Thinking About Eddie, Leaned Back And Too Fucking Casual, While You Straddle His Lap With His Cock Buried

another eddie thought.

eddie munson who had to have his head shaved bc his curls were matted so bad when he was younger. as soon as he got taken in to wayne’s care, after spending nearly a year with his dad, his hair was beyond gone. barely brushed, just neglected.

wayne, bless his heart, tried to detangle it. he knew how eddie liked his long hair, he didn’t want to shave it. he even took him to the beauty salon, the beauty school up the road, tried to get them to detangle it. two deep conditions and an hour later, the instructor told him the best they could do was shave it, send him with some product on how to care for it in the future.

eddie was devastated, wayne was guilt ridden, and eddie’s locks were now shaven off right before he had to start at the middle school.

from that point on, eddie was nearly neurotic about brushing his hair every night. getting every single tangle out. ripping through the curls until it’s smooth. frizzy and slightly damaged from the tension, sure, but smooth.

at first, it’s something you try to talk him out of. “you’re ripping your hair out.”

“it’s fine.” eddie grunts, paddle brush tearing through the base of his neck, the most matted and tough curls. “rather lose a little than have to shave it all off again.”

he tells you the story, once, after that. one that leaves your heart aching, despite how he tries to shrug it off. insist it’s not a big deal, that it didn’t bother him- how his father’s neglect hurt him yet again, even after he was taken in with wayne. you know better.

you don’t try to fight him on it anymore. instead, every night, it becomes a ritual that you brush his hair for him. a far gentler touch, more patience to work out each curl and tangled strand. grasping at the base of his head to keep it from tugging and hurting so much.

it’s soft and intimate. leaves eddie’s chest with a warm, gooey thick feeling, and his eyelids fluttering with sleep. trying to keep his head up while you brush his hair, scratching at the scalp, always pressing a kiss to his part when you’re finished.

---

i am weak for shy and nervous eddie munson who fumbles when around his crush. imagine him pining over this girl who he’s never even talked to, (maybe they have different social circles) and he just sees her around with her friends and he is smitten and then one day they accidentally bump into each other and she’s like “you’re eddie right?” and you know he’d be so flustered.

pairing: eddie munson x fem!reader word count: 2.2k

content warnings: lovesick eddie, pining, a little self-deprecation and self-doubt, mostly cheese and fluff, adult language - wildly unedited, oops.

“I hate this fucking school.”

The group exchange knowing glances as Eddie sits at the table with a grumble. His lunch tray lands with a low crash, nearly colliding with Gareth’s juicebox and therefore spilling its contents all over. A huff and quick reflexes on Jeff’s part save the group from catastrophe, more importantly, save the homework the boy had yet to finish ahead of next period. 

Eddie however, doesn’t notice the mess he has almost created. Frankly, he’s not paying attention. Even when Gareth tells him to, “Watch it, dude.”. The metal-head flicks his hand to say he’s sorry for whatever it is that his friends are chastising him for, but his eyes are fixed ahead, on the sole reason he’s in such a grumpy mood.

You.

Or rather Steve the dick Harrington, who’s got his arm draped shamelessly around your shoulders, as if he wasn’t just publicly humiliating Nancy Wheeler — since up until mere twenty-four hours ago, Hawkins High thought the blue-eyed girl was the King’s girlfriend, not you.

Eddie’s miserable. When did this happen? How did this even happen?

Last night, Steve and Nancy were all over each other. Eddie knows this to be fact since he saw them together at that party he wasn’t invited to as a guest, but to work because the popular kids always need a fix and he needs to make a living if he’s ever going to leave this shithole town. Anyway, that’s when Eddie saw the “it” couple and yet, now Nancy is nowhere to be seen and you’re snuggling into Harrington.

“I hate this fucking school,” Eddie repeats, sticking his fork into today’s cafeteria lunch. “Everyone is so two-faced and fake. No one has any integrity.”

The guys don’t need to follow his line of sight because they know very well who and what the metal-head is talking about.

“Maybe if you just talked to her, then you wouldn’t be so miserable today.” Jeff notes without looking up from his homework. “Plus, I overheard Charmaine tell Julie that Harrington is continuing to hold a candle for Nancy. This thing over there, that you’re obsessing over, is just friends being friends.”

“Doesn’t look like just friends to me,” Eddie grumbles, then looks at Jeff. “And I tried talking to her. It’s just, every time I do, my mind goes blank.”

Gareth rolls his eyes. “Dude, she’s not some superbeing. She’s a girl from our school. You’ve got no problem talking to other girls?”

Eddie doesn’t say anything because how does he go about explaining to his friends that to him, you’re more than a girl from school. It’s embarrassing enough how he’s never talked to you and yet, you occupy his entire mind and soul. The guys think it’s just another crush. Eddie knows it’s not. He can’t tell them though because they’ll laugh him out of it. Eddie the freak Munson is very much pining after a girl who doesn’t know he exists. Pathetic.

So, as any respectable guy in his situation would, Eddie continues to wallow in his own self-pity. 

He stares at you throughout the remainder of the lunch break, narrowly avoiding your gaze here and there by simply looking away. His downcast humour continues throughout the rest of the day. Since he doesn’t often engage in class anyway, the teachers pay him no mind. Although, their reasons are different: a quiet Eddie Munson is better than one who causes various disturbances. After the final bell ring, he hurries out of the building and blares music the entire drive home, to fizz out his thoughts.

Called into work. Here’s some cash. Go to the diner. 

Wayne

Eddie sighs. The one thing he was hoping for were his uncle's words of wisdom, although it seems that will also have to wait. Eddie slides the note into the pocket of his denim jeans and he is out the door again.

The diner is about thirty minutes away from the trailer, by foot. The metal-head decided to walk it anyway, hoping the fresh air would knock some sense into him because he’s got no business feeling this emotionally shattered. 

Maybe if he wasn’t such a bitch boy around you, things would be different. Unfortunately, for some reason, ever since he first laid eyes on you, Eddie’s default is shy.

Okay, maybe you and Harrington are a thing now, so what? Eddie’s got no claim on you, unspoken or otherwise. You can date whoever, even if it’s Steve the asshole. It’s also not like you and Nancy are friends. Everyone at school knows you two run in different circles, meaning no girl-code is being broken. There is also the possibility of what Jeff overheard from Charmaine and Julie being true: you and Harrington are nothing but friends. Very friendly friends. Touchy, feely. And Eddie would have noticed earlier if it were simply the case of friendship, therefore, he concludes that you are in fact dating Steve the douche Harrington and he somehow has to come to terms with it.

Eddie pushes the door open and makes a beeline for an empty booth. He orders a burger with fries and a soda from the middle-aged waitress, then whips out a notebook from his backpack while he waits. The only one he carries and it’s not for any schoolwork. The numbers scribbled hastily in the margins are easily mistaken for maths, but that’s just business. He focuses instead on the latest D&D campaign he’s working on.

For a moment, the metal-head forgets about today's events. He gets lost in the fictional world he’s creating. The made up monsters replace any harboured thoughts of you with Steve the turd, although one closely resembles Harrington's famous head of hair and he smirks, proud of himself for the immaturity. He figures if girls can write about their demons in journals, he can bring them into D&D. Bring them, then kill them.

He’s just about finished marking a big cross over the doodle of monster Steve when a figure steps in front of the light, creating a shadow over his notebook. Eddie sighs, foot tapping underneath the table in frustration. He’s about to make a rude remark, but when he looks up to meet the eyes of the perpetrator, he’s met with your wide gaze and naturally, he freezes.

“I like your drawings,” you say.

“Uhm, t-thanks,” he fumbles.

“You’re Eddie, right?”

All he can do is nod in response and you smile. Small and charming. Enough to make the brunette’s head spin and pinch his leg because he can’t believe this is happening. Surely, this must be a dream of some sort. He came home and passed out on the sofa. The only logical explanation for why you would be talking to him, complementing his stupid little doodles. The only logical explanation for why you know his fucking name.

“We’ve never officially met,” you begin and reach out your hand. 

Eddie glances at it and without really thinking, he utters, “I know who you are.”

It comes out a little more mean than he intends it to, he knows because you retreat your hand as if you’ve been burned. Eddie’s heart stings. Now he knows it’s real since only he’d be stupid enough to ruin a good thing before it even began. He’s an asshole.

“Sorry,” he mumbles quickly, then straightens in his seat. “Do you wanna sit? I-I have fries.”

He chews on the inside of his cheek for how incredibly pathetic that sounded; fries. You however, don’t notice and you’re also kind enough not to point out how he’s stumbling about his words like a little schoolkid.

“I love french fries.”

And with that, you’re sliding into the booth, across from him.

Eddie watches in disbelief as you help yourself to his food, not just the potato side, as if the two of you have been friends a lifetime. Then, probably to confuse him even more, you start telling him about how your parents locked you out and how it’s nice to see a familiar face, while he’s sitting there in silence, taking it all in, wondering whether perhaps this was some cruel joke Harrington and his band of losers were playing on him.

He wants to ask. Save himself the embarrassment if this does end up being a prank and tomorrow’s gossip: Eddie the freak Munson thought he had a chance. You keep talking, only taking small pauses to take bites out of his food or a sip of his soda, and to Eddie’s surprise nothing happens. No one jumps out screaming, laughing, pointing at him. This is really happening and he is truly baffled.

“Can we get another burger meal and the same soda?” You order from the waitress when she comes around to check the tables and afterwards, turn to look at Eddie, smile ever present. “Kinda ate most of yours.”

“It’s fine,” he manages to say.

For the first time since you sat down, it’s quiet. Now you’re the one staring at him, head tilted slightly to the one side. The smile on your face transforms into something more thoughtful, as if you were trying to read his mind — which is exactly the same thing Eddie was trying to do to you.

“So,” you begin again, “What were you scribbling intently before I crashed the party?”

“Just some stuff for an afterschool thing,” Eddie answers with a shrug, voice a little shaky.

“Mysterious.”

The sparkle in your eyes screams that you want to know more, but the metal-head is hesitant to share. Even though this wasn’t part of some scheme by Hawkins’ finest, it didn’t mean there wasn’t a different underlying reason as to why you were taking interest in him and he didn’t like when people made a fool of him.

Eddie clears his throat.

“Did your parents really lock you out?” He questions.

A brow goes up, it seems you are surprised at his push back. 

“Yes,” you say matter-of-factly, then add, “They do this sort of thing from time to time. They’re big hippies, so it’s not like neglect or anything. It’s weed. They don’t want me home when they’re high because they think it would make me undermine their authority.”

Eddie smirks and you tell him it’s not funny, but he can’t help the chuckle leave his throat. When you throw a fry at him across the table, smiling wide, he’s no longer feeling the nervous bubble. In fact, he’s suddenly quite relaxed.

“I’m sorry that I’m a good daughter. Next time I’ll be sure to pick a less judgemental table” you say dramatically, although the grin doesn’t leave your features.

The brunette lifts his hands in front of his chest in a defence motion.

“No judgement here. My social status requires me to second guess reasons people have for talking to me. I had to make sure your boyfriend wasn’t going to jump me the second we stepped outside.”

“Boyfriend?” You seem genuinely taken aback by the assumption.

“Harrington,” he clarifies, although he’s not sure why he should be.

Until you laugh. It’s soft and tender, but it’s a laugh nonetheless.

“Steve’s not my boyfriend,” you state in between giggles, “He’s madly in love with Wheeler. God, does the whole school think we’re dating? He’s gonna hate that. Poor Nancy.”

Eddie blinks. Seems Julie’s information was correct, but it still doesn’t explain the closeness and the banter the entire cafeteria was witness to. He feels weird for letting this bother him so much and even though he usually has difficulties keeping his big mouth shut, he doesn’t want you thinking he’s some sort of pervert, so he doesn't say anything, simply bops his head.

Although, his silence doesn’t seem to deter you.

“I noticed you staring,” you admit, half a decibel lower. 

A fresh burger and fries land on the table, followed by a large Coca-Cola. The waitress mutters something along the lines of enjoy, then walks away to tend to another table.

Eddie doesn’t know what to do next: admit or deny. He’d rather go back to fifteen minutes ago when you were eating his food and he wasn’t talking. Therefore, he slides the burger closer to himself and in one swift motion, lifts it to his lips, taking a bite too big for his mouth. He doesn’t care what he looks like at the moment, he just needs to keep himself quiet before saying something else he’s going to regret.

Across the table, you’re all smiley again.

“Do you think, when you’re done eating, you could walk me home?” You ask, offering him a napkin. 

As he nods, he reaches for the paper cloth and his fingers brush yours delicately. There’s a zap of electricity, but if you feel it, you don’t react. Eddie’s continuing with the shyness, so he looks down at the burger in his hand and pretends nothing happened to him either.

It’s not until you lean over the table, index finger stretched and inching forward to touch his face, wiping leftover ketchup from the corner of his mouth, that the metal-head thinks maybe, just maybe, you feel some type of way about him too because that’s not what a person does for someone they only officially met minutes before.

Afterwards, you say, “I’ll tell you all about how I’ve been watching you too.”, and Eddie nearly chokes on his food.

thank you for reading & please support your writers by reblogging <3

---

Thinking about Rockstar!Eddie marrying his high school sweetheart.

Descriptions of pregnant reader at one point, Eddie wanting to knock reader up because he’s a horn dog and he can’t help himself, and one throw away line about him eating reader out.

Pt. 2

Masterlist

Here are my thoughts:

There’s a stigma behind marrying your high school sweetheart, people usually think it’s a bad idea because ‘you’ve barely been out in the world.’

‘Plenty of fish in the sea,’ fish of which he hasn’t seen yet. Fish he might be tempted by. So he shouldn’t put all his eggs in one small town, ‘Midwest-pretty’ basket.

But what if he knew he loved that basket right from the start. Okay I’ll drop the basket metaphor. He met you right as his band was taking off, he saw you around in high school but he didn’t know you. Boy, did he want to know you.

He was making the drive every weekend to Indianapolis to play shows, his band gaining more traction and in talks with a label for a record deal. It was the tail end of his time in Hawkins, finally on his way out of what he deemed to be the hell-hole he must’ve deserved from a past life faux pas. Of course, he had to take a little souvenir for his troubles. And that’s when he met you!

He knew he loved you so he never let you go, took you every where he went right from the start. From the weekend trips to Indianapolis, to the tour buses heading to new states every week. From the motel stays, to the Ritz Carlton penthouses. It was his lucky guitar, his songwriting notebook, his favorite lighter, and you. Pager, wallet, you. That was his mantra before leaving to go anywhere. He made sure he had his pager on his person for when his team needed him, his wallet to get into bars, you to soothe the soul.

A lot of people didn’t get it. He could have any girl he wanted. Hell, half the US population of young women had pictures of him pinned to their walls! Centerfolds from magazine shoots he did. But he had your picture in his wallet. Not that he ever needed it, you were with him no matter where he went.

Club, you’re there. Bar, you’re there. Show, you’re front row between the barricade and the stage- safe, just how he likes it. His hotel room after the show, you’re there. His heart, you’re there. His dreams, you’re there. His future, you’re there.

Sometimes stupid magazines would ask him stupid questions about his love life. He didn’t keep you hidden, he loved to show you off. You were his forever arm candy- at least that’s what he loved to call you. Or his ‘permanent date.’ His ‘eternal plus one.’ You would tell him ‘honey’ or ‘babe’ is just fine. He always does the most when it comes to you. He’d bend over backwards just to make you smile.

But those magazines- the reporters would say things like, “I’m sure you get along just fine, we saw the bras being thrown on stage,” or, “I’m sure you’ll be having a great night after this momentous win at the Grammy’s, you’ll be bringing home more than just the Grammy judging by the amount of women calling your name right now.”

He hated it. It was as if nobody heard him, ever. He’s always going on about you! My girl this, my wife that. People should know by now he’s locked down. And he likes it that way. What, does he have to tattoo it to his forehead?! I mean he’s got your name tattooed under his collarbone for Christ’s sake! He thanks you in every speech, before his own band!!!! Hell, he’d take your last name if he hadn’t already made a name for himself. That’s how badly he wants the world to know he’s yours.

You don’t mind the presumptive reporters or the horny groupies, he gives you nothing to worry about. But he hates it, he gets so upset when reporters or groupies overstep. It’ll be over his dead body before he lets anybody disrespect you or his marriage to you. That shit is sacred to him.

He doesn’t just love you, he needs you. You keep him sane. Being revered as a god every night can cross a man’s wires, alright. With you, he’s not a god. He’s your boy. He’s the boy you fell in love with. You make him pick up his dirty socks off the floor and you cook him dinner. He’s a Grammy award winning multi-millionaire and you still make him pump your gas for you. God, he loves you.

You take no prisoners on trivia night and you give him heart palpitations every time you herd the band to the press interviews. He has no other option but to display his never ending devotion to you by constantly re-proposing any time you make him swoon.

You’re bitching Gareth out for being late to sound check because when sound check goes late, you can’t catch your shows on cable in the hotel suite you and Eddie have booked for this tour stop.

He loves when you mother-hen them, it makes him feel all sorts of fuzzy feelings and some real naughty ones too- god he wants to get you pregnant so bad. He can see it now- his little rockstar wife waddling around the stadiums, the beautiful dresses cascading over your bump on the red carpets. Maybe then people will leave him alone about all the women he could have, if he’s laid his claim on you in the most fundamental, human way.

He has to shake the thoughts of you growing a mini-him out of his head before he starts developing permanent heart eyes and a hard on. As you huff and walk towards him after a very thorough verbal lashing at Gareth, he’s in love and amused. You have a point, Gareth’s lateness was inconsiderate and he’d much rather have time with you on the couch in the hotel room before the show possibly eating you out real nasty like, rather than sound checking right up to the doors opening for showtime.

As you reach him ready to let him know you’ll be in the front row of the bowl seats while he sound checks, he quickly grabs your hands and drops to one knee. Nobody around you bats an eye, this happens a lot. Eddie’s proposing to his wife again, must be Tuesday.

You frown at his sudden drop, you know what this is, but he picks the weirdest times to do this.

“Please, god, marry me. You’re so hot when you bitch Gareth out, I could watch it forever.” He’s almost desperate in the way he says it to you.

You finally crack a smile and huff out a laugh, he’s so stupid sometimes but he’s your stupid.

“Yeah baby, I’ll marry you again. We can both bitch Gareth out together, forever.” You say, laughing.

“Oh come onnnn, guys!” Gareth’s over by the amp with his brow furrowed in a desperate plea, looking defeated.

You and Eddie just laugh. You’re it for him, alright. He’s certain nobody could bitch out his friends as well as you, nobody could keep a bit going as well as you, nobody could support him as well as you, nobody could satisfy him as well as you, nobody could love him as well as you.

He’s seen the women, he’s seen a little too much of the women- a lot of them loving to flash him as if it will make him freeze mid-show and go, “her.” He’s never wavered in his devotion to you, he’s never crossed that line. On the rare occasion that you’re not with him, he’s coming off stage right to the nearest pay phone.

His label tries to get him to do promotional photos for the band’s new album with women all over him. He’s told them no countless times. The other guys in the band can do whatever they want with whoever models they want, but if he’s gonna be forced to pose with a hot chick, it’s gonna be you. He certainly has made them bring you on set. Those are his favorite promo pictures, they’re framed in y’all’s mansion.

He’s also had you star in numerous music videos for them. Songs he writes about you.

He didn’t need to take a lap around the world, meet every hot chick just to know you were the one. That’s what people expected him to do. As if that was of any interest to him. No, you were the only thing that has ever interested him. He’s pretty certain that even if you decided to up and leave him one day, god forbid, he’d still be yours until the end of time. Of course, he’d grovel and put up a fight if you really tried to leave him. But then he’d accept it because he loves you no matter what. He’d never let you go in his heart, though.

He’s changed his mind- actually, he’s decided he’d become a thousand times worse if it were to happen. You’d never hear the end of him. That’s how sure he is that he’s supposed to be with you and you’re supposed to be with him. Yeah, that’s his forever right there.

Luckily he doesn’t have to start working on finding a private investigator to follow you around, you could never get rid of him and he knows that. He just likes to remind you he’ll become the most annoying nuisance of a threat if you did. Constantly crying on national television wishing you to come home, showing up to new dates saying the kids miss you- the kids you don’t have, a million embarrassing, lame tattoos of you. He’ll get a poorly done rendition of your face on his chest.

All of that is enough to sway you to stay with him forever. That, and your genuine love and care for him. But mostly the threat of an awful tattoo of your face because you’re really not a picture person, you’re better in video form.

A/N: if you made it this far be for real- did you enjoy it? These are my thoughts of rockstar!eddie, like everything just spilled out, it’s like that gif of the quill writing while on fire. I just think he’d be so devoted to his girl. His girl, his girl, his girl.

I wrote this because I wanted to write it but I’m also lowkey insecure about whether people find anything I put out interesting.

---

ours (bucky x bob)

a hidden desire finally surfaces, and suddenly, the night isn’t just about your boyfriend anymore… but his teammate, too. (18+)

a/n: i honestly have no words other than i'm sorry for what's below the cut. idek how to describe this but uhh inspired by a spicy audio, dom!bucky, switch!bob, everyone's a freak. feel free to enjoy if that entices you!

“Put her on the bed, head facing me.”

Bucky’s request alone has you breathless with anticipation before you’re plucked from the ground and hiked into your boyfriend’s arms. Bob does as his teammate instructs without complaint or delay. Your head rests at the foot of the bed and your eyes lock with the super soldier above. His legs spread are wide on the chair, dim light casting shadows across his strong features.

God, you think, and immediately feel guilty for doing so.

This is the last thing you expect to come out of a previous, unpredictable encounter. One where Bob is handsy and you can’t stop purring - so inconsiderate of the company right beside you on the sofa. Please, his dry laugh rippled, don’t mind me. Unknowingly, those words set into motion the events that follow, igniting a chain of events that lead here.

Though, you realize, that can’t entirely be true. You and Bob knew deep down that kissing each other with so much tongue in front of him would lead to this. Both of you were aware that you spreading your legs and letting yourself to be of good use before Bucky’s hungry gaze would only end one way. In that moment, your sense of belonging shifted from him to them.

“Remember, there are no objections.” Bucky traces a thumb along your bottom lip. “You’re both gonna do exactly as I say.”

He doesn’t tell you to, but you nod. You hear Bob agree as well, the bed sinking under his weight. Bucky adds that, of course, safe words are welcome and encourages their use should there be any discomfort. He asks that you two remind him of yours, which you do.

“Very good…” The chair creaks softly as he leans back, relaxing. “Why don’t you go ahead and get started, Bob? Wanna see that face she makes when you eat her out.”

As if it’s second nature, your Bob leans in, his touch tender yet electric as he moves over you. Though his strings are in another's hands, he still tends to you with an unspoken understanding. A language rooted in desire that only the two of you know. His hands follow familiar, heated paths along your skin, coaxing shivers from you.

When Bob leans in, his lips brush your shoulder with deliberate softness. It's a whisper of warmth before he presses deeper, sparking a slow burn that makes your breath hitch and your pulse race. He slides between your legs effortlessly, his presence a certainty in the turmoil of your heightened senses. One hand gently cups your thigh while the other cradles your face, guiding you into a rhythm grounded in mutual trust.

Your lips part instinctively as his come down, melting into a kiss that feels like it’s meant to last forever. His tongue teases your mouth, muffling the trembling moans that spill from you. Your fingers instinctively graze his scalp, threading into his hair, while your teeth nudge his bottom lip, urging him into a more urgent tempo - pressing him closer, deeper into you.

Bob’s lips move down your body with practiced ease. Expectation heightens as his mouth drags over your skin, damp patches of warmth trailing in its wake. He pauses at your nipples, savoring each gentle suckle as you writhe beneath him, knees squeezing him instinctively.

Then, he travels lower, his kisses wandering to your covered mound. A gasp escapes you at the contact, every nerve tightening as he begins to kiss and lick it with unhurried worship.

“Please.” Your lower half peels from the bed, pushing into his face.

“Awfully rude of you to make her beg.” Bucky tuts, a hint of amusement in his voice while he watches your pleading face.

His presence, something of a distant memory under the touches of your lover, becomes vivid once again when he speaks. Your eyes roll up to catch him already staring back, watching with intent. He remains locked in, unflinching, while Bob slides your pants down carefully and spreads you wide open for a taste. Your vision to blurs as you gape -

“Keep those eyes open,” Bucky’s tone forces you to regain focus. “Look at how hard you’re making me.”

His throbbing cock, aches and glistens with evidence of his hunger - thick and heavy with cum. He strokes it slow and sure, eyes never once leaving yours, inviting you to witness every ragged breath falling from his parted lips. That pang of remorse from earlier, when you looked at him so carnally, flickers briefly before your gaze drifts downwards.

“S’okay, baby.” Bob slurs, already drunk off of your wetness, “Just enjoy yourself.”

He pulls your swollen clit between his lips, sucking and circling fervently. You cry out, legs clenching around his head while your body inches up involuntarily. Your head dangles from the edge of the mattress, neck in full extension.

Bucky groans at the sight, hand tightening on his length. His eyes, seemingly black, stretching from the head moving between your legs to your lips that can't seem to shut and settling on your heaving breasts.

“Bring your hand up, Bob.” Bucky bites his lip. “Tits like that shouldn’t go unheld, don’t you think?”

The man between your legs surfaces to tease, “You should see when she plays with them herself.”

A hushed moan escapes, blending with their taunting chatter - a sound that deepens the tension in the room. The heat from Bob's hand returning to your chest ignites you from within. His fingers trace velvety lines while his lingering glance promises more.

“Give them a nice slap.” Bucky commands.

Bob complies obediently, a hand coming down over your right breast and then your left. The slaps land with measured precision, teetering between playful and asserting. Your breathing frays, synchronizing with the relentless dance among pleasure and restraint, body shaking as you roll your hips deeper into Bob's tongue.

“Oh, she likes that.” His teammate raises a brow.

“Didn’t you, angel?” Bob's confirms, teeth grazing your clit.

You respond with a whine, the stimulation of it all leaving you speechless. Your heartbeat drums loudly in your ears, each inhale deeper and more uncontrollable than the last. All rational thought dissolves as you become acutely aware of how exposed and vulnerable you are before them.

Bucky's throat works with a hard swallow, “Think you can make her cum for me?”

Bob grunts in reply, the noise rippling through the charged air, vibrations that stir a deep need within you.

“Open your mouth, princess." Bucky brushes your cheek, “I want you to bite on these fingers as you get closer.”

You obey without second thought, a mix of excitement and something else you can’t quite name parting your lips to let his fingers in. Bob mutters sweet praises into your throbbing cunt - that's my girl, take his fingers - and Bucky urges you on - bite down hard, just like that.

The taste of calloused digits against your tongue and the mouth below ravaging your pussy causes a toe curling overload. Your senses and thoughts scramble into a single, intense focus.

"She's so close," Bob groans. "Fuck, baby, your legs are shaking."

He keep pushing you towards your peak, begging - let me have it, it's okay, you can cum for him. Your teeth clamp down even harder involuntarily and you ease the tension in your jaw, worried. Bucky shakes his head, keep biting, sweetheart, make a mess on that mouth.

As you surrender to the building pressure, pleasure spilling over in a shuddering climax, your eyes squeeze shut. Bob's eager tongue laps up your cum, indulging in every drop. The weight of release floods through your body, a sweet exhaustion that leaves you breathless and glowing, raw and fulfilled in the aftermath. You return to your senses just as a satisfied smirk curls at the corner of Bucky's mouth, proud at the scene before him.

It's hard to tell which one of them murmurs, "Good girl."

Bob surfaces from between your legs, licking the remnants of you from his lips, "How do you wanna fuck me, angel?" You peer at Bucky, but your boyfriend's hand pulls your chin back, "Nuh uh, look at me - not him."

"Feeling a little possessive, are we?" Bucky asks, a provocative chuckle following.

"Why don't you just shut the fuck up and watch what she can do?" Bob bites back.

You feel a thrill surge through you as the super soldier concedes to his challenge, further settling into his chair with a look that says let's see it. Your hands work to skillfully strip Bob, lips tracing along the skin you reveal.

Slowly, you descend, returning his earlier focus with an intimacy that mirrors his own attention to detail. The moment stretches between you, charged with a voltaic energy that heightens every touch as you explore each part with purpose.

He gives Bucky a smug look, "Wanna see how she makes it disappear?"

"What do you me-oh..."

Your lips trace along Bob's cock before you playfully slap it on your tongue. He shivers as you take him in and sink down, inch by inch, your mouth warm and wet against his dick. Each glide, each breath taken is unhurried and purposeful. You delight in his taste and how his shoulders sag when he feels the insides of your cheeks.

“Show him far you can take it.” Bob moans, and you do, pressing the tip to the soft spot at the back of your throat. “Yes, just like that, pretty girl.”

Bucky exhales shakily, muscles tense as his fist moves faster, driven by the visceral sight before him. His eyes glaze over, transfixed on how eagerly you accept the fellow Avengers' cock even as you gag. The smothered sounds of pleasure spilling from your lips fuel his arousal, his groans becoming more pronounced.

Soon, Bob's own noises join in the chorus that’s increasing in volume. He starts moving, hips pushing forward to drive his dick even further down your throat. His craving for more consumes him, voice rough and low as he whispers, show him what a good fucking girl you are for me.

Bucky's eyes widen as he watches you both lose control, pleasure spiraling into raw, audible rapture. Every choke and hum from you unravels him further, his frame trembling beneath his thrusting into his own palm. Bob's head drops back, a growl ripping from him as a hand comes to your head to tangle into your hair.

"I need you, I need you," He pulls you back from his length. "Put me inside you."

Bucky's brow pinches - like he's already picturing it in his mind - before he directs, “Face me, wanna see how you look when you take it.”

You turn around, a sultry promise shimmering in your eyes as you settle onto Bob's lap. Bucky takes his bottom lip between his teeth when you start to tease yourself with the cock that rests over your cunt. The sound the action makes reverberates through the room.

Bob chuckles through his gasps, "Let him see how you love to run that cock down your pretty little slit."

When you do, a wanton tone passes through Bob’s lips. Your lips curl as you let Bucky watch the way you take it - how your back arches in response to each teasing stroke, your folds opening wider with every glide, the glistening arousal that drips to Bob's thighs as you do.

Bucky toys with the head of his own cock, miming your movements, “Open her up for me.”

“Just like this?” The amusement in your boyfriend's tone is palpable.

Bob's hand curves possessively over your hip, anchoring you as spreads you nice and wide. His fingers scoop up your slick and smears it onto his length that he then taps against your clit.

You jerk and writhe, hips tilting upwards with an urgent, desperate for more. Bucky melts into a haze of craving and chaos, his focus solely between your legs. He can't even find the words to tell Bob that the shameless symphony before him is exactly what he wants.

You finally get what you want too. Bob plunges into you fully, a deep, gratifying invasion that narrows the world to the sensation of your skin meeting his. Your hips press forward, taking him deeper to revel in it all - every vein, pulse and inch stretching you out.

Your cries and shallow breaths, Bob's praises tangling in an incoherent babble, and Bucky's guttural notes blend together in a crescendo of pure need. A visceral, filthy concert of lust.

“Lean forward, hands on his thighs.” Bucky interjects. “I want you to torture him until he asks me to join.”

The latter part of that request catches Bob off guard, his moan breaking with a sharp inhale. This time, it's you that anchors him as your fingers dig into his firm thighs. The heat between your bodies grow while you drive your hips up and down with increasing force.

Bob thrusts upward as you descend, chasing the rhythm you set, aching to keep that mesmerizing connection. You look back to catch him hypnotized by the way your cunt swallows him whole, claiming him with each powerful bounce. He senses your eyes on him and his own flutter up to make contact. A silent question transmits from you, like it when I fuck you like this?

"Oh, fuck, babygirl..." Bob responds aloud.

Bucky huffs lowly, "Doesn't that look amazing?"

Bob is too lost in you, licking his lip as he pleads, "Want you on my tongue again."

"Wanna let him use it, doll?" Bucky's voice lifts, liking the thought of that. You feel the same way, endorsing the idea with a nod before he continues, "Back up on his face."

You slide off Bob's cock, positioning yourself to press your pussy into his face. His hands grab your hips firmly, spreading you open so he can indulge without restraint. You feel the eager, untamed laps of his tongue at your hold. It causes your eyes to cross and your back to arch as you press into his mouth even deeper.

“Keep you hands busy and play with his big cock.”

Bob surfaces with a moan when you do, and purrs a laugh, adding, “Almost sounds like you wanna hold it.”

“Hold that thought,” Bucky's words carry a glint of mischief. “Keep using that mouth on her.”

He doesn't need to be told twice, the lips between your slit shiver with a shaking suck. You ride Bob's face as you roll your wrist, tugging on his dick. He matches the pace of your hips rocking, a wet and frayed hum smearing his question into you, ready to take me again?

yes-

of course she is-

Your body seeks him out, aligning once more. But Bob's fingers tighten around your wrist, a quiet yet unyielding protest. He presses a kiss to the back of your neck and then move to the side, biting gently. His eyes land on the man spread out on the chair before you while he drawls, let's put on a little show for him.

"Use him exactly how you want." Bucky agrees.

With a fluid motion, you spin around to face Bob, aching to reconnect. Your hips rise and fall with purpose, the feeling of him filling you again cresting like a wave you'd forgotten you were holding your breath under - sudden, violent, and so sweet you could choke on it.

"Yes, please," Bob whimpers so high it borders on a sob. "Use me, use me..."

His lips claim yours in a fevered rush, the kiss like a brush fire consuming acres of forests in mere minutes. Bob's hands grip your waist as you give him what he needs. Each drive inward is sharper and more urgent, building into a relentless rhythm.

Words are lost as the men's voices ripple together. Bob's constant yeses come out like a trembling thread pulling taut, each one a fragile submission. Bucky's whines climb higher, thinner, pleasure tipping onto the frail edge of need and unravelling. It's an exquisite, ferocious melody to your ears as you listen to their cries - a mix of desire and desolation.

Bucky can't stand the distance any longer. He's suddenly beside you both on the bed, gasping, "Bob, open your mouth for my fingers, will you?"

Your boyfriend lets him in, gaze never straying from your own. You want to burn the sight into the back of your eyelids, to immortalize this moment so that you can relive it each time you close your eyes.

Bucky collects some spit before he brings his hand back to stroke his cock, sighing, "Good boy."

A sound so small and defenseless leaves Bob that he tries to cover it with a laugh. Ultimately, he can't betray the way he truly feels, longing swallows him whole like your cunt does his cock as the words spill out, "Fuck, don't - don't tell me that. You're gonna make me cum."

"That so?" A smug mumble curls from Bucky's mouth. He turns to you then, with a low goad, "Why don't we help him out? Choke him."

You wrap your fingers around Bob's neck, tightening enough to feel his pulse gallop beneath your grasp. His eyes flutter as he pointedly thrusts into you, his tip hitting the back of your pussy.

"Come on, harder." Bucky snarls.

“Harder,” Bob yearns. “I'll be a good.”

The pressure of your grip intensifies and he begins to gag - a wet, hiccuping sound tearing from his open mouth. It echoes in your core, the wounded and involuntary noise stirring something unknown within, making an unexpected warmth spread through your veins. Bob appears to know it though, an uneven breath hitches in his throat as he looks up at you in awe.

“That’s it, baby boy.” Bucky grunts. "How does it feel, sweetheart? Taking his big cock, letting him fill you up while your fingers squeeze his throat?"

You wish you could scream the truth that this is what you wanted from the start. That your actions in his presence were never innocent, but intentional and aiming to making this a reality. But your ability to form a sentence left the room long ago.

Bucky doesn't need to hear you say it; he sees it plainly in your eyes, the unspoken confession bubbling beneath your skin that burns with unyielding heat. It's written all over your face as your features twist with raging greed. And it's then, as if the telepathic admission is all it takes, that your vision whites out.

Your senses hone in on the throbbing pulse in your ears, the slick glide of Bob’s cock filling you, the delicious pressure of Bucky’s stare. Your free hand falls back to grab Bob's thigh, your head following the movement as you claw at him, overwhelmed, as if your bones might scatter if you don't tether yourself to him. The rhythmic clenching of your walls has his cock pulsing inside you as he nears his own end.

"I'm gonna fucking cum-" He calls out with the vocal equivalent of shaky hands.

“Pull it out." Bucky half-says, half-groans.

No, I wanna cum inside-

I said, pull it fucking out.

Hanging on the edge of release, Bob slides out of you and tenses. Your name is on his tongue like a sacrament, mixing in with slurred cries as he shoots his seed onto your stomach. His head lulls forward, forehead resting on yours before he presses a tender, lazy kiss to your lips. You trace gentle shapes along each other's trembling skin, grounding one another while your mingling breaths steady.

“You're both so good.” Bucky's breath hitches, he's not far behind. “Now clean up the mess, princess. Eyes on mine.”

You softly gather the cum trailing down your belly, feeling its warmth on your fingertips before you press them to your tongue. The thickness is a balance a savory and sweet as you indulge in the taste. Bucky's gaze is molten, his voice rasping with undisguised thirst when he urges you to take every last drop.

His final command comes out in a gravelly timbre, “Kiss his cum right back into that dirty mouth.”

It's as if he doesn't need to ask with how swiftly Bob's lips catch yours with searing ferocity. As your tongues twist, you let him taste the lingering proof of his need, melting it into the depths of his mouth. He shoots you a wicked grin, dragging your bottom lip and sucking, before his eyes drift sideways.

"You gonna cum on our faces, Bucky?" Bob asks, inflection warm and honeyed.

Bucky's curses escape light and rough, his body quivering with the shock of release as he sinks into the weight of his own climax. Between your lips and Bob's, his seed spills - warm, viscous, undeniable - melding into the kiss you share. The taste is rousing, primal, a heady reminder of tonight's events.

“Good boy.” Bob returns the compliment.

You flop down onto the plush bed, welcoming the softness beneath you. Bob's hands glide over your body with gratitude, still managing to make you shiver despite being thoroughly fucked out. You watch Bucky settle in too, his face luminous with satisfaction. Shadows dance slowly across the ceiling as your breaths tangle in the quiet aftermath of desire fulfilled.

“What do you think?” Bob turns to Bucky. "Are we your fuck toy, or are you ours?”

Bucky's laugh is genuine, “You know, I couldn’t care less - as long as we do this again."

“What about you, babe?” Your boyfriend strokes your hair.

You take a moment, considering.

Despite willingly relinquishing control, you realize that in this shared space, vulnerability has become a source of strength, and being seen and understood by them offers a profound sense of safety and protection you hadn't anticipated. The reins of trust are in your hands. With the two men here in bed with you, you're overcome with a sense of both submission and domination.

The corner of your mouth hitches upwards as you answer, "I think we could all use a shower.”

---

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

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PRICE OF FAME - the masterlist

18+ — MINORS DNI

pairing: rockstar!eddie x journalist!reader

summary: you’re a writer for Rolling Stone magazine and Eddie hates the media; or in other words, you’re doing a piece on Corroded Coffin and Eddie can’t stand you.

contains: enemies to lovers, angst, drug and alcohol use, smoking, themes of misogyny/sexism, and eventual smut— each chapter will have more, in-depth warnings.

| -main masterlist- |

part one | part two | part three | part four | part five | part six | part seven | part eight | part nine | part ten | part eleven | part twelve

tags/more content: price of fame asks | price of fame talks

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Loverboy

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x F!Reader

Word Count: 4.3k

Summary: Bucky, a lovesick, pining super soldier, vows to keep his feelings for you a secret — no matter how obvious his crush may seem. Those plans are ruined between a meddling Sam, an embarrassing fall, and a visit to the medbay with you.

Warnings: Avengers AU, Bucky’s POV, fluff, crack (my lame attempt at comedy), suggestive thoughts (no smut), just our boy being a lovesick little bean with a big ol’ crush.

Author’s Note: Dividers by @saradika. Proofread by @buckys-wintersoldier, thank you so much sweetie, I love you!! This was inspired by a wonderful request from @prettyboy56, thank you so much! Hope you enjoy x

“Hi, Bucky.” 

Instantly, he sputtered over his mouthful of cereal, eyes watering from his food going down the wrong way. 

Bucky knew that melodic voice before his gaze even reached its owner. You entered the kitchen, wiggling your fingers at him in greeting. 

Clearing his throat, he swiped his bowl to the side, his breakfast now forgotten about, and directed his attention solely onto you. “Hi—um h—hello, doll.” 

The muscles of your cheeks lifted up to your eyes in a smile that made Bucky swoon. Hard.

Your eyes fell to Sam then, who stood in the corner, fresh from a workout with a shit eating on his face. “Good morning, Samuel.” 

“Mornin’, beautiful. How did you sleep?” 

Bucky fought the growl rising in his throat, the unprecedented possessiveness caving its way through its internal barriers in your presence. 

You grabbed a bottle of water out of the refrigerator and closed the door, leaning your back against it to take a big gulp. 

“Not bad at all.” You licked your lips, ridding the dryness that came from a long slumber before your eyes lit up. “Oh, by the way! I drank some of that tea you recommended. It’s helped a bunch—”

Bucky zoned out while you continued to express your gratitude to Sam. He couldn’t help the way his eyes dilated as he rested his head in the palm of his vibranium hand, a lovesick sigh escaping his lips. You were just so gorgeous – a deity in human form right in front of his own very eyes. Bucky had never considered himself so lucky in all his time on earth to be within your vicinity. 

In his own world of oggling, Bucky didn’t notice how the conversation fell short between you and Sam. Neither did he realise how the two of you were staring at him; you with concern and Wilson smothering his laughter with his hand. 

“Bucky? Sweetheart?” He finally registered that you were speaking to him and almost choked, again, on his own spit.

“Mhm?” Bucky murmured, drunk off your attention. 

You smiled once again, so devastatingly beautiful that his left arm whirred in stupor. “Are you okay? You feeling alright?” Not waiting for a response, you walked over to him and Bucky almost let his eyes roll to the back of his head when you lifted your wrist to his forehead. “Jeez, you’re a little hot, Buck.” 

Sam keeled over in hysterics, unable to keep his composure any longer. Meanwhile, a bright red blossom of colour rose up from the skin of Bucky’s neck all the way up to his cheeks. 

Had Bucky not been embarrassingly infatuated by you, the throwaway comment wouldn’t have had any effect on him. But this was you. The woman who had the ability to make him melt on the spot. 

While logic and a basic level of common sense screamed at him that you were talking about his temperature, his mind could only conjure up the fact you had called him hot. 

Bucky saw your mouth moving, however he couldn’t concentrate on the sound of the words coming out of it. You were still touching him, patting his cheeks and sweeping the tendrils of hair that had fell out from behind his ears out of his face. The close proximity of your bodies threw him through a loop and without even realising, his thighs spread further, subconsciously begging you to forego all boundaries and smother yourself against him. 

Gently tapping his nose three times, you managed to gain his full attention again. “You seem out of it, sweetie. Maybe you should go down to the medbay. See if you’re coming down with a fever or something.” 

Sam blew out a breath of air. “Yeah, because that’s what’s wrong with him.” 

You threw a lighthearted glare his way before bringing your eyes back to Bucky. “Promise me you’ll get seen to?” 

How could he refuse when you asked so sweetly? “Anything you want.” He vowed sincerely. 

Scrunching your nose, you chucked his chin and whispered under your breath, “Good boy.”

Bucky almost whimpered when you withdrew your hands and stepped back. He so desperately wanted to follow you and nudge your arm until you paid attention to him once more. Your touch was fire and a cool breeze all at once. Electricity that created static across his stubbled cheek, yet also stoked a warmth through his entire body.  

Peace. He’d never felt anything like it. Never before felt drunk from just the delicate essence of a perfume or experienced the loosening of his limbs, relaxing until his legs felt like jelly whenever you so much as cast him a glance. 

You grabbed a piece of fruit from the table, ready to go down to the gym and train. “Catch you later, Sam,” you called over your shoulder. Meeting Bucky’s eyes a final time, you winked while you headed for the elevator. “Bye, sweetheart.”  

Bucky’s gaze was glued to you, following you out hopelessly until you were completely out of sight. 

He was fucked — well and truly out of his depth. 

Sam crossed his arms and smirked. “You are down bad, man.” 

Bucky swiped a hand over his face, sighing deeply. “Fuckin’ tell me about it.” 

“This is serious.” Sam sobered up, his lips softening into an honest smile. 

With an embarrassingly loud thud against the island countertop, Bucky let his head drop. “I have no idea what to do, Sam. I thought this crush would have passed by now but it’s been months.”

“Well,” Sam raised an eyebrow. “Have you even tried asking her out?” 

“And why would I do that?” Bucky asked, genuinely confused. 

Sam sputtered over his words. “What do you mean—Because that’s what people do when they like someone, you dumbass!” 

Bucky had lost enough braincells daydreaming about you constantly. He didn’t need to be told what he already knew. But the pressure of asking you out to then have a chance of being rejected? He would never come back from that. “Yeah, no thanks,” he mumbled.

“Come on, man. What’s the worst that could happen?” Sam asked. 

Bucky lifted his head up and huffed sarcastically. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe she could turn me down and rip my heart out into little pieces, so much that I would hide out in my room for the rest of eternity never to be seen again?” 

“Now you’re just being dramatic.”

Bucky sighed longingly. “Let me wallow in my misery alone, Sam.” 

“Why? So you can spend your days staring at her with your googly eyes and drooling over her.” 

“I have never drooled over her,” Bucky snarled. 

A twinkle shone in Sam’s eye, a mischievous grin donning his face. “Then what’s that on your chin?” 

Bucky’s eyes widened and he quickly brought his hand up to his face to check if he did in fact have any wetness coating his mouth. Finding none, he looked back to Sam with a scowl. “I hate you.”

Sam shook his head with laughter. “You shouldn’t make it so easy to tease you, loverboy.”  

With a growl, Bucky lifted from his seat and stormed out of the kitchen. 

The irritating voice followed him. “Don’t forget training tomorrow morning, loverboy!” 

The sun was shining over the compound the next morning and so came the bright idea from Steve that all exercise activities should be held outside. While the recruits in training buffed up on their sparring with the Captain, the rest of the avengers worked out as they saw fit. 

As usual, Sam took any opportunity possible to annoy Bucky, which brought them together, running laps around the outdoor track. 

“When are you gonna man up and ask her out then, Cyborg? Pretty girl ain’t gonna be available forever.” 

Bucky wasn’t entirely sure why he didn’t run ahead of Sam. It wasn’t as if he couldn’t. Maybe the pace he kept alongside Wilson allowed him to stare at you so clearly in your tight workout leggings and sports bra as sweat sensually rolled over your skin. Maybe. 

“I’m not asking her out, Sam. Drop it.” 

Sam huffed out an annoyed breath. “Listen, man. It’s not as if you’ve got nothing going for you. As much as you’re a grumpy shit, you’ve got them blue eyes the chicks love. Gets them all gooey when you give them intense eye contact, y’know?” He reluctantly added, “And they dig the brooding, bad boy, leather jacket vibe.”

Bucky let out a rare smile within the presence of Sam. “You tryna hit on me, Wilson?” 

“Look, all I’m saying is you have a chance.” Sam slyly glanced over the field. “And if you don’t quit fuckin’ around, that chance is gonna disappear.”  

The smile instantly dropped from Bucky’s face. “What do you mean by that?” 

Sam’s signature smirk came back with vengeance. “Your girls lookin’ kinda cute today. So I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but you ain’t the only one who’s got their eye on her.” 

Naturally, Bucky followed his instinct and let his eyes look over at you. You were a fucking wonder, of course he knew that. But heeding Sam’s ominous warning, Bucky allowed his gaze to venture out, only allowing you to blur into the background for a couple of seconds while he took stock of the other male, and female, recruits. 

Low and behold, plenty of other people wantonly stared at you while you completed your circuit, almost salivating over their barely concealed pining. As much as Bucky hated to admit it, the fucker was right. You were the pinnacle of everyone’s attention. 

With the way you were bending over, squatting and looking like an angel amidst the perspiration the sun brought on, Bucky wasn’t sure if he could actually blame anyone for it. 

That didn’t stop the ugly, green eyed beast within him that wanted to tear everyone’s eyes out for daring to glimpse at you. 

It was silly, he knew he had no right to feel any sort of possessive nature for you. Unfortunately, you didn’t belong to him. Still, he couldn’t control the deep rooted urges that whispered the kinds of fun he’d have gouging out eyeballs that looked where they weren't supposed to. 

Knowing he had stirred the pot enough, Sam figured it was time to try and hit the final nail in the coffin in order to make his friend move his ass. “Y’know what gives you an advantage though, man?” 

Bucky continued to death stare the surrounding agents, while keeping up with his steady jog. “What’s that?”

“Guess who’s making eyes at you right now.” 

At breakneck speed, Bucky snapped his head back around to you, only to indeed find you staring at him with a fire in your eyes and your bottom lip trapped between your teeth. 

A violent shudder ran down his spine and for a moment, the whole world stopped on its axis, allowing Bucky to revel in a daydream brought to life. 

That was until his mind snapped him back into the present. The super soldier was majestic on his feet in a fight, graceful yet utterly dangerous out on the field even with the pressure a mission came with. 

However to his utter bewilderment, you happened to be the most dangerous being he had ever come across, because in all of his years as a trained, professional assassin, Bucky had never, never, tripped over his own feet. 

And so, inevitably, Bucky’s face ungracefully met the asphalt of the outside track with an audible thunk. 

A collective of gasps, oo’s, and ah’s, rang around the large group. Bucky could physically feel the coating of red, hot embarrassment climbing up to his now scratched cheeks.  

Bucky couldn’t see the look of shame and pity on Sam’s face as he dropped his head into his hands. All he was capable of was fantasizing faking his own death and moving far, far away where no one who witnessed his fall could ever find him.  

With a painful, deep groan, Bucky managed to roll himself over. He couldn’t bear to open his eyes and allow himself to accept reality yet and so he kept them closed, waiting for the ground to swallow him up or for the beaming sun to slowly incinerate him, melt him into the ground with his shame and dignity. 

But instead of either of those, a shadow casted over him, the harsh brightness behind his eyelids dulling down. Slowly, he peeked an eye open, only for mortification to kick him in the gut when he found you standing over him. 

“You alright there, Soldier?” Your hands were set on your hips, those deliciously curved grooves of your body that he had shamelessly stared at one too many times during gym sessions. 

“Mhm,” he gulped, his Adam’s apple bobbing roughly. “Just peachy.” 

Even though you’d just seen him eat dirt, in front of hundreds of learning recruits and the rest of the avengers, your smile was kind as you held out your hand. “Need some help?” 

Bucky took your offering, sliding his clammy palm into your dry one and hoisted himself up with your grip. He hadn’t needed your help, he was a super soldier with a metal arm; an agility and strength beyond normal human ability. But he wouldn’t pass up an opportunity to feel your soft skin against his. 

He couldn’t look you in the eye as he stood up, aware of your gaze glued to him. “Th-Thanks.” 

“It’s not a problem,” you said. “Although, you’ve got a few nasty looking cuts on your cheeks.” 

Bucky brought his left hand up to his face, hissing when the cool vibranium stung the open wounds. “Ah, it’s nothin’—don't worry about it. Nothing a few hours won’t fix.” 

You shook your head fondly. “Well, how about I walk you to the infirmary and we get some ointment on them? It wouldn’t hurt to be cautious.” 

Bucky choked on his own spit and snapped his eyes to yours. “W-We?” 

Your smile was blinding — so beautiful with an ability to stop time. At least for him anyway. “Yeah, why not? It looks like you could use a hand—y’know, since you’re a little clumsy on your feet today.” The cheeky smirk that followed your words almost sent him to an early grave.

His cheeks blazed. Bucky was sure he looked utterly stupid, with his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. But he couldn’t help the effect you had on him. “I um—I— ha, I guess.” 

Your eyes glinted mischievously. “I’ll take that as a yes?” 

Not trusting his voice to hold steady, Bucky simply nodded. 

“Great,” you approved. “Just one question though, are we going to keep holding hands on the way?”

Looking down to the space between you, Bucky felt his mouth dry when he saw that he hadn’t yet released his hand from yours. “I’m—oh fuck—I’m so sorry.” 

Still, he made no move to slacken his grip. 

You tightened your lips, and he knew you were willing yourself not to laugh for his sake. Sam would have a fucking field day with this. 

Though to his surprise, instead of pulling away like he expected you to, you began pulling him along, hands still interweaved. “Let’s go get you cleaned up, Bucky.”  

His name on your lips was akin to a siren singing her song; dragging helpless seamen to their deaths. A thought crossed his mind then, that he didn’t think he would mind so much if he sank to his reckoning, not if your voice was the last thing he ever heard. 

“Okay.” Bucky followed you blindly, eyes glued to your conjoined hands and disbelieving of his luck. 

You had led the way towards the medbay and found a cozy, private room that the doctors used for small injuries. Bucky sat impatiently on the side of the medical bed, twiddling his thumbs and fidgeting restlessly. Never had he been so close to you, alone. 

Bucky internally prayed with all his faith that you couldn’t hear the rapid staccato of his heartbeat. He was sure if he was hooked up to a monitor, the doctors would be thoroughly concerned about his health. 

Finally having gathered all the supplies you deemed necessary along with a first aid box, you walked back over to the bed and dumped everything next to him. 

“So,” you began, an uneasy conspiratorial tone to your voice that weirdly reminded him of Sam. “Wanna tell me what happened out there?”  

“I—,” Bucky sheepishly scratched the back of his neck while his cheeks bloomed crimson red. “I must’ve just tripped over my own feet.” 

He tried to shrug off his nonchalance, but he knew by your raised eyebrow you didn’t believe him. “Somehow, I have a hard time believing a big, strong super soldier such as yourself has any trouble finding his footing.”

Before Bucky could muster up any other excuse but the truth, you ripped open the packet of a medical wipe and warned him, “I’m sorry. This is gonna sting.”

“Nothing I can’t handle,” he said with bravado. 

Bucky wasn’t prepared for the twinkle in your eye as you mumbled under your breath, “I’m sure it isn’t, Sargeant.” 

The breath got knocked out of his lungs. Oh did that do things to him. 

Suddenly, vivid images of you spread out on his bed wearing nothing but his old army hat while you screamed out his rank ran wild in his mind. 

Luckily, you were too preoccupied with cleaning the dried blood of his wound to notice him discreetly palming the bulge in his athletic shorts, trying to hide the effect you had on him. 

“Are you certain there is absolutely no other reason as to why I’m playing nurse right now, then?” Your feline grin was sexy and scary. “No possible distractions that led you off path?” 

There was no way you could read minds, right? Bucky doubled down on his denial, shaking his head from side to side and letting the length of his hair hide the truth in his eyes. 

“I’ll take your word for it then.” You finished up and reached for the healing gel. “I know the serum enhances your ability to repair the cuts, but I’d still like to use this.” Looking into his eyes, you asked, “Only as long as you’re okay with that, of course.” 

Time stopped and the two of you were caught in the other’s gaze. It was such a small gesture, one you probably didn’t even realise meant the world to him. But you asked him for permission on something that would affect his autonomy and if Bucky didn’t already have a hundred ways he was falling for you, that would have been the cherry on top. 

“Yeah,” he breathed airily. “Yeah, I’m good with it, doll.” 

Unseen to him before, you ducked your head and sweeped your hair behind your ear and if Bucky didn’t know any better, he was sure you were shy. 

He couldn’t help the large grin he sported. He was always so enamored with you, quick to falter in your presence and become unsure of himself. Right now though, a small bout of bravery returned. “Ready when you are,” he cheekily murmured. 

You hastily rushed to compose yourself. Clearing your throat, you squeezed the tube of gel, allowing a small drop of the cool liquid on the tip of your finger and stepped between his legs to gently dab it onto his cuts. 

“Okay, you’re all fixed up now.” With a last swipe of his forehead, you smiled. “Don’t worry, Buck. You still look handsome.” 

He tugged his plump bottom lip between his teeth. “You think I’m handsome?”

You giggled. “I would be blind if I didn’t.” 

Bucky blinked at you slowly, still processing your words and trying to calm the excited bubble rising in his throat. 

You rolled your eyes playfully. “Oh, don’t act all coy, Bucky. You must have heard the whispers of the recruits. They stare at you all the time, whispering and giggling to each other.” 

With the most confidence he had ever mustered up, he responded, “Truthfully, I’m too busy staring at someone else to notice, doll.” 

The shock of his sudden boldness was glaringly obvious on your face — it was you this time who held your mouth open, lost for words. 

Bucky’s body screamed at him to tell you that he was in fact head over heels for you. That had he known falling over in front of the full compound would lead him within a hair’s breadth away from you, he’d do it all over again. 

But you seemed to recover after a couple of seconds, clearing your throat and making yourself busy to avoid his eyes. “So, I’ve got another question.” 

“Oh?” Bucky cocked his head. 

“Yeah.” You smiled while placing everything back into the first aid box as you found it. “I’ve been hearing a few rumours around the compound recently.” 

Bucky’s stomach dropped with dread. 

“You wouldn’t know anything about those, would you?” 

“I—” Bucky swallowed the lump in his throat. “I have no idea what you mean.” 

“Oh,” you hummed. “So it’s not true then? You don’t have a crush on me?” 

Fuck.

Panicking, Bucky scoffed, though it came off sounding too pathetic, too breezy. “Me? Have a crush on you? That’s—Ha! Nope. No way. Not at all.” 

He watched as you nodded to yourself. Internally, he was begging for the floor to swallow him while he cringed at his own stupidity. 

“Well,” you shrugged. “That’s a shame, I guess.”  

Bucky’s head shot up, eyes wide and shock written over his features. “E-Excuse me?” 

“Oh, it's nothing really.” There was a sparkle in your eye that screamed trouble. “You said you didn’t have a crush on me, so it doesn’t matter.” 

Within seconds, Bucky jumped off the bed and leapt towards you, not even noticing how he had grabbed your hands. “Doll, please. You can’t leave a guy hanging like that.” 

Playfully rolling your eyes, you dramatically exhaled and decided to put him out of his misery. “Leave you hanging? Damn, Buck. It’s not as if I’ve been waiting patiently for you to ask me out for months or anything like that.” 

The air became humid and stuffy and suddenly the clothes attached to Bucky’s body felt too tight and restricting. “You—What now?” 

You rolled your lips inwards, trying to smother your laughter. “Bucky, honey,” you gently murmured. “I’ve heard what the others have been gossiping about. I’ve definitely heard Sam telling the team about your crush on me.” 

Bucky squeezed his eyes shut and groaned. “That fuckin’ punk.” 

You squeezed his hands reassuringly and offered him a warm smile when he looked at you. “I’ve just been waiting to hear it from the horse's mouth himself.” 

Bucky’s eyes darted between yours, trying to find any hint of decievement. “You’re serious.”

“Mhm,” you whispered. “Deadly.” 

It took him a couple of seconds to let the new information sink in. Clearing his throat, Bucky untightened his fierce grip on your hands and hesitantly slid them down to latch onto your waist. “So,” he mumbled. “Say if I asked you out to dinner tonight… You wouldn’t tell me I’m a fool and break my heart into a million pieces?” 

Butterflies erupted in Bucky’s stomach at the sensation of your hands sliding over his chest to rest against his neck. “No, Bucky,” you chuckled. “I would tell you that I’m looking forward to our first date, tonight. Nowhere fancy, just casual. Six o’clock sharp.” 

Bucky smiled, all beaming and ecstatic. “I wouldn’t dream of being late.” 

“Good.” You leaned up onto your tip toes and ghosted your lips over his ear. “See you very soon then, Sargeant.” 

Tingles shot down Bucky’s spine and his eyes rolled to the back of his head. He fought tooth and nail to crush the moan that rose up his throat and in his internal struggle, he missed how you’d sneakily slipped out of his hold and started to saunter towards the door. 

He almost begged you to come back; the thought of having to wait for you until the evening was unbearable. But those pesky butterflies that invaded his stomach came back strong and fierce as his gaze became glued to the sway of your hips and the sweet perfume that lingered in your exit. 

“Oh,” you stopped suddenly at the doorway and looked over your shoulder. “One more thing. Don’t go tripping over again, you hear me?” You raised an eyebrow and grinned. “Can’t have you falling for me.”

Your damn smirk was intoxicating and Bucky thought himself the luckiest fella alive to be the one taking you out. He licked his lips and crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m afraid I’m gonna have a little trouble with that request, Ma’am.” 

The clench of your thighs was unmissable. The way your eyes dilated called to him. Bucky had more game than he realised and he kept that new information tucked safely into the corner of his mind for a later date. 

You didn’t reply. You didn’t need to. Your actions told Bucky everything he needed to know and so he wiggled his fingers with a huge grin locked onto his face and watched you longingly as you left his sight. 

The minute he couldn’t hear your footsteps any longer, Bucky pumped his fist up into the air and began dancing on the spot. 

In his own bubble of happiness, he didn’t hear the footsteps of a new person entering the hallway. Only when an amused clearing of the throat echoed from the doorway did Bucky abruptly stop his dancing and slowly swivel to the intruder. 

Sam stood there, all cocky and mirthful with a shit eating grin on his face. “About time you bagged the girl, man. Dont’cha think?” 

Instantly, Bucky growled and grabbed the closest apparatus. With a pair of medical scissors, he charged towards Sam, who was quick to wipe the smirk off his face and skid out of the room with a scream. 

---

Lucky Me

single dad Eddie Munson x single mom Reader

A follow up to Meet the Parents 

You have thought, over the last few weeks, about how serendipitous this whole thing is, how the universe’s mysterious ways brought you here - to Hawkins, to the Hideout that night, to Eddie’s bed, and now this bench, watching your daughters play together.

After your one night stand, you arrange a play date and a date date. 

Word Count: 18.5k

Contents: Two love-struck sweethearts (I reccomend reading MtP first). This is not intended for minors, 18+ Oral (M&F receiving), PinV sex, some public groping, Eddie Munson’s filthy (magic) mouth. Eddie & Reader are both single parents. Parent-death mention. Reader suffers a bit with anxiety/gets overwhelmed. No physical descriptors for reader, but mentions wearing Eddie’s t-shirt to sleep in. Food & alcohol TW. Modern AU.

Note: I am incapable of brevity; I am a yapper. But I’ll cut to the chase - writing this has been a silver lining to a lot of change and crap days over the last few months, I started writing this in early January and here we are. I really hope you enjoy this one, and thank you for being patient with me!

Eddie Munson fics | dividers by @saradika-graphics

Your New Year started, as the previous one had - watching the clock and calendar reset to 0:00 as fireworks popped and sparkled beyond your window. The television volume is turned low, not to wake the sleeping girl beside you in her ‘Happy New Year’ hairband and pink pyjamas, sugar-crashed and rosy-cheeked. 

Hazel had wanted to stay up for midnight, but she was drowsy-drunk by nine-forty-five and after an early countdown you found on YouTube, she was asleep in your bed after ten. You did not need to be won over or convinced for a sleepover with your favourite person tonight; you would rather be here with her to kiss her warm forehead as the bells rang than rattling around downstairs alone or away from her at some party of sweaty bodies and strangers. 

Downstairs there are gold streamers to clean up, plates stained with pizza sauce and melted cheese and glasses sticky with the dregs of ‘fancy cocktails’ (a mix of juice and ginger ale that had Hazel giggling and delighted and dancing around the living room). They can wait until morning. Right now, you are content to settle to sleep next to her, feeling cautiously hopeful for what the year will bring. 

Your phone buzzes a few times with texts from friends and family, to be ignored ‘til morning for the most part. And then you see his name among the notifications, the bat emoji and the sweet words and your stomach flips and fizzes. 

Happy New Year sweetheart x

Eddie Munson has a consistent track record of making you feel flush all over in the few short weeks that you have known him. 

The timestamp reads 0:01; you feel tingling excitement that you were on his mind so soon into the new year.

It’s 0:03 when you text him back, and you wonder if he gets that same tightening feeling in his gut when he waits for your reply, like you do with him. 

Happy New Year Eddie xx 

Your brain buzzes as you consider double texting, adding in something sweet about him and Fae having a wonderful new year, but before you can type anything, he has messaged back. 

I hope you and Hazel had a fun night x 

You feel warm all over, smiling involuntarily at his sweetness, and send back a selfie of you both from your party for two earlier in the night - matching smiles and sparky dresses, just coz, and another of Hazel twirling in said sparkly dress.

We partied hard 🥂 bed by 10 😎 How was your NYE? X 

That familiar old feeling of anxious excitement and anticipation of texting a boy has found you again since your night and morning spent in Eddie Munson’s company. You have only seen him twice since; once at the girls’ dance recital and once in Bradley’s, when the girls spotted each other and had a high-pitched, excited reunion in the chip aisle (even though they had seen each other just two days before in school). You have spoken to him every single day since that morning in Munson’s, texts that turned into phone calls and FaceTimes. It had been mostly PG (mostly), but your shared simmering want barely contained as you spoke quietly lately into the night. 

Eddie returns a picture of Fae tucked up asleep under Wayne’s arm on the sofa, the older man with his eyes closed and head tipped back. A second picture of Eddie with a party blower between his lips and streamers in his hair follows. 

Party for one. The lightweights fell asleep before the countdown 🙄

The pictures warm your heart, and you can’t help but go back to the picture of Eddie for a few seconds more before another text follows. 

Can I call? x

Heart thudding quicker, you look down at sleeping Hazel, how her body moves with deep peaceful breaths. Her light sleeping phase has passed, now your daughter could sleep through a marching band most mornings.

You have already decided to tell him yes when he texts again. 

No worries if you’re too tired. Just wanted to hear your voice Hope that’s not too cringe x

You are so endeared by him and put him out of his misery with a quick tap of your thumb. His voice is velvet on the other end of the phone. 

“Hey there,” he murmurs. You can’t see his face but can hear the curved smile on his plush mouth. 

“Hi. Happy New Year.” 

“Happy New Year. I wanted to say it properly. You two looked like you had a fun time.”

Smiling fondly, you look down at Hazel again and brush her hair back with a mother’s gentle touch. 

“We did. She almost made it to ten thirty. We’re having a sleepover in my bed tonight, so she didn’t feel like she was losing out on any fun. I hope you’re not too lonely with the Sleeping Beauties?” 

Eddie laughs low in his throat. You imagine him looking at Fae and Wayne with his warm brown gaze. “Nah, they tried to stick it out. Can’t blame ‘em. Wayne made burgers and then we did sundaes for dessert, like a build-your-own kinda thing. Food comas all ‘round.” 

Their evening sounds comparably cosy to your own - homemade pizzas and the last of the Christmas chocolate to accompany Shirley Temples topped with extra cherries. 

“That sounds lovely, Eddie.” 

There are a few beats of silence, only breathing and the sound of distant fireworks. Eddie is the one to break it. 

“I’d love to see you soon. I wanna see a lot more of you this year, if you want that too.” 

Your chest feels tight in a good way, like your heart has grown too big for your ribs. Maybe Eddie can hear its sped-up thudding on the other end of the phone. 

“I do want that. I’m still looking forward to that date you promised me, Munson.” Eddie’s low laugh is music to your ears. 

“Maybe… Could we meet with the girls soon? On the second, maybe if you’re not busy? We could meet at the park over near the library, get some coffee. Let the girls run around and play fairies or whatever they do.”

Before Eddie can word vomit any more, you say yes. No hesitation. The thought of seeing Eddie coupled with Hazel’s excitement for a play date is too lovely to turn down. 

“I’d love that, Eddie. The second is good for me.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah.”

“Cool. Great.” You can hear his grin. “This isn’t our actual date, by the way. I have a plan for that.” 

In your mind, you imagine his grin melting into the smooth smirk that tempted you when you first met. 

“Oh, you do?” 

“Oh, I do. Are you free next Friday? I have a capable and willing ‘sitter on hand - he comes included with the date. The girls could sleep over here. If you’d prefer to arrange your own, that’s cool. Wayne offered so… up to you.” 

He really had been planning this whole thing out. Your mind starts to race into your own planning mode, looking through your mental calendar and wondering if Hazel would be okay with a sleepover. Eddie’s voice brings you back to the moment. 

“You don’t need to answer now. I’m trying to be more organised this year. A resolution kinda. Tell me when we meet up, yeah?” 

“Yeah. Thank you, Eddie. I’m looking forward to it.” You want to say more, consider zipping your lip and swallowing down the words before you make it weird or too much. Decide, fuck it. “I can’t wait to see you.”

Eddie breathes out relief. “Me too. Me too, sweetheart.” 

You talk for a few more minutes before saying good night, wish each other another Happy New Year and sweet dreams. Hazel slumbers on next to you, and you settle down to sleep with a smile on your face. 

January second is not as bitterly cold as you had feared it might be. Bundled in hats and coats, scarves and gloves, you let Hazel pick the music for your short drive to the park with the playground that she always asks to go to. 

Your girl buzzes and bounces with excitement, smiley-faced in the rearview mirror. 

“I’m sooooo excited to see Fae!”

You catch her eye in the mirror and smile.“I bet she is so excited to see you too, honey.” 

“And we’re getting hot chocolate after we play! To warm up.” Hazel parrots what you had told her earlier, as excited by pink and white marshmallows and extra whipped cream as she was about the play date. 

Hazel talks and you listen, answering her unending curiosity about everything; if there will be other kids there (maybe), will Fae have her sparkly boots on (I think she will, let’s wait and see), if Hazel can have sparkly rainboots (let’s look next time we’re in Target). Her own boots (shiny red) knock against each other as you get closer to the park, excitement flowing off of her in buckets as your belly flutters with anticipation.

You swing your car next to Eddie’s black truck and try not to wince when Hazel squeals her joy. Fae sits in the passenger seat, waving both hands at her friend - by the slightly pained look on Eddie’s face, she is as high-pitched as Hazel is. 

“It’s Fae!! Hi Fae! Mom, let's goooo! I want to see my Fae!” she chirps. 

You share a smile with Eddie through the window, warm-cheeked despite the chilly day, and wrangle Hazel out of her seat so she can embrace her friend. Ten days without seeing each other was apparently unbearable, and they hug and squeal and jump like best friends parted for decades. 

Eddie lingers, watching you watch them, and reaches to squeeze your arm. A little more than two casual parents chaperoning playtime, and so much less than either of you crave. You had been spoiled by his touch and closeness that morning, only slightly satiated by his thigh and arm pressed against yours as you watched the girls prance and twirl at their dance showcase. 

The squeeze dulls the ache and makes it worse all at once. 

“Hey.”

“Hi.”

The weight of whatever it is between you is more than it has any right to be after the little time you had spent together - even though most of that time was having sex and sleeping together as strangers. Whatever it is, though it is laden with desire and cautious hope, does not feel heavy when you are sharing the load with Eddie. 

“Daddy, come on! Let’s rock and roll!” Fae beams, holding Hazel’s gloved hand in her own. 

“Mommy, can we go in now? Pleeeeease?” Hazel asks. 

Your respective Mini Me’s wear matching puppy-dog eyes and bounce in time on booted feet as they await permission (and assistance) to open the gate and start their imagination games. 

Fae Munson has never failed to put a smile on your face. The more you get to know her Dad, you see how much of him she has soaked up into her own self: their shared unbidden laugh, the spark of mischief when they want to push buttons and tease (always in good nature and never ever mean). She reminds you of starlight, breathtaking and sparkling, to your daughter's sunshine-brightness - they are a perfect pair. 

“Okay, okay. Chill for a sec,” Eddie laughs, wobbling his daughter’s head fondly, his hand spread wide like a spider over her lilac beanie. He holds the gate open, gentlemanly as you remember, and falls into step with you as the girls scurry on. “Pick a nice bench for us. I wanna check the slide is dry - Fae got a wet butt on it last time and she was not impressed.”

Fae is already telling Hazel about the horrors of the aforementioned wet butt - a horror of her own impatience and Eddie’s sleepy-headedness after staying up texting a certain someone late into the night. 

He winks at you before following after the girls, calling ‘wait for meeee’ in a girly voice that makes them squeal-laugh and pick up the pace toward the swings to leave Eddie straggling.

You pick a spot with a good view of the girl's realm to roam, but far enough away that they will feel independent and you can soak up your time with Eddie. He checks the swing seats and the slide, dried by the kids who had played earlier that morning and jogs back to you after giving them both a boost onto the jungle gym. You had no time to quadruple-check your appearance in your front camera - not that this was your date.

His smile widens when your eyes meet, and he slows down a touch to enjoy the vignette of you on the bench in the winter sun, glowing and gorgeous. Ethereal, breathtaking. Eddie kind of cannot believe that you are real; you are here, and you like him (at least he is pretty damn sure you do). 

You are warmed through by his gaze and fight the self-conscious feelings that creep in. You have thought, over the last few weeks, about how serendipitous this whole thing is, how the universe’s mysterious ways brought you here - to Hawkins, to the Hideout that night, to Eddie’s bed, and now this bench, watching your daughters play together. 

Eddie sits next to you, thinks about pulling you against his side to keep you warm. He knows he cannot, not yet, but maybe someday. 

“It’s good to see you,” he says. The sunlight shows flecks of gold in his dark brown eyes and the few silver strands in his dark stubble and hair, and you can see the warm vapour of his voice in the chilly air. 

“You too, Eddie. I’m really glad we’re doing this.” There’s an unspoken ‘for the girls’ and a more obvious ‘so that I could see you in the flesh and not just on my phone screen’ that hangs in the air between you. Neither of you needs to say it out loud. 

He smiles and knocks his shoulder against yours gently, radiating warmth and his spicy-warm scent. “S’better in person. Not that I don’t like texting with you, seeing you on FaceTime.”

There’s this familiarity between you, forged over text and video calls and a shared yearning for more that has been roadblocked by your responsibilities and real life. 

Feeling brave, you wonder aloud, “Is it just me, or does this not feel awkward and weird? Like, at all…”

You watch his smile spread, his dimples deepen. A wash of relief releases the slight tension in his shoulders and on his brow. 

“Not just you. We’ve talked most days though… And what’s this, like our fourth time meeting? I think we’ve broken the ice, sweetheart.” Eddie raises his brow, smirking in a way that lets you know that he is remembering that first night and the morning after. 

Warmth floods your cheeks and your belly, letting yourself remember how his hands felt on your body, how he took you apart and held you back together again. 

“Yeah. Yeah, we smashed that ice, huh?” 

His laugh is a smokey, throaty chuckle, bursting from his plush mouth. “Yeah, we did.”

It sets you off, a laugh that you try to haul back, but the seal is broken now, and you have well and truly dashed any iota of awkwardness that may have lingered. Like teenagers who should not be laughing but cannot stop, it gets funnier again just as you stop. The girls look over, curious about their parents shared laughter, and you both wave back at them as you try to settle yourselves. 

“Fae was so damn excited to see Hazel today. She woke me at seven - seven goddamn am. I can just about get her up for school, and then she wakes up at seven on the holidays,” Eddie says, watching them play together. 

“Mm, Hazel too. Seven thirty, but she hasn’t stopped talking about it since I told her she had a play date with her bestie.” 

Your daughter’s laugh blends with Fae’s, both perched in the basket swing that sways back and forth gently. It won’t be long until one of you is called up to push them higher than they can manage themselves.

“I’m glad she met Fae. Having a friend has helped her settle a lot.” Your eyes stay on the girls as you speak, and Eddie’s eyes are on you. “It was hard at first, she missed her old school, her friends, everything. I felt really awful about moving her entire life; she was so quiet, and I felt like the worst Mom ever.”

Your head turns to look at Eddie. “And then she met Fae, and she was like sunshine again. Brighter than ever.”

A warm smile spreads across his handsome face. His hand covers yours, a quick squeeze before retreating again.

“Faerie Dust,” he says, quiet voiced. “She’s good at making things better and she doesn’t even realise it.”

You match his smile, laughing quietly at the marvel that is Fae Munson. “Faerie Dust. Suits her, Eddie.”

“Doesn’t it just,” he says, glancing over to make sure the girls are still okay. “I’m glad she was there for Hazel. Fae… It’s not that she never had friends, but she’s never had a best friend. Not until Little Miss Sunshine over there.”

You feel tears pressing at the back of your eyes, happy relief to match your smile. It is one of those moments, those Mom Moments, when the difficult days and boundless motherly love are affirmed by realising that your kid is just as amazing to other people as she is to you.  

“M’glad she could be that for Fae.”

Eddie squeezes your hand; he gets it. Eddie understands the relief of knowing he is raising someone who is filled with boundless goodness and kindness. 

This time, he does not take his hand away so quickly. Alongside the adoration and pride for his imp of a daughter that fills his heart, there is a growing whisper of more-than-fondness for you and Hazel too. 

You sit in easy silence for a few moments, just watching the girls with their heads together, their giggling and giddy mischief make you both smile. The call comes then (as you knew it would), Fae hollering over at her Dad to come and push them in the swinging basket. She tacks on ‘please!’ and you can see Hazel’s excitement to finally experience the long-fabled crazy-high-swing-pushing that her friend had told her all about.

“Duty calls.” Eddie stands, shares a smile that makes your cheeks warm and the butterflies swoop, and saunters across to them, bringing his mechanic’s strength that earned him the ‘best swing pusher’ title.

With both girls holding on tight, you try not to white-knuckle the bench beneath you as you watch Eddie pushing them in a high swooping arc. Hazel’s little face is wide open and full of joy and her laughter blends with Fae’s delighted whooping. 

You see how Eddie is careful not to push too hard, too high, and how he keeps his body agile and strong to catch the swing again before pushing again. His face is animated as he teases the girls, kind-heartedly asking if this is high enough for them before sending them forward again before they can answer. It is easy to let your mind drift and remember his bare arms, dark ink and pale skin and the way they felt wrapped around you. 

“Mom, look!” 

Hazel’s delighted squeal brings you back to now, making your heart rate spike in a whole other way than your memories had. 

You wave over as she swoops up high once more, “Wow, that’s the highest ever!”

Soon, they are giggle-drunk and beg for Eddie’s mercy, and he only toys with them for a little while before slowing them to a stop, spinning them around a few times until they have had enough. When the girls feel steady-footed again, he helps them down to race each other to the jungle gym to climb and conquer the crow's nest at its highest point. You don’t miss how Fae hugs him quickly, foregoing first place for a little piece of her Dad.

Once more, you watch Eddie make his way to you; his cheeks have a rosy glow from the exertion of swing-pushing. Beneath your winter layers, your body yearns to have him close to you again - partly to steal his warmth but mostly because you miss the way you felt when he held you, hugged you, mapped the sweet and soft spots of your body like he wanted to memorise all of you. 

“What’s that look for?” Eddie asks, slowing to stand in front of you. 

“What look?” you ask, trying to play cool and not smile and flush hot-all-over like a teen with a crush. 

Eddie leans in closer, just enough that you can smell his cologne and spearmint gum, hear his stage-whisper.

“Like you want to eat me.”

The heat of his gaze and the way his lips curve in a wolfish smile bring you back to that night in the Hideout, his quiet deep voice takes you back to one particularly flirty FaceTime call long after bedtime. 

You stop yourself from saying “because I do” by sinking your teeth into your lip, barely stifling a smile of your own. 

Pleased with himself, Eddie retakes his seat next to you and lets his arm rest along the back of the bench, angling his body toward you. 

“I was thinking about our date.” 

You feel just as pleased with yourself when you see his smooth smile sparkle with something more boyish and exciteful, less suave than before. He had been building up to ask you.

“Yeah?” 

“Mmhm. I’m looking forward to it.”

When you shift your eyes away from Hazel and Fae and meet Eddie’s eye, your attempt to play it cool and his barely contained excitement spark like flint, cool exteriors cracking your faces into a shared smile. Both soothed by the simmering excitement you share. 

“Me too,” Eddie says, his mind racing to pull together his ideas for a great first date and pin them down. 

“Claudia’s going to take Hazel for the night.” 

Your cheeks heat up at the memory of Claudia Henderson’s intrigued smile and the flash of excitement that made her eyes sparkle when you asked if she would mind having Hazel overnight again. She didn’t pry, but made you promise her that you would be safe and relax, and to call her if you needed an SOS. 

Eddie’s fingers brush against your arm, a barely there touch through the layers of sweater and coat.

“I’ll pick you up at seven-thirty?”

It’s more than okay, and you have to stop yourself from blurting it out. You temper yourself from being too eager, too enamoured by this man planning a simple date. Later on, your brain will buzz with what to wear and whether you will stay the night with Eddie again, and you will fight that doubting voice that tries to dull the shine of this and ruin your excitement.

“That sounds great, Eddie. Seven-thirty is perfect.” 

Behind the leather and the wash-worn Metallica hoodie, the thermal beneath, Eddie’s heart is pounding and his stomach feels fluttery in a way it has not since he dated Fae’s mom. He thought that part of him was long gone, broken and buried.

“I can’t fuckin’ wait,” he says quietly. “I like spending time with you.”

Your heart is in your throat, and behind his smile, you see a glimpse of the same fears that rattle around your head. Your bodies are like two brackets on the bench, facing each other and holding between you the fragile buds and blooms of whatever this is, familiar and brand new all at the same time.

“Me too. I haven’t had something to look forward to in a long time,” you say, quietly sharing a secret in a mirror image of your daughters together at the top of the jungle gym. “Something that’s just for me. Y’know?”

You are fairly certain that he knows exactly what you mean, and you watch his shoulders sag ever so slightly, letting go of a breath that had been stuck in his throat.

“Yeah. I know that feeling, sweetheart.” 

The girls steal your attention again, waving and calling for both of you so that you will watch them go down the big slide, Hazel first and Fae shortly after. 

Soon, their patience for hot chocolate will wear thin and they will forget the playground in favour of sweet talking and puppy dog eyes with fluttery lashes, asking if it’s time for a treat yet. But until then, they are content to play and share secrets, whisper their shared wonder about what you and Eddie are laughing about.

The return to school and work is silver-lined by your date, a beacon of light in those dark and cold January days. You have promised Hazel a trip to Target for sparkly rain boots on Saturday, fuelled by Mom Guilt for leaving her on Friday night and dressing it up as her own glittering finish line to get through the first week of back-to-school. 

The week crawls by in work, doing inventory and taking a few eager and early Valentine's Day orders, planning a trip to the wholesalers in Bloomington before the Big Day and scheduling consultations with the brides and businesses who want the most special arrangements for the most loved-up day of the year.

With the lazy days and late nights of Christmas behind you, your texts and FaceTimes with Eddie are peppered through your workdays and tired evenings, sending little check-ins and anecdotes about customers in the florist and the garage and keeping each other company on video calls while Eddie folds laundry and you load the dishwasher. He has peppered your conversations with little hints about your date: dinner in the next town over so you can escape the bubble of Hawkins but be close enough for any parent emergencies. His excitement has matched yours, his nerves too, and he is counting down the days until he can see you again.

When you see Wayne in the dance studio parking lot on Thursday, there is an extra twinkle in his eye when he asks about your week and wishes you a late ‘Happy New Year’. There’s something of it, a Munson brand of mischief and magic, that reminds you of Eddie. He doesn’t tease or give you the shovel talk but quietly tells you to have a good time just as the girls are released back to you at six pm. 

All week, you have carried your excitement with you, tucked safely in your sternum beneath your cosy winter sweaters and your work apron. It is a different kind of simmering excitement and fear than you had felt that first morning with Eddie. As you fall asleep on (what Eddie has dubbed) Date Eve, cheeks still aching from smiling as you flirted hard with the mechanic over text, you imagine it as blowing soapy bubbles with Hazel in the garden when she was smaller. The slow blow, growing the bubble bigger and bigger with bated breath. Will it pop and leave your cheeks wet and eyes stinging, or will it float and shimmer iridescent in the sky? When your brain finally slows down, allows you to relax enough to drift off, you dream of Hazel’s baby laugh and the sun on your skin and bubbles flying up into the blue sky. 

You wake on Friday feeling like all of the water in your body has been swapped from still to sparkling. You make breakfast sandwiches with egg and cheese and stow a packet of Mini M&Ms and a little note for Hazel in her lunch box. Hazel is delighted by your extra good mood, singing ABBA and Shania Twain and Love Shack with you in the car, asking (full of innocence) if this is ‘that Friday Feeling’ she had heard grown-ups talk about.

You bring doughnuts into work and share your good mood with your co-workers who ask if you have heard from ‘your guy from the bar’ over the holidays. An unsubtle ‘maybe’ as you arrange a bouquet for a new mom sets them off, excited to know more and playfully frustrated by your elusive answers. You focus on the butter-yellow arrangement and avoid saying too much, smiling too much, or gushing about how you’re seeing him later today.

They already know. 

Eddie wanted to get you flowers for your date; he knew you had a particular love for them, one that brought you all the way to Hawkins to manage Ivy Lane Floral Boutique and restart your life in a new town. When he knew you were meeting a supplier earlier in the week, he swung an early lunch and called in to order a simple bouquet with a few ideas of what he wanted, helped along by your coworkers. They kept the order a secret, not wanting to spoil the surprise, off the books and safely stashed away from the other orders in the back. Most importantly, they will make sure you’re busy with something else or already gone home when he comes in to collect it later on. 

All day, you wait for something to dampen your sunny mood. A call from the school or a text to cancel or announce a change of plans or a change of heart. Something to drag you down, back to cold reality. Something.

There is no cloud to eclipse the sun, no rain to stop play. 

You leave work, pick Hazel up, make dinner for her, and pack her off to Claudia’s without a hitch - no tears, no “I want to stay with you, Mommy!”. You squeeze her extra tight when she lets you and thank Claudia for the hundredth time before heading home for your everything shower and a fortifying glass of wine. 

Time moves too quickly and then not at all as you wait for seven-thirty. There are discarded outfit picks and shoe options around your room, and your bathroom bin has black-smeared cotton pads and Q-Tips from an eyeliner mishap and laddered tights that caught on your rings. You look in the mirror, smoothing your hands over the bumps and dips that stand out and re-thinking the black skirt and sweater topped with an oversized leopard bomber (your Christmas gift to yourself). It felt too much and not enough, rethinking your lipstick and the chunky boots and how you had styled your hair. 

You’re just about to change back into black jeans when Eddie’s knuckles meet your front door. 

Your heart sparks and spikes with excitement. One more look in the mirror; deep breath, relax your shoulders, smooth your skirt one more time. You know you look good.

On the other side of your door, Eddie is vibrating with excitement and the sharp chill of a winter breeze. He can hear your footsteps as you make your way to him, checks his breath again and makes sure he’s not crushing your flowers in his sweaty palm. 

“Hi.” 

You’re a vision, haloed by the hallway light in the doorway. Like a painting he would have pored over in high school art history. 

“Hey.” 

Standing on your doorstep in black leather and charcoal, the porch light makes his curls glow like a halo. Eddie looks edible. 

It takes a moment for you to see the flowers, a bouquet of sweet-smelling deep reds, complimentary blushes and soft tones, a pop of purple.

“You look amazing,” he says, his smile is boyish and you can’t mistake the hunger in his eyes, see how his gaze lingers on where your skirt hugs your hips and the sheer black tights wrapped around your legs. After not-so-subtly checking you out, he remembers to be a gentleman. “I got you these. I know it’s probably crazy to get flowers for a florist…” 

“Eddie, they’re lovely. Thank you. Come in for a sec and I’ll get a vase.” 

When the door is closed, you take a moment to feel the weight of ‘this is really happening’ and the realisation that Eddie is in your house and you haven’t tidied much at all. You had accounted for every possible part of tonight, except this.

“Nice place,” he says, looking around at the maximalism of your style and the touches of parenthood until he simply has to get his eyes back on you. 

“We’re still making it ours, a few boxes left to unpack in the guest room.” 

Your hands cover his, feeling the chill carried from inside and the body-warm chunky metal of his rings as you take the flowers. You recognise them all, lilac, delphinium, ranunculus and rose, recognise their varieties and their meanings. Eddie had done his homework. 

“I love them, Eddie. Thank you.” 

Standing toe to toe, you breathe in the scent of him and close the chasm to kiss his cheek. 

“And thanks for supporting a local business.” 

His cheeks flame and dimple as you take the flowers and slip past in a haze of rich perfume, beckoning him to follow with that smile of yours. 

Hummingbird wings beat hard in your chest as Eddie follows you to the kitchen. You ask how Fae is and how the first week back to school went for them as you fill a vase for your bouquet to rest in. 

Eddie watches you easily move around the kitchen, admiring the bouquet as you untie the brown paper wrappings and lovingly make the flowers at home in the vase. His cheek is scorched from where your lips had grazed him, and yet he somehow manages to not sound like a bonehead as he answers you. 

He can’t tear his eyes away long enough to be nosy about how your house looks, if you have any pending DIY jobs you might need a helping hand with (he knows you are more than capable, wouldn’t want to offend with an offer to bang a nail in your wall). 

There is no prize for catching him looking at you. Eddie doesn’t hide his awe-filled and hungry gaze that makes you warm all over. 

Despite the heat, you bundle yourself in your scarf and wool bomber, and check that your bag has everything you might need for the night (and the morning). 

“Ready?”

“Ready.” 

Eddie smiles and steps closer, both of your black boots toe to toe again, and fixes your scarf slightly as an excuse to touch. 

“Perfect.” 

You resist ducking your head, decide to be brave instead of shy, and slip your hand onto the buttery leather wrapped around Eddie’s arm. 

“Not so bad yourself.”

You watch his gaze drop to your lips and the not-so-subtle way he moves millimetres closer. 

Drawn together to meet each other halfway, it can’t be deciphered who kissed who first, a product of mutual longing. Melted together by your kitchen island, you share your breath and your lip stain with Eddie.  

There are fireworks behind your eyes and trapped in your veins. After weeks of waiting and wanting, you are both finally put out of your misery. 

You can taste the want on Eddie’s lips, his tongue. A man long starved of the affection he deserves, scared to ask for it and try again. He has wanted and waited too, with itchy fingers and a twisting need in his gut, all because of you. The memory of you laid out on his sheets, remembering your body and the taste of you, had almost driven him wild. Now he has you held safe in his hands, and you have him too. You don’t want to stop. You don’t have to stop. 

But you do. As easy as it would be to walk blindly upstairs, finding and fumbling your way to bed, you both want more than sex. So much more. 

Kisses slow, lips smile. You give in to wanting and share one more kiss, let it linger.

“I really wanted to do that,” Eddie whispers, tipping his head forward against you. 

“Me too.” 

You thumb gently at his stained mouth, giggling at the mess you have made of him before he has even bought you dinner. 

“That colour suits you,” you whisper, before spilling into more giggling laughter, heads together. 

Eddie returns the favour, attempting to tidy the smudges and making it slightly worse. Best left to your expertise. Within moments, you look like perfection once again, no bleeding lines or spilled-over stains. 

“Better?” 

He takes a moment, gives you an exaggerated once-over before nodding. “I liked it messed up. But yes.”

“Like ‘Eddie Woz Here.’” 

Your eyes flash, siren-like. 

Eddie likes the sound of that, likes the look in your eyes too.

“Careful. Or I’ll mess it up again.”

“I hope you do.” 

Eddie’s head tilts back, eyes on the ceiling instead of you. “Oh, I’m in so much trouble with you. Fuck.” 

He does not sound too pressed about that, nor does he look too annoyed with that smile on his face. You’re emboldened by his playfulness.

“C’mon, Munson. You promised to wine and dine me. Let’s go before I need to fix my makeup some more.”

His face is split in a grin, pure delight to see this fun and feisty side of you that he had met in The Hideout, the same sweet woman with a devilish side that he had got to know more and more with every text. He does his best to ignore the stirring in his gut when you call him ‘Munson. ’ 

Waylaid by one more kiss by the front door, you are soon on your way to Bedford with the clock ticking down to the dinner reservation Eddie had made. The thirty-minute drive goes by in a blink, catching up on how your respective Fridays had been and checking in about things the other had mentioned during the week on your calls and in your texts, all soundtracked by Eddie’s loud rock music turned at a low volume.

He squeezed your knee at a few stoplights, and you covered his hand on the gear stick as you cruised down the IN-37. You did not miss how his cheeks looked even more red in the glow of taillights and how his dimples deepened in a way that made your tummy twirl with fondness.

Once his black Ford truck is parked safely in a little lot within walking distance from your restaurant and your activity for the evening, Eddie rounds the bonnet to open your door and offer you a hand.

“A gentleman. I better thank Wayne for raising you right.” 

Eddie smiles and squeezes your hand, keeping a hold of it as he clicks the lock and tucks the key away. 

“My Mom was big on good manners, but Wayne? He’s somethin’ else.”

Eddie had mentioned that he had lost his Mom young, alluded to the fact that his Dad was absent (and not the best when he was around). His love for his Uncle was clear, and from your interactions with Wayne long before you met Eddie, you know that it is returned in spades.

“That man can swear like a sailor though. Don’t let the smile and Southern Charm fool you.” 

There is a sparkle in Eddie’s eyes beneath the streetlights as you walk towards your destination, a little Mexican restaurant that shares its warm glow and spiced aroma from a tucked-away spot just off the main drag of Bedford. 

The air is cool, but Eddie’s warm hand makes it all feel warm and glowing. The small town feels different in the dark, looks different. You had viewed a house on the outskirts before finding your home in Hawkins, only saw the centre of town when you were trying to follow the Google Maps directions to the too-small house on the back end of town. 

You tell Eddie all about it as he navigates for you both, making sure you don’t need to dodge other pedestrians or lamp posts as he listens to your story. You realise halfway through just how boring it is and trail off. He squeezes your hand like he can read your self-chastising thoughts. 

“Well, I’m glad it was a shitty house. Hawkins is poky, but I think you fit in just fine, sweetheart,” he says, knocking your shoulders together. 

He winks at you when you look up at him, makes your gut somersault in such a pleasant way. 

“You can tell you’re not from there though,” he says. And when you try to decipher why, he simply smiles and says, “You’re way too pretty to be from Hawkins, honey.”

Your shoulder knocks against Eddie’s arm in playful retaliation.

“You’re so full of it, Munson.”

There is no malice laced in your words, and Eddie can tell it is your shields going up. He can see how you have turned in on yourself, self-conscious and self-sabotaging behind a bashful smile. 

“I mean it,” he says, squeezing your hand in a double time beat, “And not in the ‘everyone in Hawkins fucks their cousins’ way. Some do. I’ll show you my yearbook sometime, woof.” Eddie stalls your meandering pace a few feet away from the door of the restaurant. 

“I’ve never met anyone like you. You’re gorgeous, and you’ve got somethin’ real beautiful in here,” he says, tapping the centre of your chest. “You’re one of a kind.”

That part of you that ruins everything wants to duck your head beneath your wrapped-up scarf and brush him off, but the part of you that has been nourished by getting to know Eddie over the last few weeks, the part that you thought had withered away beyond revival, feels so much stronger, braver, brighter. 

You pull him closer so you can kiss his cheek, rest your head against his as you will the right words to come out of your mouth.

“You don’t have to say anything back,” he whispers. “Just needed you to know that’s how I think of you.” 

Pulling back a little to look at you again, hoping you will not duck your head or dodge his eye, Eddie smiles softly. “I don’t have any expectations here. I like you, I think you like me. But I’m okay to take it at our own pace. Even if it’s kinda ass-backwards.”

The truth of it makes you laugh, how this all started with pure lust and how it has blossomed into something that could be beautiful.

“I do like you, Eddie. It scares me a little just how much I like you.” 

You kiss him again, a sweet brush of lips that makes you both crave more.

“And I will like you even more once I’ve had a taco and a margarita.”

His laugh is loud, echoing into the dark evening and pulling attention from passers-by. 

“Food motivated, I can work with that.” 

Eddie cups your face with gentle hands and kisses you again until you’re smiling against each other's mouths, not caring that you’re in the middle of the street, blocking up the sidewalk.

The tacos are perfectly spiced and fresh with housemade tortillas and hot sauces, wedges of lime on the side, and the margarita you order has that perfect balance of sharp citrus and smokey tequila. The little table tucked away in the back has been the perfect spot to get to know each other more and more, picking back up the threads of conversations that were better explained in person rather than over the phone.

You both leave the bones of your past relationships mostly buried, a mutual unspoken agreement. It is enough, for now, to say that your relationship with Hazel’s Dad ended because he had found other things and other women he wanted to do instead of being a partner and a father. Eddie tells you that Fae’s Mom was his on-and-off girlfriend, that they were firmly off when he was told there was a baby on the way; he wanted to make something work and she didn’t want any part of it. There is so much more both of you can say, but tonight is not about the past.

Instead, you talk about books and films, Eddie tells you more about his love of music and how he got into D&D. You stash away the little tidbits of Eddie-lore for yourself. He asks about when you got into floristry, about the city you lived in before moving to Hawkins. Eddie isn’t shy about asking you things and you love that, love that he listens. He is a rare gem and you want to keep him all for yourself. It feels comfortable and easy, and you give as good as you get when he flirts with you and shares bites of creamy elote in exchange for a taste of your margarita. 

He tells you about how he wants to see the ocean one day, take Fae to dip their toes in the briny tide. His Mom had promised him she would take him one day, but they never had the money or the chance, and then it was too late. 

“Fae looks really like my Mom,” he says. “It spooks Wayne sometimes.”

The thought and the one that follows it make you smile, “So that means you must look like your Mom too.” 

You see a flash of boyish pride as Eddie nods. He tempers his smile with a bite of salty tortilla chip smothered in guacamole. When he shows you the photo on his phone - a picture of a picture with a hit of his thumb in the corner - you see the resemblance to Fae in his mother’s carefree smile, the sparkle in her eyes caught by the camera as she holds her little boy. 

“Beautiful,” you murmur, taking another moment to look at her before shifting focus to the four-year-old version of the man sitting in front of you. Rosy cheeks, smiling up at his Mama with his shiny milk teeth. He takes your breath away.

“Eddie, you little cherub!”

“Butter wouldn’t melt, huh?” 

He smiles, pushing down that heart-aching feeling he still gets when he thinks of her. More than once since meeting you, Eddie had wished he could tell his Mom all about you, gush and let her tease him a little about having a crush. Wayne, as always, had picked up the slack.

By dessert, you have promised him some wildflower seeds for bee-obsessed Fae, and Eddie’s been holding your hand since you passed his phone back. Your face hurts from smiling as you share horchata crème brûlée and sugar-dusted churros with hot chocolate sauce, even though your stomach is full and your skirt feels tighter than it had earlier. 

Eddie had switched to soda halfway through the meal so he could get you both back to Hawkins safely, but he feels more love-drunk than any buzz from beer could give him. His cheeks have that same rosy hue as the picture he showed you.

Your attention is pulled to the cinnamon sugar caught on his lower lip line. It has evaded the swipe of his tongue, chasing the taste of sweet and rich desserts. 

“Do I have something on my face, sweetheart?” he asks, catching your gaze fall to his mouth for the fifth time. 

“Yeah, you have a little…” Tapping your own lip, you watch a flicker of amusement cross his face. “C’mere, I’ll get it.” 

Your hand cups his cheek across the small table, reaching and leaning toward each other to meet in the middle. Your thumb grazes his lower lip, brushing away the sparkling spiced sugar, but neither of you move away. A second more purposeful slow drag of your thumb along Eddie’s lower lip sparks like a match; the hot flame is reflected in his eyes and catches on the embers of want that have settled low in his gut all evening, all week, longer. 

“Got it,” you whisper, feeling the same heat. 

“Thanks.”

Eddie’s voice is smokey and low, just loud enough for you to hear. He leans into your palm, presses his lips to your thumb. His eyes never leave yours.

Taking your hand as it falls away from his jaw, Eddie places another kiss on your knuckles and you can feel your heart hammering hard behind your ribs, hear it race in your ears. You are so focused on him that you barely register when he signals for the bill. He cannot see how your thighs squeeze together (not for the first time that night) beneath the table.

“So, did the taco and marg help?” he asks, leaning forward a little more. 

Puzzled, too mesmerised with want to get it, it takes another little prompt before you can answer. 

“Out there, you said you’d like me even more after a taco and a margarita…” Eddie’s smile is teasing in a fun way, wolfish and cool.

“Mmhm, the tacos were great. Best margarita I’ve had in years.” You mirror him, leaning in closer to say, “The company was my favourite part.”

Eddie laughs low in his throat, just for you to hear. “I thought so too. You’re somethin’ else.”

He is enamoured, nay entranced, by you as you hold his gaze, letting the fire burn between you for a moment until the server comes with the bill and card machine, asking if the food was okay, if you have had a good night. 

Eddie takes charge of the bill as you hype up the margs, promise you will come back again. You don’t see the tip he left, but the look on your server's face and her smiley ‘thank you so much’ tells you all you need to know. 

“Ready to head out?” he asks, tucking his card away again. 

As you stand to put your jackets back on (of course he holds your bomber for you to slip back into), you catch a table of younger women eyeing his broad shoulders and the shape of his arms, hear their whispers of ‘where do I find one like that’ and, ‘damn, he’s fine’. 

He does not let on if he has heard but drops a kiss on your lips once you’re wrapped up for the cold weather again before getting into his own leather jacket. Once his curls are freed from his collar, he pats down the pockets for his keys, wallet and phone before reaching for your hand.

You nab two lollipops from the hostess station, one each (and you don’t have to share them with the girls or worry about hard candy and their teeth), and step back out into the cool night air.

“So we have a choice to make.”

When you look up at Eddie, he has a faux-serious look on his face, and you can see the vapour of his breath in the air. 

“My place or yours?” 

You catch him, not for the first time, off guard, and he cracks out a delighted little laugh. 

“I was going to ask if you wanted to check out the arcade bar down the street or call it a night, but I do like how you think, sweetheart.” 

Full. Body. Cringe. 

“Oh…my god. Wait there for a sec, I’m going to walk in traffic.”

Eddie drags you back by your waist as you pretend to make for the quiet main road. “Nope, no way,” he laughs, winding his arms around you to lock you safely against his chest. Your arms wrap around his middle, locking him against you for warmth and just because you can.

You can still catch his aftershave beneath the lingering scent of warm spices as your cheek rests against his strong chest. 

“I thought that’s what you were going to ask,” you murmur, peering up at him.

“I was; you just got there first.” Eddie smiles, feeling the gentle stroke of your fingertips on the small of his back. “Either way, mine or yours, now or later, if it’s what you want, baby, I’m not ready to say goodnight yet.”

He kisses your forehead, soothing your racing mind. 

“I do. I’ve been thinking about it,” you whisper. “You know I have, Ed.” 

Some of your texts and late-night phone calls had toed that line, barely keeping a lid on your composure and need at the sound of his voice, but each time, you or Eddie had been interrupted by one of the girls about a bad dream or a glass of water.

“I know, baby. I know, me too.” His fingers drift beneath your chin, tilting your face up for a single searing kiss. 

“S’still early. We have plenty of time, no rush,” he murmurs, still in kissing distance. “Will we check out the arcade for a little bit? See if you can beat me on Mortal Kombat?”

You pull back a little, raising your brows at him in a way that makes his jeans a little bit tighter, “Oh, I know I can beat you on Mortal Kombat.”

Eddie scoffs, smiles that wolfish way you like. “You have no idea who you’re talking to. Palace Arcade’s reigning Mortal Kombat II champ two years running. You’re going down”

“Only two?”

For all your fighting talk, your arms are still wound around each other’s bodies. Instead of marching each other right to the arcade, you savour the physical closeness you have both craved and smile against each other's lips as you trade kisses and sass-filled barbs back and forth. 

A sharp breeze from the east is what separates and sends you toward the neon sign for Token across the quiet street, seeking warmth and a definitive answer to who is the supreme of vintage arcade games. 

You pay for the first two drinks and your play cards - two palatable low-alcohol beers and plenty of game credit to thoroughly kick Munson’s ass at every game in the place, including Dance Dance Revolution. Eddie picks air hockey to warm you both up; despite your shared lack of athleticism, you both show off your parental reflexes honed over years of catching sippy cups before they fall and protecting little heads en route to something that will leave a bump or bruise. He beats you by two points, tries not to be too smug about it. 

As you wait for Mortal Kombat to free up, you take turns on Pac-Man and savour the feeling of Eddie’s arm around your shoulders, murmuring directions and trying to steer you into the path of a bright blue ghost. His breath tickles your neck and the weight of his hand on your hip feels like it belongs there. You give as good as you get when it’s his turn, skimming your fingertips along the back waistband of his jeans before they tip-toe into his pocket. Eddie forgets about swallowing up the flashing yellow dots in favour of stealing a kiss that leaves you breathless, leaving Pac-Man himself to be swarmed by the colourful Ghost Gang. 

When it’s your turn again, Eddie ups the ante on distracting you now that the dam has broken. Warm breath and spiced praise whispered against your neck, ‘That’s it, good girl’ drag your mind into the gutter and soaks the gusset of your date-appropriate panties. Pressed close behind you, one hand on your hip and the other on the machine, the solid weight of him is the only thing stopping you from melting into a puddle at his feet. 

Your fairly public foreplay ebbs and flows as you move through the games, shelved in favour of playful trash-talk during two-player Mario Kart and Crazy Taxi, back on again when you find the Addams Family pinball machine, distracting whispers and wandering hands, lingering touches. Everyone else is too distracted by flashing lights and having their own competitive fun to notice or care. 

It’s not all flirtation (but it mostly is); there are sweet moments too and this feels so much more than a first date. You agree on the fact that Gomez and Morticia are relationship goals, and when Eddie spots a Dungeons & Dragons: Tower of Doom game you are flooded with cuteness aggression at his excited little gasp and boyish smile. 

“I’ve only seen one of these once before. I can’t believe they have it,” he says, his body fizzing with excitement. 

“You wanna play it? They might be done soon..?” 

Eddie eyes up the three players holding court at the machine, deep in gameplay. It makes him feel fond, reminds him to arrange something with the Hellfire guys sometime soon. 

“They’re in it for the long haul, I think. Anyway, I’ll be here all night if I start,” he says, shrugging. “I didn’t know they had this. Fuckin’ cool.”

“Well, if they move off you can show me, yeah?” His smile widens and he is barely holding on to reality, utter disbelief that you’re real and you care about his interests. 

Eddie lifts his phone out of his pocket and aims to snap a picture to send to the guys. 

”Hey. Stand in,” you insist. “Show off with your bounty.”

He brushes aside the whisper of embarrassment and hands over his phone. You snap a few pictures of him, beer in one hand and the other firing the devil horns, he sticks his tongue out for one. You catch another of him smiling wide (more at you than posing for the picture). 

“Much cuter than a guy holding a fish he just caught,” you tease. 

“Me? Cute. Psh, get outta here.” 

He thumbs through the photos, struck with some sort of nostalgia at how he can see more of his younger self after an evening with you than he has in a long time, despite the silver strands in his hair and his stubble and the lines around his eyes. He vows to send the pictures into the group chat tomorrow and tucks it away again so his attention is fully on you again. 

Pulling you closer so he can kiss you, Eddie feels a little giddy about how easily these moments of affection have blossomed between you over the last few hours. 

“Not as cute as you.” He does one more kiss on your nose. 

“Hey. Let me compliment you, Eddie.” 

He looks into your eyes, guided by your gentle fingers on his cheek. 

“I mean it. I know it’s hard to, but I think you’re cute.” You can see him fighting a scoff, an eye roll, so you pinch his chin gently and wobble his head. “I can keep going. You’re fucking hot, and you’re funny and you’re so kind. I don’t know how you’re real.” 

He cracks a smile, forces himself not to duck his head even though his shoes seem pretty interesting. He’s not used to this, having someone be sweet to him like you are, like you have been since you met. 

“I’ll try to take the compliments, thank you,” he murmurs, melting a little when you smile, proud of him and a little proud of yourself too. “I promise I’m real.” 

“Lucky me.” 

You reward him, kissing him straight on the lips as positive reinforcement. 

“Now I’m going to kick your cute ass at Mortal Kombat. It’s finally free.” 

If you weren’t so down bad for him, Eddie’s delighted victory over you might be a turn-off.

Alas, you have a thing for nerds.

Back out on the street almost an hour later, he bounces on his feet and mimes poor imitations of the moves he had doled out as Raiden, beating you (as Kitana) fair and square. 

Even when he’s playfully rubbing your face in it, promising he will go easier on you next time, you feel so far gone on him that it makes you ache. You have been carrying that pleasant tenderness in your chest and between your thighs all damn night.

Eddie’s glee is contagious, and you find yourself almost doubled over laughing at his antics as you head for the car. The cool air stings your too-warm cheeks as you walk hand-in-hand, your shared laughter ringing out and pulling attention from other pairs and groups bar-hopping and heading home for the night. The buzz from the cocktails has long passed, and yet you still feel a dizzying high from Eddie’s company. 

Closer to the car, Eddie quietens down a little and squeezes your hand. “Tonight’s been great,” he says, smiling softly. 

“I thought so too. You’re one hell of a date, Eddie. I’m glad we did this.” 

Your meandering pace slows as you near the truck, coming to a stop around the passenger side. 

“Me too, sweetheart.” Eddie ducks his gaze for a moment before looking back at you, you can feel his warmth and sincerity. “I meant what I said on New Year, when I called. I really want to keep seeing you this year. You… I really like you, and I don’t want to complicate what the girls have, but I want to try this with you. We can take it slow as you like.” 

There is an edge of nervousness that you have not seen much of all night, glimpses here and there swiftly covered by a joke or flirtation. But under the silvery moon, Eddie’s showing you his heart.

Your own heart beats hard and fast in your chest, endeared and excited by him, by the future. 

“I meant it too, Ed. I’d like that. I like you.”

His hands settle on your waist, and you instinctively drape your arms around his leather-clad shoulders. 

“So I can take you out again sometime?”

“Mhm. You better.”

He smiles so widely that it’s almost impossible to kiss you like he wants to, messier and less coordinated but full of want and elation.

“M’a lucky guy,” he whispers.

The solid body of the truck is cool against your back, a stinging contrast to Eddie’s warm chest as you crowd up close to each other. His tongue swipes against the plush of your lower lip, asking for permission already granted. The quiet moan that sticks in his throat as your tongues brush together makes you throb with want. Between the truck and the breadth of his strong shoulders, you are a willing prisoner to lust and desire, wanting to touch and be touched.

Your brain feels scrambled, loose wires on the fritz, as you make out and touch each other like two teens on borrowed time. Adults on borrowed time, real life and its joys and mundanity looming again.

“Your place.” 

Whispering breathlessly against his kiss-abused mouth, Eddie hums a quiet affirmative and can’t resist pulling your hips against his one more time before breaking the kiss. 

“Fuck. Yeah, yeah. Anything you want.”

He fumbles for his keys as your fingers trail down his shoulders, over his chest and down down down to his belt. 

“Anything?” 

Eddie nods, eyes fluttering shut as you cup him through his jeans. 

“Anything. Everything.”

He manages to unlock the car, a feat of determination and multitasking as you play with him. 

“I knew you were trouble.” 

Even as he playfully chastises you, his hips push forward in an involuntary roll seeking more more more of your warm, teasing touches.

You kiss his lower lip, trail your mouth down the dark grown-out stubble on his jaw. “You like it.”

You don’t see how his eyes almost cross when you kiss his neck, graze your teeth along the tendon and soothe the sting with your sweet tongue.

“Fuck, I do.” 

It is only when you hear other voices drifting through the almost empty lot that you manage to tear yourself away from each other, your hands above the belt again. Eddie presses one last firm kiss to your mouth, like a promise; ‘this isn’t over and you’re so in for it’ without saying a word. He opens the car door, a little less gentlemanly about where he lets his hands wander as he helps you into the passenger seat this time.

You feel a little giddy as you catch him adjusting himself as he rounds the hood, catching your eye through the windshield. 

“Minx,” he murmurs as he slips into the seat.

If you both did not have so much to lose, it would be a no-brainer to pull over to some shady lay-by and pick up where you had left off. But Eddie’s fresh bedsheets and the plum lace beneath your clothes deserve to be enjoyed. 

At red lights, he leans over to steal a kiss, leaving you wanting more when it turns green. You try to get your own back, tracing the inner seam of his jeans with painted fingernails until he warns you to behave yourself. The denim feels too tight and tighter still when he catches the way you squeeze your thighs together at his firm words. 

“Knew you were a real temptress beneath the flowers and sunshine.” 

He had said that one night on the phone, and the memory of his velvety voice in your ear had been stashed away in your bedside drawer for lonely nights. 

Now you had the real thing again, and you were going to savour it. 

You had both checked your phones before leaving the arcade, making sure there were no calls or texts missed from Wayne or Claudia. No emergencies; you have until morning to enjoy each other. 

It’s late, but not quite midnight, when he parks in his driveway on Birch Avenue. If any of his neighbours are up late enough to peer out of their curtains to see you hot-foot it hand in hand into the house, you don’t notice, nor do you care. 

Eddie makes light work of the lock, clinging on to his composure until he can close and lock it behind you again, encasing you both in the bubble of his cosy home all over again. Something like relief floods your body as you take in the familiar sight of Eddie and Fae’s shoes by the door, the lived-in loveliness of their house. 

And Eddie feels it too, he likes how you look in the low light of his front hallway - a little less put together than you had been when you left your house, perfectly unwound by the fun and flirtation of your evening together. 

There is this pregnant pause, a bubble of easy silence as you both just take it all in. When you catch Eddie’s eye, catch him looking, you smile and pull him into you again as you rest back against the door. 

Your lips meet in a slow kiss, much less frantic and boiling hot than before, and yet the press of Eddie’s leg between your thighs, bunching up your skirt, stokes the fire burning inside you. Like a slow match strike, you drag your hips and savour the pleasurable friction.  

Eddie takes advantage of your slackened jaw and slides his tongue against yours, swallowing down the sweet noises you can’t keep a hold of as you pull him tighter against you. 

His jacket is the first thing to go, pushed off his shoulders and down onto the floor. Your scarf follows, then your own jacket as you move blindly, as one, toward the stairs. 

After almost falling on his ass at the first step, Eddie breaks the kiss to lead you up to his room. You could probably find your way, but keep holding his hand as he leads you into the lamp-lit haven of his bedroom. 

His sheets are deep green this time; they look brand new and so soft. Before you can inspect them any further, Eddie’s hands are back on your hips. 

“Y’okay?” 

“Never better.” 

Another smiling sweet kiss moves you closer to the bed. It yields beneath his weight and yours as you straddle his lap; all decorum about keeping your skirt unbunched and tidy has long gone. Wide ringed hands take advantage of the gathered-up fabric, encouraging the push-and-pull friction you both crave. 

You feel him, solid and hot and straining against his denims. Since your hands wandered earlier in the night, you knew you wanted him in your mouth and nothing could change your mind. 

Eddie chases your mouth when you pull back; his eyelids are heavy, lips wet and red. You watch his brows pinch as you get a hand on him again, see his jaw slacken and feel as his legs widen to give you all the space you need. 

You find that spot on his neck again, the little nook that made him go almost crossed-eyed earlier, and soak in the breathy ‘fuck’ and the pulse and kick beneath your stroking fingers. Kissing lower, you pull gently at the neck of his fine knit charcoal sweater so you can nip Eddie’s collarbone, breathing in the musk of his cologne and the barely-there metallic tint of the chains around his neck. 

There’s a gorgeous pink hue across his cheeks and nose when you look up at him again, a dopey smile that makes you feel fond and urges you to kiss him again. Just one and you move away, leaving him pouting, wanting more, feeling greedy. With his hand on himself, missing your touch, he can’t look away as you rid yourself of the skirt and top. The shape of you in your bra and tights and boots makes him feel crazy. 

“Look at you. Pretty girl.” 

He spies the shape and shadow of matching plum lace beneath your tights as the boots come off. You’re not even trying to be sexy, not trying to tease him as you remove each layer, but he feels wild with desire anyway. 

Eddie is back on you once your tights have been dropped onto the pile of discarded clothes, his hands roaming over your hips and midriff, smearing wet kisses to your shoulders and chest. You feel his appreciation for the Third Love set (that had been long relegated to the back of your drawer) in the intensity of his gaze and the reverence of his touches.

If you’re brain could manage a coherent thought that’s not Eddie Eddie Eddie, you might realise that no one has ever desired you like this man. He’s not shy, nor is he coy or cocky about how he wants you; he just does. 

There are more messy kisses as you work his belt and jeans open, broken only when Eddie whips his sweater off. You feel an almost Pavlovian throb between your thighs at the metallic clinks of buckle and button. In his black tank top and open jeans, low on his hips, with nothing to hide his straining briefs and bulked-up arms, your mouth waters. 

You get stuck on his arms for a moment, the uncovered ink and firm muscles from his work hefting tyres and car parts all day. Giving in to impulse, you press wet kisses along the ‘one ring’ tattoo that wraps around his bicep and the cobweb that caps off his shoulder. 

“You’re unreal,” he whispers, bringing your mouths together again and getting his itchy hands back on you, the squish of your hips and the butter-soft lace. 

“Take your pants off.” 

You smile against his mouth when he moans, swearing quietly that you’re definitely trying to kill him. 

“No, I just want to get my mouth on you,” you promise, finger-tipping along the band of his underwear. 

“Jesus, that mouth.” 

His smile is sunshine, cheeks dimpled and rosy as he pinches your face so your lips pucker for his kisses. 

You won’t complain; kissing him has quickly become a top-five favourite thing to do, and you want as many as possible before you must part ways and go back to real life again in the morning. 

“Off. Please.”

Eddie decides he might, for the first time in his life, start doing as he’s told - well, as long as you’re the one telling him. You, with your kiss-swollen lips and siren-eyes. He would do whatever you asked, and not simply because your hand is holding his cock. 

His jeans come off, caught briefly by his still-on boots - that made you both laugh until you knelt between his legs to help untie his boots and free his ankles of tangled denim. 

He’s half expecting you to come back up to him, even though you look so pretty between his thighs. Like a flower or a jewel or something else poetically beautiful and precious in between his hairy thighs, doodled in dark ink. Less poetically, he thinks you’re hotter than any adult film or fantasy he could come up with, even on his loneliest nights. 

“You don’t have to…”

He wants you to (of course he wants you to) but doesn’t want you to feel like you owe him anything because he ate you out last time. Twice. 

“I know. I wouldn’t if I didn’t want to, Ed. Been thinking about it.” 

And you had been. More than you thought possible, more than you ever had with any other man you had been with before. 

Your cheeks are warm at your own admission, and Eddie’s are pink to match. Inside his head, he is whooping and cheering himself on. Being wanted, craved like this, is alien to him and he almost does not know what to do with himself.

“Can you pinch me real quick? I think I’m in some sorta dream or something.” 

A quick graze of teeth against his inner thigh confirms that he is, in fact, awake and alive, and you are real and past ready to get your mouth on him. He is almost embarrassed by the noise that escapes his mouth - part moan, part hiss, part giggle - but right now he is simply too turned on to give a shit about playing it cool. 

Not trying to stall, just to be considerate, Eddie passes you one of the extra pillows on his bed for your knees and gives you one more kiss before letting you do, at last, what you want to him. 

In your cosy space between his knees, you take a moment to marvel at the thick bulge trapped in black boxer briefs. You know it’s pretty, remember the way it felt splitting you open when he pushed slowly inside. Butterfly-gentle kisses weave your path up to the waistband and along the dark happy trail that guides you to your prize; the slight pudge to his belly makes your mouth water. You catch the hitch in Eddie’s breath when your nails bite briefly into the soft parts around his hips, dragging the briefs down out of sight and mind.

Just as nice as you remembered, the comedian in your brain wonders if there’s a lipstick to match the warm pink tip. If Eddie could muster the courage to look at you (he will, he just needs a sec), he might have caught the way you smiled at your own private joke. Instead, he feels your warm fingers and that smiling mouth against him before your tongue swirls just right.

He’s done for. 

You can’t deny how that wrecked sound from him makes you throb between your legs. It only spurs you on though, taking him in your mouth. Hot and heavy and thick enough to make you slow down, not choke yourself too soon, you hold no regret for your fixated thoughts this week. 

Eddie feels like a dumb seventeen-year-old again, not believing his luck that a pretty girl wants to do this with him and too horny-dumb to hold back his little noises or run his mouth. 

“Oh fuck, yes.” His voice is wrecked-raspy; he grabs at the duvet, white-knuckled and trying his best to keep his hips still for you.

When he feels strong enough, brave enough, to look at you (fairly confident he won’t expire or embarrass himself), he is sure that you’re straight out of a fantasy or a dream. The slow and determined bob of your head and smudged mascara beneath your eyes, the stretch of him beneath your cheek, and your body wrapped in that maddeningly perfect plum lace. 

When you look up at him, teetering on that line of too much, too deep, he’s already looking at you. Eddie looks utterly fucked; pink cheeks and flushed chest, wild hair and lips almost bruised from his own teeth. 

You’re fairly sure that it is your own involuntary moan that makes him gasp ‘fuck!’ in that wrecked way. Eddie forgets about keeping his hips still, thrusting forward to chase pleasure, enough to make you choke a little bit.

His fucked-out brain is a beat behind as you cough, spluttering as you pull back to catch your breath.

“Shit, sorry. Sorry.”

Even when you promise him it’s fine, Eddie is reverent about how he wipes your tears. 

You silence him with a quick kiss, covering his hands on your hot, damp cheeks as he holds you like a treasure. 

“Ed, it’s fine.” You kiss him one more time, slower. “It’s fine.”

Before you can get back to it, Eddie grabs a kiss of his own, slow and long, and drops his head against yours. 

“Sorry.”

“Stop apologising.”

Both smiling again, you are certain that a man has never been so deserving of having his soul sucked out through his dick. 

You would be honoured to be the one to do it.

Eddie catches the way your hips drag slightly against the pillow and almost bites through his lip. A little pressure takes the edge off, just right but not enough all at the same time; waiting can make it more fun. Every moment is fun with Eddie.

Before taking him in your mouth again, you coax his fingers away from nearly ripping the duvet and bring your joined hands to rest on his thigh. He is almost distracted by the sweetness of it until he feels your mouth again, all thoughts overridden by the velvety warmth of your tongue. 

His murmured praise for you, the breathy little noises he cannot keep behind his lips, only spurs you on more. They turn you on more too. 

When you have found the rhythm again, using your tongue and that sweet suction to make his eyes roll back, you lift your joined hands and guide him to hold your head.

“Fuuuck,” he breathes, husky and low. 

He’s not pushy about it, does not change up anything you’re doing, but you both lean into that extra layer of trust that has opened up between you. If anything, he is even more giving with his praise for you, how good you’re making him feel and how pretty you look for him. 

Eddie loves how he can feel that fluttering feeling when he tips against your throat, the snug heat of it; he soaks up the wet wrecked sounds and the sparkling tears on your cheeks until he feels too close too quickly. 

“C’mere. Come up here to me.” His voice is just short of pleading; he needs to get his hands back on you, wants to make you feel good too. 

“Everything okay?” you ask, hands on his thighs. The rough edge to your voice makes him tingle. 

“Fuckin’ peachy. S’just…been awhile. Didn’t want to come yet.” 

Kitten licking the tip again, a wet kiss to his belly, you feel a little devious. “Oh, good.”

Perched back on the bed and back in his lap, you cannot get enough of each other. Eddie is just about careful enough not to rip your lace when he gets his mouth on your chest, wet kisses and nipping teeth. The sound of your voice bouncing on the bedroom walls when he pushes your panties to the side to touch you bursts with relief, with desire for more. You feel his hardness throb against you at the sound of his name on your lips.

As quick and careful as you can manage, Eddie lays you out on his deep green bedsheets. He takes a mental snapshot of you, bra askew and eyes heavy-lidded, before resuming his kissing and touching. 

“Beautiful,” he murmurs against your breast, “So fucking pretty.”

“Me or my tits?” You stroke your fingers through Eddie’s hair, smiling dreamily when he looks up at you. 

“Both.”

He very pointedly kisses each one before nuzzling the warm space between, feeling your heart thumping beneath his lips. His mouth leaves wet little smooch-marks behind as he makes his way up to your lips again, sharing a few more smiling kisses as he reaches around on his bedside table for something to keep his hair out of his face.

You are painfully endeared by the triumphant little noise he makes when he finds it, and kiss him a little more about it, distracting his Boy Brain from the task at hand. Even though you are soaked for him, even though he is borderline painfully hard for you, there is this moment of total fondness for each other. Curtained in by dark curls, you are besotted by his pink glow and dimples.

Eddie shifts to kneel between your legs, winking at you before he flips his head back to gather and tie his hair up in an annoyingly perfect topknot. You are mesmerised by the flex and stretch of his arms, the light and shadow of his body in the golden lamplight. You wonder about summer, whether Eddie might wear his work coveralls tied at the waist to beat the heat of the shop. You hope so, and you can’t wait to see it; it makes your tummy flutter in a whole new way. 

The drag of thick thigh muscle against your core brings you back to the here and now with the man in your daydreams. You chase the feeling, jaw slackened by how badly you need him to touch you. 

Eddie can see it, and he likes how it looks on you. He wants to give you whatever you desire, everything you deserve.

His hands are not baby-soft; they are work-worn and guitar-string-scarred, but they are so gentle when he rolls your underwear down. They land somewhere amongst the rest of his and her's discarded clothes. Your bra is next, the last to go, forgotten until morning. 

He looks perfect, his head framed by your thighs, cheek resting against the soft fat and muscle. He looks at home there, watching transfixed at how you open up for those gentle hands, hearing the pretty sounds you make for him. His stubble is the right side of rough as he murmurs to you. 

“All this for me?” Eddie asks, watching for your reaction as his thumb glides over your swollen clit.

Even when your hips buck toward his touch, when your legs tremble as he dips the tip of his finger into you. It is all just enough for you to forget how to speak, play with his food while he’s waiting for an answer. 

Another featherlight swipe makes you gasp, wringing out a whine he wants to record and listen to on a loop.

“Answer me, baby, please. Is this all mine?” he whispers.

Your answering nod is a weak thrash of your head; you are pinned under his gaze like a specimen behind glass, trapped in syrupy amber. 

“Yeah. Please, Eddie.”

His answer smile is proud and lazy and lovely, all for you. 

“That’s it, sweetheart. Thank you.”

You feel fit to implode, so tightly wound with need, and Eddie is about to unravel you - the anticipation is nearly too much. 

“Lucky me.”

And then he is almost silent, and any noises he does make are drowned out by you.

His hands might be gentle, but his tongue is silk-soft and sure as he ice-cream-licks his way into you. As much as you had been thinking about getting your mouth on Eddie, his mind had wandered back to that morning between your legs more times than he could count.  Now he is back there, a heavenly place, he has no ambition to leave despite how his hips press against the bed to seek relief. Right now, the sweet taste and the sweet sounds you make are enough. 

One leg over his shoulder, the other splayed out to the side like a ragdoll, Eddie has you just how he wants you: open and wantonly taking all of the pleasure and good things you deserve. He takes his time with you, watches what you like, what makes you throb and keen and gush. He takes his work seriously.

His mouth is firm, wet, determined, unravelling you from the very core. If your brain was not so blissed-out, you might realise that you have never been so at ease and your thoughts so syrupy-slow. There’s a fleeting idea that he might be some kind of sex magician - it makes you smile lazily at the ceiling - but you are pulled out of your head by the careful stretch and push of two fingers and his honeyed tongue. 

Between your thighs with the weight of your hand on his head, his mouth on your cunt, Eddie is fairly certain he could die happy here. He likes his life, loves it, but should an asteroid hit, he would feel fairly content with his life if these were his final moments. The zing of pleasure down his spine when you tug his curls makes him moan against you, slackening his aching jaw. 

He can tell by the slushy-wet sound, the heightened pitch of your voice, that you’re coming close to your high. With a slight bend and press, a wet suck around your clit, you feel tears spill over as your orgasm blooms, his name on your lips. 

It feels like you are floating, flying in free-fall with your back bowed in a wild arch from the intensity of it all.

Eddie thinks he might come on his nice new sheets at the sight of you, utterly consumed by pleasure, thighs like a vice around his head. Instead, he slows it all down; stills his fingers, but keeps them inside, and rests his cheek against the dough of your thigh, sucking ceased in place of lazy kisses as he watches your comedown. 

“You still with me, sweetheart?” 

You nod, hum a weak ‘mmhmn’ as your legs and tummy twitch with involuntary aftershocks of such an intense orgasm.

“Think I died.”

Eddie’s laugh is low, a little dirty, and you can feel his hot breath against your hip. 

“Sorry.”

He’s not sorry. 

You manage a lazy laugh, slow-blinking your eyes open as you reach out to him.

“C’mere.” 

The long, warm line of Eddie slots against you, moulding himself against your ragdoll body. He kisses your shoulder, your neck, lets you guide him in for a slow kiss that is little more than two lazy mouths smiling against each other. 

He is haloed by lamplight, curls spilling from his topknot. Eddie is so pretty, it makes your heart thud in a funny way. 

“Hi.”

“Hey.” 

His dry fingers are gentle as they swipe away your tears, smudging away the spilled mascara before drawing a line up your nose with his and back down again for one more kiss. 

“You’re a sex wizard.” 

The words have left your lips and Eddie’s shaking with giddy laughter before you realise you have said them, orgasm-drunk and loose-lipped.

“You think so?” he wonders aloud, while inside his head he is wondering if you might want a spring wedding. 

Cupping his cheek, you thumb over his pretty dimple. “Yeah.”

His eyes are sparkling, boyish and bright. “Magic mouth,” you tease.

Because he’s a menace, Eddie nips at you playfully and brings that magic mouth against yours for a kiss. 

“You sure that orgasm didn’t knock a screw loose, sweetheart?” 

He laughs when you shake your head, hiding his face in the crook of your neck. 

“Been called a lot of names, but Magic Mouth Munson sounds good to me.”

Eddie’s voice his muffled against your neck, playful as he seeks out the scent of you beyond your perfume and shampoo. 

“Who’s calling you names? Lemme at ‘em.” 

Your voice has a gorgeous, giggly timbre that he wants to hear every day; he has heard most evenings when you’re a few miles apart, decompressing and downloading about your days, but it’s better in person. 

Before Eddie can come back with something playful, his thoughts are derailed when you wrap your fingers around the length of him again. 

“You could do damage with this thing, could poke someone’s eye out.” 

“Yeah? Wanna do something about that?” 

He’s impressed at how quickly he could come back with something quippy, or anything coherent at all, what with how you are stroking him long and slow, thumb tracing that thick vein. 

You can hear the slight shake in his playful patter when you drag your fingers lower around the base. Another pretty noise spills from his lips when you roll his balls in your hand, feeling a little bad for neglecting them when they are so full and heavy. 

“I really do,” you murmur, turning your head. The closeness is enough to coax him away from your neck for a kiss. 

You can taste how much he wants you on his tongue; clarity comes slowly as you come back around from coming so intensely. 

The shiny foil packet winks at you from the bedside table, pulled to the front while Eddie was rooting for a scrunchie. When you reach for it, he his treated to a face full of boob, and considers his untimely death again. 

The huffing breath of his laugh against your chest tickles as much as it warms your heart. This is all so easy, so fun. You wish you had known him when you were younger, wish you had known how fun sex could be instead of something daunting. But you have tonight, and tomorrow morning too. He has this beautiful, half-dazed smile that makes your tummy twist and your heart thud faster.  

Eddie gazes up at you, a nude vision sitting mermaid style on his bed. The condom in your hand glints like a jewel. He nods, leaning up on his elbows and stifling his dad-grunt at the effort of hauling himself to sit up next to you. 

He used to dig at Wayne for those old man noises, how he pays the price. 

“Damn, you’re perfect.” 

Kissing again, Eddie cups your face like you are a treasure. That’s how he sees you, a pretty bloom amongst the weeds. You can feel it in his touch, how he kisses you, covets you. It feels like your world is tilting, making you dizzy. You both said you could take this slow, but you feel addicted to him already.

“How’d’you wanna do this?” he whispers, dipping his fingers back into the well of your body, working you up again. 

Your breath hitches, thighs twitch to open yourself for him. Brain still soft scrambled, you don’t know what you want more; to have him fuck you into the mattress, hard and dirty from behind, or soft and slow and deep. You want it all, and all you can think about his how good his fingers feel, how good and wanted you have felt all night with him. It’s almost too much; you want it all, and you have so little time and…

“Hey, pretty thing.”

Behind the tendrils of hair that have fallen around his face, you see the creased pull of his brows and the shade of concern in his eyes. When he says your name, it sounds reverent, like a prayer. 

“Where’d you go?”

Eddie searches for some hint on how he fucked up, tilts your ducked head up so he can see you fully. 

Your sad smile makes his heart hurt. 

“Talk to me. We can stop. It’s okay.”

The shift to pained horror at the suggestion startles him, and he’s relieved and confused all at the same time. 

“Don’t want to stop, I promise.” You take a shaky breath and lean into his hand. “Just… I want you so bad, and I know we only have a little time together…” 

Eddie shifts closer, winds his arms around you and holds you. Just holds you, his lips pressed to your head in a fierce kiss. 

He feels relieved and heart-sore all at the same time. The truth that you could not just drop your normal lives and responsibilities to see each other was like a shadowy figure that had loomed in the corner, so easily ignored when you were lost in each other’s eyes or flirting hard over pinball, but always there.

“I know, baby,” he murmurs, smoothing one hand along your spine in soothing swathes of affection. “We still have time. And when we have to go back to real life, I wanna make time for you.”

You hug him tighter, eyes closed as you nod against his shoulder. “Want that too.”

Pulling back enough so you can look at him, reassure him with a kiss, you cover his hand on your cheek and let your foreheads rest together for a few moments. 

A small voice in your head is screeching ‘too much, too fast’ but the all-over calm you feel with Eddie sweeps it away like a sure and steady tide. 

“I get a little overwhelmed sometimes,” you whisper, saying what he already knows, what he has already seen. 

“That’s okay,” he replies, simply getting it. You think this man has seen it all; he’s unfazed and capable, but you know by the way he squeezes you, a reassuring touch, that he gives a shit. 

You kiss him again, the warm glow of want still burns, and even though his hardness has faltered out of worry, the feel of your body and the lick of your tongue against his slowly and surely makes the flames rise again. 

It is a slow tumble back onto the sheets and pillows, hands gripping and groping with confidence and care, and the firm weight of his thigh between yours right where you like it. You feel his hardness, the leaking tip and hot throb, press against you and there is a blind and giggly reach-around for the lost condom. 

Slow. Deep. You want to see him. There is time for it all, but right now you have your answer. 

He looks up at you, in awe of you. Eddie feels like so much has grown between you over just a few hours - somehow still capable of coherent thought as he watches you rip the condom open and straddle his thighs. 

The wait was worth it. 

You take your time, slowly sinking yourself down and savouring the stretch of him inside you. 

Eyes flutter, jaws slacken, brows pinch.

“Fuck.”

Said at the same time, breathy voices overlapping, he can feel a delicious pulse when you laugh. 

“Jesus, fuck. Wait a sec before you move,” he begs, his hands resting heavy on your thighs as he gathers himself. He circles his thumbs along the silvery stretchmarks and whispers of cellulite, soothing himself and you.

It only makes you hotter for him, fonder too. 

“You feel so fucking good, baby.” 

“You feel really big. Almost forgot.”

Eddie swears at the ceiling, eyes scrunched shut as you cover his hands on your legs. He can’t look at that blissful smile too long, like looking at the sun.

“You’re a fuckin’ vixen.” 

It’s fun to mess with him, bringing back the playfulness alongside that tender vulnerability; it distracts you both from how serious you both feel about each other, how scared you both are inside about fucking this up when you could have been fucking each other all night. 

Slowly, you lift and roll your hips, taking a moment to find what feels right for you both. Eddie watches you move atop him, that sensuous raise and roll of your body, the way your chest bounces and the ripple in your thighs when he fucks his hips up into you. 

“Gimme a kiss,” he begs, a vision atop the deep green sheets with his crown of curls. 

When you pitch forward, arms resting either side of his head, Eddie bends his knees and keeps himself snug inside of you as you moan against his lips. Wide hands come to rest on your ass, squeezing and jiggling to be playful and teasing. The stretch of him inside you, the way he glances against that spot inside you that is a haresbreath away from perfect has you wound tight again. So close to just right, but not quite. Your burning thighs are grateful for a break.

“I can help, baby,” he murmurs against your chin before catching your mouth in another messy kiss. “Please? Let me make you feel good.”

You feel empty when he slips out, but Eddie soothes your pouting lips with more kisses as you take his place on the bed.

“That’s it, my princess. Huh? You like being my princess?” he asks, crowding between your thighs to line himself up to push in. 

He teases you, wrapped tip kissing your swollen clit until you answer him, and then rewards you with a slow push to the hilt that makes you howl. 

“Oh fuh-fuck,” a strangled moan breaks from your throat and bounces around the room. 

Eddie’s eyes fall closed, rocking himself into you steadily with one hand behind your knee to keep you spread open for him. He sneaks a glance at where your joined, the stretch and suck of your body around him, pulling him in. 

“That’s it, baby,” he murmurs, bracing himself on the mattress so he can kiss you again. “That’s my girl.”

The stretch feels the right side of too much as he rocks forward, finding a steady pace to make you both moan. Eddie lifts up a little, pressing your thigh back closer to your chest to open you up a little more, so he can fuck a little deeper and make sure you keep making those pretty noises. 

You can see a dewy sheen to his skin as he pounds into you; this position works for him as much as it does for you. It’s not simply from fucking you into the mattress, rendering you into little more than a puddle of pleasure, but he is working hard to not come early and disappoint you - no mean feat when you are the picture of fucked-out, back arched, tits bouncing steadily as you moan for him. 

When he dips to kiss you, taste his name on your lips, you feel him dragging against that spot you couldn’t quite reach. Eddie feels the bite of your nails on his ass as you pull him into you, gasping at the pleasure-pain and the voractity of your ragged voice. 

“Oh fuck - oh! More, Eddie. Fuck!” you wail, wild for him.

He kisses his name off of your lips, holding back some animalistic roar of his own as he pushes you over the edge and feels you gush and squeeze around him. 

“Yes, baby,” he breathes, fucking you through it and kissing your flushed face as he teters on a knife edge of his own. “That’s my good girl.” The spill of tears on your cheeks makes his heart ache and his dick throb. 

He slows to a stop, following your lead as you slowly float back to earth. 

“There she is,” he whispers, smiling as he strokes the dampness away. “Hi, pretty. You alright?”

“Mm, just...” You close your eyes again, smiling dreamily about how good you feel, and give a lazy ‘okay’ sign with your fingers that makes him laugh. “Never better.”

Eddie is careful when he deposits your legs back on the bed, easing out just a little so he can sit back and gaze at you for a minute while you gather yourself. 

“Stop staring,” you murmur, giggle-voiced and feeling shy. 

“I like looking at you.” You hear his smile before you see it, peeking one eye open. 

Eddie tilts his head like he is considering a work of art. “Gorgeous.”

“Yeah?” Your quiet voice is teasing, back to your minxy-self after your sojourn to the stars, courtesy of his Munson Magic. 

“Yeah. Really gorgeous. Most beautiful I’ve ever seen.”

The warmth of his words and lazy drape of his body over yours, chest to chest so he can taste that lazy smile, is almost enough to overheat you. 

“You okay to keep going?” he whispers, leaning his cheek against your hand. 

“Yeah, m’good,” you promise, pressing a kiss to the dimple you are so enamored with.

He taps your thighs, strokes his fingers up and down and feels the goosebumps beneath them. “Like this, or do you wanna turn over?”

The overwhelm you felt earlier feels silly now, but you are too in the moment to let it take over again. He knows you like it from behind, remembers just how much you loved it the night you met.

“Mm, I’ll move. I feel like goo.”

“Sexy goo,” he purrs, swatting your hip playfully to make you giggle. “Very sexy goo.”

With his help, wide hands keeping you steady, you turn over and rest on your forearms, spreading your knees a little so he can admire the curve of your hips and the bow of your back. 

“That okay?” you ask, sneaking a peek over your shoulder just as he rubs himself along your slit. 

He can see your cheeky smile, barely concealed, but your eyes sparkle with mirth. 

“Okay? Fuckin’ perfect.”

He bites his lip when you rock backward, seeking him out with a dreamy look in your eyes. 

“Mm, put it i- ohh!” 

Those dreamy eyes drift closed as he presses inside, fulfilling your wish and filling you up. There’s an extra little shove when he’s all the way in, making sure you know just how full you are before he finds his rhythm again, following the beat of slapped-together skin.

“Good? That feel better?” 

He can feel you fluttering around him, he sees how you are gripping the pillow by your head and feels your hot slick drip down to his balls.

“So good,” you nod, rocking your hips in time with his. It is no put-on performance, he knows you are not simply inflating his ego with your praise. “Eddie, please. Harder.”

Heart aflutter, Eddie squeezes your waist and pulls you back onto him, harder and deeper like you wanted. “You got it, princess. I got ya.”

Head tipped back, jaw slack, Eddie almost misses when you snake a hand between your legs to touch yourself. The quick-circling tips of your fingers graze against him and he can hear your breathy little gasps against the sheets.

Your ass is sure to have the shape of his gripping fingers tomorrow, a visual reminder alongside that properly fucked feeling that will linger for a day or two. A babble-voiced chorus of ‘yes yes yes’ spills from your mouth as the knot of white-hot pleasure is pulled tighter and tighter with every stroke - your voice will be hoarse in the morning too, but you are too melted with pleasure to care.

All at once, you begin to fall apart and come hard as Eddie splits you open over and over and over. He watches you sob with pleasure into his pillow and feels his eyes roll back, his head following them as he swears up at the ceiling.

“Oh fuck, fuuuck,” he groans, barely clinging on to his composure as you fall apart for a third time. He keeps himself and check and slows enough to stay inside you as you slump further forward onto the sheets, bending forward to kiss along your shoulder and along your arm.

“Keep going,” you murmur, turning your head so he can press one of those wet kisses to your mouth. “Feel really good.”

You reach a hand out to the side, wrap your fingers around his wrists as he braces himself on top of you and starts thrusting again. Less coordinated now but it still feels amazing.

His breath huffs against your neck as you squeeze your walls around him, pulling more gorgeous groans and grunts from his mouth as he spills into you. 

The weight of him along your back, both of you spent and sweaty and sated, feels perfect as you float on your shared high. Eddie gives himself a moment before kissing your shoulder again, easing himself up and out of you so he can deal with the condom. 

You don’t see the proud little grin at his own reflection in the ensuite mirror, but you are wearing a dreamy smile when he comes back to lie with you and it makes his heart gallop. 

Tangled together with your head on his chest, you listen to that thud thud thud that matches your own hammering heart.

“You okay?” he asks, nuzzling your head before crowning you with a kiss. 

“Mmhm, more than okay. You okay?” 

“Fuckin’ A, sweetheart.” 

Your head tilts back and you pout for a kiss, which turns into slow, lazy kisses until the sweat on your skin makes you both shiver. Soon, you will move to the shower, sharing the hot water and kisses against the chilly tiles until your laughter rings against the walls and Eddie’s low dirty chuckle makes your tummy swoop. He will share his clothes with you, find something in his drawers for you to sleep in - a tshirt or a hoodie over the soft cotton undies rolled in your purse for tomorrow - and fetch two glasses of water before he holds you beneath the covers and you both fight to stay awake, keep talking.

Tomorrow will come too soon, but for now, you stay tangled together and savour every moment. 

It is a little before eleven when you knock on Henderson’s front door and hear Claudia and Hazel’s voices coming down the hallway to let you in.

Hazel almost bowls you over with the force of her hug, squeezing her arms around you as tight as she can. You dot a halo of smooches along her forehead and tune into her excited chatter about her sleepover with Miss Claudia. 

The older woman smiles at you both, you and your Mini Me, feeling fondness that makes her miss her son. 

When the door is closed behind you to keep the cold out and the cats in, she makes some tea for you both as Hazel gives you the full rundown of how she showed Claudia Inside Out and that next time she sleeps over, they will watch the second one.

Around the cosy kitchen table, you sip your tea and ask Claudia about her springtime trip to Boston to see Dustin and watch how gentle Hazel is with the two ragdoll cats.

Claudia says your name gently, bringing you back from being so besotted with your little girl and wondering how Eddie’s morning with Fae is going. 

“Sorry. What did you say, Claudia?” You shoot her an apologetic smile and sip your tea.

“I was just saying how amazing Hazel is. I say it every time, but she’s the sweetest girl.” She squeezes your arm gently. “And she’s really settled in. Told me all about her friends at school and her playdate last weekend. Fae Munson. Another sweetie pie.”

Your attempt to temper your expression leaves you with a tea-scaled tongue and warm cheeks. 

“Yeah. Fae has made her feel so welcome. They’re in the same grade and dance class. I’m sure she told you all about it. Two peas in a pod.”

Claudia squeezes your arm again, smiles warmly. “I know her Grandpa Wayne a long time. And my Dusty is great friends with her Dad, Eddie. He’s a good kid.”

Caught off guard, you can only nod. 

Two hours ago, you had been cosy in his bed, drinking coffee and sharing a plate of buttery toast with Eddie after he had made you come again. You knew just how good he was. Less than an hour ago, you had kissed him goodbye in his car and thanked him for a magical night. You miss him now, your chest aches with it, but you have your nightly phone call to look forward to, another date to plan. 

The older woman fills the silence that falls over the breakfast nook.

“If you need a babysitter any time, I’ll be here. Or if you need someone to lean on. I won’t pry, and I don’t gossip about my friends,” she says. 

There is a wave of relief that pours over you, slowing down your hammering heart and worried thoughts.

“You look happy. You’ve got this really lovely glow about you lately. I’m so glad you’re settling in, you and Hazel.” 

“Thank you, Claudia.” There’s a thick feeling in your throat and you blink a few times to clear your cloudy eyes. “I feel happy. I’m starting to feel at home here.” 

Hazel shuffles back over to the table, presenting her cheeks to you for two kisses before twirling over to Claudia. Your heart swells at her sweetness, her softness. 

“Miss Claudia, can I give the kitties a treat?” she asks, as Catrick Swayze and Luke Skypawker bump against your ankles, seeking some affection. 

Their furry heads feel like silk beneath your fingertips as Claudia and Hazel fetch treats for them and you snap a picture of them to send to Eddie. Swayze makes himself comfy on your lap, watching Hazel with his wide blue eyes, waiting for his treat. 

There’s already a message from him waiting for you; a picture, great minds. 

It’s Eddie, a few years older than the girls are now, standing by a lake, holding a fish he had just caught under Wayne’s patient tutelage. You can see the edge of his thumb holding the frame, and if you squint, you can see the reflection of Eddie and his phone in the glass. You pinch and zoom to look at his proud smile directed up at his Uncle rather than whoever took the photo, his pink-sunburned nose and his scrawny arms holding aloft the big fish for the camera, and the too-big Judas Priest t-shirt.

That cuteness aggression floods back and you want to kick your feet and squeal like a tweenager right here, right now in Claudia Henderson’s kitchen. She’s pretending not to see that big smile on your face, how you try to hide it by biting your lips, but she thinks this happiness suits you.

After poring over the picture, you read the accompanying texts.

Still think I’m cuter than him? 👀  Be honest…  x

You flash back to the night before, when you took the pictures of him in front of the D&D game, his bounty. 

Cute then, cute now. Period. X

Two blue ticks pop up right away; he was waiting for you. 

Damn, you like me or smth? 😘

Heart hammering, your thumb flies across the keyboard as the cat purrs in your lap. 

Mmmmmaybe  Call me later? x

Eddie’s typing right away, just as Hazel comes over to pet Swayze and feed him his treats. 

“Mom, he loves you! Look!” she beams. 

Wouldn’t miss it for the world, sweetheart x

Thank you thank you thank you for reading - I really hope you enjoyed this. I don’t think I’m done with Eddie, Reader, Hazel and Fae yet. I can’t promise when, I but there will be something more to this. Thank you again. Your comments, reblogs and likes are treasured and adored!

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You turn approximately seven shades of red.

i wish lmao

SEVEN SHADES OF DOOMED | Eddie Munson

Pairing: Eddie Munson x Reader | Eddie Munson x Y/N

Summary: You, a flustered classmate, get roped into Hellfire—and Eddie Munson’s full attention—whether you're ready or not.

-

It happens in the middle of the cafeteria.

Of course it does.

You're minding your business—eating your sad excuse for a sandwich, making occasional eye contact with your best friend who’s halfway through reenacting her latest dream about marrying one of the Duffer twins (the hot one, not the weird one), when it happens.

"Eyyyyyyy, look who’s sitting all alone."

You don't even need to look up. The voice is unmistakable—equal parts gremlin and rockstar, loud enough to turn heads, dramatic enough to make your stomach drop like an elevator.

Eddie Munson, crown prince of chaos, Hellfire overlord, and undisputed reason you’re currently forgetting how to breathe.

He slides into the seat across from you like he owns the place. Hair wild, rings clinking against your table, a mischievous grin playing on his lips. He's got that look—the one that spells trouble in all caps.

"What’s up, heartbreaker?" he says, leaning forward like you're sharing secrets instead of a juice box and a bag of chips.

You blink.

Then, you turn red.

Not a little red. Not a "just jogged up the stairs" pink. You turn seven shades of red, exactly.

Like a cursed Pantone palette: bashful blush, humiliated hibiscus, mortified maroon—you name it, you’re wearing it.

And Eddie? Oh, he notices.

"Oooohhh shit," he cackles, eyes lighting up. "You are blushing. This is incredible. I didn’t know people could actually turn that color."

“Shut up,” you mutter, covering your face with your hands like that’s gonna do anything. Your fingers are on fire. Your ears are boiling. You’re fully convinced you’re going to pass away in the cafeteria.

Death by Eddie Munson.

"Don’t be shyyyy," he teases, leaning in even closer. You can smell his cologne—cheap, but somehow perfectly, utterly Eddie—and see the way his eyes crinkle when he’s laughing. "I came over here to ask if you wanted to come to Hellfire tonight. We need someone to play the elf ranger ‘cause Gareth rolled a nat 1 and got his character cursed into a tree."

You peek between your fingers.

“You’re inviting me?”

Eddie shrugs, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Why not? You’ve got elf energy. Also…” He lowers his voice to a fake whisper. “I like when you get all flustered like this. It’s very entertaining.”

Your soul leaves your body. You are now astral projecting. Floating above the cafeteria in shame.

“Eddie—”

“I mean it,” he says, interrupting your spiral. “Come by. You can sit next to me. I’ll even let you borrow one of my dice. The sparkly ones. Only for special people.”

You open your mouth to respond—something witty, something cool, something even vaguely coherent—but instead, you make a noise that sounds suspiciously like a kettle boiling over. Steam included.

Eddie just laughs again, softer this time. “You’re cute when you’re panicking, y’know that?”

He winks—winks—and before you can combust or throw yourself into the nearest trash can, he’s already on his feet.

“See you at seven, elf ranger,” he says, tossing you a grape from your fruit cup. “Don’t be late.”

You catch it, stunned. Still red. Still stupid. Still completely doomed.

You turn to your friend.

She’s already halfway across the cafeteria, speed-walking toward the table where the rest of your friends are sitting. You can hear her stage-whispering before she even gets there:

“YOU GUYS. IT HAPPENED.”

Four heads whip around to stare at you in perfect unison. One of them shrieks.

You consider crawling under the table and staying there forever.

Eddie? He just grins at you over his shoulder as he walks away, smug as hell.

And you—seven shades of red and counting—cannot wait for 7PM.

--

Since there wasn't a character included, I assumed you wanted an Eddie story. If not, feel free to DM again :)

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Hold Fast | Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: A winter mission goes sideways, forcing you to cross a frozen lake under fire. The ice doesn’t hold—and when you go under, Bucky is the only thing between you and the dark.

MCU Timeline Placement: Post Thunderbolts*

Master List: Find my other stuff here!

Warnings: THUNDERBOLTS SPOILERS, hypothermia, near-drowning, descriptions of drowning, blood, injuries, limb trauma, hospitalization, PTSD symptoms, emotional vulnerability, protective behavior, team banter, soft angst with resolution!

Word Count: 9.5k

Author’s Note: had so much fun with this request!! this one really reminded me of no way but through, which holds such a special place in my little cold-weather-loving heart. i loooove icy mission settings, hypothermic chaos, and painfully soft bucky barnes, so this was basically a dream to write. also couldn’t help myself and had to bring in the full thunderbolts/new avengers crew at the end. i am nothing if not predictable <3

────────────────────────

The wind off the lake bit harder than it had twenty minutes ago.

Not that it mattered. You’d stopped registering the cold a while back, after the second ridge, where the frost had started creeping into the inside seam of your gloves. Or maybe when you heard the first round of gunfire echo through the trees, half-muted by the thick snow-laden branches overhead.

Your teeth weren’t chattering. That would’ve meant your body had enough energy to waste on something so useless. Instead, everything inside you was pulling inward. Tightening. Conserving. Slowing.

“Keep moving,” Bucky’s voice snapped, low and close behind your left shoulder, and you did.

Not because he told you to. Because you had to.

The mission had gone wrong in the kind of way that didn’t leave room for debriefs. No secure exit point, no external comms, no second wave coming in behind you. Just you, Bucky, and the last evac flare tucked in Yelena’s pack two klicks east—across a frozen lake, through the trees, past whatever was still hunting you from the west ridge.

You hadn’t seen what hit the quinjet. Just felt the shockwave under your boots, then the plume of smoke curling over the horizon. Yelena had been the one closest to the treeline. She moved faster, covered more ground when it mattered, and she was carrying the extraction beacon. So when everything went to hell and the team scattered, it was you and Bucky left circling back to pull recon on the ones who shot your ride out of the sky.

Bucky walked behind you now, a half-step slower than usual. Calculated. Watching your six, probably watching your feet, too. 

“Northeast ridge is clear,” Yelena’s voice crackled softly in your comms. “Found an evac point. I’ll hold position.”

“Copy,” Bucky muttered. He was closer now. You could hear the rough edge in his voice, the constant scrape of concern just underneath it. “Let us know if anything shifts.”

There was a pause, a soft click, and then silence.

It had been thirty-two minutes.

Thirty-two minutes of sprinting across a frozen forest, every breath burning in your lungs. Thirty-two minutes of feeling Bucky’s presence hovering behind you like a shadow stitched to your spine, keeping pace, always watching. Watching your six, probably watching your feet, too.

“We’re near the lake,” Bucky said quietly.

You nodded once. Didn’t slow.

The lake had shown up on recon, a massive spread of black and silver on the satellite map, completely iced over and ringed by skeletal trees. You hadn’t planned to get near it. No cover. No depth perception. And the ice…

There were warnings. Cracks. Inconsistent freeze. The warm weeks earlier in the month had made it unreliable. Solid in places, dangerously thin in others.

Your fingers flexed around your weapon. You could still feel the scabbed-over cuts along your knuckles from the last mission. You hadn’t even gotten the blood out of the gloves. It had frozen stiff.

“They’re pushing,” Bucky said, eyes scanning the treeline. “Trying to flank.”

“We keep moving.”

“You’re hurt.”

“Not bad.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Your jaw locked.

There was blood soaking into the seam of your left leg, trailing down to right where the fabric met your boot. You didn’t look down. Couldn’t. It hadn’t slowed you down yet. If it did, you’d think about it. Not now.

You didn’t tell him how deep the cut went. You didn’t need to. He could smell it by now, metallic, sharp, slicing through the scent of ice and pine. It left a trail behind you, carved like a signature across the snow. If any of the hostiles had dogs, you were as good as marked.

The lake came into full view as you crested the ridge. It didn’t shimmer, didn’t glint—it was too dark for that now. Instead, it stretched wide and waiting, flat as glass and just as merciless. A wound in the landscape, glossy and black, veins of fracture spidering out across the surface where the snow had been blown off by the earlier blast wave.

Bucky said nothing, but he stopped just behind you. You could feel the weight of his silence.

“We don’t have time to go around,” you said, voice thin. “They’ll have us before the trees thicken again.”

“There’s no cover out there.” His tone wasn’t harsh. It was worse, quiet, steady, resigned. “If they catch sight of us, we’re open. Sitting ducks. You know that.”

“They won’t.” You adjusted your grip on your weapon. The trigger guard was sticking, your blood had frozen at the seam. “There’s mist coming off the surface. It’ll give us some visual buffer if we move fast.”

“You’re bleeding.”

“Which is why I can’t climb another fucking ridge.”

Your voice barely made it past your lips. It felt thinner than the air you were pulling into your chest. You didn’t need to look at Bucky to know he was staring at you again—sharp, narrowed, assessing you the way he did before a breach. Not checking for weakness. Measuring the cost.

But there was no time for costs anymore.

The crack of gunfire ricocheted off the ridge behind you. 

Not the echo of distant threat, but close. Immediate. 

Bark splintered off a tree trunk ten paces from your position, and Bucky moved instantly, grabbing your arm and yanking you down into a crouch behind the lip of an ice-encased boulder. 

You landed hard on your knee, your injured leg screaming in protest. Warm blood surged and stuck to the inside of your pants, and it was only then that you realized the muscle was torn. Not grazed. Torn.

Bucky didn’t flinch at the impact, but you caught the way his jaw clenched. “They’ve got fucking elevation,” he muttered under his breath. “How the hell did they—”

Another round cracked off a rock to your left. You ducked lower.

You didn’t answer him. You were trying not to pass out.

The second ridge. That was where they’d circled back. They must’ve doubled back around while you were sweeping east, using the wreckage and smoke trail from the quinjet as cover. You should’ve clocked it. Should’ve seen the trail crossing itself on the HUD.

But you’d been too busy bleeding.

A comms stutter broke through your earpiece. Yelena’s voice, brittle and curt: “Multiple heat signatures—tracking southeast. Six or seven. Aggressive push. Fast. You need to move.”

“Noted,” Bucky muttered, and clicked off.

He turned toward you, and there was something behind his eyes now. Not fear. Urgency. That hard-edged tension you’d only ever seen once before, when he’d carried your unconscious body out of a compound fire and spent the next forty minutes in complete silence.

“We’re not getting around the lake,” he said flatly.

Another shot cracked the air.

You flinched. He didn’t.

“They’re herding us,” you said quietly, barely audible. “Driving us into the open.”

He nodded once. “They want the intel. They don’t want to kill us. Not yet.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

More shouts. They were getting louder. You heard the low whine of an engine somewhere, a snowmobile, maybe. Not yours. Yours was ash.

“We need to split,” Bucky said suddenly.

You turned sharply. “No.”

“I’ll draw them off. You follow the lake’s edge. Keep to the trees.”

“They’re tracking us both. They know there’s two.”

“They don’t know where you are,” he said, already rising to his feet. “Not exactly. You haven’t fired since the breach. You’re harder to trace. Let me pull them west, and—”

“No.”

It came out louder than you meant it to. It silenced the forest.

You were breathing too hard. The edges of your vision had started to smear. Your leg was going numb.

“Bucky—”

Another shot. Close. Too close.

He didn’t hesitate.

He turned and hurled a flashbang toward the sound. The white light ignited against the snow with a violent hiss, smoke billowing out and momentarily masking your position.

Then—

Movement.

From your left. Fast.

You turned, raised your weapon, but it was too late. Something barreled through the trees and tackled you full force, body slamming into yours and driving you back, pain blooming white-hot in your thigh where the wound tore wider.

You hit the ground hard, your weapon flung into the snow. The hostile landed on top of you, mask fogged, breath rapid. He went for your throat. You reached for your boot knife, fingers numb, clumsy.

The lake was right there. Ten feet behind you. Maybe less.

You heard Bucky shout your name.

The knife slid into your hand. You didn’t think. You just moved.

You drove the blade up under his jaw, hard and clean, and rolled him off you before he could finish choking.

You were on your feet again—limping, half-hopping, gun lost, blood pouring down your leg now—and the others were coming.

You saw five through the smoke. At least five .

Too many.

You could try to crawl back to Bucky. Hope they didn’t shoot you in the open. Hope he could carry you.

Or—

Or you could do the thing you shouldn’t.

The thing that would buy you time.

The thing that would probably kill you.

You turned and ran toward the lake.

Bucky was still shouting, but his voice was muffled now, lost to the scream of your pulse and the way the air changed as you broke through the treeline.

Your feet hit the ice, and it sang beneath you.

A deep, haunted groan that vibrated up your legs and through your spine. The kind of sound the earth makes when it doesn’t want to be touched.

You didn’t stop.

The mist coming off the surface curled like fingers, wrapping around your boots, your knees, your breath. It shielded you, just enough. You heard the men behind you shouting, confused, uncertain. They’d lost you in the fog. For now.

But they’d find you again if you stopped moving.

You didn’t expect to make it across. That wasn’t the point.

You weren’t stupid. You’d seen the fractures on recon. Knew the freeze was uneven, knew the surface tension wouldn’t hold under sustained weight, and certainly not without punishing you for the arrogance of trying. You also knew there were at least four men behind you, maybe more, and you weren’t going to outrun them through another ridge. Not on a torn leg. Not dragging blood like breadcrumbs.

But you could give Bucky a chance. A window.

You weren’t going to last much longer anyway. Your sidearm was gone. Your rifle was jammed. Your limbs were starting to seize—not from fear, not from cold, but from simple math. The cost of staying alive had begun to outweigh what your body could give.

So you played the only card left.

If you could get two of them on the ice. Maybe three. And if you timed it right, kept your distance, baited them into giving chase, made them run heavier than you walked, there was a chance the lake would decide who stayed topside and who went under. You weren’t built like them. Smaller frame. Lighter gear. You knew how to move soft. They wouldn’t.

They were cocky. Angry. Trigger-happy and armored to hell. That kind of weight broke tension in seconds. You’d seen it happen. Watched it once during a training exercise, how a man with sixty extra pounds of ammo sank in four seconds flat when he tried to follow a sniper across a riverbed in spring thaw.

It might kill you too. But it might not. And if even one of them went in—

That was one less gun Bucky had to deal with. One less bullet in the air. One less thing clawing for your neck.

That was something.

Your breath came faster, colder. The cut in your leg had gone numb, finally, but you could feel the wetness inside your boot. The weight of it. The imbalance.

You didn’t know how far out you were.

The fog was thicker now, curling up your spine, swallowing the tree line. You could’ve been ten meters from shore or two. Could’ve been standing over solid ice or the thinnest patch on the lake.

Didn’t matter. You had to keep going.

There was shouting again. Closer. Heavier footsteps now, rapid and uncoordinated. They’d spotted your prints. One of them yelled to the others. Someone fired, blind and stupid, too far to your left to matter. The shot cracked across the lake and echoed, turning the world sharp and brittle.

You heard the ice answer.

A moan beneath the surface. A shift. A warning.

Still, you didn’t stop.

Another shot hit near your feet, spitting a web of cracks like a warning flare. You stumbled. Went to one knee. Pain flared up your hip. You hissed through your teeth and scrambled upright.

Behind you, closer now, another shout.

And then, footsteps on ice.

They were following you.

You felt the lake notice. The way it strained. The way it listened.

You started weaving, not running, but changing angles. You knew better than to move in a straight line. Spread the pressure. Make them adjust their balance. You could almost hear their weight dragging the surface down. Could hear how reckless their strides were. One of them slipped, boots sliding, cursing and shouting, and the others answered in angry Finnish.

You adjusted again, shifting your weight to the balls of your feet as you zig-zagged across the ice, lungs straining, vision speckled with spots. The cold had crawled under your skin now—made a home in the corners of your elbows, the hollow between your shoulder blades, the soft hinge of your jaw. You weren’t shivering anymore. That would have required your body to care whether it was dying.

Behind you, the men had begun to split. Two followed your path directly, weapons raised and boots clumsy across the frost, the third veering wide, trying to cut off your arc. You didn’t know where the fourth had gone. You didn’t have the capacity to guess. You’d passed beyond the edge of tactics and into instinct.

The ice beneath you moaned again, longer this time, a groaning, glacial sound that rippled underfoot like a living thing. The cracks spidered wider at the edges of your vision, faint lines of fracture glowing pale beneath the frost-dusted sheen. You counted every step in your head, each one a wager against weight and water.

You needed them closer. Just a little closer. You needed them to get stupid again, greedy for the kill.

And they did.

One of them shouted something guttural in Finnish, laced with adrenaline and mockery, and opened fire. The shot missed your side by inches, skimming the air close enough that you felt it kiss your ribs. You dropped hard into a crouch, used the momentum to pivot left, and rolled back into a full sprint. The surface answered with another shriek of pressure.

You couldn’t tell if it was a warning or a promise.

Then another sound, behind the gunfire—something real, something known.

Bucky’s voice.

Low at first, almost lost in the chaos. Then sharper, clearer, a shout that carved through the storm like a blade. He was yelling your name. You didn’t turn. Couldn’t. You could barely see anymore, and the fog curled tighter now, clouding everything but the space directly in front of you.

A second burst of fire came from the opposite edge of the lake—sharper, faster. Controlled. You recognized it immediately. Not hostile. That was him.

He was flanking.

You caught the flicker of movement through the mist just ahead and to your right. Bucky breaking the line of trees at a full sprint, a blur of black and gunmetal, eyes fixed on you like he could will you to stop. He was shouting again, but your ears had gone dull. All you could hear was the ice. The awful, pulsing hum of it underfoot, vibrating with your heartbeat.

And then one of the hostiles did what you’d hoped. He fired while running.

The recoil jolted his center of gravity, boots sliding out from under him as he fell sideways. He hit the ground hard, and the impact buckled the surface beneath him, cracks detonating outward like glass under a hammer. It sounded like thunder.

The other two tried to stop, but it was too late. One went down to a knee, skidding, scraping across the slick, and the third barreled into him, toppling them both in a tangle of limbs and shouted curses.

For a breath, you thought it had worked.

But it didn’t matter.

Because the fourth man, the one you couldn’t see, had circled wide, just like you feared. You didn’t hear him until he was right behind you. There was no gunshot. No shout. Just the thud of weight as he tackled you square in the back.

You hit the ice with a sickening crack, elbows slamming down first. The pain stole the breath from your lungs. Your vision whitewashed. Your cheek scraped frozen mist and split open.

He tried to roll you, get leverage to pin you down, but you were already moving. Already driving the knife from your belt up under his ribs, your fingers so numb you couldn’t tell if it connected.

It did. You felt him grunt, deep and surprised, before he staggered back, and you surged to your feet, but—

But the ice had had enough.

It screamed beneath you. A seismic groan, deeper than the others, wrong in every register. You felt the surface ripple like a muscle torn mid-strain. Your knees bent automatically, weight shifting light, trying to disperse, but it was too late.

The cracks burst outward from where the hostile had landed. The seams raced under your feet, intersecting, multiplying, fracturing the world beneath you in real time.

You heard Bucky shout your name again.

Closer.

Desperate.

And then he was there, just at the edge of your sightline. His face was bloodless, teeth bared, feet skidding to a stop as he reached out like he could catch you from twenty feet away.

“Don’t move!” he barked.

You didn’t.

Didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink.

But the ice moved anyway.

It bowed beneath you.

Then split.

The water came up like a hand and yanked you under.

────────────────────────

Bucky saw the ice go before he heard it.

Not the split, but the way your knees flexed, just slightly, the way your arms went out as if your body knew before your mind did. That half-second of weightlessness right before everything collapsed. Bucky knew that look. He’d seen it in jump footage, in buildings on fire, in the eyes of people who understood they weren’t getting out unless someone came back for them.

He was already running.

Not thinking. Not planning. Just moving. Snow churned under his boots, breath barely fogging the air. He heard your name tear out of his throat, loud and raw and useless.

You were looking right at him. Eyes wide. Mouth slightly open. But you didn’t say anything. Didn’t scream. Didn’t even move.

You just dropped.

The ice beneath you opened like a mouth.

He reached the edge just in time to see the water close back over you.

The sound was sickening. One second you were there, the next you weren’t. The lake swallowed you whole, and all that remained was mist and the soft sound of new cracks racing toward him.

Bucky didn’t hesitate.

He launched himself forward, boots slamming into the ice, the weight of his landing enough to make the surface whine under him. He dropped into a slide, knees bent, palm out to brace, momentum hurtling him across the ice toward the place you’d gone under.

The cold didn’t register. Not the air, not the wind, not the water as it seeped through the cracks already kissing the soles of his boots. The serum kept his blood from reacting the way a normal man’s would. No immediate shock. No burning in the lungs. But it didn’t make him immune to the knowledge of what cold did to you.

You had maybe ninety seconds before the water started convincing your body to stop trying.

His hand was already going to his comm.

“Belova, she fell through,” he said, voice sharp, clipped. “The lake. Northwest section. I’m going in.”

Yelena’s reply came fast, static, then her voice, tight with urgency. “That lake is thirty meters deep in the center, Barnes. If you lose her—”

“I won’t.”

“You better not. I’ll find a snowmobile. If you’re still breathing, I’ll come get you.”

He reached the hole, just barely visible now. It was a jagged, black wound in the surface, already sheeting over at the edges with a thin glaze of refreeze. He dropped to his knees, leaned over, peered in—

And saw nothing.

Just black.

No movement. No sound. No trace.

“Northwest,” he repeated, already stripping his rifle off one shoulder and driving it into the snow at the edge of the break. “Tell evac. We’ll need heat. And a med kit.”

“Copy,” she said. “Don’t die.”

He could feel the press of his heartbeat in his teeth.

“Shit.” His voice cracked out of him like a whip.

He stripped the rifle from his shoulder, shoved it into the snow behind him, and without another thought, threw himself in.

The lake gripped him like a vice.

It wasn’t like diving into water. It was like diving into a vacuum. It swallowed him. Crushed him. Everything disappeared at once. Sight, sound, weight. He didn’t kick. Didn’t thrash. He let himself drop, arms out, the metal of his left dragging him faster. One breath in his lungs. That’s all he allowed.

He opened his eyes.

There was nothing.

Only black, smeared with silver light from the hole above him, already shifting, narrowing. Snow-dust had drifted across the opening. It would vanish in seconds. He needed to find you now.

He rotated once. No sign of you. Kicked again, deeper. The pressure increased, the cold turning the skin of his right arm to fire. He ignored it. Turned again. Saw—

Movement.

To his left.

A flicker. A shape. Limbs caught in the water’s drag. No fight in them.

He pushed toward it.

You weren’t moving. Your arms floated loosely, your legs bent at strange angles, one boot still half-trailing a blood-red ribbon through the current. Your head was tilted, hair haloing out in the dark.

For a split-second, something in him broke.

He reached you in three kicks. One arm wrapped around your chest, hand braced under your jaw, holding your head above your shoulders. Your face was waxy, mouth parted, lashes spiked with ice. He pulled you in, curled his metal arm across your ribs, and angled upward.

The surface was gone.

The hole was gone, nowhere near.

He turned in a tight circle, one-handed, dragging you with him. No openings. No shadows above, no light. The ice was seamless.

His vision tunneled.

He launched upward, fist first, and when his knuckles hit solid, he didn’t stop. He punched.

The sound was muffled underwater, more sensation than noise. The vibration hit his bones, the resistance of ancient ice refusing to yield. He drove his arm up again—once, twice—until the metal met fracture.

The ice split.

The hole widened just enough. He kicked upward and shoved you ahead of him, breaking the surface with a gasp you didn’t make.

The air burned. The cold above was nothing compared to below.

He hauled himself out of the water, grabbing you under the arms and dragging you with him, the both of you half-dead and slick with lakewater, steam rolling off your clothes as the air hit them.

You weren’t breathing.

“No—” he rasped. He dropped to his knees, pressed two fingers under your jaw. Nothing. His hand flattened against your chest. Still nothing. He tipped your head, cleared your mouth, and without pausing, sealed his lips to yours and breathed.

Twice.

Again.

Your body jerked, but only from the force.

He pressed down hard. His hands trembled, just slightly. Not from the cold.

“C’mon,” he muttered, voice cracked and low, barely human. “Don’t you fucking dare—”

Another breath.

You coughed.

Violent. Wet. Your whole frame arched up before collapsing into him, lungs sputtering lakewater and whatever else you’d swallowed, mouth opening to drag in air like it hurt to exist.

Bucky’s arms locked around you the second your head tilted forward.

You were shaking now. Not convulsing. Not yet. But the kind of full-body tremor that said your blood wasn’t moving fast enough. That your skin was freezing from the inside out.

“I got you,” he whispered, over and over, voice half-strangled as he pulled you close, as close as he could get without hurting you more. “I got you, I got you.”

He didn’t realize he was rocking you until your fingers clenched in his jacket. A tiny, involuntary twitch—no force behind it, no awareness—but it was enough. Enough to tell him you were still here. Still fighting. Still fucking breathing.

“Easy,” he whispered against your hair. “Just stay with me. I’ve got you.”

You made a sound. Barely anything. A cracked whimper caught in the wreckage of your throat. He pressed a hand to the back of your neck, fingers splayed wide, trying to shield as much of your skin as he could from the wind.

Your body was ice. Every inch soaked through. Your gear, your boots, the back of your neck, all of it was clinging to you like a second skin, each layer working against you now, not for.

The low snarl of a snowmobile engine cut through the trees, carving hard across the frozen ground. He didn’t look up. Didn’t shift. Just curled tighter around you and angled his body between yours and the open lake.

The engine cut off twenty feet away, skidding to a halt. Snow crunched under boots. Then—

“Shit.” Yelena’s voice dropped the usual smirk. “She’s hypothermic?”

“Full submersion,” Bucky said, barely audible. “At least a minute. Maybe longer.”

Yelena was already moving, yanking her pack off and crouching beside him. “Then we need her out of those clothes, now. You too. You’re soaked.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re wet,” she snapped. “You’re not immortal.”

“She’s freezing.”

“Exactly why we strip her down and use what’s dry. I brought a tarp rig for the back—get her on it. We’ll wrap her, I’ll drive.”

Bucky didn’t argue. He peeled his jacket off one arm, then the other, movements sharp and economical. It hit the snow with a wet slap. His gear vest followed. Then he reached for the zipper at your collar, fingers already numbing where they met the icy fabric.

“Hey,” he said softly, tipping your chin. Your eyes fluttered open for a breath, then closed again. “I know it’s cold. But we gotta get you out of this stuff. Alright?”

You didn’t answer. Just let him move you, limp and loose like your bones had gone slack. He tried to be fast. Careful. Stripped your coat first, then the soaked thermal underlayer, exposing your shoulders to the air. You flinched. He wanted to curse out loud. Wanted to punch the goddamn lake.

Yelena shrugged off her own jacket. “Here.”

He took it without looking and shoved your arms through the sleeves. It was warm. And dry. It didn’t matter if it was hers or his or stolen off a corpse. He’d have wrapped you in skin if it meant getting your body temp up fast enough.

But it wasn’t enough.

Your pants were soaked through. So were the boots. And your left leg—fuck.

He saw the blood pooled inside the boot as he started to peel it off. Frozen red around the seams. Your thigh was still bleeding, sluggish now from shock, but still enough to be dangerous.

“Yelena,” he barked without turning. “Gauze. Whatever you’ve got.”

“Med kit’s in the sled,” she called, already unrolling the tow platform and yanking the thermal tarp open. “Field wrap’s on the side.”

He ripped the second boot off, tossed both aside. The pants clung like wet parchment. He muttered something sharp under his breath and took the knife from his belt, slicing the fabric clean up the seam to the waistband. He didn’t pause. Didn’t look at your face. Just cut them free and tossed them into the snow.

Your leg was a mess. Torn muscle, ragged edge, blood sluggish but still weeping. He didn’t have time to be gentle. He grabbed the wrap from Yelena’s outstretched hand and packed the gauze into the wound, fingers fast and precise. Then he cinched the bandage tight just above your knee.

You groaned, weak and hoarse, but it meant you were still responsive.

“I know,” he muttered. “I know it hurts. Just hang on.”

Yelena was already back at the sled, lifting the flap on the side and unfurling the padding. “We’ve got maybe ten minutes before she drops out completely. Help me get her in.”

He moved without answering. One arm behind your back, one under your legs. You were a deadweight bundle of wet limbs and heatless skin.

Together, they settled you into the tow rig—padded, shielded at the sides, thermal canopy overhead. Standard evac mod. But it still looked like a coffin.

He hated that it looked like a coffin.

Yelena threw him a blanket roll, and he tucked it tight over your chest and shoulders, then your hips and thighs, arms crossed low over your ribs. Your skin was damp, your hair frozen at the ends, lashes rimmed in ice. He didn’t let himself stop moving. He kept one hand pressed just over your heart, the other ready to shield your face from wind.

His hand stayed there.

Just a second too long.

She didn’t call him on it.

“You’re going with her,” Yelena said instead, already climbing back onto the snowmobile. “I can drive. You monitor her breathing. Try and get her talking if you can. If she fully passes out—”

“She won’t.”

“I’m just saying—”

“She won’t.”

His voice was steel. He wasn’t yelling. He wasn’t pleading. He just knew.

Yelena didn’t argue again. She gunned the engine, and the machine roared to life.

He climbed into the tow sled, kneeling beside you, one hand on your chest, the other braced against the frame. Wind blasted past them as they launched forward, but he didn’t feel it.

All he felt was the shallow rise and fall beneath his hand.

────────────────────────

You surfaced slowly.

Not all at once. Not in a cinematic way—no gasping, no full-body jolt, no sudden realization that you were still alive. Just pressure. First behind your eyes, then in your chest. A tightness, dull and deep, like your lungs had been filled with stones and someone had stacked their weight across your ribcage to make sure they stayed there.

Your mouth was open. You hadn’t meant it to be. Something cool and artificial was feeding air through your nose, down your throat. Plastic tubing, you realized after a beat, half-formed thoughts dragging behind sensation. An oxygen cannula. 

Your head ached.

Not a sharp pain. Not even pain, really. Just distance. Like your skull had been filled with static and your thoughts had to crawl through it on hands and knees to reach you. When you tried to move, just a twitch of your shoulder, your body didn’t respond. Not fully. Your nerves were slow, reluctant. Your arms felt like they belonged to someone else.

Then, light. Soft, not blinding. White above you. Clinical. Cold. You tried to blink and felt the dry pull of your lashes against skin that had been left too long without moisture.

There were sounds now. Somewhere in the periphery.

Muffled voices. Beeping.

A hiss of something mechanical resetting. Maybe a vitals monitor, maybe a heat unit.

The next thing you noticed was your skin.

Your entire body felt like it had been peeled back and glued together wrong. Your legs ached. Not in the sharp, obvious way of a gunshot or blade, but deeper. Bone deep. Joint deep. There was a dull, pulsing throb in your left thigh that you couldn’t place, and you realized after a moment that you didn’t want to.

You were alive.

You weren’t supposed to be.

A slow breath pulled through your chest. It hurt. Not like you’d broken anything, but like your lungs had fought too hard to keep you, and they were punishing you for it now. You could feel the heaviness in them, the stiffness—residual fluid, probably. You weren’t coughing, but your chest was tight, and something wet shifted faintly every time you inhaled.

Hypothermia. Near-drowning. Soft tissue trauma. Blood loss.

The words filtered in one by one like files retrieved from a burned cabinet.

You didn’t remember the evac. Just ice. The smell of pine. A scream half-swallowed by the wind. The weight of water crushing your body into stillness. And then, heat. Arms. Metal against your ribs. Something solid that refused to let go.

Something you’d stopped fighting for before it found you.

There was a voice outside the room, beyond a curtain surrounding you. Sharp. Familiar.

Yelena.

“—two hours max. That’s what the doc said. She needs rest, not another round of brooding Bucky Barnes breathing exercises.”

A grunt. Quieter. Male.

“Don’t look at me like that.”

A beat.

“Oh my god. You’re already doing it.”

You tried to turn your head toward the sound, but your body was too heavy. The world tilted and dragged behind you. Then, footsteps. Two sets. One softer, reluctant. One clipped.

They didn’t come in.

Their voices faded just enough to let the quiet crawl back in. Only the monitors kept humming, a soft rhythmic count of your survival, like the room was measuring every second you stayed alive and wasn’t convinced yet that you would.

You lay there, still and heavy, unsure if your body would obey you at all. Everything felt wrapped in gauze. Muted. Far away. But your chest remembered. The weight, the pressure, the water. The ache that lingered behind your ribs told you the lake hadn’t really let go. Not completely.

You tried again.

It wasn’t even a word at first. Just a shift. A breath caught too sharply in your throat. Your fingers twitched against the blanket. Or maybe they didn’t. Maybe you imagined it. You turned your head, just barely, toward the voices outside the curtain, and let your lips part.

“Buck—”

Your voice wasn’t a voice. It was air dragged across a raw throat, shredded in the middle, collapsing before it made it to sound. But it was enough. Enough to make the effort real. Enough to make your pulse spike on the monitor. Enough to send a tremor through your lungs.

The curtain shifted instantly.

Then opened.

Bucky’s silhouette filled the space between the light and the noise. For a second, he didn’t say anything. Just looked at you, jaw clenched, shoulders set. His face didn’t change, but you saw it anyway. Relief. The kind that didn’t need expression to be known.

“You’re awake.” His voice was low. Too steady.

You swallowed—or tried to. It scraped. Burned. Your throat felt flayed.

He crossed the room in two strides, dropping into the chair beside your bed like he’d been ready to launch himself forward the whole time and was only now allowed. His hand hovered near yours, not quite touching.

“Do you need the doc?” he asked. “I’ll go get them. Just hold on—”

You moved before you could think.

Not much. Not even fast. But your hand lifted, weak and trembling, and curled around his wrist as he started to move. The motion cost everything. Your arm dropped a second later like it had been cut loose, but it did its job.

Bucky froze.

You tried to speak again. The word caught halfway up your throat and crumpled. You coughed instead, once, hard enough to burn, and his hand was on you instantly, palm flat against your sternum like he could keep you from falling apart just by holding you still.

“You’re okay.” His voice was different now. Thinner. “You’re okay. Just breathe.”

You tried.

Your chest shook with it. Your lungs were still too tight. Too full of memory. But the oxygen tubing helped, and eventually the coughing stopped. Your body settled back against the sheets, exhausted from the effort of existing.

His hand didn’t move.

“I’m fine,” you rasped. Or tried to.

The word sounded nothing like a word.

It scraped the back of your throat and shattered. You winced. He shook his head once, almost imperceptible.

“Don’t,” he murmured. “You don’t have to talk. Not yet.”

You blinked up at him.

He was too close. Not in a way that made you uncomfortable, never that, but in the way that made you aware of how much space he took up without saying a word. The way his presence made the machines quieter. The way the lines around his mouth looked carved from stone. The way his hand hadn’t left your chest.

“You scared the hell out of me,” he said, softer now. “I thought—”

He didn’t finish.

You didn’t need him to.

You felt it in the way his shoulders curled forward. In the way he kept watching your pulse monitor like it owed him something. In the way his eyes kept returning to your mouth, to your neck, to the shallow rise and fall that proved you were still here.

You opened your mouth again.

The words didn’t come. You weren’t sure they could. Your throat felt like someone had taken a wire brush to the inside of it. But you moved your lips anyway, slow, deliberate, shaping around the simplest thing you could mouth.

How long?

Bucky blinked.

For a second, you thought maybe he hadn’t caught it. Then his hand left your chest—not completely, just enough to curl around your wrist again, warm and solid, anchoring.

“Seven days,” he said quietly. “You’ve been under for seven.”

You let that sit. Let it press.

Seven days.

Not just unconscious. Unresponsive. Monitored. Kept warm. Intubated, probably, if your throat was any indication. You were certain there’d been a moment, maybe more than one, where they weren’t sure you were going to come back at all. Where your body might have decided to give up on the rest of you even after the lake let you go.

You let your head tip, eyes dragging slowly across the room. The motion made your neck ache. Even that, especially that, felt like a small defeat.

There was a table beside the bed. Narrow. Stainless steel. You hadn’t noticed it before.

It was cluttered.

Not with the usual medical shit. Not gauze or tubing or pill cups. Something else. Something… softer.

There were a few folded paper cranes, wings dipped in bright marker ink. A knitted square of fabric, uneven at the edges, with a giant uneven “W” stitched into the center in dark blue yarn. A cheap plastic snow globe—Branson, Missouri—with fake snow and a peeling label. A tiny flickering LED tea light. A single packet of hot chocolate. A folded sketch torn from someone’s notebook paper.

You stared at it. Confused.

Your brow furrowed, unsteady, and you felt Bucky’s eyes move with yours.

He shifted in his chair, the leather creaking faintly under him.

“Those are from Bob.” He nodded toward the cranes. “He said paper folding helps with anxiety. Sat outside your room for two hours trying to get that red one right. Said you’d like it because it was ugly. Had character.”

Your lips twitched. Or tried to. He saw it.

Bob had tried to teach you once, back when missions were lighter and your hands steadier. He’d brought a pack of neon origami paper into the rec room like it was contraband, all sheepish grin and muttered instructions, and you’d spent an hour cursing under your breath while he quietly folded a perfect flock beside you. 

You never managed a proper crane, just a deeply cursed paper lump with uneven wings, but he’d kept it anyway. Called it your “battle bird.” Said it looked like it had been through something. Just like you.

“The tea light is Ava’s,” Bucky continued. “She said you always lit a candle on briefing nights. Figured you’d want one burning when you woke up.”

You did. Always the same squat little votive, tucked on the corner of your desk, flickering through every debrief while the rest of the team pretended not to notice. Ava had, though—said the sound and smell helped her keep her pacing in check, the rhythm of it steadier than her own breath some nights.

Bucky pointed at the snow globe, grimacing. “Walker. No note. Don’t ask.”

You made a rough sound, not quite a laugh, and regretted it immediately. Your chest ached. You swallowed it down.

Of course he brought Branson, Missouri.

The man had one week of leave and spent it sending you unsolicited selfies from a dinner theater called “Yakov’s Last Laugh,” wearing a cowboy hat two sizes too small and arguing over text about whether Silver Dollar City technically counted as “historic.”

You’d told him Branson wasn’t a real place. Just a Midwest fever dream built entirely out of unlicensed Elvis impersonators and knockoff Dollywood energy. He’d called it “America’s soul.”

You’d called it “a cry for help in gift shop form.”

And now it sat beside your medical chart, a tiny, glittering monument to the world’s pettiest inside joke.

God help you if it made you smile again.

“The sketch is from Alexei,” he went on. “It’s supposed to be you in the snow, fighting a bear. Or dancing with one. He wasn’t clear.”

You blinked slowly. That tracked. He’d once told you, entirely unprompted, that your “ferocity under pressure” reminded him of a Siberian she-bear. You’d assumed it was a compliment. Probably.

“And that,” he added, gesturing to the hot chocolate, “Yelena. Said hospital cocoa was an abomination and if she caught you drinking any she’d pull your IV herself.”

You smiled faintly. Yelena was the one who started it. Midnight cocoa in the mess when neither of you could sleep, hands still shaking from whatever dreams you'd clawed your way out of. No talking. No questions. Just heat, sugar, and silence until your pulses evened out again. A truce in a mug.

Your throat was still raw. You didn’t dare try a full word, but the question was there—in the slow blink, the glance toward the yarn.

“That’s from Walker too,” Bucky said, deadpan. “He learned to knit. Apparently.”

Your eyes drifted back to him. He hadn’t looked away from you once. Not really.

There was one more thing on the table. You hadn’t noticed it before. Smaller than the rest. Set slightly apart. A small matchbox-sized tin. Dark blue. Metal. Worn at the corners.

Bucky followed your gaze. His jaw tightened.

You looked at him.

He didn’t speak.

Just reached over slowly, picked it up, turned it once in his palm like he wasn’t sure if he regretted leaving it there.

Then he held it out to you. Didn’t press it into your hand, just let it rest there, cradled against his fingers, waiting.

You tilted your head toward it, but your muscles were still too slow, coordination still too shot. He noticed. Said nothing. Just flipped the lid open himself.

Inside, nestled into the tin’s base on a folded strip of linen, was a tiny object. Barely bigger than your thumb. Faintly metallic. Dull silver at the edges, matte black at the center.

It was a music box cylinder. A fragment. Something old, worn smooth. The kind used in hand-crank players—the ones tucked inside the little wind-up boxes you used to fidget with as a child, flipping them open and closed like they were meant to be solved.

You blinked.

Once.

Twice.

Bucky was watching you. Carefully. Like the weight of your reaction might crack him open.

“You said,” he said quietly, “a few months ago… that you had one when you were a kid. Broke in a move. Said you remembered the sound but not the song.”

You remembered. You hadn’t thought he had.

You hadn’t thought anyone had been listening.

“I found that in a market in Riga,” he went on, voice low, roughened at the edges. “The guy didn’t know what it played. Didn’t have the housing. Just this. It was rusted shut. Took me a few days to clean it.”

He paused.

“I was gonna wait to give it to you. But I didn’t know when the right time was.”

You tried to speak again. Your throat clenched. No sound came.

Still—you pushed the air up, forced it out like it owed you something. Like you had to say it, even if it burned.

“Why?”

It rasped out of you like broken glass dragged across stone. More breath than voice. But the word made it past your lips this time, and that was enough.

Bucky didn’t answer right away.

Didn’t look at you, either. Not at first. His eyes had dropped back to the tin, as if the shape of it might tell him how to start.

The silence stretched.

You didn’t push him.

“I didn’t know if you’d want it,” he said finally. The words came low. Barely above a whisper. “Didn’t know if it meant anything coming from me.”

He shifted in the chair like he didn’t trust it to hold his weight. Like he was trying not to lean too close.

“You said that thing about the music box and it just—stuck. I don’t even think you realized you said it. We were talking about… something else. Some mission. I can’t even remember which. You were just fiddling with your comm and you mentioned it. How the song used to help you sleep, but now you can’t remember the tune. Just that it made you feel… safe. Back then.”

He rubbed his thumb over his knee, like he needed something to ground himself.

“I remembered,” he said again, quieter this time. “And I kept looking. For months. In every market, every junk bin, every fucked-up antique shop we passed through. Most of them were trash. Broken. Stolen. Or the wrong kind. But then I found that one. Just the cylinder. No box. No sound. Just…possibility.”

His jaw twitched.

“I figured I’d give it to you when… I don’t know. When things slowed down. When we weren’t bleeding every week or crawling through wreckage or losing people left and right. But things don’t slow down. Not for us. So I waited.”

He finally looked at you.

And the look in his eyes—God. It made your breath stutter beneath the oxygen tube. It wasn’t pity. It wasn’t soft, either. It was sharp. Too sharp. Like the only way he knew how to look at you was like he was still checking for exit wounds.

“I thought I missed my chance.”

He said it so plainly you almost didn’t feel it at first. But it settled in your chest like a weight. Like truth.

“I thought you were gone,” he went on. “On that lake… when I couldn’t find the surface, when I finally got you out, when your body—” He stopped himself. Shook his head. “You weren’t moving. You weren’t breathing. You were just drifting. And I remember thinking—that’s it. That’s the end. That’s where I lose you.”

Your chest tightened. Not from pain. Not from cold. Just the sound of him.

“I don’t lose people like that anymore,” he said. “Not like I used to. Not if I can help it. And sure, I’ve said that before. But this time—” His voice cracked, just once. “This time it was you.”

You blinked. Hard.

He leaned forward now, elbows braced on his knees, voice lower than before.

“You don’t get it,” he said, rambling on like the words were exiting his mouth before he even thought about them. “You think you’re just… part of the team. That you’re one of us. And you are. But it’s not the same. Not for me.”

He exhaled, sharp and tired and fraying.

“You get under my skin in ways that nothing else does. You keep me tethered when shit goes sideways. You ask questions no one else asks. You call me on my bullshit without making it feel like I’m back in some shrink’s office getting dissected. You make space. And I didn’t know how much I needed that—no—wanted it. Until I thought I’d lost it.”

You didn’t know you’d started crying until you tasted salt at the edge of your mouth. Just a few tears. Silent. Clean. Your throat hurt too much for sobbing. Your eyes hurt too much to keep them open.

But he noticed.

He sat forward quickly, hand reaching for the call button. “Shit—do you want the doc? I can get them, they said to page if you—”

You lifted your hand again. Just barely. Just enough to curl your fingers around his wrist.

“No,” you whispered. Barely there. Barely sound.

His hand hovered an inch above the call button, frozen. You felt the way his wrist flexed beneath your fingers, the way the tendons in his forearm pulled tight like he wasn’t sure whether to move or stay. His eyes searched your face again, sharp and clinical for one second—checking your color, your breathing, your pupils—and then he exhaled, quieter this time. Sat back.

Didn’t pull away.

You swallowed. The effort scraped down your throat like sandpaper, but you did it anyway. Forced air past the ruined edges of your voice until it shaped something. Small. Crooked. Yours.

“I didn’t… know you remembered,” you rasped, each word a dry scrape across something bruised and tender. “The music box.”

Bucky exhaled. Short. Quiet. Almost a laugh, except there was nothing funny in it.

“I remember everything you don’t think I do,” he said. “You always think no one’s paying attention. But I see it. All of it. The way you cover for people when they’re tired. How you pass your dessert off to Bob when he pretends he’s not hungry. That little stretch you do before every mission.”

Your lips parted, breath caught halfway to forming something else. But your throat cracked mid-inhale, so you let it go. Let him keep speaking.

He leaned forward again, this time more gently, his forearms braced on either side of your legs, like he was trying to fold himself smaller. Make himself quieter. Like he didn’t want the rest of the world to hear what came next.

“I see you,” he repeated, quieter now. “Even when you think you’re blending in. When you’re holding it together for everyone else.”

You blinked slowly. The tears had stopped, or maybe your body had just run out. Your eyes burned from the effort of keeping them open. But they stayed on him.

“I think…” You paused, tried to clear your throat, but it made it worse. You grimaced through it, blinked hard. He moved like he might reach for you, or call again, but you shook your head, barely. 

“Let me,” you croaked, voice shot to hell, every syllable catching like thread pulled through torn cloth. “I think I… do the stretch… because I’m scared.”

His eyes didn’t widen. He didn’t flinch. Just watched. Still. So fucking still.

You blinked again, slow and raw. “Not of dying. Not really.”

That earned a twitch of his mouth. Not amusement. Something darker. Sadder. Knowing.

“Of what, then?” he asked, voice low.

You swallowed hard. The air in your lungs felt too thick now, heavy with what you hadn’t said before the lake took you. “Of… getting close. Of being… close. And then it ending.”

Something in his expression fractured. Not broken, not open, just bare. Like you’d peeled something back without meaning to. Like you’d stepped too close to the place he kept boarded up with silence and mission reports and one-liners that didn’t quite pass for humor.

He nodded once. Not like he was agreeing. Like he understood.

“You’re not the only one,” he said quietly. “You think I didn’t notice how long it took you to unpack after the Bataysk job? You kept your bag zipped by the door for three weeks.”

You almost laughed. Almost. But it came out too soft, caught on the edge of a breath.

“You knew?”

“I always knew.”

You looked at him again. Really looked. His hands weren’t covered by gloves like they normally were. They were bare, calloused, fingertips nicked and bruised. His left hand rested beside your blanket, the metal dull and wet-lit under the fluorescents, motionless.

Your hand moved before your brain caught up.

Weak. Slow. You lifted your fingers and reached for the edge of his sleeve, but your arm shook with the effort and dropped short. He caught it before it fell completely—his flesh hand, warm and scarred and careful—and guided your palm over the metal one like it wasn’t strange at all. Like you’d done it a thousand times. His jaw ticked.

“It’s cold,” you whispered.

He nodded. “I know.”

“I don’t mind.”

He let his thumb brush across the edge of your wrist, slow and grounding. Not a stroke. Not comforting. Just there. “I didn’t think I’d get to tell you any of this,” he said. “When I pulled you out, when you weren’t breathing, I—” He cut himself off again, jaw tightening. “I thought you were already gone.”

You wanted to say something, anything, but the only sound you made was breath.

It was enough.

“I wasn’t ready to lose you,” he said. “Not like that. Not ever. But especially not without… you knowing.”

Your throat pulled tight.

“Knowing what?” you whispered, wrecked.

He didn’t hesitate.

“That I give a damn. That I think about you more than I should. That you’re not just some mission partner I cover in the field. That you matter.”

You opened your mouth again. Closed it. Your lips trembled.

Bucky moved closer, just slightly, head still bowed low like the words had weight. Like if he spoke too loud they might splinter.

“You matter to me,” he said. “More than I ever planned for.”

Your eyes burned. Your hand twitched in his, a pathetic excuse for a squeeze, but he felt it. He held on tighter.

You swallowed again, painful and raw. “Me too,” you said, barely audible. “You… matter.”

Something broke in his face. Not his composure. Not his strength. Just the smallest trace of distance, pulled away. A breath he hadn’t been able to take until now.

You saw it in his eyes.

And maybe that would’ve been enough. Maybe in another world—one with less noise, less blood—you would’ve stayed like that for another minute. Maybe you would’ve reached for him again, said something more, pulled the words from the ruin of your voice just to hear him say your name in that same, low, wrecked way.

But this wasn’t that world.

And the curtain tore open before you could even draw your next breath.

“MY BEAR CUB LIVES!”

Alexei’s voice exploded through the medbay like cannon fire, and before you could brace for it, before Bucky could so much as turn in his seat, there were arms. So many arms. Warm, clumsy, massive arms wrapping around you like a weighted blanket made of noise and Soviet linen.

You wheezed. A sharp, involuntary gasp you couldn’t help as Alexei crushed half your torso in a rib-cracking hug.

Bucky was on his feet instantly. “Hey—hey! Easy! Watch it, she’s still—”

“Bah!” Alexei cut him off with a wave of one enormous hand. “She is strong! Like small elk! Look at this—already upright, already beautiful, skin like ice sculpture!” He reached out and cradled your jaw for a second, then kissed your forehead in a way that nearly knocked the oxygen cannula askew. “You do not die on me. You are not allowed to die on me. I would never forgive you.”

“I tried to stop him,” Yelena muttered dryly, appearing behind him with arms crossed and absolutely no remorse. “I tackled him in the hallway. Didn’t matter. He just kept bounding.”

She was flanked by three more figures—Bob, shifting awkwardly and clutching a bouquet that looked like it had been stolen from a funeral arrangement, Ava hovering beside him with a look of cautious relief, and John leaning just far enough into the room to smirk.

“Look who decided to rejoin the land of the living,” Walker called, voice light but eyes sharp. “Don’t do that again. It’s bad for team morale.”

Bucky hadn’t moved far from your bedside, just enough to make room, to stop Alexei from inadvertently crushing a vein or breaking an already-bruised rib. He was still watching you, eyes flicking between your face and your vitals monitor like he couldn’t help himself.

Alexei finally released you with a thud and an affectionate slap to the shoulder that nearly dislocated something. You blinked hard through the swirl of motion, coughing once as your lungs protested the sudden influx of people and oxygen.

“Careful,” Bucky muttered again, more to himself than anyone else.

But you caught his wrist before he could move back.

Just a small touch. Nothing demanding. Just enough.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to.

The others kept talking—Yelena launching into a commentary about how ugly the paper cranes were before realizing Bob made them and immediately changing the subject, Ava threatening to install a lock on the medbay door, Bob quietly asking if you wanted him to adjust the light overhead, Walker declaring he’d brought “real food” and pulling a suspicious-looking bag from behind his back that Yelena immediately swatted out of his hands.

It was chaos. Loud and jagged and human.

But you didn’t look at them.

You looked at Bucky.

And he looked at you.

And in that small, quiet moment—under the hum of machines, under the curtain pulled halfway back, under the noise and the mess and the aching throb in your chest—you felt it settle. All of it. The tension. The fear. The distance you’d both kept because you didn’t know what would happen if you crossed it.

He stayed exactly where you needed him. Elbow resting on the frame of your bed, hand lax in your grip, eyes never leaving yours even when someone bumped the curtain again or when Yelena started swearing in Russian under her breath because she had opened the bag Walker had and apparently it smelled.

You didn’t speak.

Neither did he.

But your fingers stayed curled around his wrist, weak and unsteady, still trembling from the cold that still lived somewhere in your bones, and he didn’t pull away.

Didn’t shift.

Didn’t give you some line about rest or recovery or needing to take a break from all this noise.

He just stayed.

Not because you asked.

But because that’s what he did.

What he’d always done, quietly, behind the chaos.

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