon entering, you were handed a cup of red punch from a boy you vaguely knew from English. You offered him a smile, a nod in his direction as you raised the cup to your lips.

You wrinkled your nose as you took a sip, it was strong. 

There were no traces of Eddie anywhere. The room was filled with Indiana Joneses and Maddonas and Ghostbusters and Flashdance characters. No curly-headed metalheads in sight, though. Eddie didn’t seem like someone who would wear a Halloween costume, not for a party he was planning on dealing at. 

You leaned against the breakfast counter lazily, watching the people on the dance floor bump into one another. The plastic cup stuck to your fingers as you gulped down the rest of the drink, grimacing at the after taste of vodka. You traced the edges of the porcelain tiles as you took up your place as a designated wallflower. 

You downed four more cups of the punch before you got restless, deciding to investigate the rest of the party before accepting defeat. Your feet shuffled in slow motion as you approached the sliding glass door on the other end of the room. It was open, allowing teens to trickle outside and spread across the dark backyard. 

The smell of cigarettes and weed wafted through the door as the autumn breeze picked it up, sparking a small flame of hope that your best friend was outside.

You tripped on the door track as you stepped into the much cooler night, steadying yourself and your sloshing drink against the doorframe before looking up. There were a few groups outside, most nursing drinks or joints or cigarettes and murmuring to one another. The music coming from the living room was so faint that you could barely make out the lyrics.

“Hey, Velma!” Your head slowly turned towards the voice, your lips buzzing as the alcohol settled in. Eddie was illuminated by the soft light diffused by the curtains in the kitchen window. He sat at a metal table with his trusty lunch box, head cocked slightly to the side as he absorbed your costume. You realized he was wearing a dark green “Corroded Coffin” t-shirt under his leather jacket and dark jeans, meaning you vaguely matched. 

If you squinted, or drank too much.

You fell into the chair next to him with an oof!, crossing your legs at the ankles as you leaned back. Your head lolled back to rest on the weathered cushion as a breathy laugh escaped your throat. “We match,” you said, looking at how the stars were swirling in the sky. Your breaths were heavy as you waited for the world to still, a smile stretching its way across your face regardless. 

“I didn’t know you were gonna come in costume, princess,” Eddie laughed, busily rolling joints to keep his hands occupied. You placed the sticky plastic cup on the table before stretching your arms out in front of you. Your gaze traced the wide cable-knit of the orange sweater, wiggling your fingers as you contemplated.

Self-consciousness reared its ugly head, making you sit up and lean closer to the brunette. “Do I look bad?” you whispered, fingertips finding the edge of your skirt. Your eyes were wide as he paused to study you, a soft grin breaking out on his face. You waited for his judgment, fiddling with anything in your reach before landing on braiding a thin strip of your hair.

“You look great,” he assured. There was a beat of silence, your heads still bent together conspiratorially. Eddie looked like he was thinking, his tongue licked his bottom lip. “You should’ve told me you were gonna dress up, I would’ve done it with you.” 

“You already look like you did, Shaggy,” you murmured with a sly half smile, taking another drink as you settled back into the metal chair. Eddie grinned, glancing down at his own outfit. 

Everything got all fuzzy on the edges as you finished the red liquid in your cup, joking with Eddie between drug deals. The basketball players who came by barely looked at you, only sparing glances as Eddie overcharged them for weed. 

He didn’t notice the cold shoulders, or he at least pretended not to, making fun of their costume choices as soon as they walked away. You pretended like they didn’t bother you. It felt strange to be at one of these parties after everything that happened with Billy, you’d never felt more invisible. 

But Eddie saw you, his brown eyes drifting to you more often than usual. You couldn’t tell if it was just because he was worried about how much you were drinking. You found yourself liking the way he talked, hands waving wildly as his voice slid into different impersonations of the people around you. He was always so genuinely Eddie, you wondered what it would feel like to be like that.

“I’m gonna grab another drink,” you said as Eddie’s attention was pulled away by a group of juniors with wide eyes and crumpled dollar bills. He gave you a thumbs up as he rifled through the contents of his stash. 

You swayed a bit as you stood, your grip on the plastic cup crumpling it slightly. The juniors eyed you as you walked around the edge of their little group, Eddie’s voice spitting out prices calling their attention back to him.  

Armed with a deep breath to ground yourself, you shouldered your way back into the house. There were even more people than before. With no room to move properly, you jammed yourself into the throng of people that were making their way to the kitchen. Despite how many people were here there was surprisingly still plenty to drink. 

You had never known Chelsea to be so generous, at least not during your short-lived friendship.

You stopped in front of the punch bowl, staring at your wobbling reflection in the liquid as you filled your cup with the ladle. Maybe it was the alcohol, but you hardly recognized yourself. The proportions of your face were so different than when you primped and prepped in the mirror, your gaze felt less harsh as you stared at the girl in the punch bowl. You could feel the heat radiating off your cheeks as you glared at the rose-colored image of yourself, wondering what you actually looked like. 

A hand clasped your shoulder, an anchor back to reality. You pivoted on your heel, thinking that Eddie had come to talk to you about something, maybe ready to leave and go find somewhere to park and talk and listen to music. 

Your face fell when you recognized Jason Carver’s blue eyes.

It had been ages since Jason had so much as talked to you. He used to follow Billy around like a puppy, hoping that it would make him the captain of the basketball team after graduation. Of course, Billy had treated Jason like the rest of you, rewarding his neediness with a cold shoulder.  

“You know, Billy would be so disappointed if he was still here.” Jason may as well have spit on you. You stepped back, your spine pressing into the chilly counter as you tried to put some space between you. His eyes had a hard time settling, staring you up and down as you tried to remain still under his gaze. “He probably wouldn’t even recognize you, especially now that you’re hanging out with the losers.”

You scowled, rage making your throat tighten. “He didn’t even like you, Jason.” Blonde eyebrows rose in surprise. “I’m sure he’s rolling in his grave knowing that the pathetic Jesus kid who would’ve blown him if he asked is in charge of the basketball team.” 

You were getting a little too loud, the people standing nearest to you were turning their heads to see what the commotion was about. Jason evaluated the crowd before grabbing your wrist, a sick smile spreading across his face. “I think you’ve had enough.” There was a threatening edge to his voice as he leaned to whisper in your ear. 

You strained against him, the punch sloshing over the edges of the cup and down your fingers. Droplets flecked onto his yellow Teen Wolf costume like blood. Panic started to creep up your throat, the reminder that none of the other people at the party were going to help you made your blood run cold.

“Jason, stop,” you muttered, your voice thick. More punch slid down your hand as you tried to tug yourself from his grip. Your heart fluttered in your chest as you attempted to find a way out. “Let me go.”

He squeezed your wrist even tighter as hot tears pricked at the corners of your eyes and rolled down your cheeks. You were sure long lines of mascara were left behind, you couldn’t even move your free hand to wipe them away. Fear paralyzed you as the pounding of the music filled every space in your mind. Your mind whirred uselessly, so caught off guard by the aggression that you hardly knew how to respond. 

A ringed hand wrapped around Jason’s forearm; you flinched at the sudden intrusion. Eddie was bristling next to you, squeezing the jock’s arm until he let you go. You pulled your wrist back to your chest, your brows knitting together as your lips fell into a pout.

The metalhead pushed his lunchbox into your stomach, his eyes dark as they scoured your face. “How about you go wait in the van, princess? The keys are inside the box,” he murmured, his expression leaving no room for protest. You hesitated a moment, causing him to jerk his chin smoothly toward the front door. His Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat as he swallowed, his jaw set.

Suddenly shy, you dropped your gaze to the floor. Everything was swimming around you, the party too loud and the room too hot and your hands were so sticky with punch. You’d never felt more overwhelmed. 

Nodding once, you gripped the handle of the lunchbox for dear life as you scurried out of the house. By the time the night air hit you, you realized you were still holding the cup, most of it empty as it coated your hand and stained the skin. You choked back the rest of its contents, crumpling it in your hand and tossing it into the grass. Eddie’s van was parked across the street, looking out of place amongst the other cars.

–

You were almost asleep in the passenger seat by the time Eddie threw the door open, scaring you into waking up. He was obscured by the lights of the house behind him as he climbed inside. “Eddie, what happened?” you croaked as he tried to jam the keys into the ignition, his hands practically vibrating. 

You gasped as he turned to look in the center console. His right eyebrow was caked entirely with blood, a gash splitting it nearly in two. Blood was smeared in a trail down his face, following the curve of his nostril and making its way over his pale throat and to his shirt collar. He plucked a cigarette carton out of the glove box, the streetlamp illuminating the smears of blood across his pale fingers. His knuckles were blown apart. 

“Eddie,” you murmured, reaching across the center console hesitantly. He still didn’t look at you, rummaging around for his zippo. The house beyond was relatively quiet, no signs of a party other than all the cars parked along the sidewalk. Jason walked into view of the upstairs bathroom window, glaring at the van before pulling down the shade. His face was smeared with blood, his costume ruffled.

The chains on Eddie’s jacket sleeve jingled as he lit the cigarette, taking a drag with a sigh. “Eddie.” You hesitated for a moment before you pressed your palm into the worn leather. You could feel the muscles in his shoulder jump under your fingertips–you rarely ever touched him. It just felt like a boundary the two of you never crossed. “Y-you didn’t have to do that,” you said. 

The heater and the radio jumped to life, Dio blasting in the small space. Eddie’s brows furrowed as he turned to study your face. “Of course I had to,” his voice was surprisingly soft. His hand came out of nowhere, a warm thumb wiping your cheek. Your nerves must have been fried, because you leaned into his touch without thinking about it. “That idiot made you cry, couldn’t just let him get away with it.”

You pulled in a ragged breath, a bit surprised by the amount of tenderness in his voice. His hand was so warm, his fingers wiping away the lines of makeup that ran down your cheeks when you cried. Shaking fingers brought the cigarette back to his pink lips, you watched him take a drag and blow the smoke out of the corner of his mouth. 

“Can we go?” you whispered, your voice hoarse as your throat tightened. It was all you could do to keep from crying, you didn’t even know why you wanted to cry this time.

He smiled, nodding as he pulled away from the curb like a maniac. His hand dropped from your face, turning the radio up until the heavy sound of a guitar riff was blasting through the speakers.

—

Apparently it was Wayne’s night off, so the trailer was off-limits for a late night sanctuary. That was how you ended up at the quarry, the side door pulled open as you and Eddie sprawled out in the back of the van. You’d guzzled a bottle of water as soon as you parked, already starting to feel like a bit of a human being again.

Eddie had cleaned up his face with the bandana he kept in his back pocket. The gash in his eyebrow looked painful, but he kept assuring you it was fine. He sat against the wall of the van as he wiped his knuckles, the largest one on his right hand slightly torn.

It was like once you all had crossed the barrier of touch, Eddie didn’t want to stop. He just kept touching you, be it a hand brushing against your arm or his leg jostling yours. It felt shockingly comfortable, making you wonder why you had been so resistant to touching him before. 

“Those rings must not have felt nice,” you commented absentmindedly, laying on your stomach on the carpet as you watched him. Moonlight flooded in the van through the open door, glinting off the silver that adorned his fingers.

He smiled, flexing his hands as he looked down at them. “Carver didn’t seem too excited about them,” he murmured, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye. 

You’d cleaned most of the makeup off your face on the drive to the quarry using a baby wipe you kept in your purse. He hardly ever saw you with a clean face, the moonlight revealing a few blemishes on your skin. The urge to cover your cheeks still lingered, but it felt nice to have it off.

“Thanks for like, defending my honor and stuff,” you murmured, looking down at your chipped nail polish. “You really didn’t have to do that, Eddie.”

The idea that he would go out of his way to fight Jason Carver on your behalf was still hard for you to wrap your head around. Eddie loved to talk and bitch and complain about the basketball team and larger society regularly, but he wasn’t violent. 

“I did.” His eyes searched yours, wide and honest as always. A joint found its way between his long fingers, he took a deep drag. You watched him through heavy eyelids as he exhaled a thick cloud of smoke, he continued until he’d finished nearly half the joint. “I couldn’t just let him mess with you like that, not my girl.” 

My girl. My girl. My girl. The phrase went off in your head like a bell. You didn’t know if he’d said it just because he was high or if he actually meant it like that. You wet your lips with your tongue, glancing at him for a moment.

“Well, thanks,” you breathed, twirling your fingers in a loose thread on one of the weaved blankets he kept in the back of the van. You had wrapped yourself in it on multiple occasions, mostly on cold nights when you were ungodly high. But tonight, alcohol thrummed through you like liquid fire.

Eddie finished the remainder of the joint on his own, his warm brown eyes tinged with pink as his smile stretched easier. There was a fluidity to him when he was stoned, his normally theatrical mannerisms mellowing out to something that seemed less like a performance and more genuine. His movements became more languid, his lanky form sprawling out on a half-deflated bean bag. His calf rested on top of your leg.

The cassette that was playing ended, the power chords fading into silence as you heard the player whir to a stop. The water lapping at the cliff face below and the breeze rustling the foliage outside the van seemed louder, indicative of the transition from fall to winter that was soon to come.

“You want to pick the next one?” Eddie asked, his voice soft and breathy like it always got when he was stoned. It was sweet of him to ask, considering you knew that he already had a playlist of what he wanted to put on next written out in his head. He was particular about music, always wanting to be in-control of what was playing no matter where you were. 

You knew he meant for you to pick from his cassette collection.

“Yeah,” you answered, a smirk starting to spread on your face. You stood up, your feet digging into the shag carpet as you crouched to avoid hitting your head. “I’ve got a Madonna tape in my purse that I’ve been wanting to listen to.” 

“Madonna?” You could hear the anguish in his voice as you stepped over his long legs to reach the front. There was an air of disbelief at your choice, Eddie couldn’t stand Madonna.

You laughed, nodding as you pulled the aforementioned tape from your bag and flashing it to Eddie. “You said I could pick,” you teased, hunkering down in front of the radio to exchange the cassettes. Stunned silence filled the space behind you as you waited for the Dio tape to be spit out, you tapped the Madonna cassette against your kneecap.

What at first was silence burst into a flurry of motion behind you.

Before you could react, Eddie’s hands locked around your waist from behind and elicited a squeal from your throat as he yanked you back. “I’m not listening to Madonna,” he said, twisting his body around yours to try to snatch the tape from your hand. 

You scrambled, holding the cassette out of his reach and angling your shoulders to keep him away. “Eddie! You said I could pick!” you exclaimed with a peal of laughter, feeling the length of his body pressed against the back of yours. He pulled you close with a forearm curled around your waist, reaching over your shoulder. 

“Yeah, you can pick from good music!” His chin bumped the top of your head as you both fell forward from losing your balance. The floor absorbed most of the impact, Eddie’s shoulder banging into the floorboards next to you. You let out a soft grunt as Eddie landed partially on top of you, pressing you into the carpet. 

“This is good music,” you insisted, digging your elbow and knees into the thick carpet so you could shimmy forward. Eddie slammed an elbow in front of your shoulder, stopping any forward movement. There was no time to redirect as he melded you into his shadows, lanky limbs moving over where you were prone. His other hand curled around your wrist, so close to taking the tape. “You’re just judgmental!”

In a last ditch effort you twisted your arm from his grip, pulling your hand under your body and pressing the tape between your stomach and the rustled blanket. “You’re not being fair!” You were still giggling, Eddie stuffed his fingers between your forearm and your stomach in an attempt to follow the path of your arm. 

“It’s my van, princess,” Eddie said with a breathy laugh of his own. He lifted himself off you, letting you breathe for a moment before his hands scooped beneath your shoulders and flipped you onto your back. “I can judge however I want to.” 

You tried to push him away with your feet, matching smiles on your faces as he reached for you around the assault. With a shove your legs were out of the way, his torso settling between them with your knees on either side of his ribs. He leaned over you, managing to pry the tape from your hands and slide it into the pocket of his leather jacket. 

You still had some fight in you, reaching for Eddie’s pocket before he grabbed your wrists and pressed them to the floor. “Eddie!” you whined, squirming in an attempt to throw him off. 

He was smiling above you with all his teeth, the two of you panting as you stared at one another. The distance between you decreased, long fingers threading through yours as his head dipped lower. You were so close that you could practically count his eyelashes. Eddie scraped his teeth over  his lower lip, a clear sign that he was about to ask you something. You nodded before he could, your heart pounding in your chest as you prayed that you weren’t reading into things.

When he pressed his lips against yours you knew you guessed right.

You sighed into it, your eyes fluttering closed as your mouth moulded to his. Butterflies had made a home in your stomach, part of you wondering when you started having feelings for Eddie. Why did it take you so long to do something about them?

His mouth was so soft, slotting against yours in clumsy open-mouthed kisses. You both were smiling, giggling nervously when your teeth clashed or noses bumped. It was as though you both were clumsy and new to this, the anxiety of wanting to impress making you forget how to relax for a moment. His hair tickled your cheeks and neck, curling wildly in every direction. You desperately wanted to thread your fingers into it, your hands flexing against his.

A strong gust of wind blew dried leaves into the open door of the van, the chill cutting through your clothes making the two of you pull away from one another with laughs. Eddie tugged the door closed in a quick motion, leaning back on a bean bag and patting the side of his thigh in a motion to come over there. 

The moonlight was diffused through the windows on the sliding side doors, illuminating Eddie in a beautiful silver as you practically crawled on your hands and knees to him. You were a bit off-balance, partially falling against his chest. He chuckled, curling an arm around your back and pulling you closer with a wide hand pressed against the curve of your spine.

“Been waiting to kiss you like this for months,” Eddie murmured, his calloused fingers tracing along your cheek. You leaned into his touch, your hands resting on the soft Corroded Coffin shirt he wore. 

“Yeah?” you asked, your eyes wide as you looked at him. Part of you didn’t want to believe him, you’d thought his taste in women leaned on either far-end of the Morticia Addams to Chrissy Cunningham spectrum. Maybe you were wrong, or at least you prayed that you were. When considering the Eddie Spectrum of eligible women, you were situated somewhere near the middle.

He nodded, stamping a quick kiss to your lips. “Of course, princess,” he said, his other hand coming to rest on the curve of your thigh. Goosebumps pricked along your skin, his fingertips tracing up and down the bare section of your leg between the skirt and high socks. “And you make a very cute, Velma.”

You rolled your eyes at the compliment, shrugging it off. “You don’t mean that,” you whispered, eyes cast down at the blood soaked into the collar of his shirt. Shyness consumed you, it had been a while since a guy had flirted with you like this.

Well, Eddie’s fingers drawing figure-eights on the outside of your thigh felt like a little more than flirting.

One of his eyebrows lifted, disappearing beneath his bangs as he looked at you. “I do mean it.” Before you could argue with him, he pulled you into another kiss. 

It was enough to take your mind off of it, your head tilting up toward his as you twisted your body closer to him. Your hips turned, the handcuffs serving as his belt buckle digging into you through the thick fabric of your skirt. Thick thighs split apart over his knee, your spine curving on instinct. 

Normally, you wouldn’t have considered the back of Eddie’s van to be romantic, but now there was nowhere else you would rather be. 

Unable to think of much else, the kisses became messier. The sloppy smacks of your mouth against his made you giddy, fingers curling over his shoulders and keeping him close. His hand slipped under your sweater, palm pressing into your ribs like a brand. A submissive whimper was pulled from your throat, a dizzy feeling filling your head. You didn’t know if it was from the lack of oxygen or the alcohol you’d drank earlier.

Heat was pooling between your legs, making your thighs momentarily squeeze against his. The feeling of Eddie touching you made your insecurities about how your body had changed melt away, he didn’t seem to mind the softer parts of you as much as you did. Your hands traveled to his belt and traced the silver buckle of it, making Eddie pull away with a shake of his head. “Not tonight, baby,” he murmured, a sheepish smile curling his pink lips.

Despite the small part of your mind that was still rational, it felt like a slap to the face. You stiffened in his hold as you yanked your hands back like you’d touched a hot stove. “Oh, uh, sorry. I misunderstood,” you murmured, trying to tamp down the sting of rejection. You didn’t want him to feel bad, there wasn’t anything to feel guilty for.

Eddie snorted, shaking his head again. “Trust me, I want to,” he breathed, gently cupping your cheek. Something burned in his gaze. His thumb pressed into the corner of your spit-slicked lips, his chocolate brown eyes lingering for a moment. “Just don’t want to when you’re drunk, not in the back of my van.”

There was a sincerity in his tone that made you melt, rejection fading into yet another reason you felt like you were starting to fall head over heels for Eddie. “Okay, you’re right,” you said sweetly, turning your head to kiss the pad of his thumb.

“You want me to pick another tape?” The silence that had fallen over the van became noticeable. 

He laughed, seemingly having forgotten what had gotten the two of you tangled together in the first place. “No Madonna in the van, those are the rules,” he said, his fingers caressing your jaw. “Even for pretty girls like you.”

“Oh shut up,” you sighed, your face heating up despite yourself. “You’re just trying to butter me up so I pick Metallica.” 

Eddie snorted, the width of his shoulders squaring with confidence as he kept you in the space between his arm and torso. You could feel how warm he was. “You really think so?” he asked, the soft lilt of a tease in his voice.

“I wouldn’t put it past you.” It still felt like there was lightning between your ribs, electricity pooling at every juncture where you and Eddie touched. 

“But, I was teasing you. It’s a Van Halen cassette… you would know that if you’d bothered to read it before you decided to wrestle me for it.” You stamped another kiss against the tip of his nose. He wrinkled it endearingly, making you smile.

“Well now I’m glad I didn’t.”

Eddie Munson in Chapter One: The Hellfire Club "This year's different. This year is my year. I can feel it. '86, baby."

eddie ramblings from my notes app: vol 5

18+, fem!reader

eddie's manspreading like nobody’s business, shoveling handfuls of popcorn into his mouth, flyaways from his frizzy ponytail a halo in the tv light. on screen, someone’s eyes roll back in their head as a priest brandishes a crucifix.

“‘looks like your face when you cum."

three pieces of popcorn go flying at eddie's head in quick succession. he ducks and misses every one.

“i’m gonna smack you into next tuesday. what about your face, huh? you're gonna catch a fly one day the way your mouth hangs open like that."

you love him. even when he says the kind of things that make your soda fly out of your nose. maybe even more for it. 

“yeah?” he challenges, beatific grin teasing the corners of his mouth. the kernels you'd thrown fly back in your direction — featherlight impacts on your chest and your forehead.

“uh huh.”

“come here.” eddie emphasizes, suddenly urgent in his desire to have you closer. he smothers his face in your neck, your chest, huffing hot air over your skin.  

“i fuckin' love you,” his voice rumbles under your skin and warms you from the inside out. it comes like breathing to return the sentiment.

"you got popcorn—" eddie starts, gesturing towards your cleavage with his chin. "right there— here, let me get it—"

the noise you make as he flips you onto your back and tugs your neckline all the way to your navel could give the on-screen exorcism a run for its money.

Snow in Indiana

Eddie Munson x Reader

5.7k words

Eddie has spent the past decade thinking about the pen pal he lost touch with, but fate has a funny way of bringing people back together when they need it most

Warnings: family death (unedited bc it is 3am and I have been working on this for hours)

“Dear Eddie, 

Does it Snow in Indiana?” 

He had read the beginning of the note hundreds of times by now. He had memorized how each individual letter had been written and slightly smudged. He knew the entire contents of the letter by heart, but that never stopped him from coming back to it from time to time. 

“My grandma hasn’t told me much about Hawkins, just that it’s just like home. Except it’s on the other side of the country. Grandma likes the snow, so I hope you say yes.” 

Something about the innocent nature of your writing calmed him down when things got rough. He had received the note in the middle of August at the beginning of 6th grade. Your grandmother had just moved across the country, and she just so happened to be the Librarian at Eddie’s new middle school. She had told both of you that the other could use a friend, even if you were thousands of miles apart. She also insisted that being pen pals would improve both of your lackluster reading and writing skills. She meant well. 

“Can I tell you the truth? I didn’t want to write you a letter when grandma called and told me I should. My teachers say I’m not good at writing anyway. But Grandma also said maybe you and I could be friends. And I think I would like that.” 

Some of your words had been crossed out with pen, either from misspellings or second thoughts on phrasing. Eddie had stared at the paper for so long that he even knew what was underneath those scribbles. 

When the snow started coming down each winter, it was hard for him to not want to keep the letter on him at all times. The opening line of your first letter to him always floated into his head with the first snowflakes. 

He had written you back to assure you that it does snow in Indiana, that he too had troubles with pleasing his teachers with his school work, and of course, that he too would like to be friends. 

That was over 10 years ago now. He had never met you, never heard your voice, never learned what you looked like (besides the poorly drawn picture you had included for him one time) but you had been a part of him for his middle school years. 

The letters started slowing down in the 8th grade. You had told him you were nervous for high school, that you’d heard that kids were meaner there. The last letter he had sent you was in the summer before both of your freshman years. He hated that he couldn’t remember what he had said, what his last words to you were. All he knew was that he wished you luck for your first day. 

Then the letters stopped completely. After months of checking mailboxes impatiently, he got the hint and gave up. 

At the age of 24, he wishes he sent another letter. He wishes he got some closure on why you stopped writing. He had always wondered if it had been something he had said, or maybe you had just found new friends in high school and decided you didn’t need him anymore. 

He was embarrassed to admit that it was his first heartbreak. So he refused to admit it even happened to anyone he knew now. 

He tucked the old letter in his pocket as another patron entered the diner. He had picked up a second job as the night cook in hopes of saving up enough to to move out of the trailer with Wayne. It had been months of helping Wayne with bills now, and he was just barely starting to see the hard work pay off in his savings account. 

He peeked out the pass through window to get a glimpse of the first customer they’d had in the last hour and a half. The snow had been coming down hard, and it was preventing the already few people who would be coming in to the diner at this hour from showing up. He wasn’t surprised to see the young woman, somewhere around his age, follow the waitress quickly to the booth in the corner and sit down. He was, however, surprised to see no new car in the small lot outside. He hadn’t seen headlights arrive or depart to drop her off. The snow that has accumulated on her hair, even thought it has been covered with a hood, was making him think she had walked a distance to get here. If the counter hadn’t been blocking his view, he would have seen the bottom of her pants completely soaked through from the snow piled outside to confirm his suspicion. 

“Can you start on a stack of pancakes, Ed?”

He nodded at the waitress, Judy, who wasn’t usually one to whisper like she was now. She rushed off to the phone in the back office, which did nothing but pique the interest in Eddie’s under stimulated brain. 

Curiosity got the best of him, so he made his way out of the kitchen quickly, grabbed a mug from the counter and the full coffee pot, and made his way over the girl in the corner. 

You had been staring out the window, and Eddie recognized the look as he approached. You were doing your best to hold yourself together. He was used to this kind of customer at this time of night. People who really needed the company, who had nowhere else to go, often found their way here after midnight. But there was something different about you, and it wasn’t just that he had never seen you around town. No matter how hurt he could tell you were inside, you did your best to keep up a facade when you saw him approaching. 

“Coffee?” he offered, less poised than he had intended.

“Please,” you smiled up at him as he set down the mug and poured. He allowed himself to take you in, and that’s when he saw the snow still caked on to your sneakers, and the damp cloth stretching from the hem above your ankle nearly up to your knees. There was snow yet to melt from head to toe, and you were trying your best not to shake from the cold. 

“You walk here?” He tried to make light conversation as he chuckled, but you weren’t as chipper. 

“My car broke down about a mile up the road. Walking was my only option,” You tried to keep the smile on your face, but Eddie saw the look, almost like a shunned child. As if you were embarrassed by what you had done, preparing for the lecture or consequence coming your way. 

Before he could say anything, Judy returned from the back office. 

“Tow truck won’t be running ’til morning, darlin’. But I left a message telling them you’d call first thing,” Judy gave you a halfhearted smile, before turning to Eddie, “Where’s that stack I told you to start on?” 

“Right, sorry,” he quickly excused himself back to the kitchen, but did his best to listen for the conversation you were having on the other side of the room. 

“Where are you staying tonight? I can try to get you a ride there.” 

“My grandma’s house, well it used to be I guess. I think it’s just a few more miles into town, I’m not a hundred percent sure though, I’ve never been out here.” 

“Used to be your grandma’s house?”

“Yeah, she, uhm… passed away not long ago. Hard to own something six feet under,” you tried to joke, but failed to make either of you laugh, “Funeral service is next week, I came early to pack up her things. Guess I chose the wrong day to drive in though.” 

“I’d say. Well let me see what I can do, do you have the address?” 

“Yeah, it’s right…” you trailed off as you checked your pocket, slowly coming to realize that you had left the torn piece of paper with the address written on it on your passenger seat, right on top of the map you were struggling to follow in the heavy snow. “Guess I left it in the car.” 

Just as the realization was threatening to break you, Eddie came and set a fresh stack of 3 pancakes in front of you. 

“You eat up, it’s on the house. And let me know if you remember any of that address,” Judy smiled at you and walked into the back before you could refuse the free pancakes.

Eddie watched you for the next hour through the pass through window. No other customers came in, so he didn’t exactly have anything better to do. It was nearing 4 am, the end of Eddie’s shift. He had cleaned his station in the kitchen faster than he ever had and made his way out to your table to check on your before he left. 

“Any luck with that address?”

“Don’t think I’d remember it with a gun to my head. I might as well walk back and grab it.” 

“Not a chance. My shift is over in a few minutes. Why don’t I drive you back to your car, you can grab it, and I can get you there.”

“I couldn’t possibly-“

“No need to be polite. You’ve had a rough enough night, let’s just get you home.”

You didn’t correct his phrasing. This was the furthest you had ever been from home, and you were sure as hell feeling that in this strange diner with barely a concept of where you were. The snow falling outside only exacerbated your feeling of being out of place. 

Eddie rushed to the back to grab his belongings and wish Judy a good night, letting her know he was going to get you out of there, before he made his way back out to you. You had brought the hood of your sweatshirt back up, and were staring out at the snow silently. He approached cautiously and gently spoke, “Let’s get out of here,” before guiding you through the door. 

“I’m Eddie, by the way. Sorry I didn’t properly introduce myself earlier.” 

You paused at his name, but he was too busy trying to find his van through the wall of snow to notice. 

“I’m y/n, thanks again for helping. You and Judy are both angels.” 

He smiled at your name for a moment, but kicked the idea from his mind. 

Both of you thought of the letters you had sent all those years ago, unaware that the person climbing into the same car as you was in fact the person you were reminiscing on. 

Eddie shook the snow out of his hair like a wet dog before starting the van. 

“Left out of the lot?” 

“Yeah,” you smiled. 

“You know, I’ve helped fix up a few cars in my day. I could take a look under the hood for you when we get there if you’d like.”

“You’re already helping enough, thank you though.”

“I really don’t mind. Can’t hurt just to take a look.” 

The glance and smile he shot you made your stomach do flips. In the low light of the passing, sparse streetlights, he looked incredibly handsome. Your mind wandered back to what you thought your Eddie looked like back in middle school. You had sent him a drawing of yourself, mostly as a joke since your drawing skills as a 12 year old weren’t amazing, but you were also trying to send him the message that you desperately wanted to know him better. Of course, when your grandmother had insisted you become pen pals with a strange boy, you weren’t too happy about the idea, but as time went on, the sound of a friend sounded too nice. You hadn’t had many of them in elementary school, and it concerned your family. But as your friendship with Eddie grew with each letter, you found yourself hoping for something, anything, more. Now, as an adult, you blame your adolescent brain for the silly crush. But that didn’t stop you from thinking about him from time to time, still wondering what he might be doing in that moment, or if he is happy. But most of all, you wondered if he missed you as much as you missed him. 

“You doing alright over there?” he asked you over the quiet metal playing over the speakers. He was playing it at about 1% of the volume he usually listened at, in an attempt to not scare you off just yet. 

“Yeah, just a long night,” you smiled back at him. He nearly assured you that you could be real with him, that he could tell that something more was bothering you, but he worried that would be coming on too strong. And before he could find a way to say it without sounding creepy, you pointed out your car on the side of the road with a sigh. 

It had only been a couple hours since you had left it, but it was nearly buried in the snow. 

“That’s a little more difficult to check out,” He chuckled as he pulled to the side of the road, lighting up your car with his headlights. 

“It’s fine, I’ll just go grab the address and we can get going,” you tried not to sigh as you opened the passenger door. 

“Wait a second,” Eddie reached for your hand before you could make it out of the car, “I’m fine with taking a look, and I can grab the address too. No need for you to get cold again.” 

“I already walked a mile in the snow earlier, I don't think a minute out there will kill me.”

“All the more reason for you to stay in here if you ask me.”

“Fine, but skip looking under the hood. I can call the tow truck when I wake up, it should be fine until then. Even if you could fix it with nothing, I don’t think I should be driving any more today.”

“Long trip?”

“Since 8 am. I really just want to get to sleep.”

“Deal,” he smiled again before stretching his hand out to you, “Keys?”

You reluctantly let him have the keys to go grab the paper, but not before trying to assure him you were capable of grabbing it yourself. You watched him as he rushed as fast as he could through the near foot of snow, grabbed the address, and rushed back to the van. 

“You didn’t lock it,” you stated, nervous to not to sound nagging. 

“I know, do you have a bag or something I can grab for you?”

“Oh, yeah, I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t be, where is it?”

“It’s in the back seat on the passenger side. It’s a small black suitcase.”

“You got it, here, take this,” he handed you the torn paper with your grandmother’s previous address written on it in a handwriting that would have been familiar to him, had he glanced down at it. 

He ran back to grab your suitcase, and made sure to double check that the doors had locked after he shut them before he rushed back to the van. He threw your suitcase in the backseat before jumping back into the drivers seat. 

“I don’t know how you lasted a mile in that, I’m already freezing,” he complained, but his smile still refused to leave his face. 

“I’m sorry,” you tried yet again to apologize. 

“Don’t be,” he paused to look you in the eye to assure you that he wasn’t upset in the slightest, “Now let’s see that address. Hopefully I actually know where it is.”

You handed him the paper, and even in the low light, you couldn’t miss the way his face fell, even for a millisecond. He hadn’t seemed to stop smiling all night, but the second he saw the paper, it faltered for just a moment. 

“Everything ok?” 

He looked up at you, and you could tell he wanted to say something, but thought better of it. 

“Yeah, uhm, this is on the other side of town though. It’s a bit of a drive, is that ok?”

“I’d rather drive a little further than stay in my car tonight. So yeah, it’s fine,” you giggled, relieved that he didn’t seem angry or annoyed with you like you thought. 

But he had seen the handwriting. He would know it anywhere, yet he still wouldn’t let himself get caught up in the coincidences. You were just a girl with similar handwriting, and the same name. You weren’t his y/n. He could never be so lucky. 

“So, what brings you to town?” he asked after a moment of driving. 

“It isn’t the happiest story, and I don’t want to be a bummer.” 

“I’m nosey, and that does nothing to curb my interest,” he joked. He just needed to prod, he needed to know if he was being crazy. 

“My grandma passed… about a week ago now. Her funeral is next week, but someone needed to clean up her house for the service, and no one else wanted to make the drive out.” 

“Do you have any other family in the area to help out?”

“No, she only had 2 sons. My dad and my uncle, and they’re both back west. She moved here, like, 12 years ago now I think. Maybe 13.” 

Just another coincidence. He’s not this lucky. 

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

You looked at him out of the corner of your eyes. You hadn’t heard that yet. Just stressed adults complaining about how traveling in the winter was too much of a hassle. Hearing those words, from a near stranger no less, was enough to make you tear up. And Eddie could hear that in your voice when you thanked him, but he chose not to comment on it. 

“So,” you began after a moment of awkward silence, “How long have you lived in Hawkins?”

“My whole life.”

“Do you like it here?”

“Uh… It has its moments,” he tried his best to hide his discontent with the town. If it weren’t for his uncle, his band, and his small group of friends, he would have ran for the hills by now. He was too attached to them to run… and also lacking the funds to do so. 

“That good huh?” you laughed. 

“Hate to sound like an ass, but there are definitely plenty of cons that outweigh the pros for me half the time. But that’s not everyone’s experience.”

“Grandma seemed to like it, but she also liked it back home, and it’s no cake walk back there.” 

You almost spat the end of your sentence, and although it wasn’t spoken explicitly, Eddie understood. 

“Sorry, I don’t mean to keep bringing the conversation down. It’s just been a really long week.”

“I believe it,” He paused, “So how long are you going to be staying in town then?”

“I have no idea. Rumor is Grandma left me the house. And even if she did…. I’m sorry, I’ve been awake for almost 24 hours now, and driving for over 15 of them. I know you really don’t need to hear any of this.” 

You started to make your body as small as possible, hyper aware of how loudly you had been speaking, and how riled up you were getting. Your father would have hated to see it. But not Eddie. 

“No, keep going. Like I said, I’m nosey, and it sounds like you could use someone to talk to about this.” 

“You sure?”

“Yeah,” he agreed nonchalantly, unaware how much it meant to you. 

“My grandma and I were really close before she moved. She didn’t get along with either of her sons, but she was the world to me as a kid. And my dad put up no effort to even reach out to her in the past decade, but he expects all of her stuff to be left to him, and my uncle wants the same. But my mom told me that one of them had reason to believe that she left it all to me. I don’t even know where they heard it, and don’t get me wrong, I’m not ungrateful, I promise. I just don’t know what to do about the two grown men that she apparently left out of the will if that’s true, and how mad they’re going to be at me.” 

“They wouldn’t be mad at you.” 

“You don’t know my dad,” you scoffed. You knew damn well that the man wasn’t afraid of throwing a tantrum, especially if it came to money. And he wouldn’t care if you were the one getting hurt in the process. 

“What would they have to be mad at you for though? For your Grandma loving you enough to leave you something to start your life on? How is that your fault?”

“It doesn’t matter if it’s my fault, they just care that they get their share. If it’s left to me, I might as well just divvy it up before they say anything.”

“But that’s not what you want, is it?”

“I just don’t want to have any issue with them.” 

“I’m sorry, that’s not fair to you.” 

“You really need to stop being so nice, you’re going to make me cry,” you chuckled, genuinely fighting back the tears as you spoke. 

“Sorry,” he chuckled back. He took a subject before continuing. “Have you seen the house? Like have you ever visited?”

“No, actually. Who knows, maybe it’s a real fixer upper and I’d be better off passing it on to my uncle,” you giggled, and that put the smile back on Eddie’s face. 

“If I didn’t mess up the address, it should just be in this next neighborhood.”

You kept saying that all you wanted was to get some rest after your long day, but now that you were talking to Eddie, you didn’t want the drive to end. The disappointment hit you like a rock as he pulled into the driveway of your grandmothers old house, but the feeling quickly turned to something else as you looked out the window to see the beautiful 2 story house with large trees on either side. 

“So much for the fixer upper theory,” Eddie said with a whistle, but you were speechless. This was much more than you had been anticipating, much nicer than you had spent your younger years picturing every time you missed your grandma. 

“You ok?” he asked after a moment of silence. 

“Oh, yeah. Sorry, I was just taking it in,” you chuckled nervously, still staring at the house. 

“Why don’t we get you inside?” He said, reaching in the back for your suitcase. You put a hand gently on his arm to stop him, and he looked up to see your nearly empty stare, still on the building in front of you. 

“Can you give me just a minute? I’m sorry, I know it’s late.” 

“No, it’s fine… Are you ok?”

“Yeah…Yeah, It just,” you trailed off for a moment, “I hadn’t seen her in years. Had no idea what her house looked like, or what she looked like anymore. I got letters, I got calls, but… Part of all this didn’t feel as real. Going in there, that’s real.” 

“Want me to come in with you?”

“No, that’s fine. I just need a second.” 

“Have you ever lost anyone before?”

You didn’t answer, just shook your head as you moved your eyes from the house to him. 

“Let me walk you in. You shouldn’t be alone for that.” 

You looked back at the house for a moment, took a deep breath, and nodded your head. 

Eddie carried your suitcase through the front door, and you both kicked off your shoes before stepping on the carpet. You took a deep breath before reaching for the light switch. Eddie sensed your hesitation as your fingers hovered. He took the opportunity to grab the fingers of your other hand. It gave you enough courage to turn on the light in the entry way. 

The furniture was mostly unfamiliar. You could see a few pieces in the living room that you had remembered from your childhood, and the sense of nostalgia calmed you. Eddie let you walk ahead of him, letting go of your hand as you ventured further into the room. Slowly but surely, you made your way to a wall on the other side of the room. It was covered in pictures, new and old, of your grandma with family and friends. You recognized yourself in plenty of them, but the newer ones were the ones that you couldn’t stop looking at. She looked so much older that you had remembered, but still had the youthful glow to her that you had attributed to her mischievousness. No matter how old she got, how wrinkled her face grew, or how gray her had and gotten, you still recognized her. Part of your heart began to ache for not knowing her as she was before she passed. It had been so long. 

You felt Eddie approach you from behind, and you expect him to say something nice, or encouraging. But he didn’t. He was surprisingly quiet. You turned to make sure he was alright, but he didn’t seem fine. He was staring at one of the photos on the wall, and he looked like he was about to be sick.

“Are you ok, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Uh, yeah,” he replied, still white as a sheet as he tore his eyes from the photo to look at you. He barely shot you a half smile before looking back up at the pictures. You took a step back to stand next to him. 

“I just remembered that she worked at the middle school when she moved here. Did you know her?”

“Yeah.”

“…Did you like her?” you tried asking after waiting for him to say anything more. 

“Yeah, she introduced me to my best friend.”

“Me too,” you smiled at the memory of your old pen pal. 

“Someone back home?”

“No, actually. I probably shouldn’t refer to him as that still. We haven’t spoken in… years actually.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said, finally peeling his eyes away from the photos on the wall. 

He should have said more, but he didn’t know what else to say. This was her. He was in shock. The girl he had spent the last decade wondering about had wandered into his diner. His thoughts were moving a mile a minute, he felt like he could physically hear them, and it was hard to focus on anything you had possibly said. But luckily, you weren’t saying much. 

He followed you like a ghost as you explored the first floor of the house. You were happy you had arrived before anyone else. You had the chance to see the house how she had left it, how she had lived in it. It gave you a sense of closure you weren’t going to get otherwise, it felt as if you were getting a sense of knowing her once again. You were caught up in it until you saw a clock on the wall, reading nearly 5 am. Realization hit you that you were keeping Eddie, and a sense of guilt washed over you. You turned to find him, with a bit of color returned to his face. 

“It’s really late, I’m sorry I’ve kept you. You can go home if you’d like. I’m sure you want to get some rest too after your shift.” 

He took a second, before asking, “Are you sure you’ll be alright?” And you hesitated before nodding. 

“Honestly, the roads are pretty bad out there. I could stay on the couch, help you figure out your car in the morning. How does that sound?”

He way have been a complete stranger just hours ago, but you really did feel like you could trust him. So you smiled and nodded. 

“I’ll go find some blankets for you,” you smiled before disappearing up the stairs. Eddie didn’t expect you to come back for a while. You were bound to find your grandmothers bedroom and need to look around for a while. He made his way back to the living room while he waited. He stared at the wall again, but not in shock this time. Now that he knew was 24 year old you looked like, he desperately want to see what 12 year old you looked like. He found a picture near the middle of the wall, of a young girl smiling at the camera. It was the only photo on the wall without your grandmother in it. She had your eyes, had your smile, but most importantly, she actually looked like the drawing he had received all those years ago. You weren’t as bad of an artist as you’d thought. Eddie tried not to grow emotional staring at the photo. He only tore his eyes away from the picture of younger you when he heard you making your way back down the stairs.

Before you could reach Eddie, you paused by the window next to the back door, blankets in hand. The snow coated the back yard, reflecting the light from the back porch into the sky. You began to tear up, just as Eddie approached to take the blankets from you. He saw one of the first tears fall down your cheek, and quickly, but gently put an arm around you. 

“Hey, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing, just… Is this what it looks like every winter?” you asked, looking up at him with misty eyes. 

“For parts of it, yeah. Why?”

“Grandma loved the snow,” was all you could reply before looking back out at the yard. 

He contemplated it for a second, fought himself on whether or not this was the right moment to say it, but he couldn’t help himself. 

“I told you she’d like it here” 

A moment passed as you processed what he had said. You gasped quietly, quickly turning your head to face him. He looked nervous, as if he had just handed his heart to you on a platter, waiting to see if you would reject it. 

“Eddie?” you asked cautiously, and you both knew what the question really was. 

“Yeah,” he nodded, still nervous and unable to read what you were thinking. 

“You stopped writing,” was all you could get out before another tear dropped. 

“What?”

“Y-you stopped writing,” you repeated, beginning to choke on your breathes as you spoke. 

He nearly panicked as he tried to reply. 

“Y/n, w-what do you mean? I only stopped writing when you stopped replying.”

“Oh my god, it’s really you,” you couldn’t stop looking at him, another tear dropping down your cheek. Your exhaustion was exaggerating your emotions, but you may have felt the same regardless. You had waited 12 years for this moment. 

“Yeah. Why don’t we go sit down,” he smiled at you, before herding you towards the couch. 

“Y/n,” he spoke softly as he crouch in front of you, one hand resting on each of your knees as you sat on the couch, “What do you mean I stopped writing?”

“I sent you a letter, you never replied.”

“That’s impossible, I waiting for months to hear back from you. There’s no way I missed a letter from you.”

“No, I sent one, and I waited, but you never replied. You broke my heart Eds,” you quietly began to sob, filled with too many mixed emotions. 

Eddie quickly sat next to you on the couch and pulled you to his chest to comfort you the best he could, but he was still confused. He had checked his own mailbox, his neighbors mailboxes, other houses in town with the same street number as his trailer. This didn’t add up. He quietly shushed you as he thought. 

“What did the last letter say?” he asked as you began to calm down just slightly. He had half the collection of your letters memorized, but especially the first and last. He would know if he had read it if you described it. 

“It was before Freshman year, I told you how scared I was that all the kids were going to be mean. I was so afraid that I was going to get singled out for still having no friends, and I waited for months to hear back from you. But you never wrote back. You were my only friend, and you stopped writing.”

“No, sweetheart, I would never,” he sighed as his heart dropped. He got that letter, he replied to it. Which meant that she never got his last letter. Neither of them had stopped writing on purpose, they had both assumed the other had given up. But he had sent out one last letter that was unaccounted for.

“Sweetheart, can you look at me,” he gently guided you to look up at him, “I promise you, I wrote back. I don’t know what happened to it, but I never would have stopped writing like that. I thought you had just ignored my last letter.”

“You wrote,” you said quietly, and Eddie couldn’t tell if it was a question, or if you were trying to reassure yourself. 

“I did, I promise,” he whispered as he swept a tear off your cheek with his thumb. 

And though you still needed to know what happened to his letter, and you had had one of the longest days of your life, nothing mattered more to you in that moment than leaning in, slowly. You took a second, pausing right before reaching his lips so he could pull away if he wanted, but he didn’t. It was a quick kiss, but it was gentle and sweet. Eddie didn’t try to pull you in for another, but he didn’t want to part as you pulled away. 

It took him a second to open his eyes again, but when he did, he was smiling just as big as you. 

“You ok?” he asked for what must have been the hundredth time that night. But unlike every other time you had answered, this time you told him the truth. 

“I am now.”

(may or may not be already trying to figure out a part 2 for this, depending on if people like it <3 )

@embrace-themagic @fanficparker  @heartbeats-wildly @saturn-aka-six @calum-hoodwinked-me @peterplanet @mischiefmanaged49 @nicotine-sunshine820 @itsjusttor @emistrash @thenoddingbunny-blog @sovereignparker @raajali3 @eddielives1986 @eddieswifu @chickpeadumpsterfire @fluffybunnyu @panagiasikelia @canthavetoomuchchaos @whenshelanded @starlitlakes @witchwolflea @ali-r3n @g0thdraculaura @celestcies

disclaimer: credits to original creator/poster of image/gif. found on google/Pinterest This fanart has haunted me since the first time I seen it and then I watched the Inglorious Bastards and here we are. There is nothing explicated stated but since Bucky is lowkey inspired by Hans Landa, take care of yourself and skip if you need to.

Footsteps and a knock at the door. 

“Mademoiselle?” the quiet voice of a maid drifts from the cracks of the door, “Mademoiselle are you awake? You have invités.”

The code word is what rouses the girl from her fitful sleep. Sliding out of her warm bed, the girl grabs her robe and slips it on before opening her bedroom door for her maid. 

“Merci, Josette. How many?” The hoarse voice tears its way from her throat as she steps aside for her maid to come in. 

Josette shifts nervously on her feet but stays put before whispering, “One but Mademoiselle, he is… he is the one from the papers.”

The girl nods as she listens to the frightened words of her maid. “Take him to the kitchen and tell him that I will be down momentarily. Give him a glass and a pitcher of water but do not offer him anything else and leave immediately. Wake Monsieur Pierre and tell him that you need him to take you to get honey. Do you understand?”

Josette doesn’t do anything, she just stares at the girl that she’s worked for for the last two years in shock. She begins to tremble and she grips her by the shoulders. 

“Tu comprends, Josette?”

She nods and scurries off down the hall, her blonde hair whipping behind her. The girl closes her door and begins to fix her appearance in her vanity mirror, rebraiding a braid she wore to sleep that night. She changes into her usual pair of cotton dungarees with a worn white blouse under and puts on the terribly knitted cardigan she made when Monsieur Pierre’s wife was first teaching her. Unable to find her boots, she slips on her oxfords and stalls at the door with her hand on the knob. She had hoped that it would’ve taken the bastard longer to find her but alas time is never going to be on her side. 

She pulls the door open and walks to the kitchen. She’d come to love this chateau during her months here and would miss it when she undoubtedly would be forced to flee. Pierre’s hushed voice draws her attention behind her but she doesn’t turn around. He’s telling Josette to hurry up and it almost made her chuckle. He wasn’t fond of the young blonde and would lecture her regularly. It seemed as though nothing would ever change from the sound of his frustrated voice. 

The flicking candle light in the kitchen is a warning, an omen really as she drew closer. She knows who was sitting in there, the man who had been haunting her dreams for years now.

“Monsieur,” she says in demure tone as she steps into the kitchen, “I apologize for my staff. She is a nervous girl. Would you like something to drink other than water? Coffee? Tea?”

“Fräulein,” the menacing voice that plagues her drawls, “you know that’s not how you should address me.”

The switch from French to German causes her to freeze internally but she doesn’t let it show. Instead she feigns nativity and she shakes her head at him, “I’m afraid I do not speak German, only French.”

He only stares at her. His sharp blue eyes are intense as they were before but the evidence of their time together is everlasting. A deep scar that stretches from his eyebrow to the bottom of his eye socket and a milky white eye in the middle of it. 

Her lip curls up in a smirk when she turns her face and sits opposite of him. He’s dressed in the usual attire of a colonel: an immaculately kept black uniform with a long black overcoat. 

“We both know that is a lie, Fräulein.”

She doesn’t respond. 

His own smirk overcomes his painfully beautiful face, “Drop the act, y/n. 

“I don’t know what or who you’re talking about. There is no act to be dropped and no y/n here.”

He leans back in his chair, causing the wood to creak and groan under his weight. He takes a drink of water while holding eye contact with her. Upon setting it down, the sound of gunfire rips through the air and she tenses while he watches for her reaction. When she doesn’t so much as flinch, he cocks his head at her and narrows his eyes. A car barrels down the gravel driveway and crashes into the ancient tree in the center. 

“I would apologize for them but that would be a lie,” he tells her. 

There’s a shift in the air and her demure french woman act is, in fact, dropped. 

Her accented German cuts thick through the air, “What do you want?”

“You.”

“No.”

“I wasn’t asking.”

“No.”

“I will burn this shithole to the ground,” he says as he pulls out a cigarette tin and lights a cigarette. He offers one to her and she takes it, allowing him to light it. 

“Is that meant to scare me into going with you? Come on, James, you have done worse than that and I suspect you will do far more.”

“Perhaps,” he agrees with a shrug of his shoulders. “But you will come with me, y/n. Tonight.”

“No,” she states again, blowing out her smoke and crossing her arms. 

“Defiant as always I see,” he mutters under his breath as he too takes a drag of his cigarette.

There is a long silent pause as the two of them smoke and stare at each other. His beauty hasn’t waned over the years but it’s turned deadly. The scar she gave him when she escaped him that night adds to the murderous edge to his gaze. The uniform that he wears is foul and makes her sick to her stomach. He’d promised to leave, promised to get away before things got bad. He’d promised to come for her once it was safe and they could live the life they had dreamed of. 

He’d broken all of those promises when he put on that uniform. All but one promise that is. He has come for her and he would be able to provide her with his sick verison of safety. 

“One of us is going to die,” she says finally whilst tapping the ashes of her cigarette onto the floor. “That’s the only way this ends.”

“No, Fräulein. There is another way but you will not like it.”

A Seat at the Table Part 1 | Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: Journalism was supposed to be about the truth. Politics was supposed to be about power. Neither of you were supposed to be here. But when Bucky Barnes—former assassin, reluctant congressman—leaves you with more questions than answers, you find yourself caught in a different kind of story.

Parts: Part 2, Part 3

MCU Timeline Placement: Between The Falcon and the Winter Soldier and Captain America: Brave New World.

Master List: Find my other stuff here!

Warnings: N/A

Word Count: 7.1k

Author’s Note: so, funny thing—i haven't written marvel fanfic in years. like, actual years. but then i saw captain america: brave new world the other day, along with the thunderbolts trailers, and suddenly I am back in it, staring at my bb bucky barnes on a screen and thinking: what the hell are they doing with you, man?

so here we are. this fic is my take on congressman!bucky, because let’s be real—the idea of the winter soldier navigating politics is insane.

welcome to my marvel era, round two. let’s do this.

───────────────────────────────

The ballroom smelled like money. That specific kind of wealth that clung to old wood paneling and overpriced cologne, where the champagne never ran dry and the canapés were just expensive air. A necessary evil, your editor had called it, but you weren’t sure if that was referring to the event itself or the man headlining it.

James Buchanan Barnes. Congressional candidate.

The podium at the front of the room bore his name in bold, sterile lettering, flanked by banners that screamed "A New Dawn for America", as if slapping a slogan over a former assassin could bleach away decades of bloodstains.

You stood at the back, notebook in hand, eyes tracking the room. The usual suspects filled the space—donors with deep pockets, political strategists sipping aged whiskey, journalists who had already drafted their headlines before the night began. You weren’t one of them. You weren’t here for soundbites or manufactured redemption arcs. You were here because none of it made sense.

You had seen a lot of men climb this kind of stage before. But Bucky Barnes wasn’t one of those men.

Your gaze found him at the edge of the room, standing near the stage but just shy of being part of the performance. He wasn’t shaking hands, wasn’t offering plastic smiles. Just watching. A wolf dropped into a herd of well-groomed sheep.

Valentina Allegra de Fontaine was at his side, speaking with the kind of low, clipped precision that made your skin crawl. She wasn’t here to campaign. She was here to control.

What’s your angle, lady?

The public saw a comeback story. Winter Soldier turned Congressman. A tale of redemption, carefully packaged and sold to an electorate eager for a hero. The public saw a man trying to move forward. You saw something else entirely.

The world didn’t hand men like Bucky Barnes clean slates. It repurposed them.

A tool being repurposed. A pawn moved across the board.

Your theories were running wild. Theories your editor wouldn’t print.

Was this a ploy to install someone useful in Congress? Was Bucky Barnes the distraction, while something worse lurked behind the curtain? What did Valentina get out of this?

Your thoughts were interrupted when the applause started. You turned in time to see Bucky stepping onto the stage. The microphone crackled. He looked at it like it might bite him.

He didn’t want to be here. That much was obvious. But he squared his shoulders, shoved his hands into the pockets of his perfectly tailored slacks—and, in true Bucky Barnes fashion, ignored every expectation of a congressional candidate by wearing a leather jacket instead of a suit. No tie. No crisp blazer.

"I won’t waste your time." He finally spoke.

A murmur of polite laughter rippled through the room. The speech in his hand—written by someone else, no doubt—remained untouched. He wasn’t even pretending to read it.

"I know what people think when they see me up here. And I don’t blame them," he continued, scanning the room. "I know the headlines. The speculation. The questions."

"I’m not a politician. I’m not a hero. I’m not gonna stand here and tell you that I can fix what’s broken, because I don’t believe one man can do that." His voice was steady, but not polished. Not rehearsed. 

"I know some of you believe in second chances. And I know some of you don’t."

That got their attention. Small shifts in posture, the kind of barely-there movements that told you when someone was really listening.

"But I know what it means to be let down by the people in charge," Bucky went on, his voice even, steady. "I know what it’s like when the system fails you. When the people making decisions don’t have to live with the weight of them. I know what it’s like to feel like you don’t have a say in your own future."

He let those words hang for a moment, measured, careful.

"What I want—what I’m standing here asking for—is the chance to make sure that no one else has to feel that way."

The shift in the room was subtle. A few nods. Some furrowed brows.

Valentina remained still. Watching. Calculating.

"I won’t stand here and make promises I can’t keep," he continued. "I won’t tell you I have all the answers. But I know that real change doesn’t come from power alone—it comes from the people willing to fight for it. And I intend to be one of those people."

A silence stretched over the room. A well-oiled campaign machine wasn’t meant to have rough edges, and Bucky Barnes was all edges, sharp and unyielding.

You saw Valentina shift slightly at his side. Not nervous. Just calculating.

The applause came a beat too late. Measured. Mechanical.

Bucky left the podium before it even died down, moving through the crowd without stopping for handshakes or fake pleasantries. He was heading for the exit when you stepped into his path.

“Barnes.”

He stopped.

Up close, he looked like a man barely keeping his ribs from caving in under the weight of the performance. He didn’t sigh, didn’t roll his eyes, didn’t bolt—but you could tell he wanted to. 

His eyes flicked over you in that sharp, assessing way of his, the kind that cataloged details too fast for most people to notice.

Then, his gaze settled, recognition slipping in like an unwanted guest.

“You’re with The Post, right?”

You blinked. That was unexpected. You had no name tag, no press badge. Nothing to mark you as anything other than another face in the room.

“Yeah,” you said slowly, watching him. “Surprised you remember.”

He shrugged, shifting his weight slightly. “You asked a question at the last panel. Something about the Sokovia Accords repeal.”

You hadn’t expected that, either. The event had been weeks ago, a polished press affair where he had been forced onto a stage with political veterans who spoke in curated soundbites. You’d been one of the only people in the room who had asked about something that wasn’t pre-approved fluff. He hadn’t answered you then. He had looked at the moderator instead, let them dismiss your question before it ever reached him.

Now, though—now he was looking at you like he remembered.

That spurred you on.

“I figured you wouldn’t answer me then,” you said, tilting your head. “Didn’t think you’d remember it, though.”

Something flickered behind his eyes—quick, unreadable. “I remember a lot of things.”

“Must be exhausting.”

He huffed something that might’ve been amusement. “You have no idea.”

Your pulse kicked up slightly, but you kept your expression even. The fact that he recognized you, that he acknowledged he remembered—it meant something. He could’ve brushed you off. Could’ve pretended not to know. But instead, he had given you that small crack in the door, and you weren’t about to let it close.

Maybe, just maybe, he’d—

“I don’t do interviews,” he said.

The frustration hit fast, like a door slamming shut in your face. “Then why are you running for office?”

That got his attention. Not in a that’s a great question way. More like a did-you-just-really-ask-me-that kind of way.

He huffed out something that wasn’t quite a laugh, but wasn’t entirely humorless either.

“You always lead with accusations?” he asked.

“Only when I already know the answer,” you shot back.

He held your gaze, unimpressed. “That right?”

You lifted your chin slightly, holding your ground. “You don’t talk like a politician.”

“Maybe I’m still trying to figure out what that looks like.”

“Then don’t.”

His jaw shifted, a flicker of something in his expression—annoyance? Amusement? It was hard to tell.

“Not that simple,” he muttered.

“Why not?”

He shook his head slightly, not in a frustrated way, but in a you-won’t-let-this-go-will-you way.

You tilted your head. “What’s in this for you?”

He scoffed softly. “You tell me.”

“I think you don’t care about power.”

“Good start.”

“I think you don’t really care about winning.”

The muscle in his jaw flexed slightly, but he didn’t speak.

“And I think if you were really in this because you truly wanted to be, you wouldn’t be standing here trying to figure out how fast you can get out of this room.”

Something flickered behind his eyes, something almost like recognition.

He shifted his weight slightly, exhaling through his nose. “And you figured all that out from what—watching me avoid shaking hands?”

“No,” you said. “I figured it out because I know a man being handled when I see one.”

That hit its mark.

The tension that passed over his expression was fast, but not fast enough. He turned away, heading for the exit.

You followed.

“You don’t strike me as someone who likes being told what to do,” you said, quickening your pace to keep up.

He let out a breath, not quite a sigh, but close.

“You don’t strike me as someone who knows when to quit,” he muttered.

“Not when something doesn’t add up.”

“Yeah?” He glanced at you. “And what doesn’t add up, journalist?”

You scanned his face, searching for the cracks in the armor.

“You.”

That finally made him stop.

The air between you thinned, charged with something neither of you had put a name to yet. But before either of you could break it, a new presence cut through the moment like a blade.

“James.”

Valentina.

She wasn’t impatient. She didn’t need to be.

Bucky’s shoulders stiffened just slightly. Just enough.

“Let’s go,” she said, her voice smooth, effortless. She wasn’t asking.

Bucky hesitated. Just for a second. Just long enough for you to see it.

Your pulse kicked up as you moved to follow him, but security was already intercepting, stepping into your path before you could get too close.

That was fine. You still had one shot.

“Is this what freedom looks like to you, Barnes?” you called after him.

He paused. Right at the SUV door.

Not long. Just enough for the moment to land.

Enough to make you think, for a fraction of a second, that he might turn back.

But Valentina was already ushering him inside. She said something under her breath—too low for you to hear. Whatever it was, he listened.

The SUV door slammed shut, sealing him away like a decision already made.

The tires rolled over damp pavement, red taillights cutting through the dark, and just like that—he was gone. Contained. Controlled. Removed from the equation before anything could spill over.

Your teeth pressed together. Something about it sat wrong. You exhaled sharply, jaw tight. It wasn’t frustration. Not entirely.

You shoved your hands into your coat pockets, fingers curling into fists before— something crinkled.

You stilled, pulse kicking up as you pulled it out, smoothing the creases with your thumb. It wasn’t a napkin. Not a business card. Just a torn scrap of something, the ink smudged like it had been written fast, in bad lighting, by someone who didn’t want to be seen doing it.

Hurriedly shoved into your pocket when? Before security cut you off? When he passed you? When you weren’t looking?

Your eyes scanned the writing—quick, small, just barely legible.

The one with the wolf in the name. 11:30. Tomorrow night. Try not to get followed.

Your pulse kicked up.

The meaning hit instantly. The Lone Wolf Hotel. A place tucked just outside the city’s main sprawl, the kind of overpriced boutique spot that catered to diplomats and corporate deals too dirty to happen in their own offices. The bar inside was upscale, quiet, not the kind of place anyone would expect him to be.

A slow exhale left you as you turned the note over between your fingers. Nothing else. No signature. No explanation. Just the bare minimum needed to make sure you’d know where to go.

And yet, it told you everything.

He couldn’t even write it down outright.

Not the full name of the hotel. Not a direct instruction. No “meet me here” or “I need to talk.” Instead, you got a riddle just obvious enough to be solved, just vague enough to pass unnoticed if the wrong person found it.

Which meant someone else might be watching.

The thought settled in the pit of your stomach, cold and unshakable. This wasn’t just hesitation. This was caution—the kind that didn’t come from paranoia but from experience, from knowing that loose ends had a habit of disappearing when they were left too visible.

A message written plainly could be intercepted. A phone call could be traced. But this? This was a test. A way to see if you were paying attention, if you were quick enough to put the pieces together.

And James Buchanan Barnes—a man who wasn’t supposed to be talking to you at all—had just handed you the first piece.

───────────────────────────────

The hotel bar smelled like old wood and burnt citrus, the kind of place where lobbyists whispered backroom deals over neat whiskey, where the ice in their glasses cracked like splintering bones. You’d spent enough nights in places like this to know the exact moment a conversation turned, the way a man’s posture shifted when he started to lie.

James Buchanan Barnes was leaning against the bar, staring into his drink like it held some answer he hadn’t found yet.

Your editor’s voice lurked at the edges of your mind—Get something real. Unfiltered. Dig into the cracks, find the angle, make him talk. That’s what they wanted. That’s what they always wanted. The headlines had painted him as a walking paradox: former assassin turned public servant, the ghost of wars past, now shaking hands with the same kind of men who once dictated his kill list. The entire campaign was a spectacle, a carefully curated image of redemption.

But you weren’t here for spectacle, weren’t here for an interview. He hadn’t even told you where to meet him outright. He’d left a riddle in your pocket, trusting you to figure it out. And that alone meant something.

You weren’t here as a journalist. Not entirely.

You sat beside him, not waiting for an invitation. He didn’t look at you right away, just exhaled slowly, like he already regretted letting you find him at all.

“You’re late,” he said.

You flagged down the bartender, ordering something simple, something forgettable. “I was giving you a chance to leave.”

His mouth twitched. Not quite a smirk, but close. “Generous of you.”

The bartender slid a glass across the polished wood. The condensation beaded under your fingertips, cold against warm skin. “About the fundraiser—sorry if I pushed too hard.” You paused, then added, “But you don’t exactly seem like the campaign trail type.”

Bucky let out a quiet, humorless laugh. “That obvious?”

“You showed up to a political fundraiser in a leather jacket.”

He shrugged, rolling his glass between his palms. “What can I say? Old habits.”

There it was. The quiet admission, the thing lurking under the surface. You leaned in slightly, lowering your voice just enough to push the air between you into something conspiratorial. “That why you’re doing this? A habit?”

For a moment, you thought he might not answer. He was good at that—silence as a weapon, a shield. But then he sighed, rubbing his thumb along the rim of his glass. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“The truth would be nice.”

His eyes flicked to yours, sharp and assessing. You wondered how many journalists had tried to pry this out of him already, how many had failed.

“I made a deal.”

It wasn’t an answer. Not really. But it was more than you expected.

“With who?” you asked.

His jaw tightened. That was confirmation enough.

“So, what?” You tilted your head. “She dresses you up, parade you around, call it a second chance? A redemption arc?”

He scoffed, low and bitter. “You think she’d let me have a redemption arc? No. She needed something. Someone. And I owed her.”

“Owed her what?”

His grip on the glass went white-knuckled before he forced himself to let go. He didn’t answer. You didn’t push. Not yet.

The bartender passed by, dropping a bowl of salted almonds between you. Neither of you touched them.

“You trust her?” you asked instead.

Bucky let out a breath, shaking his head slightly. “I don’t trust anyone who wants to put me in a suit.”

You glanced at him, amused. “Didn’t see you in one yesterday.”

“Exactly.”

There was something darkly funny about that, something distinctly him. The world was trying to put him into a mold he’d never fit, and he was resisting in the only ways he could. Small, insignificant rebellions. A leather jacket. A late arrival. A refusal to play along with the script they’d written for him.

“You could walk away,” you said, not as a challenge, but as a fact.

He exhaled sharply. “Could I?”

“You tell me.”

Bucky went quiet again, but this time it felt heavier, like he was weighing something, deciding how much to give you. His fingers drummed once against the bar before he spoke.

“I’ve spent most of my life being a weapon. First for the Army. Then for Hydra. Even after, I was something to be deployed when needed. Wakanda, missions, saving the world or whatever. And now this.” His eyes flicked to yours, something unreadable in them. “You think being a congressman is different?”

Your fingers curled around your glass. “No,” you admitted. “I think it’s just another kind of battlefield.”

“I don’t know how this ends,” he murmured. “Maybe I do the job. Maybe I screw it up. Maybe I disappear. Either way, it won’t matter.”

Your stomach twisted at that last part. It won’t matter. The way he said it, so certain, like he truly believed he was just another piece to be moved on the board until someone decided to remove him altogether.

“You matter,” you said before you could think better of it.

He blinked, as if surprised by the conviction in your voice. But he didn’t argue. Didn’t brush it off with sarcasm or shift the conversation. He just looked at you, really looked, like he was trying to decide if you meant it.

You held his gaze. You let him see that you did.

The silence stretched, thick with something unspoken. Then, finally, he pushed his glass away, the ice clinking against the sides. “I should go.”

The words hit harder than they should have. Your fingers twitched against your glass, but before you could stop yourself, you reached out.

Your hand caught his wrist—not tightly, not intentionally forceful, but enough. Enough that you felt the sharp contrast of cold metal beneath his jacket sleeve.

Bucky went still.

You loosened your grip, but didn’t let go.

"Why?" The word tumbled out before you could stop it, voice quieter than you intended, but steady. “Why tell me this? Why trust me at all?”

He didn’t answer.

Not at first.

His gaze flicked down to where your fingers rested against his wrist before lifting back to your face, unreadable. The pause stretched long enough that you thought he wouldn’t speak at all, but then—

“I don’t know.” A quiet admission. “Maybe I don’t.”

That should’ve been the end of it. He should’ve left. But you weren’t done.

“Then why keep me guessing?” you pressed. “Why give me just enough to chase but never enough to catch?”

He looked at you for a long moment. "Maybe I just like the way you ask questions."

You swallowed, trying to keep your voice steady. "That's not an answer."

"No," he said softly. "It's not."

The moment stretched between you until he finally stepped back, breaking the fragile thread that had formed.

You nodded, even though you wanted him to stay.

He hesitated for half a second. Then he reached into his jacket, pulled out a folded napkin, and slid it toward you. When you unfolded it, you found another puzzle scrawled in his careful handwriting. No name. No explanation.

He was giving you another meeting.

Bucky stood, adjusting his jacket, and for the first time that night, he looked like he’d made a choice of his own.

“See you around, journalist.”

Then he was gone, leaving nothing behind but an empty glass.

─────────────────────────────── The coffee shop was barely awake.

A handful of chairs scraped lazily against the pavement as early risers settled in, the quiet hum of conversation mixing with the hiss of steaming milk. The city felt muted at this hour, still rubbing the sleep from its eyes.

You pulled your jacket tighter against the morning chill and took another sip of your cappuccino.

It was too early for this.

You weren’t a morning person—never had been—and yet here you were, fighting off exhaustion at an hour that felt like an insult to anyone with a normal sleep cycle. Bucky’s time. Bucky’s place. And Bucky?

Late.

You sighed, resisting the urge to check your watch again. It had been a few days since the bar, since he had left you with another meeting and just enough to keep you waiting.

Maybe he wasn’t coming. Maybe you’d read too much into the napkin and the hesitation behind it. Maybe—

A shape moved in your periphery.

Bucky Barnes, as subtle as a gun under a jacket, hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched against the morning light. Sunglasses. A baseball cap pulled low, the kind of look that made him more suspicious than if he’d just walked in with his face bared to the world.

You didn’t say anything as he approached, just watched as he slid into the chair across from you.

“You’re late,” you said, voice still rough from sleep.

Bucky huffed a small breath, more acknowledgment than apology. “You look like hell.”

You took another slow sip of your coffee. “I’m not a morning person.”

He pushed his sunglasses up slightly, just enough to scan the menu on the table between you, though it didn’t seem like he was actually reading it. You waited, watching the way his jaw ticked, the slight tension in his shoulders.

Then he moved to scoot his chair forward.

And winced.

Not much. A flicker of discomfort, a small hitch in his breath. But you caught it.

Your fingers curled around your cup. “You alright?”

Bucky stilled, like he was debating whether or not to brush it off. Then, finally, he sighed, shifting slightly in his chair.

“Ran into someone who didn’t like me very much,” he muttered.

“Gonna be more specific?”

“Nope.”

You arched a brow, waiting.

He didn’t elaborate.

Instead, he adjusted his sunglasses, fingers idly tapping against the ceramic sugar holder between you. His knuckles were scraped raw, barely scabbed over. Like he hadn’t let them heal before using them again.

You exhaled slowly, eyes flicking over him—the stiffness, the tension, the careful way he was sitting.

“You sure you don’t need a doctor?” you asked.

He smirked, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You offering?”

“No,” you said, setting your cup down. “But I know a guy who doesn’t ask questions.”

Bucky shook his head. “I’m good.”

He leaned back slightly, tipping his head toward the city around you, as if he were just now remembering that normal life still existed. The early commuters, the hum of traffic, the clinking of silverware. It all moved without him, without any of it touching him.

You could see it—the way he still felt like an intruder in a world that had kept going without him.

“You’re thinking too loud,” you said, watching him.

His lips twitched, almost amused, but the exhaustion beneath it was real.

“Habit.”

You took another sip of your coffee, letting the silence stretch. It was a quiet kind of waiting. Not prying. Just letting him get there on his own.

Bucky exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders, like he was trying to shake something loose in his head. Then, finally—

“You ever have a moment that changes everything?”

Your fingers tightened around the ceramic of your cup.

“That’s a hell of a question for this early in the morning.”

A low huff of amusement. “Yeah.” He ran his tongue along the inside of his cheek, thinking. Then—"Why’d you become a journalist?"

The question caught you off guard. You blinked, fingers tightening slightly around your cup, the warmth bleeding into your skin. “That’s a hell of a pivot.”

He didn’t shrug, didn’t offer some deflective smirk like you half-expected. Just waited, watching you in that way he did—silent, assessing, giving nothing, expecting everything.

You exhaled slowly, tipping your head slightly. “I don’t know. Always wanted to. Always liked digging.”

Bucky huffed, something dry, almost amused. “Yeah, I noticed.”

You ignored that, rolling your cup between your hands. 

The ceramic was warm, grounding, something to focus on as you considered what to say next. You didn’t have to tell him anything. That wasn’t how this worked—you asked the questions, you waited for the cracks to show, you pieced the truth together whether or not they wanted to give it to you.

But that wasn’t what this was anymore, was it?

He had already given you something—a glimpse, a fraction of whatever was going on behind that careful, guarded exterior. And if you wanted more, if you wanted him to trust you enough to give you anything real, then maybe… maybe you had to give him something first.

You exhaled slowly, tilting your head. “I think I just wanted the truth to mean something. Not just what people get fed in carefully packaged press releases, not the version of the world that fits neatly into headlines.” Your fingers curled against the cup, pressing lightly against the ceramic. “I wanted to find the stories that weren’t being told. The ones that actually mattered.”

Bucky watched you, silent, unreadable.

You glanced at him, tilting your head. “The kind of truth people like you usually keep quiet.”

His jaw tightened slightly, but he didn’t interrupt.

You exhaled sharply, shifting in your chair. This was a risk. Not a big one, not compared to the things you’d pried out of people before, but still—you were putting something on the table first. Maybe that was the only way this would work.

“I was there, you know.”

His brows pulled together slightly. “Where?”

“The GRC conference two years ago, after the Flag Smashers hit,” you said. “When Sam Wilson gave that speech.”

That got a reaction. Subtle, but it was there—the small shift in his posture, the slight tightening of his fingers. His expression didn’t change, but you saw the flicker of something behind his eyes, the quick flash of memory.

You took another sip of your coffee, remembering the way the air had felt that day—charged, raw, like the whole city was holding its breath. The sky had been overcast, thick with storm-heavy clouds that never quite broke, the wind carrying the lingering scent of fire, of rubber burned into pavement.

You had been standing behind the barricades, notebook in hand, the press section too stunned, too thrown off script to even pretend at neutrality.

You remembered the ripple of movement through the crowd when Sam Wilson had landed, when he had walked forward, the shield strapped to his back, his presence cutting through the lingering smoke like the weight of history itself.

You remembered the moment when the murmurs of confusion had sharpened into realization.

Not Walker. Not Rogers.

Captain America.

You remembered watching Bucky, too—just for a second.

Not up front. Not standing at Sam’s side. Just off to the right, past the line of cameras, near the edges of the crowd where the light didn’t quite reach. He had been watching, but not as a soldier waiting for orders, not as a man ready for another fight.

It had been something else entirely.

Not resignation.

Not relief.

Something in between.

"You were there," he repeated, voice lower now.

You nodded. “Not front row or anything. I remember thinking—” You stopped yourself, exhaling sharply through your nose. “Doesn’t matter.”

Bucky tilted his head slightly. “No. Go ahead.”

You studied him, watching the way he watched you. A strange tension stretched between you, something unspoken, unacknowledged. You sighed, looking away.

“I remember thinking that this guy—this new Captain America—was out of his mind.”

Bucky’s lips twitched slightly, but he didn’t speak.

“I mean, the whole thing was messy. The GRC was scrambling, the whole city was still shaking, and here comes Sam Wilson standing in the middle of it, telling these people—these politicians—that they had to do better.” You scoffed, shaking your head slightly. “Not a war. Not a battlefield. Just a man with a microphone telling the people who actually run the world that they were screwing everything up.”

You looked at him then, something settling in your ribs. “And I remember wondering—who the hell is actually listening?”

Bucky exhaled through his nose, shifting slightly in his chair. He didn’t speak, didn’t react right away.

But then he finally said it. “I was.”

You swallowed, heartbeat pressing against the inside of your throat. “I figured.”

Bucky’s fingers drummed lightly against the table. “And you? What, that speech change everything for you?”

You huffed, shaking your head. “No. I was already in it. Already reporting. Already writing. I just—I think that was the moment I realized that sometimes the truth actually lands.” You glanced at him. “Even if it takes a while.”

Bucky’s jaw twitched slightly, like he was chewing over something unspoken. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Even if it takes a while.”

Bucky shifted, rolling his shoulders again, like the weight of the conversation was pressing into him, setting into the spaces between his ribs. He let out a slow breath, fingers curling and uncurling against the edge of the table.

"That whole time, I kept thinking—this is the part where it’s supposed to end," he said, his voice low, measured. "Walker loses the shield. Sam takes it. I finish what I started with my list, make peace with what I can, and that’s it."

He exhaled through his nose, shaking his head slightly. "But then I’m standing there, watching him, listening to him say all that, and I realize—I have no fucking idea what comes next."

He tapped his fingers once against the tabletop, like it was an unconscious tic. “It was easier when there was a mission. When I had orders. Even when I was breaking them.” His jaw flexed. “Amends weren’t orders, but they were something. A list I could check off. Proof that I was trying.”

You didn’t speak.

Bucky’s fingers curled against the table, his shoulders going rigid. “And then I was done. Or at least, I was supposed to be. I’d done everything on my list. The shield wasn’t in the wrong hands anymore. Sam had it. He did the damn thing, stood there in front of the world and told them they had to do better.”

His mouth twitched slightly, but there was no humor in it. “And the worst part? I actually believed him.”

You felt something settle deep in your chest.

He ran a hand over his jaw, exhaling slowly. "I believed him, and that scared the hell out of me. Because it meant I still cared." His voice was quieter now, like the admission cost him something. "And if I still cared, it meant I had to do something about it."

You studied him, his sharp profile, the way he was always braced for impact, even when sitting still. “So, you decided to run for office?”

He scoffed, shaking his head. "No. I didn’t decide a damn thing."

You waited.

His hand curled into a fist against his thigh, his knuckles pressing against denim. “She called me two days after that speech,” he muttered. "Valentina."

Your stomach twisted slightly.

Bucky exhaled through his nose, his expression unreadable. "Said she was keeping an eye on me. That people were interested in what I was gonna do next." His fingers tapped once against the table, like a slow countdown. "And then she gave me a choice that wasn’t a choice at all."

You lifted your chin slightly. "Which was?"

He tilted his head slightly, watching you now, his gaze unreadable behind the dark lenses of his sunglasses. "The same thing it always is with people like her. Do this or let someone worse do it instead."

A cold weight settled in your ribs.

"So, what, you took the deal?" you asked carefully.

Bucky leaned back slightly, dragging his thumb along the edge of the table. "Yeah. I did."

Your fingers curled around your cup, the warmth of the coffee suddenly too thin against the cold creeping up your spine. "Because you wanted to? Or because she backed you into a corner?"

He let out a breath, slow and even. "Maybe both."

The weight of those words hit harder than you expected.

Bucky flexed his fingers against the tabletop, shaking his head slightly. “I don’t like politics. I don’t trust them. But I know how this works. Someone like me doesn’t get to disappear. Not really. They either use me, or they take me off the board completely."

Your stomach twisted slightly. "So, you let them use you instead."

His jaw twitched slightly, like he hated hearing it out loud. "I figured if someone was gonna be in the room, it might as well be someone who actually gave a shit."

You exhaled, watching him carefully. “And do you?”

He didn’t hesitate.

"Yeah," he muttered. "I do."

You sat back slightly, watching the way his shoulders squared like he was bracing for something. “That speech,” you murmured. “It gave you a new fight.”

Bucky scoffed slightly, shaking his head. "That speech gave me a headache."

You lifted a brow.

His lips twitched, but his voice was quieter when he continued. "It also made me realize I wasn’t done yet."

You turned his words over in your head, the slow unraveling of this whole thing finally clicking into place. The amends. The shield. The war he thought he was walking away from, only to find himself pulled into a new kind of battle.

One that wasn’t fought with fists or a gun.

One that wouldn’t end with blood on his hands.

Something settled between you, heavy but not suffocating. A quiet understanding.

Bucky flexed his fingers once more before gripping the edge of the table and pushing himself to his feet. He didn’t wince this time, but you knew it was a near thing.

"Anyway," he muttered, adjusting the cap on his head. "That’s your story. You gonna print it?"

You let the question sit, rolling it over in your mind, in your gut.

Then, finally—"No."

Bucky’s head tilted slightly at your answer, something unreadable passing through his expression. A flicker of something like curiosity, or maybe just mild disbelief.

“No?” he repeated.

You shook your head. “No.”

He exhaled through his nose, adjusting the cap on his head, his gaze flicking briefly to the street beyond the café. “Guess we both wasted our time, then.”

You pushed back your chair and stood with him, the scrape of metal against pavement sharp in the quiet morning air.

“Maybe,” you said, sliding a few bills under your half-empty cup. “Or maybe it was never about getting a story.”

That made him pause.

His hands stilled where they had just shoved into his pockets, and he turned his head just slightly, like he was measuring the weight of your words.

Your lips pressed together for a moment before you huffed softly, pulling your jacket on. “I don’t think you really wanted me to print it, anyway.”

His gaze flicked to yours, assessing, sharp, like he was trying to decide if you meant that or if you were just good at lying to yourself.

A beat passed. Then another.

"You always this bad at your job?"

You huffed a quiet laugh, glancing away. "Depends on who you ask."

He rolled his shoulders slightly, shifting like he was testing the stiffness in his muscles, seeing how much pain he could move through before it caught up to him. You could feel him watching you, like he was trying to decide if this conversation was actually over, or if you had more to pull from him.

But you didn’t. Not this time.

"You keep digging like this, someone’s gonna take that shovel from you," he muttered, tugging his cap lower over his brow.

You smirked, tilting your head. "Yeah? You volunteering?"

He scoffed, but there was something like amusement in it. "Nah. I got enough problems."

You eyed him for a second, then took the last sip of your coffee, grimacing slightly when it had gone cold. “Yeah, well. Speaking of problems, you could use a better speechwriter.”

Bucky snorted, shaking his head. “That bad?”

You shrugged. “I’ve heard worse. But you’re not a politician. You don’t talk like one, and the second you try, people smell the bullshit.”

He considered that, tapping his fingers against his crossed arms. “So, what? You offering?”

You let out a short laugh. “I already have a job, Barnes.”

He hummed, adjusting his jacket, hands settling into his pockets. “Didn’t say you had to quit.”

You narrowed your eyes slightly, searching his face for any indication of how serious he was. "Are you actually offering?"

Bucky scoffed, but his mouth twitched like he was fighting the urge to actually smile. “I don’t know. You got any experience making guys like me look good on paper?"

You clicked your tongue. "Not enough to work miracles, but I can fake it."

Bucky exhaled, shaking his head slightly, but there was something lighter in the motion, something that hadn’t been there before. "Think about it."

You huffed, watching him as he turned slightly, hands still shoved deep in his pockets. 

Then he hesitated. Just for a second.

And without looking at you, he pulled one hand free, fingers curled around a small scrap of paper. He held it between two fingers, loose, like it didn’t really matter if you took it or not.

"Here," he muttered, voice gruff.

You glanced at the paper before taking it, your fingers brushing against his just briefly as you unfolded it. The handwriting was small, deliberate. A phone number.

You stared at it for a beat before looking back up at him.

“What, you’re not gonna make me solve another puzzle this time?”

He huffed, something like amusement flickering across his face. “Figured I’d make it easy. Just this once.”

You rolled your eyes, tucking the paper into your pocket before you could think better of it. “Generous.”

Bucky shifted his weight slightly, watching you, and for a second, neither of you spoke.

Something settled between you—not quite trust, not quite anything defined, but something real.

"Just promise me one thing," you said, before you even realized you were saying it.

He glanced at you, waiting.

"Don’t let them use you up," you murmured.

Something shifted in his expression, something heavy but not unkind. He watched you for a long moment, then exhaled slowly, dipping his chin in something like acknowledgment.

Then he turned, disappearing into the waking city.

You stood there for a second longer, rolling his words around in your head, the offer that wasn’t really an offer, the door he had left cracked open just enough to be stepped through.

You sighed, dragging a hand through your hair before stepping away from the table, shoving your hands deep into your coat pockets. Your fingers brushed against the folded paper he’d slid into your jacket at the fundraiser days ago—the first invitation, the first test.

And now?

Now, it wasn’t a test anymore.

You weren’t naive. You knew what Bucky Barnes was, what people like Valentina wanted him to be. He wasn’t the first man in power who didn’t belong there, who had been placed on a chessboard he never asked to play on. But the difference—the thing that had been picking at the back of your brain since the moment he left that scrap of paper in your pocket—was that he wasn’t running away from it.

He wasn’t a politician. He wasn’t a soldier anymore, either. So what did that make him?

You thought of his hesitation when he spoke about Valentina. The way his jaw twitched when he admitted she had given him a “choice.” The way he still spoke about Sam Wilson’s speech, like the words had sunk in too deep to shake loose.

Maybe Bucky Barnes was trying to make the world better. Maybe he didn’t believe he could, but he was trying anyway.

And in the end, wasn’t that why you were still here, too?

You exhaled, tilting your head up toward the slow-rising sun, watching the light burn away the last of the morning mist. A journalist and a congressman. Two people who had spent their entire lives watching the world be torn apart at the hands of people who claimed they wanted to fix it.

And now, both of you had walked into a different kind of war.

You had spent years pulling apart stories, digging into the rot behind the headlines, trying to carve out something real in a world that wanted everything neatly packaged. He had spent years tearing apart governments, leaving bloodstains on the very systems he was now trying to navigate from the inside.

Neither of you were supposed to be here.

Neither of you were supposed to want to be here.

But here you were.

You didn’t know what came next. Didn’t know if his “think about it” was serious or if this was just another moment that would unravel as soon as you tried to hold onto it.

But you had his number now. Had a conversation that wasn’t just a quote in a column.

And Bucky Barnes—whether he realized it or not—had just given you a reason to keep digging.

You smiled to yourself, shaking your head as you finally stepped away from the table.

Maybe he had a point.

Maybe you weren’t done yet, either.

Read part 2 here!

Defenseless in Love

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x female reader

Word Count: 3.6K

Summary: You've been friends with Sam for a while and you've trained with him here and there but never really got to the point where you feel you could properly defend yourself and when you ask him to teach you self-defense his new job as Captain America makes him a little less available so he directs you to his friend Bucky.

Author's Note: I always loved the thought of Bucky teaching us to be badass and even though he's lethal he's gentle and patient and wonderful! Thank you all so much for reading! Much love always! ❤️❤️❤️Divider by the lovely @firefly-graphics thank you Daisy! 🥰

Warnings: lots of fluff and flirty things and tension and a minor (totally fine) injury, soft Bucky

 “Why me?”

“Why not you?” Sam raises a brow, setting his hands on his hips.

Bucky remains quiet with a shake of his head.

“She doesn’t want to take a class. Says it makes her uncomfortable and she would rather train one on one with someone she trusts.”

“Then you do it,” Bucky sighs.

“I can’t.”

Bucky pins Sam with an incredulous glare.

“I’m kinda busy at the moment,” Sam explains with a lopsided smirk. “You know…Captain America and all.”

Bucky’s jaw tightens and he mindlessly stirs the spoon in his coffee.

“How do you know I won’t make her uncomfortable?”

The words are quietly spoken, and Bucky’s eyes stay fixed on the dark liquid in front of him.

“Buck,” Sam says softly. “I told her I was going to ask you to do it and that I trust you completely.”

Bucky looks up to meet Sam’s eyes.

“She was fine with it. She said, ‘if you trust him then I do too.’”

He’s tall, with tousled dark hair and a strong jaw covered with dark stubble. He stands and waits, his arms crossed over his torso in a way that makes the muscles in his chest and forearms shift deliciously. And his eyes…his eyes are a shade of blue that rivals the ocean. They’re gorgeous-like the rest of him.

Taking a deep breath, you remove yourself from the hidden shadows just outside the gym door and grab the handle.

His head snaps in your direction, his gaze turning fully on you and making your heart skip a beat.

He says your name; his voice is low and gravelly, and it skates down your spine with a tingle. You nod and say hello.

“I was wondering how long you were going to stand out there.”

You suck in a breath and your lips remain parted.

“First lesson,” he continues, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly, “always be aware of your surroundings.”

“Right,” you manage to say as you step inside and let the door shut.

An hour later, after stretching and taking the time to talk through any jitters you’re standing in front of Bucky in your best defensive stance.

“That’s really the best you’ve got?” he says, his tone neither mocking or malicious.

“I’m more dangerous than you think,” you bluster.

The corners of his mouth rise into a challenging smirk.

You hate how beautiful he is. It’s a distraction and if you really want to learn you’re going to have to steel yourself against it.

He wiggles his fingers in your direction, and you pause.

“Shouldn’t you be attacking me first?” you ask. “Isn’t that why I need to learn to defend myself…you know self-defense.”

“I just want to see what I’m working with here,” he replies, keeping those perfect lips titled upward.

You let out a long exhale and rush toward him, barely able to register what happens before you’re wrapped in his arms, your back pressed tightly to his chest. You struggle in his grip, moving against him to try and loosen his hold.

He goes still and you swear he stops breathing for a heartbeat before he let’s you go.

You spin and face him again, breathing heavily and not from exertion. This time he moves toward you, and holy shit he’s fast. You try to swipe his feet out from under him in a move that he artfully dodges and captures your arm. The earth spins and you brace for the impact of your back smacking the mat but instead all you feel is the strength of his arms behind you as he holds you up and slowly lets you sink down. He leans down so his face is only inches from yours, “you’re strong,” he whispers, “but you’re gonna need more finesse.”

You huff in response, but he releases you and stands, offering you a hand. “We’re not done yet. We’ve barely gotten started.”

He tugs you to your feet, then twists your arm behind your back and yanks you against his hard chest, pinning your joined hands before you even catch your balance.

“Shit,” you snap, trying to steady your breathing.

He releases your hand and steps back and you whirl, going for a punch to his throat. He knocks your hand aside easily.

“Good,” he says with a smile, deflecting your next blow without even breaking a sweat. “Going for the throat is always a good option as long as it’s exposed.”

You kick out again, mostly from frustration, and he captures your leg, this time, holding it for a second before dropping it to the mat with a frown. “I expect you to learn from your mistakes.”

Your frustration turns to fury, and you glare at him, noting the way he stands there with loose arms, rocking back on his heels.

“You’re not even trying,” you grit out.

His lips curve into a smile and this time you don’t think, you just act, going low and kicking out the backs of his knees. He goes down hard, and you pounce, trying for a headlock. Doesn’t matter how big someone is- they still need to breathe.

Instead of going for your arms, he twists, grabbing a hold of the backs of your thighs so you lose your leverage and your bodies careen into a roll. Of course, he lands on top.

His forearm rests against your throat and his hips have you pinned; your legs useless on either side of his as he lies heavily between your thighs. Your body becomes so acutely aware of him that he’s all you can feel. Your breath catches and your body warms.

“Where did you learn that move?” he asks with an approving smile.

Your chin lifts. “Sam taught me a few things here and there.”

“If your opponent is bigger you need to stop going for moves that will expose you,” he explains, keeping you pressed to the mat with his weight. “A rib shot would work just fine.” He gently pulls your hand free and drags your fingertips down his side. Then he guides your hands around his back. “Kidneys are a good fit from this angle too.”

You swallow hard, refusing to let your mind wander to other things that are a good fit in this position.

He leads your hands to his waist and you’re sure you feel the muscles of his abdominals tense under your touch. “There’s weakness here too. Three easy places to strike.”

You stare at him, your fingers still pressed against his shirt and feeling the hardness beneath.

“You hear me doll?”

You nod.

“This looks promising,” Sam says with a mischievous tone.

You’re suddenly reminded of your surroundings and the realization of your current entanglement with Bucky makes your skin heat.

“Sam!” you say as you try and get out from under Bucky.

Bucky presses up from the mat a few inches and then slides your hand away from his side, slowly, inch by inch.

“That’s it?” you ask, surprised at the disappointment you feel.

“I hate to break it up, but I need Bucky,” Sam says.

Bucky pushes up all the way, removing his weight from your body and offering you another hand. You don’t take it this time and rise from the mat with ease. His approving smile makes you feel warm all the way down to your toes.

Sam’s smile is wide and knowing but you ignore it, focusing on Bucky.

“I’ll be right there Wilson,” Bucky says, the short dismissal enough to get Sam to give you two privacy.

“You did well,” Bucky says, filling the space in front of you.

Your head drops and you scoff, kicking at some invisible object on the mat. Warm, strong fingers press gently under your chin and raise your face until your eyes lock with ocean blue.

“You did,” he says again.

“Thanks,” you whisper, mourning the loss of his fingers when he drops his hand.

“I’ll be more organized next time…if you want to do this again.”

“I do,” you answer quickly. “I want to feel safe. And strong.”

Bucky nods. “You will doll.”

The next week you’re back at the gym, feeling more confident and even more comfortable. After your first session you and Bucky exchanged phone numbers, the text messages flowing easily between you the past few days. This time you open the door without hesitation and find Bucky leaning against the far wall, cutting the pieces off a plum with a knife. His eyes lift and lock with yours just as he opens his mouth to pop a bite in.

Your entire body tingles.

He didn’t lie when he said he’d be more prepared and organized for this session. He works you through some stretches and a warmup and then takes you through several take downs step by step, each one building on the next. You’re moving faster and even getting a few hits in here and there. The confidence fuels you and coupled with some adrenaline you really push yourself, pressing Bucky to work you harder.

He does but when you try something new, something he wasn’t anticipating, you end up ramming your ribs into his metal forearm. It’s completely by accident but knocks the wind out of you nonetheless and you fall to your knees to catch your breath.

“Shit doll,” Bucky says, falling down next to you and grabbing your shoulders. “I’m so sorry.”

You wheeze out an “I’m ok,” and when you look up to reassure him, the lines of worry etched into his features make it even harder to breathe.

“Let me see,” he says, the panic in his eyes softening your own before he looks down at your side.

“I’m fine,” you say.

His focus snaps back to your eyes. “Don’t lie to me.”

“It hurts,” you admit after a stuttered inhale.

“Let me see,” he says again.

“Is that a request or a demand?” you ask, trying to sound teasing.

“You pick as long as I can check to see how bad it is.”

You swallow, then nod, reaching for the hem of your shirt. He stops you with a soft hand and then with surprising gentleness his fingers skim your bare skin as he slowly lifts your shirt. You suppress a shiver, locking your muscles so you don’t melt against him.

“Sorry if my hands are cold,” he says, clearing his throat as more of your skin is exposed.

Your eyes meet and warmth flutters in your stomach. He drops his eyes and inspects your side, gentle fingers stroking your ribs before they prod carefully.

“You’re gonna have one hell of a bruise doll. I really am sorry.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong and thanks for checking.”

He drags your shirt back down, letting his knuckles graze you skin in the process. He waits for you to stand, watching you closely and letting out a relieved exhale when he notices your breathing is more even.

Your eyes widen when he drops to his knees in front of you. “Your shoe is untied.”

“Oh.”

Your hands twitch at your sides, his long, soft strands of hair at the perfect level for you to run your fingers through.

“Thank you.”

He gives you a real smile, not a cocky smirk or a teasing tilt to his lips. A real, honest, heart-stopping smile that you’re anything but immune to.

“It’s the least I could do after…that.”

“Not your fault Bucky,” you assure him again. “It happened by complete accident.”

Bucky texts you at least forty-seven times over the next week, constantly checking in and asking about your ribs. But you’re still surprised when the day before you’re next session he calls, asking if you want to meet for breakfast beforehand.

“This place has the best coffee. And muffins. And scones,” he says as he holds the door open for you.

You laugh and walk through, instantly soothed by the smell of coffee beans and baked goods. “And you know this because you’ve tried them all of course.”

“Of course,” he says while rubbing his stomach.

Your eyes track the movement and you’re positive you can see ridges of muscles beneath his shirt. It takes all your concentration to tear your gaze away and focus on the menu. After ordering your drinks and two of everything baked you head for your seats.

You try it all and let Bucky eat the rest, marveling at how he packs it away and doesn’t even seem fazed.

“I wish I could eat like that and look like you.”

The comment comes out before you can stop it, and your eyes widen slightly when they meet his narrowed ones.

“You look perfect,” he says, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Eat whatever you want. You’re gonna need the energy today.”

He gives you one of his signature teasing smirks and you stand. “Bring it on Barnes!”

The walk to the gym is short but the weather is warm, and you can feel a light sheen of sweat coating the back of your neck. The hot coffee you’re drinking doesn’t help either but it’s too good to not finish.

He holds the door open for you and then walks in, sipping his coffee as he goes. You bend over to retrieve something from your bag, and he takes a misstep, his focus on your ass instead of where he’s going.

With a tumble forward his coffee follows suit, his momentum forcing the liquid out of the cup and onto his shirt. He catches himself before he looks like a complete fool, but the damage is done. His shirt is soaked through on the front with the last of his coffee.

“AH shit,” he sighs, pulling the wet material from his stomach.

“What happened?” you ask, your brows furrowed as you turn toward him. “Did you trip?”

“Um…yeah, something like that,” he says. “I have to change.”

He reaches behind his back and starts to lift his shirt, slowly revealing tanned skin that’s all sharp lines and barely restrained power. You’ve seen shirtless men before. Many times. But never Bucky Barnes. You’d start counting his ab muscles if the rest of him wasn’t just as good to look at. Your mouth waters when he turns around and you see the muscled expanse of his back. Even the gold and gray metal plates of his arm move beautifully as he searches for a new shirt.

“Sam usually keeps some stuff stashed in here,” Bucky says.

You think you heard what he said but you’re shamelessly wondering how his skin would feel under your fingertips, how your body would react to having every ounce of him on top of you, over you…in…”

The slam of the small storage door draws your attention downward, and you shake your head to snap out of it.

“Ready?” he asks, a new shirt securely in place.

You walk to the mat and wait.

“Are you sure you’re not still in any pain…?”

“Bucky,” you sigh. “I’m really ok. I have been for days. I appreciate your concern but I’m pretty sure I’m going to need to be able to work through pain sometimes. I don’t think anyone who attacks me will care if I’m injured…”

“You’re right,” he says, pride shining in his eyes. “Let’s go…but first…”

You watch with rapt admiration as he pulls several hidden knives free, his smile growing when he takes the last one out from his boot.

“I want you to learn how to use a weapon. You can carry it with you…just in case.”

He hands you the blade and you hold it in your open palm, noticing the weight of it and how the handle seems just right.

“Wow,” is all you can think to say.

“I had it made for you,” he explains. “Most blades are made for men…you know, big hands, long fingers.”

As if to drive his point home he splays his hand in front of you, showing off just how big and long they can be.

“Right,” you whisper. “I don’t know what to say…thank you Bucky.”

He smiles again. “Now let me teach you how to use it.”

Before you can prepare or react he has you on your back, his weight settled between your thighs. It takes all your willpower not to reach up and brush the stray lock of hair from his forehead.

“You didn’t even give me a heads up,” you whisper, leaning up slightly and letting your lips brush the shell of his ear.

He jerks up, and the heat in his gaze makes you all too aware of everywhere your bodies are touching.

“You know…” he says, his eyes glittering, “distraction is a great way to do some damage.”

His eyes drop to your mouth.

“Are you distracted?” you murmur.

Before he can answer you use a move he taught you and roll him on to his back.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” you sing song.

His eyes meet yours under the fluorescent lights of the gym before dropping to your lips. His metal arm slides up your back, but not in a way to remove you, it’s slow and purposeful for a completely different reason. You can feel the warmth of his touch through your clothing, your skin unbearably hot.

When you shudder in his arms his smile is like a caress and his free hand moves to your cheek, brushing across your skin.

“You have incredibly soft skin,” he murmurs. “I’ve been aching to feel it again since I checked your ribs.”

The admission makes you suck in a breath, and he studies you with an intensity that makes you sway closer. His thumbs stroke along your cheekbones and his heated gaze moves to your mouth. Hands flexing, he draws you forward a few inches before he stops.

“I…” he starts, groaning when your tongue traces your lower lip.

“Bucky.” His name comes out like a whispered plea and it’s all he needs to close the distance. He was just out of reach and now his mouth is on yours, hot and insistent. He cradles the back of your head, trapping you against him as he lays on the mat and you feel every hard line of his body. You clutch the material of his shirt at his chest, parting your lips when he angles your head for a deeper kiss.

“Fuck baby,” he moans, and the sound makes you ravenous. Your hands lift to his hair and it’s just as soft as imagined, your nails scraping lightly over his scalp.

His hips tilt upward, and you gasp at the friction but it’s not enough and in a move that rivals all the others you’ve seen him do he flips you onto your back, the impact so soft you gasp into his mouth. You surrender completely, going pliant beneath him as he claims every line and curve of your mouth with a reckless edge that makes your body sing. He breaks the kiss, sliding his mouth across your jaw, your neck, whispering words of praise as he explores every inch of your skin his lips can find.

The sound of the gym door startles you enough to pull away, but your eyes never leave Bucky’s and when you hear Sam’s voice you let out a giggle.

“You look like you’re…defending yourself well,” Sam says from above you.

“Your timing sucks,” Bucky sighs. “And she could have totally handed me my ass right now if she wanted to.” He smiles down at you with a wink.

Sam pulls Bucky away once again but before he leaves he presses a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth then one to your lips, lingering until Sam starts shouting from the doorway. Later that night you get a text from Bucky-‘I can’t stop thinking about kissing you again.’

You read the words over and over again as your body continuously reminds you exactly what it feels like to have his mouth on yours. Your stomach flutters and you actually press a flattened palm against it, hoping to calm the eruption of butterflies.

After washing up and throwing on some pjs you’re just about to spend the rest of your night watching something streaming on Netflix when you hear a knock at your apartment door. You check the time. It’s late and you’re not expecting anyone…maybe it’s your neighbor?

Standing on your tippy toes you check the peep hole and barely stifle your gasp of surprise.

“I’m glad you checked to see who it was first,” Bucky says when you swing the door open. “That’s part of smart self-defense.”

You stare at his face, then the flowers in his hand, then back at his face.

“Is it too late? Were you asleep?”

His eyes fill with worry but before you let him fret too long you grab his free hand and drag him into your apartment, slamming the door shut and pushing him against it. Without a word you kiss him, softly at first, just a brush of your lips, but he instantly takes over, resting the flowers on the small table by the door and taking you in his arms, spinning you and caging you with your back to the door.

“You always get the upper hand,” you smile against his lips.

“Better get used to it,” he teases, resting his metal hand next to your head as he leans back in, letting his eyes do a warm sweep of your body from head to toe.

“You look magnificent,” he murmurs.

“I’m in my pajamas.” Your reply comes out breathless.

His fingers drops to your shoulder, tracing the soft curve before ghosting down your arm and sliding to where the hem of your tank sits just above your shorts.

“Magnificent,” he repeats, slipping one finger under the material to touch your skin. “And So. Fucking. Soft.”  

“Bucky,” you whisper.

“I know doll,” he says, “but I need to take my time…I want to get my hands and mouth on every inch of you.”

don’t take my heart (don’t break my heart) masterlist

Dustin isn’t allowed to date until his sister, Kate, does. Problem is, he already has a girlfriend. He looks for help in the most unlikely place: the Hellfire Club. (complete)

prequel | my other works | taglist | read on ao3

00. prologue

01. head over heels

02. good old-fashioned lover boy

03. louder than words

04. love is a battlefield

05. bad case of loving you

06. moonage daydream