After Skinny Dipping At A Lover’s Lake Alone, Eddie Is Shocked To See Someone Else Was There All Along

Neighbors Masterlist

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◍ smut/18+ fics ⌾ angst ◌ pure fluff

Neighbors

⌾ Banana Bread | Dinner For Two | ◌ Movie Night | Teach Me? | ◌ The Diner | ◌ Hairpins | Knead You | ◌ Golden Afternoon | Old Friend | ⌾ New Exhibit | Red Henley | ◍ New York | ⌾ March 10th | ◍ Panties In A Twist | A Couple Drinks | ◍ Backwards | to be continued…

Prologue: The Holiday season catches Bucky by surprise, but after a less-than-ideal morning, a friendly invitation from his new neighbor is more tempting than he would have anticipated.

Summary:

"He didn't know how it had happened, how he'd gotten so comfortable around you, how he'd let you in. At first, everything was quiet. Bucky was adjusting to this new life, his pardon, his therapist, his amends, and everything they'd gotten him into. Sure there was Yori, but that was like one old man to another, and far more complicated. You were different."

Your friendship with your neighbor across the hall, the James "Bucky" Barnes, blooms as you get to know each other. And as a new extremist group - the Flagsmashers - make their mark on the world, the two of you are left to figure out what that means for your blossoming relationship.

A domestic, sweet, and spicy romantic comedy based on the characters and events surrounding Marvel's series, The Falcon And The Winter Soldier.

Neighbors on Spotify:

Side A: songs they listen and/or dance to in the series Side B: songs that fit their vibe, describe their relationship, or otherwise remind me of them 50s Friday Night: a playlist inspired by chapter 9 (Old Friend)

Also Read on Ao3 and Wattpad

charmed

e. munson x reader, 3k

summary: eddie comes home from a long day at work to discover wayne has a pretty surprise for him includes: established!eddie x reader, wayne being the sweetest paternal figure, mumblings of a found family, wayne manifesting a daughter in law by years end warnings: afab reader, non descript

a/n: writing from the boys perspective is always way more fun. i have so many thoughts about wayne and eddie's relationship.

Eddie had intended to be home earlier, a far cry earlier than the 9:30 that blinked hazily on his vans dashboard as he pulled in before the trailer. He was meant to be home hours ago, hoping to enjoy a Friday night the way that a young person ought to – out with the people he loved. Instead he sat in his driver's seat, covered in oil and grime and god knows what else from under the hood of some deadbeat richman from the other side of town. The apprentice had fucked the repair of a rather pricey car, one that was to be picked up first thing monday, and Eddie didn’t have it in him to let the little guy drown under the barrage of abuse from an intimidating customer. 

So he stayed back, and now he was paying the price. Dinner would have been long over by now, and it was unlikely that Wayne was still home at such an hour. He usually had the night shift on this pay cycle, but Eddie couldn’t tell one from another these days. The lights were still on, his indication that he’d gotten his weeks wrong. 

Worn leather boots beat against the gravel as he trekked towards the door, hand running through the curls that hung low on his forehead; wild, in desperate need of a trim. He was spent, body weary and limp from the extra strain. He wanted to call his friends, to call you, to ask for good company, but he knew even now he was too tired to go anywhere. 

The door was unlocked, so he slipped into the warmth of the trailer with an involuntary shiver, eyes blinking tiredly to spot the figure propped up on the couch. Wayne. Beer in hand, chin shadowed with stubble; Eddie’s hero, if anyone were to ever ask. The old man was his favourite person, whether he knew it or not. 

Wayne gave a gruff smile, tilting his chin up at his nephew. “Long day, boy?” 

“Yeah.” Eddie breathed, voice more gravelly than he’d realised. “Got stuck back, sorry I didn’t call.” 

Wayne shrugged. “I figured, though there’s a surprise in your room f’you.” 

A surprise? Eddie couldn’t possibly guess what. “You’re joking.” 

Wayne simply smiled in response, shaking his head. “You go have a look ‘n tell me if I’m joking. Just be quiet about it.” 

Eddie gave a quizzical sort of look, boots resounding against the floorboards as he moved towards the room, a quick mumble from Wayne catching his attention again. 

“Quieter than that.” 

Eddie scoffed, his demeanour still playful despite his disbelief. He took more careful steps this time, readjusting the band wrapped clumsily around his bound tresses, trying to alleviate the steadily subsiding headache from two hours ago. Wayne had never been much of a secret keeper, nor was he one for dramatics. He was a pragmatic, realistic, nonfrivolous sort of man, which made that excitable little sparkle in his uncle’s eyes all the more amusing. Wayne didn’t play tricks, but Eddie couldn’t help but feel he was walking into one. 

With a slow turn of his door handle, Eddie eased the gap open, his eyes scanning the silent dark until his gaze settled upon the mountain of blankets upon his bed. There, buried under three blankets of comfort, was you. It might have been hard to tell under any other circumstances, but even half asleep and exhausted out of his mind, Eddie knew he could recognise your silhouette anywhere. He softened instantaneously, body slackening slightly under the slow wave of adoration that overcame him. You were here to see him. Talk about a surprise, he hadn’t expected to see you today, and now he felt his ribs pressing in tightly together, chest constricting with a glad sort of giddiness. 

He was gentle in closing the door again, his smile bemused at his now grinning uncle. “And how’d my girl end up in there, hm?” 

He toed off his boots, movements suddenly precise and careful under the presence of your company. Even through the closed door, he had no desire to rouse you just yet. Not until he was ready, clean and showered and shed of all other obligations, able to dedicate himself to your company. 

“She came by at 5,” Wayne explained, turning down the quiet shout of the television set with a well worn remote, “thought you’d be home soon, wanted to surprise you. I told her she was welcome t’wait, thinkin’ you’d be round earlier. But y’weren’t, so we had some dinner.” 

Wayne paused, nudging his chin towards the fridge, which Eddie took to mean there was leftovers waiting for him inside. He began rustling through, finding what was left of a roast and vegetables wrapped up neatly in foil. It was a little more extravagant than he had expected, and Eddie chalked that up to your aid in the kitchen. He could see the container of biscuits on the counter, too, with little hearts and flowers piped onto the tops. Pinks and blues and reds and whites, this wasn’t a house for sweets and softness, though Eddie welcomed your charms in any way he could get them. He sat at the table to feast, unbothered to even reheat the feast. 

Wayne continued on. “Thought she might go lookin’ for y’, but we got a’talking. She’s a real sweet thing, y’know, made a real effort to chat. Even offered to sit down ‘n watch a game with me, thought I didn’t have the heart t’put her through it. Ended up watchin’ some Antiques Roadshow thinkin’ she’d like it better; you ever seen me watchin’ that before? I ain’t never had much care, but we had good fun.”

“No shit!” Eddie piped up, astounded by the softened edges of his Uncle. You’d charmed him, he thought, with your curious questions and kind smiles. For Wayne to sit down and talk to anyone was a miracle, one that only an angel could perform. His Angel. 

“We got guessin’ and everythin’.” Wayne added, wiping roughly at his smile. “Seemed tired, though, so I told her to crash in your room. She’s been out maybe half an hour.” 

Astounded was an understatement. Eddie had brought girls home before he met you, though none had bothered to exchange more than polite pleasantries with his Uncle. He’d never been serious about them, so he’d never thought much of it, and then came you. Three months into this new connection, a relationship born of spring flowers and whisky nights and loud music and soft touches. Eddie had never been serious until now, until you, and now he couldn’t picture being anything else but. 

He was glowing, beaming from ear to ear. “So you like her, then?” He was so hopeful in his question, a sincerity Wayne only ever saw reserved for the most heartfelt of Eddie’s dreamings. 

“I do.” Wayne announced, washing down his contentment with another swig of his beer. “I hope y’re serious ‘bout her, she’s real soft on you, and I think she’s a good one. Seems to make you happy enough, you ain’t mopin’ nearly so much these days.” 

Eddie rolled his eyes, groaning with faux annoyance, rolling foil into a tiny ball to toss across the room, missing Wayne by a good foot of space. “I don’t mope.” 

“I don’t mope my ass, kid, you mope plenty. Just not anymore.” He was laughing now, worn lines creasing at the corners of his eyes. “I said she should come back f’dinner another night, we can all eat together. She was tellin’ me ‘bout this story she was readin’, and I’ll be damned if I don’t know how it ends.” 

Eddie knew how this story ended; it ended with you. It began with you, too. It was all you, he couldn’t see any other ending for him. 

“Yeah, that sounds good, old man.” He was doing his best to stomach the meal, but his words were caught around hastily eaten mouthfuls half chewed and uneasy to swallow. He’d give himself heartburn if he wasn’t careful, and it would have been worth it. 

Eddie took a moment to pause, swallowing thickly, belching unceremoniously in a way he was glad you weren't there to witness. “I am serious, y’know, about her. Real serious. I got a good feeling.” 

“Yeah?” Wayne questioned, sinking back into the sofa. 

“Yeah. She could be the one; ain’t that somethin’? I always thought it was bull when people said you just know, but…” he laughed with astonishment, “I think I just know.” 

“Well shit,” Wayne exclaimed, clearing his throat, “that’s real good, Ed’s. You just be good and treat her nice. Be a gentleman.” 

Eddie wasn’t too sure he knew how to be a gentleman, but somehow, he knew you liked him all the same. He didn’t need to be anything but himself around you, and that was a one in a billion kind of feeling,

He was quick in his cleaning, fumbling around the kitchen to pack away a still soaking plate, his mind skating over the plastic drying rack by the sink entirely. “I’m bein’ good, I swear.” 

“Bullshit.” Wayne teased, shaking his head. He braced himself on his knees, slowly rising to his feet with a groan. “I’m goin’ to bed. Tell her she’s welcome to stay whenever she likes, okay? Show her where the spare key is.” 

“I will.” Eddie nodded, barely able to fight his slow building excitement. He could feel himself getting restless, hands flexing just at the thought of holding you. “G’night, Wayne.” 

“G’night son.” He echoed back, disappearing into the quiet of his own room. 

Eddie made sure to lock up on his way, switching off the tv and lights as his own sort of wind down ritual. They’d be on all night if he wasn’t careful, and he’d spied the last bill long enough to have a mind for the electricity now. Besides, he needed to be calm when he woke you. He’d half frightened you to death last time he came barrelling in. 

Once again, he retreated towards his room, slipping into the dark like a shadow of the night, slowly shucking his way out of his overalls to kick to the side of the room. He didn’t mind staining his sheets with oil, but not you; you were something worth caring for. He knew he should have showered, but the sweat on his skin could hardly deter him from the need he had to be close to you, to ease away the troubles of his way with the balm of your skin against his, your whispers ringing in his head. 

He fumbled his way to the edge of the mattress, your sleeping body facing away from him to the back wall of the room. He peered a little closer into the darkness, a sliver of moonlight cascading across the bare curve of your shoulder, arm wrapped around something small, something fuzzy…

“Well shit, Ted, what’re you doing in here?” Eddie hadn’t thought to consider where the ragdoll cat had scampered off to. Teddy had been adopted only a few weeks after Eddie came to live with Wayne, his Uncle’s way of easing the boy into this entirely new world together. Teddy had been his childhood companion, and by the way he was burrowed into the pudge of your stomach, purring louder than a car engine, Eddie could see you’d won him over too. 

The cat barely stirred, rather giving him a grumbled sort of chirp at being disturbed, before wriggling his way further under the blankets. You, however, made the softest of whining noises that left Eddie’s heart near strangling in his chest. He lifted a ring clad hand to that moonlight shoulder, brushing callouses across the line of freckles that dusted your skin, watching as your eyes began to flutter open, head turning slightly to face him. 

“Eddie!” No one in the world had ever been so enthusiastic to see him before, not one. His name wasn’t the kind to roll off the tongue, to be begged for or shouted out or held tenderly on someone's lips. Never before, but the way your mouth wrapped around the letters seemed to change the word entirely. Nothing had ever sounded so tender, so wanting, so pleased. You were always pleased to see him, a feeling he never had to doubt when he could see it so plainly reflected in your irises. 

“Honey.” He cooed back, tugging up the corner of the bedsheets to slip beneath them, curving his body to fit the shape of your own, nudging his knee between your two just to feel your skin pressed against his own in every possible way. The hair on his body was just as wild as the hair on his head, but nothing felt like home to him more than the brush of your skin to the mess of his. “Fancy seeing you here.” 

You exhaled a lengthy yawn, muffling the sound into his pillow with a hum. Your hair, once styled, now seemed mussed and flattened under the weight of your head. His bed linens were already tattooing precious creases into sleep warmed skin. You were too beautiful for him to even comprehend. 

You turned in his arms, careful not to disrupt the grumbling cat beside you despite your eagerness. He felt arms press their way around him, your nose nuzzling at his chin. “Wayne let me in. I hope that’s okay.” 

Literally nothing else could have been more okay in his mind. It was perfect. This was perfect; coming home to you. “Come by anytime, baby. I’m just sorry I wasn’t back sooner. I made you wait.” 

You shook your head. “I didn’t mind. Wayne’s really cool. He kept me company.”

“So I heard.” His voice was edged with an air of amusement, his hand lifting to brush back the strands of hair falling across your face, leaving his palm to cup at the plush of your cheek, his eyes admiring even in the dark. “Antiques Roadshow?”

You let out a giggle. “We panicked! I was trying to make a good impression, and he suggested it so I thought why not. Honestly it was pretty fun, I could totally watch another episode.” 

“Mm.” His lips met the button of your nose dotingly, his voice slackening to a syrupy smoothness. “He’s impressed, I’m impressed; you’ve got us Munson men wrapped around your pretty little finger. Even Teddy’s on your side.” 

“I do not!” You chided, helpless against his onslaught of affection. He left you preening and giddy, a little lightheaded when he loved on you like this, and Eddie never had any intention of stopping. “Teddy just wanted a cuddle.”

“Him and me both.” Eddie asserted, snaking his other arm beneath the arch of your waist, wrapping around the small of your back to tug you in further, his smile resoundingly bright at the way you hummed happily. “We’re not too young to be asleep by 10, are we?” 

The way you eased into the very fabric of him, your bodies so close and so connected, wrapped tightly in the warmth of his room, was enough assurance to him that you were just as content here as he was. “No. I’m not leaving this spot. You just got home, and I’m all sleepy, and Ted’s gonna get mad if we move.” 

Ted chirped an affirmative sound, leaving Eddie to rasp a laugh. “Well we can’t make Teddy mad, can we. Gotta stay here all night with my girl.” 

You chuckled softly in turn, your voice quieting under the weight of exhaustion. “I was meant to keep you company, but I’m so sleepy.” Another yawn parted your plush lips, leaving Eddie with no choice but to press his own to the corner once they came back together again. 

“You are keepin’ me company. Think I’ll sleep a bunch better with you keepin’ me warm. I’ll take you on a date tomorrow, hm? After a big sleep in?” 

“You’re so sexy when you talk like that.” You mumbled, your lashes fluttering shut to rest against your cheeks. “I’d kiss you stupid if I could move.” 

Besotted was not a strong enough word for what Eddie felt in that moment, but he was overwhelmed with the urge to litter a smattering of kisses from the edge of your cheekbone to the corners of your forehead, each one softer than the last, lulling you into that sweet place of slumber you were already drifting towards. 

“Kiss me stupid tomorrow. Sleep, sweetheart.” You didn’t need to be told twice. Within moments, Eddie watched the light in your flicker to a dim, pale glow, your breathing evening out to something unhurried. Peaceful. It didn’t matter to him that he had only had those brief moments with you tonight. Five minutes with you was enough to chase away all the strife of a day otherwise written off in his mind. And that was what his life had been missing, after all. Someone who made going to sleep at 10pm look like the greatest moment of his life. He wanted to keep you to himself, a greedy kind of possessiveness stirring in his gut, for as long as he was able, knowing full well that less than twelve hours from now, Wayne would without a doubt be waiting to make you both breakfast on his morning off. 

Like he said, you had all the Munson boys charmed.

Devoted - bucky barnes x f!reader

Husband! Bucky Barnes can’t take his eyes or his hands off of you. He has to make the biggest effort around the kids, and honestly, it’s all you’ve ever dreamed of.

A/N: Growing up with parents who you've never seen kissing, hugging, or saying "love you" to each other, yeah, it does something to you. I recommend you listen to like real people do while reading.

warnings: domestic fluff, humor, hurt/comfort, bucky being a dream husband, vulnerable talk, parental PDA and kids being grossed out (but funny), so so so wholesome.

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minors dni with this story or blog. you're responsible for what you do. do not copy, translate or claim this story as your own.

Hope you enjoy this as much as I enjoyed (and cried) writing this!

You grew up in a house where love was... quiet. If it was there at all, it never spoke. No kisses over coffee. No lingering glances. No hands held on road trips. “I love you” was said with the same flat tone as “dinner’s ready.” It taught you that love was restraint. Conditional. Measured.

No one yelled, but no one kissed. No one fought, but no one held hands. “I love you” was something you overheard in movies — not around the dinner table.

You grew up unsure if your parents loved each other, or just… merely existed beside one another. Tolerated each other. Did they love each other? You still don’t know. Maybe they didn’t, and maybe that’s what scared you the most.

Because it made you wonder if that was all love ever was.

And then you met Bucky Barnes.

And he rewrote everything.

When Bucky Barnes came into your life, it felt like getting hit with sunlight after decades in the dark.

He's unapologetically soft for you. Hands always reaching—brushing your hair back, pulling you close, squeezing your hip as he walks by. Your kids are so over it.

“Do you have to do that now?” your oldest groans as Bucky kisses your cheek in the middle of the grocery store. “Yes,” he answers simply. “Your mom’s hot.” You roll your eyes, but your cheeks warm. Every single time.

It’s the little things Bucky does that undo you.

Like when you're driving the kids to school, and he insists on holding your hand — even when you're the one behind the wheel. His fingers slide between yours easily, resting on your thigh, warm and grounding. His thumb draws lazy circles against your skin as you maneuver turns, one hand on the wheel, one hand in his.

“You know this is wildly impractical,” you tease, eyes flicking over to him.

He grins, eyes hidden behind his sunglasses, voice low and smug. “Don’t care. I gotta hold my girl.” “Can you not be in love for five minutes?” your son groans.

You and Bucky just laugh. He lifts your hand to his lips and kisses your knuckles like some old-timey gentleman who also happens to be a menace. And still doesn’t let go.

Bucky, who hugs you from behind while you’re cooking and whispers in your ear like a menace "Skip dinner, let’s order in and make out on the couch."

Your daughter and son groan loudly from the couch, “OH MY GOD.” “I’m gonna pour bleach in my eyes!” Bucky laughs, holding you tighter with his metal arm snug around your waist, “Love you too, buddy.”

He kisses you while you're folding laundry. He dances with you in the kitchen just because the song is good. Tells you he loves you like it’s as natural as breathing — because for him, it is.

And yeah, sometimes he says dumb things like,

"Bucky, why is the car so hot?" He throws you a wink. “Cause you got in it.” A chorus of “Daaaaaad!” erupts from the backseat.

“Oh my god.” Your son gags. “I’m gonna be ill.” Bucky glances at them through the mirror, unfazed. “Good. Builds immunity.”

But under all the dramatics, they smile when they think you’re not looking. They giggle when he slow dances with you in the kitchen, or calls you doll like it’s sacred. They see it. They know it’s real. They know it’s safe.

You didn’t grow up with love like this — but you’re raising them with it. And that matters.

That night, after the kids are asleep and the house is finally quiet, you curl up beside him on the bed, wearing one of his old shirts and nothing else. The air is warm and soft-lit, and you’re sunk so deep into the quiet you almost don’t want to break it.

But you do.

“Can I tell you something kind of dumb?” you murmur.

“Doll, you could talk nonsense for hours and I’d still nod along like it’s gospel.”

You laugh, but it fades. “Sometimes I still wait for it to stop.”

He tilts his head, confused. “Stop?”

You bite your lip. “I grew up thinking love didn't exist or wasn't meant to be shown. That it had to be quiet. Conditional. Measured. So sometimes I still catch myself waiting for the moment it… ends. That you leave. That it all disappears.”

Bucky’s quiet for a moment. Then he reaches out and touches your cheek like he’s holding something fragile and precious. Because he is.

“Doll… whoever taught you that love had to be small, they were so wrong. I need to love you like this. Big. Loud. Always. I need to hold your hand while we’re driving and kiss your neck while you're stirring the pasta.” He swallows hard. “I want to love you in a way you never have to question. Ever.”

Tears prick your eyes, and he pulls you into his lap, pressing kisses to your temple, your cheek, and your mouth.

You kiss him like you’re trying to press every word you haven’t said yet into his mouth. And he lets you—hands on your waist, grounding you, holding you like he’s scared you might vanish if he lets go.

When you finally pull back, just far enough to breathe, he’s looking at you like you hung the stars in the damn sky.

“I think about it a lot,” he says softly, voice rough, “how lucky I got.”

You blink, heart thudding. “Bucky…”

“No, listen.” He brushes your hair back, thumb tracing the curve of your jaw. “After everything I’ve seen—everything I’ve done—I didn’t think I’d get this. I thought my story ended in blood and silence. And then there you were. Warm, loud, bossy as hell—loving me without flinching.”

You shake your head, tears building. “You don’t have to thank me—”

“I do.” His voice breaks. “I have to thank you every damn day. For seeing me when I couldn’t. For staying when it was hard. For giving me this life. The kids. You. All of it.”

You don’t say anything at first. You just kiss him again, slow and deep, a promise pressed into skin.

And as his hands slide up your back, pulling you impossibly closer, you think— Yeah. You got lucky too.

You pull back eventually, breathless, heart full. And then you rise to your feet.

He looks up, dazed. “Where you goin’, sweetheart?”

You smirk, already halfway to the hallway. “Gotta make sure the door’s locked,” you call over your shoulder. “We don’t want to traumatize them.”

Bucky groans, laughing, throwing himself back against the pillows. “You’re killin’ me.”

“And I’ll bring you back to life, Barnes.” You wink, hovering over him, straddling his waist as his hands slide up, thumbs rubbing slow, hiking closer to the hem of your shirt.

You smirk, leaning over him, ready to take your place on top — but before you can, his hands slide around your waist. In one smooth motion, he flips you over, pinning you gently beneath him.

“Not so fast, doll,” he murmurs, grinning as he settles between your legs. “You always think you’re in charge.”

You arch a brow, breath hitching. “And you love it.”

He laughs under his breath, eyes dark and soft all at once. He leans down, brushing your hair back to kiss your neck — slow and deep, with a bite that makes you shiver.

“Let me take care of you tonight.”

You exhale a laugh, heart skipping. “You always wanna take care of me.”

He smiles against your skin, lips trailing lower, worship in every movement.

“Damn right I do.”

Because loving you isn’t a duty. It’s instinct. It’s devotion.

I am a mix of emotions! 🥹💕😫🤧 I really enjoyed writing husband! Bucky and I will definitely do it again!

I hope you enjoyed reading this, feel free to leave your opinion!

Reblogs, likes and comments are encouraged as they help this story grow! ✨✨✨

Bug! What if you and grumpy!Bucky were trying to spend time alone together but the rest of the Thunderbolts kept interrupting?

thank you for requesting :D — the one where bucky wants to kiss you but the rest of the thunderbolts won't seem to let him (established relationship, fluff, thunderbolts spoilers, cw for brief mentions of injuries)

A dark blue bruise peeks from the neckline of your dress. It falls like spilled watercolor down your spine and bleeds softly past your shoulder blade before disappearing into the fabric of your rented gown. 

Valentina needed good press and thought throwing a gala the day after a near-lethal mission was the way to do it.“The whole beat-up schtick makes you guys look more heroic, trust me,” the woman said through gritted teeth as she faked a grin for the journalists. “Now just smile for the cameras, okay?”

The front page of the newspaper will undoubtedly show six bruised and beaten New Avengers tomorrow morning, but at least they make the future president look good.

You let Val have her fun in front of the cameras and distinguished guests while you disappear outside to the balcony. You stand at the edge of the Avengers Tower, overlooking the star-speckled skyline you’ve looked upon for years, and try not to think about how different everything is now. ‘Cause you’re back home, sure, but in a way you’ll never truly be back home again. 

“These still hurt?” Bucky wonders from beside you, tracing the blurred edges of your bruises with a gentle, vibranium hand. 

You answer him with a question of your own. “Shit— You can see them?” you mumble, trying hopelessly to peer over your shoulder and fix the sleeve of your borrowed dress at the same time. You can feel the ache in your shoulder blade every time you move your right arm, like a dull knife stabbing under the skin.

Bucky huffs sharply through his nose and looks away. He stares daggers through the sliding glass door at Valentina as she parades through the crowd in a bright red, floor-length dress like satan herself. Anger pierces somewhere deep in his chest. He fidgets with the knot of his tie with his flesh hand when he feels like it’s choking him. 

“I told her we needed to wait— We weren’t ready for this yet—”

“It’s best to get it over with,” you shrug and bring the flute of champagne to your mouth. Your following words come out echoed as you mumble into the glass, “The less I have to hear from her, the better.”

Bucky looks back at you and softens all over again. You’re too stubborn for your own good. There hasn’t been a battle you’ve backed away from — not the Winter Soldier, not Thanos, and certainly not Valentina. You’ll keep fighting the good fight ’til it kills you.

“I just don’t want you to hurt yourself,” Bucky admits quietly, smoothing his metal hand up and down the length of your spine. “That’s all…”

Your mouth leaves a faint lipstick print on the rim of the glass. Champagne glitters faintly on your rouge-tinted lips before you lick the sheen away. “You know I’m an assassin, right?” you quip with a pair of squinted, made-up eyes.

Bucky huffs, ‘cause it’s too like you to dismiss his attempts to care for you. “Shut up,” he murmurs in a low, honeyed tone and ducks down like he intends to kiss you. His gelled back locks fall over his scruffy cheek as he cups your jaw in a gentle hand.

“Like, for years,” you continue despite his face being mere, stomach-swirling inches away from yours. “My whole life, basically. So I think I can handle a few bruises, Sergeant Barnes.”

“Shut up—”

You’re left giggling against his mouth when he finally kisses you. You fight back the sunshine smile on your face so you can kiss him properly back. He tastes like sweet wine, spearmint, and something unnamed but still strangely familiar when he licks into your parted mouth. His spit glimmers faintly on your lips in the moonlight when he’s forced to part from you.

The sliding door opens with a whoosh. Bob stumbles from the threshold with a lopsided smile on his flushed face, clad in a pair of borrowed slacks and an ill-fitting button-up. If he notices the way you and Bucky part less than casually, he doesn’t show it.

“This is such bullshit, right?” he says through an awkward chuckle and swipes a nervous hand through his curls.

You nod with a tight-lipped smile and wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. “Yep,” you sigh and turn your back to Bucky, facing the dishevelled boy across from you. 

“I mean, we just got back from a mission saving her ass yesterday,” Bob rambles and saunters towards the opposite end of the luxurious balcony without ever looking your way. “She could’ve at least given us a warning, you know? Like, read the room, Valentina. Come on.” 

He laughs at himself and looks over his shoulder at you and Bucky. Only then does he notice the tension between you, which he has since sufficiently broken, and the rosy lipstick smudged on the grumpy man’s mouth. His eyes widen at the realization, and his chest inflates with a deep breath.

“Oh, shit…” he mumbles, eyes flitting wildly between you. “I— I’m the one that needs to read the room, aren’t I?”

You shake your head with a kind laugh. “No, Bob. It’s okay—”

“Well, yeah, kinda,” Bucky mumbles simultaneously, then winces when your elbow digs into his ribs.

“Sorry,” Bob grimaces, wringing his pale hands into a knot. “Sorry… I’ve always had a weird thing about that— You know, showing up places I shouldn’t. I think that should’ve been my superpower, honestly.”

“You can stay, Bob,” you assure him. “It’s okay.”

He shakes his wild head and walks backwards towards the door. “No, I should— I should go—” 

He spins on the heel of his brand-new loafers and hits the glass door with a thud. It garners the attention of the crowd in the main room, and Bob flashes you a wavering grin before sliding the door properly open and slinking back inside.

You sigh wistfully when he’s gone. 

“He’s so cute…” you hum to yourself.

Bucky scowls from behind you. “I’m standing right here.”

You turn to face him and poke him hard in the chest. “You should stop being so mean to him, you know?”

“And you should stop treating him like a kid.”

“But I like him…” you whine with a scrunched nose, using Bucky’s tie as a leash to pull him further into you. “Do you think we can keep him?”

Bucky laughs, a sharp exhale through his nose. “I don’t think we have a choice,” he grumbles and glances inside again. 

Through the large glass door, he can spot the blundering members of the new team. Walker towers over everyone else and tries hopelessly to show off his new shield to an uncaring crowd. Bob follows Ava around like a lost dog before she phases suddenly through a wall (which he, then, ultimately runs into). Yelena and Alexei take a series of shots together, never minding the press watching their every move.

Bucky sighs. “I think we have to keep all of them, unfortunately.

“Don’t say that like you hate them,” you giggle.

“Well, I kinda do.”

“What about me?” you whisper with your brows raised, and your eyes wide and innocent and knowing.

“Especially you.”

Bucky smiles crookedly and ducks down again when you pull him closer with his tie in your fist. This time, his attempt to kiss you is interrupted by a rapid beating at the sliding door — several thud, thud, thuds from the other side of the glass. You part from each other again, heads whipping to find Yelena and Alexei all but pressed against the door. (They tend to act like carbon copies of each other when they’re drunk.)

“I need help!” the blonde girl whines, muffled through the closed door.

“With what?!” you shout back.

Alexei tries to answer at the same time as Yelena. You can only halfway understand them as they talk over one another in similar, deep, Russian accents. “Valentina said— But we wanted to— And we can’t find—” is all you can make out.

“What?!” you repeat, face twisted with confusion.

They repeat the same spiel once more: different sentences spoken muffled and simultaneously.

Bucky huffs in annoyance. You shake your head and shout, “Just open the door!”

“Oh,” Yelena says, pink mouth pouted, as she slides the glass open with a whoosh. She pokes her head past the threshold with an innocent smile. “Do you maybe know where you can find the booze?” she lilts, voice airy and slurred in a Russian drawl.

“The good stuff,” Alexei corrects from behind her. “Not this watered-down American shit.”

You click your lips against your teeth. “Uh, well, the liquor Tony left is somewhere in the depths of the wine cellar, I think— The one downstairs, not the one in the kitchen.”

“Thank you,” Yelena says with a huff, like she’d been looking everywhere for an answer. She’s about to close the door behind her but stops with a suspicious look in her eye. “Were you guys about to make out?” she singsongs quietly, waving an accusatory finger between you.

Bucky nods. “‘Trying’ being the key word here.”

“Oops,” Yelena whispers with a feigned wince, disappearing back inside and talking through the closing door as she goes. “Sorry— Carry on— We were never here.”

Bucky sighs when she’s gone. “We’re never gonna have a moment alone again at this rate,” he grouses.

You grin with a mischievous glint in your eye. “But that just makes it more fun, don’t ya think?”

FINE LINE collection

a near-future dark omegaverse AU

Twenty years ago, the United States went up in flames and burned to ash. Canada and Mexico came down in the blaze alongside it. From the charred embers, eleven sovereign states emerged with a tenuous affiliation to stabilize and keep the peace among them. Noble and nefarious forces are now emerging to try and reshape the political landscape - some to become more united, some to seize power.

Scattered amongst the political games is the complexity of life in an omegaverse. Alpha, beta, and omega distinctions are only as straightforward as a fool believes them to be as feelings and beliefs intermingle with the biology of all relational dynamics.

Once known as the Winter Soldier, the White Wolf, Bucky Barnes, now leads the fearsome HYDRA pack that has emerged to make a play for power. You could not stand in his way, but what can you do if you fall in step behind the cruel alpha?

Content Warnings: [check individual parts for their respective warnings] DARK STORY, omegaverse dynamics (biting, claiming, scenting, heats, bonding, alpha commands), scenes of dubious consent, angst, manipulation, blackmail, kidnapping, explicit smut

COLLECTION: ↠ part one: Give Up [450] ↠ part two: Falling Away [1.5k] ↠ part three: Every Minute Of It [4k] ↠ part four: Entanglement [4.9k]

EXTRAS: ↠ Alpha Bucky is mean, hints of characters to come (response to a reblog)

A Private After Party

Summary: You've been invited to a very special afterparty with your rockstar boyfriends. "Sweetheart, you are the after party."

Pairing: Rockstar Stucky x Reader, Steve x reader, Bucky x Reader, mentions of other band members x reader

Warnings: Choking (reader and Bucky), Pussy slapping, implied group sex, public sex, fingering, smut, 18+, minors DNI, cream pie, oral (fem rec) exhibitionism, voyeurism, masturbation, praise kink, overstimulation, belly bulge, size kink, sir kink, dom/sub vibes, Buckys a switch

Word Count 2.4K

A/N: Beta'd by the wonderful @whisperlullaby and @sparkledfirecracker. But all mistakes are my own. Do not copy, repost, rewrite or translate my fics. I appreciate every comment, like and reblog so please let eet me know you think.

For the @star-spangled-bingo Rockstar AU and inspired by @nix-akimbo edit

The deafening roar of people shouting and clapping swells into a thunderous chant of Buc-ky, Buc-ky Buc-ky filling the arena.

Bucky’s a rock star, a talented musician with a wicked reputation. It's hard to tear your eyes away from his lean tattooed chest, his abs flexing as he stretches his arms above his head, his intricate tattoos weaving across his muscular shoulder down to his wrist.

The drumsticks twirling through his fingers as he launches into his solo making the crowd go wild as his bandmates watch the shirtless drummer live it up.

The air filled with chaotic energy. The sea of people moving as one, phones, signs, and lighters swaying above their heads as they scream.

You survey the stage, rainbow-colored lights glittering across them, fans blowing discreetly from the edge of the stage. Nothing like an up-close view of one of the greatest bands of your time.

Natasha swings her bright red hair as she holds onto the mic with her long manicured nails. The pit of dancers enraptured by the sultry singer swinging her curvy hips.

You laugh at Steve winking at the row of girls staring up at him in awe as he lightly strums his guitar.

It's the final show in this city and they always give their fans a little extra.

You lean on the wall, arms folded across your chest as you watch your man flip his drumsticks in the air, catching them with one hand, his head turning to find you.

20,000 people screaming Bucky’s name and all he cares about is his girl standing just to the side of the stage, wearing his ripped leather jacket over her shoulders.

Bucky finishes his solo, banging his sticks together in the air, the rumble of the boisterous audience vibrating across the stage. He whips out a bright red cloth from his leather shorts and wipes off his sweat laced forehead, heat radiating off his chest with every deep breath.

He turns his head again, watching your pretty eyes narrow in disbelief as you focus in on the red peeking through his fist. Those are your- you scrunch your eyes shut, pressing your fingers to your eyelids. You knew that fucker took them. He stole your panties after his ritual of eating you out before hitting the stage. You should have known when he scurried out the green room leaving you whimpering and trembling on the couch.

You raise your brow at the rockstar, sneering at his gleeful smirk. He waves your panties at you before twirling them around his drumstick as he screams goodnight.

Rolling your eyes, you pray that your panties don't end up in the crowd. The second the thought forms in your brain, it's like fate laughs at you, because your panties twirl off the end of his stick, heading straight to the front row. Steve catches them mid air and wipes his chest off with it. He screams your name to the crowd, whipping them around his finger before tossing them to Nat.

You sigh in relief, only to groan a second later when she holds the crotch of your lace panties under her nose and inhales into the microphone. “Nothing better than some sweet pussy right!”

Scrunching your eyes shut as the crowd roars in response. God, you can’t stand them sometimes, it’s okay though because you decide you’re going to accidentally leak a few pics to your IG tonight.

Flipping them off, you go to the green room to get ready for the after-party. And Bucky.

Adrenaline buzzes through Bucky's veins, nothing compares to the post-show high he gets. After waving to his adoring fans, he runs off stage, heading straight for you.

When the door bursts open, a sweaty Bucky envelopes you in a hug, plastering kisses along your neck and chest. He’s always so horny after a set and you fight him off ordering him to shower. Bucky puts you down, his mouth opening, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“Nope,” you declare, walking away from your drummer. “Just did my hair and I’m not messing it up in the shower.”

Bucky’s face drops into a pout, his hand palming his crotch as he stares at you.“I’ll blow you after you’re clean.” You promise, biting your bottom. "You can fuck my throat if you're-" The sounds of your laughter follow him as he sprints into the bathroom.

Bucky saunters out almost thirty minutes later, a white towel around his waist. “Your man is clean, I’m ready for you to suck..." He trails off, you duck your head, hearing the shock in his tone.

"What the fuck” He huffs, skidding to a stop when he sees the room full of people.

Avoiding his gaze, you hid your smile. It's not your fault the door was left unlocked. You’re braiding Wanda’s hair as she plays blind man’s bluff with Sam. Nat’s propped up on the pile of suitcases in the corner taking a selfie, her shirt off and her hand barely covering her tits. Steve’s surrounded by a cloud of smoke as he lounges on the couch, his guitar propped next to his leg. Music playing softly under the chatter filling the room.

Bucky thought he was going to have you to himself for a while before the afterparty started. He’s been hard for two hours now and he can’t wait much longer. You catch his baleful eyes, tension rolling off him as he glares at you. Shrugging, you turn back to the redhead and finish her final braid.

Bucky slumps on the couch with a dramatic groan. His fingers playing with the hem of the fluffy white towel. You love when he gets like this, the rockstar who has groupies begging to suck his cock is practically pouting for your touch. He keeps groaning, shifting his hips lower and lower on the leather couch, his legs spread wide, the ends of the towel pulling apart, more and more skin showing.

Ignoring Steve’s mutter for him to knock it off, Bucky says your name, patting his thigh. “C’mere kitten. Need to tell you something.”

“She can hear you from over here.” Wanda quips you giggle as you smooth down her hair.

"Kitten.” The guttural warning has you glancing over your shoulder. Bucky meets your playful eyes, you know exactly what’s about to happen, slick forming in your aching cunt the second he flicks the towel open, his cock springing free.

“Put that thing away Buck,” Steve groans, his head dropping back on the couch.

Your mouth waters at the sight of cock swaying between his thighs. It’s practically saying your name as you stare at it. You get up, knocking Sam over with your hip when you scramble to your feet, his cards scattering on the carpet as you skip over to Bucky.

You stand in front of him, putting your hands on his tattooed shoulders. Bucky grips your waist, pulling you on his lap, your knees straddling his thick thighs.

Bucky pinches your chin between his fingers, licking your bottom lip as he hums. "Want me to put it away, kitten?"

Fuck yes you do. “You should listen to Steve,” you nod. Taking his hand, you lick his long fingers one by one before sliding it between your folds. His is hooded slate-blue eyes flare when he feels how soft and wet you are.

He orders you to turn around, his voice deepening. You smirk, turning around, your legs sliding over his thick thighs, your back flush to his firm chest. Lifting up your hips, he slides a warm rough hand under your skirt, the material bunching around your hips.

Without taking his eyes off your ass, he smirks, “alright Steve, I’ll put it away.”

He brings you down, down, down, over his thick cock, the sensation of his swollen head pushing up into your tight wet heat has your head flinging back on his shoulder.

“See Stevie-“ your mouth going slack as another wave of sensations hit you, “-it’s oh fuck me, it’s away”, you mewl.

Steve props open one eye, pursing his lips as he rolls his head to the side. The rest of the band watching you bounce on Bucky's cock, your gasps get louder as he stretches your velvety walls.

You hear murmurs of praise echoing around you, ‘take his cock pretty girl, fuck he’s deep, look how wet she is, damn she’s hot, I want a taste of her cunt’ and it’s driving you wild knowing you’re the center of attention. White-hot pressure building as he thrusts deeper into your pussy. You cling to his arms, the fast brutal pace making you lightheaded.

“Fuck Steve, her tight little pussy is sucking me back in. I can feel me right here,” he groans, putting his hand on your belly as he tugs your head back. His lips swallowing your cries as he pushes his fingers into your skin. “You feel me, don't you, kitten?”

You wheeze out a yes, yes Bucky oh god. Out of the corner of your eye, you see everyone staring at you, Sam whispering in Wanda’s ear as he pulls her braids, her hand slipping under the band of his shorts, a flash of color catches your attention, you catch Nat propping her leg on the table, spreading her pussy with her bright red nails.

“Cmon Barnes, give it to her harder, her pussy can take it,” her sultry voice tinged with lust as she works her clit. “That’s it, get it nice and sloppy for me.”

He feels your walls flutter around him as he pistons into you, “can you take it kitten, you think you can handle me?” He breathes in your ear, taunting you as he slams into your tight heat. “Don’t think she can take me Nat, feels like I’m splitting this little pussy in two.” Bucky angles his hips up, his cock hitting your sweet spot and oh god he’s so deep, stretching you so wide around him, you feel him in your belly. Your thin, high wail echos through the room, the air thick with need.

“Thatta girl.” you don’t know who said it, more praise drifting around you as you continue to shamelessly mewl.

“Make her cum before I do,” Steve warns as he sits up, his bottom lip rolling between teeth. He watches Bucky’s shaft move in and out your cunt, more and more of your slick coating him. The urge to taste both of you is overwhelming.

Steve stands in front of you, wrapping his large hand around your throat, squeezing softly before he yanks your shirt up, his fingers rolling your nipple.

“C’mon sweetheart, make a mess of his cock, lemme see you cream all over him so I can clean you up.” His hoarse, desperate promise makes you clench down, another wave of pleasure coursing through you as he pinches your sensitive nipple.

“‘m close Steve,” you sob out, the sounds of Bucky’s low groans in your ear, his warm breath washing over your skin. You gasp when he sinks his teeth into your shoulder, his pace getting erratic and sloppy. “Please, please Bucky,” you beg, needing just a little more, you’re so close to your peak, the knot in your belly tightening, god all you need is a little more.

"I said make her cum Bucky,” the way he says it, teasing with a hint of domineering impatience that has you and Bucky moaning. Steve places his hand around Bucky’s throat, your head snapping to the side to watch his fingers push into his skin. Oh god you never know what you like more, being choked or seeing Steve choke Bucky. Steve tightens his grip, his rings digging into the sides of his neck, your walls spasming as Bucky’s mouth falls open, a litany of fuck, fuck fuck pouring out of his mouth as you grind down.

“Right fucking now.” He grins, watching Bucky’s eyes flutter shut as he wheezes out a yes sir.

Steve’s darkened blue eyes slide over to your face. “You better cum for us, sweetheart. You better be good for me.” His guttural, dark tone has your belly tensing, as Bucky hits that little rough patch again, it's good, so good you can only nod. Steve raises his other hand, waiting for you to look up at it, your aching bud twitches as you lick your lips, a strangled, incoherent please seeping out.

He brings his hand down, slapping your clit, the sharp stinging sends you over the edge. The next couple of slaps have you jerking in Bucky’s arm as the knot snaps in two, pure electricity streaming through you, pleasure sinking into every fiber of your body.

“Oh yes fuck yes Steve,” you scream, your nails clawing into Bucky’s wrists as you toss your head back, your hips circling erratically as your orgasm winds through you.

“What did I say, Bucky?” Steve still has his grip on Bucky’s throat. “I told you to make her cum.” He stares him down, the challenge in Steve’s smug blue eyes has Bucky throbbing inside your sensitive cunt. Bucky grits his teeth, his hands moving to your waist, holding you still as he fucks up into you.

He blocks Steve’s next slap, his rough, calloused fingers slipping over your puffy clit. “Steve thinks he made you cum,” His voice, dark and gravelly, in your ear, “but it's my cock your greedy pussy is trying to strangle, isn’t it? Who’s making you feel good, kitten?”

“You are, you Bucky,” you chant, words slurring together as the heady pressure forms again, “so good, don’t stop, don’t stop Bucky.”

Steve pops his slicked covered fingers in Bucky’s open mouth, groaning under his breath as you come again. The force of your orgasm halts your breath in your chest, a faint gasp forming as your eyes roll back. “Good job, Bucky.” Steve praises, resting his forehead on his, staring into his dazed slate blue eyes. “Now cum for me, fill her pretty little pussy up until she’s leaking.”

“Fuck, goddamn you Steve.” He spits out in response. You don’t know if it's the way Steve demanded Bucky to cum or the way Bucky’s hips stutter into yours as Steve increased the pressure on his throat, but you feel yourself clench down again.

Another wave of bliss soaring through you as Bucky grunts his release, your spasming walls coated with ropes of his thick hot cum. You collapse on his chest, Bucky sliding down the couch, taking you with him as Steve let go of his throat.

Steve places his hands on his hips, sighing as he gazes down at the two of you tangled up in each other. Steve kneels down, you whimper as he takes Bucky’s softening cock out of your pussy.

“So pretty.” He murmurs at the sight of Bucky’s cum seeping out of you. "And look how she came all over you," he sighs, pumping Bucky's cock a few times until he groans out his name.

Steve pushes his finger in his mouth, the vulgar groan coming from his pink lips sends a shiver down your spine. He glances up at your faces, chuckling loudly. “Guess I should clean you both up, huh?"

“What about the after party?” you question, leaning on your elbow, your hand pushing on Bucky's abs. "I thought we had-oh" a broken moan falls from your lips at the feel of Steve's wet tongue gliding through your messy folds.

“Sweetheart your pussy is the party.”

ʜᴀɴɢɪɴɢ ʙʏ ᴀ ᴛʜʀᴇᴀᴅ | emperor geta

pairing: emperor geta x fem!reader

summary: the fates spin the thread of destiny, and mortals have no choice but to follow its path. you have other plans.

➺‘the fates, who give men at their birth both evil and good to have, and they pursue the transgressions of men and gods… until they punish the sinner with a sore penalty’ - theogony, hesiod ➺‘whatever happens to you has been waiting to happen since the beginning of time’ - marcus aurelius

A/N: i watched gladiator ii, devoured all the geta fics i could find (ty writers for feeding me <3) and i’m still ravenous. the man is gnawing at me from my insides so i had no choice but to get typing. haven’t written for like a yr so bear with me. if this flops it never happened xx

warnings: mention of miscarriage (not reader's), period-typical misogyny, morally ambiguous reader bc she’s fighting for her life out here. she’s just a girl fr :( YOU try being a girlie in ancient rome :/ enjoy !!

w/c: 5.9k

latin translations: fatum - fate, carissima - dear, domina - my lady

As the moon ascends in wake of the sun’s descent, the gilded walls of the imperial palace glint softly in the moonlight. Glorious tapestries line these walls, each one telling the tale of hallowed heroes, of terrible tyrants and of revered rulers. The history of the Roman Empire.

Their patterns, depicting stories of both rise and ruin, are woven by none other than the three Fates. One Fate spins the thread, and an heir is born. Another Fate weaves it, and a battle is won. The last Fate cuts, and an emperor meets his end.

As three pairs of hands work nimbly in the heavens, another tapestry begets itself in the mortal realm, where our story takes place.

From a tender age, you had been taught to believe in fate.

Fatum.

You had first learnt the word as a little one.

You’d been a curious creature, like most children are. Sheltered from the terrors of the world, your appetite for life was insatiable. You’d wake up with a hunger for new knowledge about the world around you, and go to bed still hungry for more, no matter what had transpired during the day. Thus, you found it impossible to go to sleep of your own accord - you relied on your mother’s bedtime stories to satisfy your appetite, and lull you into slumber.

Perched by your bedside with a gentle hand stroking your hair, she regaled you with the tale of Rome’s beginnings. A tale of abandonment, wolf-mothers and fratricide. Enough thrill to tire you out, she hoped. To her chagrin, she looked down to find widened eyes, without a trace of sleep in them, staring up at her expectantly. Instead, your eyes shone bright with the excitement of unanswered questions.

She sighed fondly before prompting you to talk. “Yes, carissima?”

And so the floodgates opened. You fired her with questions with all the sternness of a Roman general, and she listened intently with all the patience of a loving mother.

Why did the king try to kill the babies? Why didn’t the wolf eat the babies?

And finally, taking great care to be gentle, you placed a tiny hand on her rounded belly and asked the most burning question. Why did Romulus kill his brother? Your innocent mind struggled to comprehend it. You hadn’t even met your little sibling yet, and you already couldn’t fathom the idea of bringing harm to him. Or her, you thought, but your father had insisted that all refer to the babe as the male heir he so desperately desired it to be.

“Fatum,” was the simple answer she supplied. “Without the king’s cruelty, without the wolf’s mercy, without Remus’ death, our great city would never have been built.”

Eyes shining with knowledge yet untold, her gaze held yours. “Whatever happens to you, has been waiting to happen since the beginning of time,” she quoted, a tone of finality in her voice.

As well-loved children do, you’d lapped up your mother’s answer as readily as the twin babes lapped the wolf’s milk.

You had first witnessed fatum some years later, at the age of twelve.

On the brink of adolescence, much about you had changed compared to the little girl having bedtime stories told to her. Much except one. Age hadn’t quelled your curiosity - if anything, it had grown.

You’d exhausted all the resources available to a girl of your standing. You’d read enough philosophical texts to debate with Aristotle himself, asked questions faster than your tutors could find answers and yet, you knew there was much more that the world had to offer. So, you decided to take matters into your own hands.

With age had also come a newfound deviance. Observant as you were, you’d learned that there was much to be gained with certain types of information - if you knew how to use it to your advantage.

As such, you’d taken to eavesdropping on your father’s meetings with his fellow senators from behind a pillar. For weeks on end, they had spoken of a play becoming popular amongst patricians and plebeians alike. Oedipus.

At the centre of their discussion was a ploy to ban the play from being performed. Abhorrent, they had called it. A threat to their authority, if the people are led to believe that even kings are subject to a thing as fickle as fate. At that statement, your eyes twinkled with mischief and a devious smile found its way to your face - you were determined to see this for yourself.

So, on the fateful night you caught your older cousin in the arms of a man bearing no resemblance to her betrothed, you knew you’d struck gold.

Desperate to protect her reputation and far too embarrassed to berate you for sleuthing around when you should have been asleep, she’d hastily agreed to the terms of your silence. She would sneak you into the city’s amphitheatre to watch the next production of Oedipus, if you swore to secrecy.

And so your plan commenced. Hidden under the large folds of her toga, you observed the story unfolding before you. The mighty king of Thebes brought to his knees by the tragic fate he’d tried to escape, to no avail.

A real spectacle, the performance elicited emotions from you that were both old and new. In a short two hours you’d been perplexed, horrified, scandalised. You’d learned quickly why you had to be sneaked in - fate wasn’t the only mature theme you were educated on that night.

But you only came to understand fatum when it took the person dearest to you, two summers ago.

Pregnant again, the fifth time that you could remember, your mother had taken ill. Perilously ill. After years of unsuccessful attempts to produce an heir - one daughter, two miscarriages and two stillbirths - she had breathed her last. In her womb? The son your father demanded of her. The son he had longed for. Prayed to the gods for. What else could bring forth such a tragic end, if not the hands of the Fates?

Now a grown woman, the beliefs your mother had impressed upon you would soon be tested. Left with no living sons to continue his legacy and no living wife to bring forth such living sons, your father’s lofty political aspirations could only be fulfilled through his daughter. You.

Your father wasted no time in advancing his plans.

After a long day spent praying at the temple of Pluto, you had been ready to wind down and relax. A good distance away from the centre of the city and situated atop a number of hills, a trip there takes up the whole day. You had set out at dawn, and as the sun set over the Tiber river to bring forth dusk, your shadow darkened the entrance of your family villa.

Exhausted both emotionally and physically, your body went through the motions of preparing yourself for supper, but your mind remained absent - occupied with thoughts of what could have been and what will never be.

After your bath you called for your maid and allowed her to dress you, head still in the clouds. It was only when you caught a glimpse of yourself in the bronze mirror atop your vanity that you noticed something was amiss.

Your eyes squinted as you inspected the image reflected on the polished surface.

“Why have you dressed me in these garments? I wish to wear my usual attire.”

You wore a tunic, the draped garment secured by an ornate brooch resembling an owl, with eyes made of precious gems. Nothing out of the ordinary.

What was out of the ordinary, was the saffron yellow hue of the tunic — since your mother’s passing you had been in mourning and thus only wore dark colours. A fact well-known by your maid, who dressed you day and night.

The hands fastening the brooch faltered as she gathered a response.

“My apologies, Domina.” She stepped back, head bowed in deference. “I assumed you would revert to your previous wardrobe, seeing as yesterday marked the end of…” She trailed off meekly, allowing you to fill in the blanks.

The previous day had marked a year since your mother’s passing, and thus the end of the customary mourning period. As such, it would be socially acceptable for you to appear happy and content again, reflected in the abandonment of deep plums and drab greys for sunny yellows and bold blues. You supposed it was not odd for her to assume you desire to don brighter colours.

But upon closer inspection, your suspicion rose again. Detailed with beautiful patterns and made of the smoothest damask money could buy, the tunic was much too elaborate for a simple family dinner in the villa. The last time you wore it was to a relative’s wedding, where your father made a point of telling anyone who would listen just how much it had cost to import the material from China.

You poised yourself to question her further, but the words died on the tip of your tongue when you saw the pleading look she gave you.

“Please, Domina.”

She offered you no further explanation, but the fear in her eyes was explanation enough. She was not doing this of her own accord, but under instruction. And if you knew your father well, under strict instruction.

Whatever plans he had for you, you knew you would have little to no choice in the matter.

Wordlessly, you acquiesced and allowed her to continue. You did not protest when she brushed, braided and pinned your hair into an elaborate updo. You were compliant when she lined your eyes with kohl and blotted your lips with mulberry juice.

Primped and primed like a prized show horse, you dismissed your maid, sat by the window and awaited your fate.

Not long passed before the sound of a male timbre filled the room.

“It appears your outfit is missing something.”

You turned to the direction of the voice to see your father standing in the doorway. Instinctively, you stood to your feet - less as a show of respect and more because you were used to being on guard in his presence.

In his hands he held a translucent, gauzy material, sheer in nature and vibrant in colour, that was all too familiar to you.

Your mother’s favourite veil.

Usually fixed firmly atop her head during special occasions - festivals, birthdays, weddings and the like - you could recognise it from a mile away. Growing up, you had associated this veil with womanhood itself. You would traipse around the corridors of the villa with it wrapped around your head haphazardly, the excess fabric trailing behind you as you ran as fast as your little legs could carry you.

What a foreign sight it was to see it in the hands of your father. And what a foreign sight it was to see him in your chambers.

Following your mother’s passing, the two of you had not conversed beyond what was formally required of you, your already fragile relationship fracturing completely. Yet here he was, extending a peace offering. An olive branch.

Pleased as you were to receive it, you were not foolish enough to believe this to be a genuinely affectionate gesture. A politician through and through, your father was no stranger to symbolic gestures, and he had made no attempts to mend your relationship prior to this moment. This sudden generosity, paired with your extravagant dressing, could only mean one thing.

He wanted something from you.

Now, you had two options. Comply with his request, or comply with his request begrudgingly. You chose the latter, of course. Even if obedience was your only option, you weren’t going to make this easy for him.

You casted him a quick look of derision. “If you wish to barter for my forgiveness with a piece of cloth, I am afraid your efforts have been wasted.”

Unphased, he stepped further into the room.  “Now, now, peace, dear daughter. Let us be civil.” The faux humility in his tone was almost comical.

“Perhaps you feel…wronged by me for holding your mother to a certain standard. But, you must understand that I was simply fulfilling my duties, by encouraging her to fulfil her own. I have particular responsibilities to this family. As do you, now.”

You levelled him with an icy glare, wise enough not to express your discontent verbally, but too headstrong not to express it somehow.

“And even if I have, in some unfathomable way, wronged you; to err is human, to forgive, divine.” 

After knowing him for as long as you did, you knew this was the closest thing to an apology you would get. You also knew your father was a talented orator - it’s how he gained a large enough political following to join the Senate, after all. And so you prepared yourself to be subjected to one of his moving speeches.

“It is common knowledge that women are the weaker sex,” What a great way to start, you snarked to yourself. “Yet, I have always seen a unique strength in you. Not physical strength, of course, but a mental fortitude. Since you were a young girl you have been willful, stubborn,” he took a step closer to you with each word, purple-lined toga brushing the floor as he advanced. 

As he said the last word, he gave you a knowing look. “Nosy.”

You failed to hide your shock. “Oh yes, I saw you slinking around behind the pillars.” He waved a hand dismissively. “It matters not, now. In fact, whatever dregs of information you picked up from eavesdropping on my discussions may soon prove useful.”

His face was a picture of smugness, with an eyebrow cocked and the corners of his mouth upturned as if he knew something you didn’t. With just a few sentences he had complimented you (even if it was backhanded), revealed that he knew your secret, and teased you with a nugget of information. The perfect combination to make you anticipate his next words.

Silence filled the room as he kept you in suspense, mind whirring as you mulled over his cryptic words. 

One hand held your mother’s veil in front of him, while the other caressed its folds delicately. His eyes had a faraway look in them that suggested his mind had travelled to another time.

“Your mother was a strong woman. Not strong enough in the end, regrettably, but strong nonthele-”

“Don’t.” You interjected. “You will not sully her memory with your caustic words.”

His lips spread into a diplomatic smile, but the twitch of his eye betrayed the irritation he felt. Belligerent as he was, he ignored your outburst and continued. 

“Unlike her, you have the makings of a lady of great influence. Much like me, you have the mind for politics. That potential lies latent within you.”

With a gentleness you wished was also reflected in his words, he draped the veil over your head. “I advise you not to waste it, dear daughter, and suffer the fate of lesser women.”

You scoffed at his words, readjusting the veil so it rested perfectly atop your head and shoulders. “And how do you suggest I fulfil this…potential? The Senate is not exactly welcoming of women.”

Well-pleased that your interest had been piqued, he finally reveals his true intentions.

“Accompany me to the imperial banquet tonight. We will celebrate the successful conquest of Britannia.”

“I do not care for banquets, nor do I spare a thought for conquests.”

“You may not care for military conquests, but this banquet itself is a conquest of the political sort. In my experience, much more is won with words, than with swords. And tonight’s event presents an opportunity for much gain.”

Again with the cryptic words.

“Allow me to present you to the Emperors. Your face is comely enough to garner their attention, and for some reason unbeknownst to me, some men find opinionated girls like you to be charming.” 

Is he insinuating what you think he is?, you thought incredulously. Surely not.

“The Senate may not be the place for women, but the Senate is not the only facilitator of politics. Why not practice your politics from Palatine Hill?”

There was no mistaking it. He intended to make an Empress of you. Equally as curious as you were sceptical, you decided to test his logic.

“Beauty is fleeting. Charm wanes with time. How would I maintain their favour?”

“That, dear daughter, is up to you. I am certain you will find a way, formidable as you are.”

While it pained you to admit it, he was right. You and your father were more alike than different, what with your scheming and blackmailing. Besides, you were formidable. You were cunning. You were capable.

There may be greater things in store for you yet.

And those greater things began with this banquet.

Upon arrival, you were met with the most magnificent sight you had ever seen. Sat proudly upon Palatine Hill, the palace looked like the image your mind conjured when picturing Olympus. After ascending the intimidating number of steps that led to the entrance, you truly felt like you’d ascended to the land of the gods. Wherever you looked there was amazing artwork that instilled equal parts awe and fear in you. 

Look up, and there were grand arches to behold. Look to the side, and the spectacular frescoes offered a feast for the eyes. Look down, and there were beautifully designed floor mosaics you almost felt bad for stepping on.

As you passed through into the atrium, it was much the same. Ostentatiously decorated, it boasted gilded walls and glorious tapestries, each feature a testament to the Emperors’ opulence, and Rome’s riches.

But it was impossible to focus fully on the artwork with the room heaving as it was. Eyes darting from one person to another with every passing second,  you were captivated by the spectacle the hoard of partygoers presented. Something seemed to be happening in every square foot of the room, each guest having their fill of whatever their vice of choice was for the night. Wine was in abundance, giving way to loose lips, and scantily-clad whores prowled about in the shadows, giving way to loose purse strings.

You had been to your fair share of lavish affairs, but this was a whole new world of revelry.

Between the loud percussion of the musicians’ instruments, the aroma of the heavily seasoned foods and the leering gazes of overexcited men, you began to feel overstimulated. You stuck close to your father as he led you into the heart of the throng, finding comfort in the familiar when surrounded by the foreign. Better the devil you know.

Oblivious to your discomfort, he reprimands you under his breath. “Stop clinging to me like a child, lest our venture fail before it has even begun.”

You’d been so taken by your surroundings that you hadn’t registered where your father was leading you to. Now you stood in front of the two men at the centre of this affair, who were seated majestically upon a golden threaded couch. You prayed you didn’t look like the bewildered little girl you certainly felt like. 

With a grand, sweeping gesture of his hand, your father bowed. 

“Imperators, what an honour it is to partake in these…wondrous celebrations with your Majesties.”

“Senator,” one of them said, voice smooth like honey but with an edge that demanded caution. His face bore a smile, but his tone was calm and measured. “What a pleasure it is to see you.” The twitch of his eyebrow suggested otherwise. “In a more agreeable mood, might I add.” The man beside him sniggers.

More agreeable? Whatever could that mean? For the second time in one night you found yourself deciphering cryptic words. Father must have angered the Emperors, somehow. 

“And you’ve brought…” He trailed off, looking at your father expectantly.

“Yes, Emperor Geta, Emperor Caracalla,” with a single clap and an officious clearing of his throat he stepped to the side, no longer obscuring their vision of you. “May I present my daughter…”

You managed to regain your composure, exhibiting a grace only a lady of the upper echelons of society could possess when you sunk into a deep curtsy. Lifting your gaze, you were met with the hair-raising sensation of being observed. Not just observed – scrutinised.  

A pair of eyes, deep brown like rich soil, trailed over your form. The man that addressed your father with contempt - Geta. His brows furrowed as he took the sight of you in. Lined with kohl much like yours, his eyes were smouldering in their examination.

Another pair, red-rimmed and cloudy with the haze of inebriation, were the perfect contrast. The man that sniggered - Caracalla. With irises of a cold blue hue, they would have been intimidating if they belonged to a face other than his, what with his rosy rounded cheeks and seemingly perpetual impish grin. 

Despite their differences, the relation between the men was clear as day. Flaming locks of hair and the gold laurels that circled their heads confirmed their identities. These were the infamous twin tyrants.

But it wasn’t just the weight of their eyes that you felt. Lounging around the couch in various positions and in varying states of undress, was an entourage of courtesans. You did your best to avert your gaze, as theirs bore into you. 

And what a pleasant sight you were. Adorned with ornate jewellery and clad in the finest of silks, you were easily one of the best dressed at the banquet. Before a word had been uttered, your appearance relayed a message – you were a lady of fine stature, more than accustomed to luxury and thus, would be well-suited to palace life.

Well-suited to be Empress.

Not taking any chances, your father decided not to leave anything up for interpretation.

He began listing your virtues as if reading from a handbook - 100 Things to Look For in a Roman Wife. He spoke of your piety, your beauty, your fertility. With every trait of yours that was mentioned, you grew increasingly more irate and keeping the docile smile on your face became increasingly more difficult. 

“...and lest I forget, she is most gifted with the lyre-”

“How quaint.” Caracalla interrupted, a peal of childish laughter bubbling from his lips. “He presents his daughter’s hand as if he is lobbying for a law to be passed!”

Geta scoffed, “Or a conquest to be forfeited.”

At this, Caracalla doubled over in laughter, the overfilled cup of wine in his hand threatening to spill over the rim with every jostle of his frame. Clearly there’s a joke you’re missing here.

There’s a wicked glint in Geta’s eyes that tells you this joke has guile. 

“Three sennights have lapsed since you last stood before us, spewing nonsense about abandoning our pursuit of Britannica.” The vitriol that coated his voice strung a discordant note in the mellifluous tune of his brother’s continuous laughter. “Yet here you stand in your Emperors’ palace,” he gestured at the ongoing frivolities. “Drinking and making merry with spoils from the very war you so vehemently opposed.” 

Ah. It finally clicked. From what you had picked up from your father and his associates’ discussions, you knew that this conquest had long since been under contention among the Senators. The campaign was taking longer than anticipated, and required more reinforcements than expected. The Roman force was fatigued. At home, the starving plebeians of Rome were one famine away from revolting, and without the full support of the army, politicians relied on empty promises to appease their constituents and maintain order. Yet, the Emperors were adamant on expanding Rome’s borders.

For whatever reason, at the last Senate meeting three weeks ago your father had been the unfortunate soul to suggest that the troops should draw back. And now he stood before them at the celebration of the successful conquest, presenting you as a bargaining chip to secure his pardon. Opposing the Emperors was costly, and he decided you were going to pay that price on his behalf.

Geta leaned his head on his hands as he asked, “Tell me, Senator, what makes you think you will triumph this time?”

You watched your father’s reaction with bitter disbelief. For the first time in your life, your silver-tongued father, the man that had landed you this fate, floundered for words.

Fine. If this was the hand dealt to you, so be it. But you were going to do this your way.

“Your Majesties,” At the sound of your sweet voice, Geta’s gaze affixed itself to your face. Instantly, he was beguiled. “If I may…” 

With the slow incline of his head, you were permitted to speak. 

“I know little of war,” you feigned ignorance. “But I do know that defying the odds to bring glory to Rome is no small feat.” Preening at your praise, Geta leaned forward in his seat, a silent encouragement for you to continue. “Rome and her citizens are fortunate to be led by you, Imperators, and I am grateful to be in the presence of such wise rulers.”

His mouth spread into a self-satisfied smirk. “I bask in your praises, my lady. It pleases me to see that someone in your family has a semblance of loyalty to the powers above them” A pointed look was shot at your father. “You see, all those that oppose their Emperors,” His venomous gaze roved over the group of Senators shifting uneasily as they watched this ordeal. “Will soon learn that there is only one way for a man to wield power.” He held up his index finger for emphasis and paused for suspense. “War.”

With all the self-assurance of a man that has never truly been challenged, he stalked towards you.

“What other power can bring a man to his knees and cause him to surrender?”

“I can think of nothing greater than war!” Caracalla piped up from behind him.

“Yes, brother.” Geta held his cup of wine up in agreement. “By no other means can a man wield such power. I am sure my lady agrees?” He offered his right hand, each finger as bejewelled as the next.

The ultimatum he presented you with was clear. Kiss the ring, let all be forgiven and allow this encounter to end pleasantly. Refuse the ring, and…well, don’t refuse the ring.

But compliance was predictable, and would only get you so far. Your beauty and charm had ignited a spark of interest in him, but that wasn’t enough. You needed that spark to burst into a flame.

With swan-like grace you knelt before him and took his hand, smiling inwardly when his eyes followed your descent with rapture. You didn’t miss his quick intake of breath when you halted your movements to look up and meet his eye, lips an inch away from the stunning signet ring.

“Upon second thought,” You tilted your head as if considering his words. “There exists another power great enough to make a man kneel in surrender.” At your bold words, the hand you held tightened around your fingers until he had a firm grip of your hand. “A power so great, even Emperors are not immune.”

Gasps of shock came from the onlookers sober enough to process what they had heard.

“Impertinence!” Caracalla’s cry of protest tore you from the captivity of his brother’s gaze. 

“Forgive my daughter, she oversteps her bounds.” Your father spat the words out and fixed you with a look of warning, a late and unappreciated attempt to de-escalate the night’s proceedings.

With a wave of Geta’s hand, his words were dismissed. For the sake of keeping your resolve, you pretended not to see the Praetorians return their drawn swords to their scabbards.

You returned to the intense stare of brown eyes narrowed in… intrigue? Suspicion? You weren’t sure, but you had his attention. 

“And what power would that be?”

Your gentle smile had him entranced. “The strike of a drum, the strum of a lyre’s strings. Music, my Imperator, holds much power.”

See, while your father was busy waxing lyrical about you, you had been studying Geta closely. As he listened to others speak, his fingers unconsciously tapped the thigh of the courtesan perched on the arm of the couch. But they were not tapping any old rhythm – they tapped to the beat of the percussion in the background.

The ring your lips had puckered up to kiss was not embossed with an imprint of Mars, the god of war, but Apollo, god of music. Geta the Emperor championed conflict and violence, but Geta the man held music dear.

Rich eyes twinkled as his laugh rang in your ears. “Ah, yes. Your father mentioned your skill with the lyre. He failed to mention your humour.” He didn’t believe you.

“I assure you, Imperator, my lyre-playing is unparalleled.” You indulged him with a coy smile.

“You believe you would best our most talented musician? That your playing would put your Emperors’ finest to shame?” He challenged your claim.

“Given the chance, I would outplay each of the Nine Muses,” you asserted boldly. You rose to his challenge.

His eyes gleamed with ardour as he regarded your statement with a raised brow. “I await the day I hear you play with baited breath, my lady.”

“It would be my pleasure, my liege.”

Not risking any more excitement, you curtsied and took your father’s arm as he guided you towards the outskirts of the atrium, and away from watching eyes. He wasted no time expressing his displeasure.

“Have you lost your senses, girl? Has some strange plague come over your mind?!” He released an exasperated sigh. “You should have held that tongue of yours.”

 “Oh, and left you there, stammering like a bumbling fool? Father,” you uttered the paternal term without an ounce of familial affection. “You entrusted this ploy into my hands, so leave it there.”

Anger flashed across his face like a clap of thunder. Before he could berate you for your indolence, however, a piercing shriek stole the moment.

You pushed through the crowd to see the commotion, weaving past bodies stilled with shock at whatever it is they were witnessing. When you got to the centre, you were met with a most harrowing display of fraternal discord.

Geta lay sprawled out on the marble floor, the corded muscle of his limbs tensing as he strained to hold back the man towering over him, wielding a dagger above his head. Caracalla. 

At first glance one may have supposed this fray was borne of anger, but with the spittle flying out of gritted teeth that gnashed and snarled like those of some inhuman beast, the incoherent stream of words and the crazed look in his eyes, it was clear that he did not have full agency of his person.

The rumours were true. He was having one of his infamous episodes.

Your eyes darted from Praetorian to Praetorian, waiting for one of them, any of them to take action. Their hands rested on the hilt of their swords, hesitation rooting them to their spots. To raise a hand against Caracalla would be treason, punishable by death. To ignore the distress of Geta would be treason, also punishable by death. They were at an impasse.

The chatter of mingling guests and the ambience of the musicians’ instruments had long since stopped, leaving the grunts of the brothers to take their place. All watched on in stunned silence, revelers turned horrified spectators.

Their scrambling continued. Geta managed to hook a leg around Caracalla’s ankle, toppling him over to join him on the cold marble. Wine cups clanged as they were knocked to the ground, collateral. The cacophony of sound nearly masked the sound of Geta’s desperate plea.

“Break the spell! Break the spell!”

Moved by an impetus you couldn’t explain, you barreled further through the crowd until you reached the musicians’ corner. You grabbed the lyre from the hands of the bard (who was too focused on the ongoing tumult to protest), and started strumming the tune of a nursery rhyme favoured by Roman children both rich and poor. 

Dulcet tones and sweet symphonies echoed through the chamber as you sang of Rome’s rolling hills, of fair maidens awaiting the return of brave soldiers, of the Tiber River’s ebb and flow.

Those around you listened intently, enraptured. They stepped aside, clearing a path for you towards the quarreling brothers. You walked forward as you sang, and as you reached the last verse you stood a few feet away from where they squirmed, limbs akimbo. 

From your position you saw the exact moment the muscles in Caracalla’s face relaxed, and his body went limp. He released a weak whimper better-suited to an injured animal than the tyrannical emperor he was rumoured to be.

Eyes fixed on you over his brother’s shoulder, he dropped the dagger as if compelled. Tears began to run down his face as he wailed, balling himself up into a foetal position. When they noticed his change in disposition, his entourage took the chance to spirit him away from the room. 

The final note of your song rang out. A beat passed as everyone came to, as if they too were held captive in a trance. Then, a slow, steady clap from one became a roaring applause, your fellow guests lauding your performance as if it had been planned. 

Chest heaving from exertion, Geta used a three-legged (formerly four-legged) stool to pull himself from the floor and adjusted his toga. At the raise of his hand, the clapping stopped. Flopping back to sit on the couch, he gestured for you to come forward. His expression was inscrutable. 

Before you could scrape together an apology, or some sort of explanation, you were utterly disarmed by the grin that spread across his face. 

“My lady,” He huffed between words, still catching his breath. “I stand corrected. It appears your flair with the lyre is equally as bewitching as your looks.”  

Your cheeks heated up at his confession of attraction towards you. “It pleases me that you think of me so, my Emperor.”

“Mmm.” He hummed, dark eyes taking their time to appraise you. “The power to bring a man to his knees can be very dangerous, you know. I believe it would be in the best interest of Rome and her citizens if such power was… managed by the capable hands of their Emperor.”

The chill of deja vu ran down your spine when he extended his hand in your direction. A second invitation to kiss the ring. Most people only get one.

“Wouldn’t you agree?”

As your lips made contact with the cold metal of Apollo’s face and you sealed your fate, you closed your eyes and said a silent prayer. When you opened them again, you found eyes the colour of rich soil searching yours. 

He turned the hand that gripped his and pressed a surprisingly sweet kiss to the back of it. His kisses travelled up your arm, growing more and more fervent, the plush of his lips leaving warmth on every spot they pressed against. He used his hold on you to pull you towards him until you were close enough to smell the heady scent of patchouli mixed with the subtle musk of perspiration, and count the freckles on his speckled cheeks, peeking through the layer of makeup. 

His palm ran up and down your arm repeatedly, inching further up each time.

“You will make a home for yourself here, in these palace walls.” Brown eyes gazed into yours, full of a veneration you couldn’t fathom. “And you shall be my little Muse.” 

As if the troubles of your life thus far had not been a sufficient allotment of suffering, the Fates had now tasked you with weathering the twin tempers of the Emperors Geta and Caracalla. And surviving.

Gods help you.

A/N: thank you ever so much for reading ! i'm working on part two so let me know if you want me to post it when it's done <3

likes, comments and reblogs are appreciated x

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twenty four hours (modern!eddie munson x fem!reader)

→ in which eddie munson and you absolutely hate each other's guts. what happens when your friends make a bet that you can't spend more than twenty four hours consecutively together?

→ tropes: enemies to lovers, forced proximity, slow burn

→ warnings: strong language, eventual smut, minors dni

→ pairings: modern!college!eddie x college!fem!reader

chapters with smut marked with *

spotify playlist.

ao3

masterlist:

PROLOGUE: A BET

HOUR ONE

HOUR TWO

HOUR THREE

HOUR FOUR

HOUR FIVE

HOUR SIX

HOUR SEVEN

HOUR EIGHT

HOUR NINE

HOUR TEN

HOUR ELEVEN*

HOUR TWELVE

HOUR THIRTEEN*

HOUR FOURTEEN

HOUR FIFTEEN

HOUR SIXTEEN

HOUR SEVENTEEN

HOUR EIGHTEEN

HOUR NINETEEN*

HOUR TWENTY

HOUR TWENTY-ONE*

HOUR TWENTY-TWO

HOUR TWENTY-THREE

HOUR TWENTY-FOUR

EPILOGUE: A BET*

"BEYOND THE HOURS" - extra content posted outside of canon 24 hours. (i.e. eddie povs, groupchat conversations that were cut, scenes mentioned in passing, etc.)

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

The Bet

summary: The agents at SHIELD have not taken well to Bucky’s pardon. When he’s injured on a mission under suspicious circumstances, you take matters into your own hands.  

pairing: bucky barnes x reader

word count: 7.7k

warnings: canon level violence, bucky’s internalized self-punishing issues, shield agents being real pieces of shit, badass reader who would defend bucky to the death

a/n: I know I’ve been really inactive lately (life’s actually been going well so I’ve been busier but that leaves me less time to write unfortunately), but I’m still lurking here! This is a fic I wrote several months ago but finally got around to editing it. Hope you enjoy!

Bucky wasn’t sure how you managed it – the punch to his gut every time you walked in the room. You were dressed in your tactical suit; black fabric draped over every inch of your body, protective layers of Kevlar and technology beyond Bucky’s years, a weapon strapped to your thigh and knives hidden in your belt and at your ankle. Your hair was tugged out of place, sweat beaded on your temple from the sparring match in the gym moments before the two of you were called to service. In your right hand, you carried your combat boots, the laces hanging low enough to touch the ground.  

And still, Bucky held his breath as you approached. Stomach in knots, chest tightening until his heart threatened to stop entirely.

“My offer is fifty this time,” you announced, winking in his direction before you turned to head for the landing bay. “Take it or leave it, Barnes.”

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